Jack Higgins: Bad Company

“I thought it was wine, but it’s vodka,” Hoffer told him.

“Good. I’m always better flying on booze.”

It was perhaps five or five-thirty in the morning that they came in toward Holstein Heath, approaching at two thousand feet, the dark, mysterious forest below, the Schwarze Platz, villages dotted here and there, and then Neustadt and Schloss Adler above it on the hill.

Von Berger felt incredibly emotional as the plane banked, very low, Ritter searching for a suitable landing.

“There,” von Berger growled. “The meadow by the castle.”

“I see it.” Ritter turned in, slowed and made a perfect landing, rolling to a halt.

In the quiet, it was Schneider who said, “I still can’t believe it. We were in Berlin and now we’re here.”

Behind them, a few people were coming up hesitantly from the village as von Berger and the others got out of the plane. Von Berger stood holding Hitler’s briefcase, as a dozen men and a few women approached.

The leader, an aging white-headed man, almost recoiled. “My God, it’s you, Baron.”

“A surprise, Hartmann,” von Berger said. “How are you?”

“Baron, what can I say?” Hartmann removed his cap, took von Berger’s hand and kissed it. “Such terrible times.” He turned to Hoffer. “And you, Karl.”

Von Berger said, “Here we are, safe by a miracle, from Berlin. I’ll explain later, but first I must see the Baroness, and Karl, his Lotte and the girls.”

Hartmann actually broke into weeping. “God help me, Baron, the news is bad. They are in the chapel at the Schloss.”

Von Berger froze. “What do you mean?”

“Your wife and son, Baron. Lotte and her daughters and fifteen villagers are in the church awaiting burial.” He turned to Hoffer. “I am so sorry.”

Hoffer was stunned, horror on his face. Von Berger said, “Who did this thing?”

“SS.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Einsatzgruppen.”

Einsatzgruppen were not Waffen SS, but extermination squads recruited from the jails of Germany, many of the men Ukrainians. Von Berger had heard stories, that in the last few weeks they had thrown off all restraints, started looting and killing on their own, but he had hardly believed it to be true.

He was moving in slow motion now. The dream was so bad it was unbelievable. He said to Hoffer, “You go and see to your family and I’ll see to mine.” He turned to Ritter. “You’d better be off. My deepest thanks.”

“No,” Ritter said, “I’ll stand by you. I’ll come with you, if I may.”

“That’s kind, my friend.”

They went up the steep path to the Schloss, von Berger and Ritter, followed by old Hartmann, and came to the ancient chapel. Von Berger pushed the door; it creaked open and he smelled the church smell, saw the memorials to his ancestors and the main family mausoleum, its doors standing wide. A coffin stood there, the lid half back, his wife inside, with his young son cradled in her left arm. He gazed down at her calm face, noticed the bruises.

“What happened to her?”

“Baron, what can I say?” Hartmann asked.

“Tell me,” von Berger said. “Was she violated?”

“Every woman in the village was, Baron. Then the Ukrainians got drunk and started shooting and the deaths happened.”

“How many of these bastards were there?”

“Twenty – twenty-one. They moved on to Plosen.”

Ten miles up the road through the forest.

“So, we know where they are.” Von Berger turned to Ritter.

“You can still go. I appreciate more than you know what you’ve done. As I told Strasser, things will change for all of us, and I’ll search you out.”

Ritter’s face, with the dressing on the cheek, was haggard. “I’ve no intention of going.”

“Then go down to the village with Hartmann and make sure his truck is ready to leave. I have private business here.”

Ritter and Hartmann left. Von Berger stood by the mausoleum for a while, then went to the rear, where there were two statues of saints. His hand passed inside one, it groaned and creaked open. He slipped the Führer’s briefcase inside, then closed the secret door. He leaned over, kissed his wife and son, and left.

In the village, the tenants waited and he passed amongst them, holding his hand out to be kissed, though not in arrogance; it was a tradition that had reigned in Holstein Heath for hundreds of years. These were his people, and the women who cried in despair did it because they looked to him for guidance.

Hoffer came to him, his face bleak. “Your orders, Baron?”

“We’re going to get these swine. Are you ready to leave, Hoffer?”

Before he could reply, young Schneider said, “And me, too, Baron.”

“Excellent.”

“And you can include me,” Ritter said. “I can shoot a Schmeisser with the best of them.”

As chance would have it, it was at that moment that the Americans arrived.

Not that they were much of a force. It was a single jeep and the young captain in the passenger seat wore a steel helmet and combat gear. His shoulder patch indicated an Airborne Ranger. A sergeant was at the wheel. They rolled to a halt and sat there, watchful.

“Does anyone here speak English?” the captain asked.

“Of course,” the Baron said.

“Good. I’ll take your surrender. My unit is about ten miles back. I’m Captain James Kelly, on forward reconnaissance. This is Sergeant Hanson.”

“And what might you be doing here?”

“Hey, buddy.” The driver picked up a submachine gun. “Watch your mouth.”

Ritter and Hoffer and young Schneider raised their Schmeissers threateningly, and Kelly said to Hanson, “Can it.” He spoke to von Berger. “We have information that the castle would make a possible headquarters. Who are you, anyway?”

“ Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger, owner of Schloss Adler and Holstein Heath.”

Kelly shook his head. “Wait a minute. I’ve got a report that says von Berger’s in the Bunker with Hitler. One of his aides or something.”

“True as of yesterday,” von Berger said. “If you will look behind you at the meadows, you will notice the Storch in which Captain Hans Ritter here flew me and my two men out of Berlin.”

Kelly nodded. “Okay, we’ll argue about it later. You can all surrender your weapons now.”

“This is a great coup for you, Captain, but, if you don’t mind, not just yet. We’ve urgent business to take care of first.”

“And what would that be?”

Max von Berger told him.

Kelly shook his head. “That’s a terrible thing, but you four guys are going to take on twenty-one of these bastards? You could get killed and I can’t allow that to happen.”

“I see. I’m too valuable to lose?” Von Berger shook his head. “It’s been a long war, Captain. From El Alamein to Stalingrad, I’ve seen hell on earth, and for me the war is over. I don’t want to kill you, but I must kill these men. I could not live with myself otherwise. So we will leave in the old woodcutter’s truck, drive ten miles down to Plosen, and there we’ll find the Ukrainians and get the business done.” He turned to Hoffer. “You drive.”

Kelly started to say something, and then he stopped. “Ah, hell, Baron, I guess I’d do the same thing. But afterward…”

“You’re an optimist, I see. All right, let’s go.”

The road wound through dark, somber forest all the way to Plosen. When they were close, they came across a crowd of women and older men moving along either side of the road. Hoffer pulled up and recognized the village mayor.

“Hey, Frankel, what’s happening?”

“My God, it’s you, Karl. These Ukrainians, we know what they did in Neustadt. Young Meyer escaped on his motorcycle, came and gave us warning. We all left in a hurry, faded into the forest. I hear they did terrible things.”