Беар Гриллс: The Hunt [=The Devil's Sanctuary]

Patriotic songs echoed around the damp rock-hewn walls – the ‘SS Marschiert in Feindsland’ – ‘The Devil’s Song’ – being tonight’s favourite. The verses had been belted out time and time again.

The beer steins had long run dry, but the schnapps had kept flowing, glass after glass being slammed down onto the bare wooden tables, the noise echoing like gunshots off the rough walls.

Though feigning high spirits, SS General Hans Kammler – hawk-faced, sunken-eyed, blonde hair swept back from his high forehead – had barely touched a drop.

He ran a gimlet eye around the vast space, lit by a dozen lanterns. The beast of a weapons system that was secreted within the bowels of this mountain had feasted upon electricity, but forty-eight hours ago, the power had been cut and the machine shut down – hence tonight’s flickering illumination, casting grotesque shadows upon the curving walls.

Toast after toast had been drunk to the young men gathered here. Fired up with Nazism and a skinful of schnapps, they would hardly baulk at what was coming. There should be no eleventh-hour objections or last-minute nerves. And for sure, Kammler couldn’t afford there to be any, for further back in the shadows of this tunnel complex was hidden the Reich’s greatest ever secret.

It represented the fruit of the labours of Nazi Germany’s foremost scientists – the Uranverein. Together they had produced a Wunderwaffe – a wonder weapon – without equal.

Kammler’s grand plan – and arguably the SS high command’s most Machiavellian operation – relied upon the Uranverein’s work remaining hidden from the advancing Allies. Hence the coming sacrifice – an entirely necessary one as far as the general was concerned.

He glanced upwards momentarily. A narrow shaft rose almost vertically to the starlit heavens: a ventilation duct. These sixty young men would awaken to the dawn light filtering through with the mother of all hangovers. But that would be the least of their worries, he reflected grimly.

The tall, lean SS general rose to his feet. He took his ceremonial sword, its heavy hilt decorated with the distinctive skull-like SS death’s head, and rapped it on the table. Gradually the din subsided, and a new cry was taken up in its place.

‘ Das Werwolf! Das Werwolf! Das Werwolf! ’

Over and over the chant was repeated, growing in frenzied volume.

This army of fanatical young Nazis believed that they were readying themselves to wage a diehard war of resistance against the Allies. They had been given the name the Werewolves, and their supposed leader was SS General Kammler himself – Das Werwolf – the key orchestrator of tonight’s gathering.

‘ Kameraden! ’ Kammler cried, still trying to silence the din. ‘ Kameraden! ’

Gradually the chanting subsided.

‘ Kameraden , you have drunk well! Toasts fit for heroes of the Reich! But now the time for celebration is over. The moment for launching the Great Resistance is upon us. Today, this hour, you will strike a glorious and momentous blow. What you safeguard here will win us the ultimate victory. With your heroic efforts, we will rise up in the enemy’s rear! With your efforts, we will wield a weapon that renders us invincible! With your efforts, the enemies of the Reich will be vanquished!’

Wild cheers broke out afresh, the noise rebounding off the walls.

The general raised his shot glass: a final toast. ‘To seizing victory from the jaws of defeat! To the Thousand Year Reich! To the Führer… Heil Hitler!’

‘Heil Hitler!’

Kammler slammed down his glass. He’d allowed that one shot of schnapps to burn down his throat: Dutch courage for what was coming, for the one part in tonight’s proceedings that he really did not relish.

But that would come later.

‘To your stations!’ he called. ‘To your positions! It is 0500 hours and we blow the charges shortly.’ He ran his gaze around the gathered throng. ‘I will return. We will return. And when we come to free you from this place, we will do so with unassailable strength.’ He paused. ‘The darkest hour is just before the dawn – and this will prove the dawn of a glorious new Nazi ascendancy!’

More wild cheering.

Kammler thumped his free hand on the table with a fierce finality. ‘To action! To victory!’

The last of the drinks were downed, and figures began hurrying hither and thither. Kammler followed their movements with his cold gaze. Everywhere seemed to be a hive of activity, which was just as he wanted it. He couldn’t afford for any soldier to have second thoughts or attempt to slip away.

Having made one last check deep in the guts of the cave to ensure that the massive steel blast doors were firmly closed and bolted, Kammler made his way towards the shadowed entranceway, where men were bent over spools of wire and detonation boxes, busy with last-minute preparations.

With a final word of encouragement, the general strode out of the entrance to Tunnel 88, as the vast edifice was known. In truth, Kammler had no idea how many tunnels made up this gargantuan complex. Certainly, hundreds of thousands of concentration camp inmates had died here, excavating the honeycomb of passageways that bored into the bowels of the mountain.

Not that he gave a damn. He was the architect of much of the mass murder. The genius behind it. Those who had perished here – Jews, Slavs, Gypsies, Poles; the Untermenschen , sub-humans – had got what they deserved. As far as he was concerned this was their birthright.

No, this was called Tunnel 88 for entirely different reasons. H being the eighth letter of the alphabet, 88 was thus SS code for ‘HH’ – or Heil Hitler. It had been named at the personal request of Der Oberste F ü hrer der Schutzstaffel – the supreme commander of the SS, Hitler himself. In this place would be preserved the greatest achievement of Nazi Germany, something that might breathe life once more into the Thousand Year Reich.

For a moment Kammler paused to adjust his cap. It seemed to have fallen a little awry during the partying. As he did so, his fingers brushed against the SS Totenkopft – the death’s head – emblazoned on its front: blank, empty eye sockets staring into the distance, lipless mouth fixed in a maniacal grin.

It was a more than fitting emblem for what was coming.

Cap straightened, Kammler turned to speak to the figure at his side, who was dressed in the uniform of a staff sergeant in the SS. This man too had barely touched a drop of alcohol.

‘Konrad, my car, if you will. As soon as the charges blow, we will be on our way.’

Scharführer Konrad Weber gave a smart heel-click and hurried away. Old for his rank – not much younger than Kammler himself – Weber had never married and had no children. The Reich, and the SS in particular, was everything to him. His surrogate family.

Kammler turned back to face the mountainside that towered before him. Already the first bluish hints of dawn were streaking across the heavens, reminding him of the need to get this done. At this hour – this witching hour – few should notice the explosions, not that there were likely to be any witnesses. For days now Kammler had had his troops scouring the terrain to all sides, clearing it of hapless civilians.

From behind he heard the crunch of tyres on the single dirt track that led into this remote region. Hooded headlamps, partially blacked out to hide them from any marauding Allied night fighters, pierced the gloom.

Kammler smiled. Excellent: the ever-loyal Konrad at the wheel of his staff car.