Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘I thought that might be it. My sister wrote she had been questioned about the parish records…’ He cocked his head at a new burst of firing, then looked at Reinhardt. ‘My sister is all I have. I will do anything to protect her. The resistance knows that. I told them if they could guarantee her safety I would work with them.’ He paused, then began to buckle on his equipment. ‘But they couldn’t. So I didn’t. And now… they’ll just use this. Put strings on me, make me dance like a puppet. Like Ascher would have. I don’t see a way out, do you?’

‘Sir?’ replied Reinhardt.

‘How do I make it through all this alive and unharmed? The truth will out. Those boys in Berlin won’t give up, and if they get me, they get my sister. The resistance won’t leave me alone. So what options do I have?’

Reinhardt shook his head, slowly. ‘Not many, sir.’

‘Not many,’ repeated Verhein. ‘I have one, though. I go out on my own terms, in my own way. I go out as a soldier,’ he said, the old Verhein beginning suddenly to seep into his words, his posture. ‘And I make such a big bloody show of it they’ll never see past it. They won’t ever dare go after her. What do you think, eh?’

‘I think it could work, sir.’

‘Course it bloody well could. Because as well, I’m sick and bloody tired of hiding. I’m sick of living in the shadows and living a lie. Never knowing who might be watching and waiting. I’m sick at what my army has become, and I’m sick at the thought of this world we’re creating. So I’m going to end it. My way.’

The sound of battle ratcheted up, and there was a different timbre to the gunfire now, a higher-pitched rattle of different ammunition. Verhein picked up his PPSh, checked the action, and – just for a moment – shy;Reinhardt saw in the sideways glance he threw at them, and the way his hands shifted on the submachine gun, the temptation to do away with him and Claussen. What were they but problems to him? What easier way to solve two problems… ? He froze, went cold, even stiffened as if expecting a bullet, but the moment passed and Verhein hung the PPSh from his shoulder. ‘What about you?’

‘I’m in a bit of trouble, sir. I don’t know if I can go back.’

‘Always room for one more where I’m going, Captain.’

‘Thank you, sir, but I don’t think I’m quite ready to take your way.’

‘Please yourself. In any case,’ he said, indicating the sound of fighting outside, ‘if that keeps up, you may not have to worry about making a choice.’ He stood up straight, every inch the general, a boy’s own hero, the Knight’s Cross at his throat and the Blue Max proud on his chest. He looked at both of them. ‘I suppose I ought to thank you, Captain. For bringing me to the point where I can’t hide anymore.’ Reinhardt’s mouth worked, but nothing came out. Verhein held up his hand. ‘No words. None needed. It’s just the way things are.’ He paused at the door. ‘And you, Captain. Did you find what you were looking for?’

The question took Reinhardt by surprise. The day had swept him along, and he had not realised the full weight of what had happened to him. ‘I don’t know, to be honest, sir.’ He glanced at Claussen, looking up at him. He thought of the two boys. ‘I think I found a part of myself I thought I’d lost a long time ago.’

‘I suppose that’s all we can ask, in the end. Good luck to you, Captain.’ He grinned devilishly, winked, and was gone.

Reinhardt limped after him to the door, looking out as Verhein stormed into a crowd of soldiers, pulling them after him like filings after a magnet. They spread out, charging up at the forest, gathering up those who had retreated out of it. A heavy machine gun on a half-track opened up, covering their charge. Fire from somewhere plucked at the line, men falling back and away. An explosion ripped through them, another, and there were few of them racing across the clearing through a haze of smoke and dust, Verhein’s white hair shining at the forefront, and then they were gone into the trees.

Forms flickered and flashed in the tree line, the spark of gun flashes and the flare of explosions. Something hit the house, thudding into the wall and roof. Reinhardt backed into the room, scooping up Mamagedov’s MP 40. ‘We need to go, Sergeant.’

Claussen pushed himself up, shoving the hand of his wounded arm between two of the buttons on his tunic, hanging his MP 40 around his neck and holding it by its pistol grip. ‘Where are we going to go, sir? Before, you sounded like you were looking at the end, but you just turned down a place at the general’s side.’

‘When we left Sarajevo, I didn’t expect this to end anything other than badly. I thought the journey would be its own end. That nothing else after it mattered. I realise now I was wrong. Something’s… changed. I have to go back.’

Claussen looked back at him levelly. ‘Back to do what?’

Despite all they had been through, Reinhardt was not sure he could say it. He was not even sure himself what he was going to do, and it was only now that the implications of what had happened in that forest clearing, of the course he had set himself, were catching up. ‘I can’t… I can’t pretend anymore, Sergeant. I can’t pretend this is not my war, and just hope it passes me by.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means… I have a decision to make. And despite all we’ve been through – or maybe even because of it – the less you know about what I’m thinking, what I might be doing, the better.’ Claussen’s face twisted, and he made to speak, but Reinhardt held up a hand. ‘Please, understand. It’s not about trust. But if you know nothing, you can’t say anything. If… you know…’

Claussen nodded, shifting the MP 40. ‘Everyone talks.’

‘Everyone talks.’

They paused at the door. ‘Car’s over there,’ pointed Claussen, back across the clearing to where the track emerged from the forest. An explosion ripped through one of the mortar crews, strewing them about like skittles. A band of Partisans erupted from the forest, washing over the second mortar. More of them poured from the trees, men in uniforms of dun and brown, blanket rolls folded across their shoulders like Russians, flowing across the clearing.

Hopping and stumbling, Claussen and Reinhardt reached some cover behind a stack of chopped logs. They ducked their heads as the wood splintered from bullet strikes. A nearby grenade burst showered them with clods of earth. He fired a quick burst at the Partisans around the mortars, then crouched back down. ‘Try to make for the trees by the car. Go. I’ll cover you.’

Claussen surged up and ran, firing as he went, but with the MP 40 in one hand, most of the shots went wild and high. He reached cover, sliding down behind a big rock, and beckoned Reinhardt over. Firing a long burst himself, Reinhardt began his run, pushing himself through the tearing pain in his knee and flopping down next to the sergeant, his breath raw in his throat. Don’t stop , he remembered. Stop and you’re dead. ‘Over to the car,’ he panted.

‘You first, this time.’ Wincing, Claussen laid his wounded arm on top of his MP 40 and fired a long burst across the clearing. Stooping over, Reinhardt ran for the kubelwagen , crouching into cover next to it. Claussen made his run as Reinhardt opened up in turn, but dust kicked up around the sergeant’s feet, there was a sudden burst of red, and he gave an agonised cry and fell. Spinning around, Reinhardt glimpsed dun-coloured shapes sliding through the trees behind him. He fired until the magazine clicked empty, then scuttled out and grabbed Claussen and pulled him into cover. The sergeant groaned as Reinhardt dragged him up against a tree, barely conscious, his legs in bloody tatters.