Jack Higgins: The Valhalla Exchange

There was the sudden dull thunder of heavy gunfire down in the valley below, the rattle of a machine gun.

Finebaum hurried towards the jeep, rifle in hand. ‘Hey, Harry, that don’t sound too good to me. What you make of it?’

‘I think maybe somebody just made a bad mistake.’ Hoover slapped O’Grady on the shoulder. ‘Okay, kid, let’s get the hell out of here.’

Finebaum scrambled into the rear and positioned himself behind the Browning heavy machine gun as O’Grady reversed quickly and started back down the track to the valley road. The sound of firing was continuous now, interspersed with one heavy explosion after another, and then they rounded a bend and found a Tiger tank moving up the road towards them.

Finebaum’s hands tightened on the handles of the machine gun, but they were too close for any positive action and there was nowhere to run, the pine trees pressing in on either side of the road at that point.

O’Grady screamed at the last moment, releasing the wheel and flinging up his arms as if to protect himself, and then they were close enough for Finebaum to see the death’s-head badge in the cap of the SS-major in the turret of the Tiger. A moment later, the collision took place and he was thrown head-first into the brush. The Tiger moved on relentlessly, crushing the jeep beneath it, and disappeared round the bend in the road.

Howard had lost consciousness for a while and came back to life to the sound of repeated explosions from the ammunition in another burning Cromwell. It was a scene from hell, smoke everywhere, the cries of the dying, the stench of burning flesh. He could see Colonel Denning lying in the middle of the road on his back a few yards away, revolver still clutched firmly in one hand, and beyond him a Bren-gun carrier was tilted on its side against a tree, bodies spilling out, tumbled one on top of another.

Howard tried to get to his feet, started to fall and was caught as he went down. Hoover said, ‘Easy, sir. I’ve got you.’

Howard turned in a daze and found Finebaum there also.

‘You all right, Harry?’

‘We lost O’Grady. Ran head-on into a Tiger up the road. Where are you hit?’

‘Nothing serious. Most of the blood’s Garland’s. He and Anderson bought it.’

Finebaum stood, holding his M1 ready. ‘Heh, this must have been a real turkey shoot.’

‘I just met Death,’ Howard said dully. ‘A nice-looking guy in a black uniform, with a silver skull and cross-bones in his cap.’

‘Is that so?’ Finebaum said. ‘I think maybe we had a brush with the same guy.’ He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and shook his head. ‘This is bad. Bad. I mean to say, the way I had it figured, this stinking war was over and here some bastards are still trying to get me.’

The 502nd SS Heavy Tank Battalion, or what was left of it, had temporary headquarters in the village of Lindorf, just off the main Salzburg Road, and the battalion commander, Standartenführer Max Jäger, had set up his command post in the local inn.

Karl Ritter had been lucky enough to get possession of one of the first-floor bedrooms and was sleeping, for the first time in thirty-six hours, the sleep of total exhaustion. He lay on top of the bed in full uniform, having been too tired even to remove his boots.

At three o’clock in the afternoon he came awake to a hand on his shoulder and found Hoffer bending over him. Ritter sat up instantly. ‘Yes, what is it?’

‘The colonel wants you, sir. They say it’s urgent.’

‘More work for the undertakers.’ Ritter ran his hands over his fair hair and stood up. ‘So – did you manage to snatch a little sleep, Erich?’

Hoffer, a thin wiry young man of twenty-seven, wore a black Panzer sidecap and a one-piece overall suit in autumn-pattern camouflage. He was an innkeeper’s son from the Harz Mountains, had been with Ritter for four years and was totally devoted to him.

‘A couple of hours.’

Ritter pulled on his service cap and adjusted the angle to his liking. ‘You’re a terrible liar, you know that, don’t you, Erich? There’s oil on your hands. You’ve been at those engines again.’

‘Somebody has to,’ Hoffer said. ‘No more spares.’

‘Not even for the SS.’ Ritter smiled sardonically. ‘Things really must be in a mess. Look, see if you can rustle up a little coffee and something to eat. And a glass of schnapps wouldn’t come amiss. I shouldn’t imagine this will take long.’

He went downstairs quickly and was directed, by an orderly, to a room at the back of the inn where he found Colonel Jäger and two of the other company commanders examining a map which lay open on the table.

Jäger turned and came forward, hand outstretched. ‘My dear Karl, I can’t tell you how delighted I am. A great, great honour, not only for you, but for the entire battalion.’

Ritter looked bewildered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘But of course. How could you?’ Jäger picked up a signal flimsy. ‘I naturally passed full details of this morning’s astonishing exploit straight to division. It appears they radioed Berlin. I’ve just received this. Special orders, Karl, for you and Sturmscharführer Hoffer. As you can see, you’re to leave at once.’

Hoffer had indeed managed to obtain a little coffee – the real stuff, too – and some cold meat and black bread. He was just arranging it on the small sidetable in the bedroom when the door opened and Ritter entered.

Hoffer knew something was up at once, for he had never seen the major look so pale, a remarkable fact when one considered that he usually had no colour to him at all.

Ritter tossed his service cap on to the bed and adjusted the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves that hung at the neck of his black tunic. ‘Is that coffee I smell, Erich? Real coffee? Who did you have to kill? Schnapps, too?’

‘Steinhager, Major.’ Hoffer picked up the stone bottle. ‘Best I could do.’

‘Well, then, you’d better find a couple of glasses, hadn’t you. They tell me we’ve got something to celebrate.’

‘Celebrate, sir?’

‘Yes, Erich. How would you like a trip to Berlin?’

‘Berlin, Major?’ Hoffer looked bewildered. ‘But Berlin is surrounded. It was on the radio.’

‘Still possible to fly to Templehof or Gatow if you’re important enough – and we are, Erich. Come on, man, fill the glasses.’

And suddenly Ritter was angry, the face paler than ever, the hand shaking as he held out a glass to the sergeant-major.

‘Important, sir? Us?’

‘My dear Erich, you’ve just been awarded the Knight’s Cross, long overdue, I might add. And I am to receive the Swords, but now comes the best part. From the Führer himself, Erich. Isn’t it rich? Germany on the brink of total disaster and he can find a plane to fly us in specially, with Luftwaffe fighter escort, if you please.’ He laughed wildly. ‘The poor sod must think we’ve just won the war for him or something.’

3

On the morning of 26 April, two Junker 52s loaded with tank ammunition managed to land in the centre of Berlin in the vicinity of the Siegessäule on a runway hastily constructed from a road in that area.

Karl Ritter and Erich Hoffer were the only two passengers, and they clambered out of the hatch into a scene of indescribable confusion, followed by their pilot, a young Luftwaffe captain named Rösch.

There was considerable panic among the soldiers who immediately started to unload the ammunition. Hardly surprising, for Russian heavy artillery was pounding the city hard and periodically a shell whistled overhead to explode in the ruined buildings to the rear of them. The air was filled with sulphur smoke and dust and a heavy pall blanketed everything.

Rösch, Ritter and Hoffer ran to the shelter of a nearby wall and crouched. The young pilot offered them cigarettes. ‘Welcome to the City of the Dead,’ he said. ‘Dante’s new Inferno.’