The Doomsday Decree

by Peter MacAlan

‘We seem to be heading straight back to Münster,’ observed Magda.

  Sure enough, from Hamm the convoy took the road to Ahlen. And it was at Ahlen that the convoy was passed through a roadblock manned by grim-faced SS security police. As Paul drove up, he was waved to a halt. An Unterscharführer came forward, brusque and suspicious. He demanded their papers and told them to get out of the car.

  Paul did so, unconsciously emphasizing his limp, which did not go unnoticed by the SS sergeant. The man checked through Paul’s military discharge papers, his identity card and the hospital pass. Then he checked Magda’s documents and handed the papers back a little more deferentially than he had taken them.

  ‘Where are you heading for, Herr Doctor?’ he asked.

  ‘Westkirchen,’ Paul said, naming the first village he could think of which was not too far away, but far enough not to encourage further inquiries.

  The sergeant, thankfully, did not pursue the matter. ‘We have to be vigilant, Herr Doctor,’ he said. ‘There are several deserters in this area, so we have to stop all able bodied men. I would advise you to drive directly to your destination and not to loiter in any wooded or country area.’

  He took a smart step backwards and gave the Nazi salute, which Paul and Magda returned gravely.

  The delay at the roadblock had put them some miles behind the convoy. Paul cursed as he increased the speed of the Porsche, peering ahead and trying to catch a glimpse of the tail of the convoy. They came to a second roadblock, also manned by an SS unit. Their papers were carefully examined again.

  ‘If you are going through the forest between here and Freckenhorst, I would drive carefully, Herr Doctor,’ said the NCO in charge as he handed back their papers.

  ‘Why is that?’ Paul asked.

  ‘We have reports of bands of escaped prisoners and deserters in that area. Some of our units are attempting to clear them out, so if you hear any shooting just put your foot down and don’t stop for strangers unless you are sure they are officials.’

  Paul acknowledged the warning and moved the car forward. They eventually reached Freckenhorst without any further sign of the convoy. Paul realized, with a curse, that he had lost them thanks to the holdups at the roadblocks. There had been numerous side roads along which they could have turned, roads twisting through the great forest called the Grunewald which covered this area.

  ‘What now?’ Magda demanded.

  ‘Now?’ Paul sniffed in irritation. ‘We’ll just have to head back to Münster. There is no way we are going to find those lorries again.’

  Freckenhorst was near the main Münster-Dortmund highway. Paul turned onto it and they drove in silence back to the city, straight to Magda’s apartment.

  ‘What is the next step?’ Magda finally asked. ‘Is there no other way we can trace this Project Wotan?’

  Paul shook his head. He did not tell the girl that an idea had already been forming in his mind during the journey back. He was sure that the project site lay somewhere in the Grunewald, probably in the dark thickly-forested area around Freckenhorst. If the trucks were heading for any other location it would have been easier for them to assemble in Münster itself, or Essen or Bielfeld. The Grunewald, on the other hand, would probably provide an ideal secret location.

  By the time he had parked outside Magda’s apartment he had decided to turn round and go back to Freckenhorst and start a search along the forest roads, hoping to come across the site by simple elimination of each roadway, criss-crossing the forest until he found it. There were only a few hours of daylight left now and he realized that the attempt could be made hazardous by either the SS units or the escaped prisoners and deserters.

  ‘Do you want to come up for coffee?’ Magda was asking.

  Paul shook his head. ‘I’ll have to get off. I’ll see you at the hospital on Monday if I don’t come up with anything in the meantime.’

  Magda had left the car and was standing on the pavement. Impulsively she bent down and put her hand on Paul’s arm.

  ‘Be careful.’ She smiled, then turned abruptly and entered the building.

  *

  Paul’s eyes were stinging with exhaustion as he finally resigned himself to the hopelessness of his task. He had spent several hours around Freckenhorst without finding any sign at all of anything that looked like a project site or military base. Now it was pitch dark and he was tired and hungry. There was nothing for it but to return once again to the city. He turned the Porsche back through the dark sombre forest in the direction of Freckenhorst in order to pick up the main road to Münster. The tall conifers seemed to converge from both sides of the road, spreading threateningly overhead. Low clouds, thick and fast-moving, obscured the moon. The only light was the thin beam of his hooded headlamps which picked out the narrow strip of track before him.

  It was only when the track had narrowed so much that there was room for only one vehicle to pass along it that Paul realized he must have missed the road he wanted. Now there was not even room enough to turn the car around. He bit his lip with annoyance, cursed the blackout and the war which caused it and decided to press on until he found a suitable area to manoeuvre.

  Scarcely a moment or so after he realized he was on the wrong track a figure flitted before his car, caught suddenly in the weak beams of the headlamps.

  He stamped on the brakes, causing the car to skid slightly. There was a light bump and he thought he heard a cry.

  Heart pounding, he pushed open the door, forcing it through the thick undergrowth that impeded it. He struggled round to the front of the vehicle, the brambles tearing at his clothes.

  The figure he had seen lay stretched before his bumper.

  Taking a torch from the glove compartment, fighting his way back against the brambles, Paul knelt beside the figure. The first thing Paul noticed was that it was a man, a man who reeked of alcohol. Carefully, Paul felt his limbs and ascertained that nothing appeared to be broken. Gently, he turned the man over on his back, noticing that he wore a dark overcoat of good quality over a neat suit, collar and tie. There were a few abrasions on the broad forehead, but his silver grey hair was neatly trimmed and obviously well cared for. He was elderly, in his early sixties perhaps, and quite distinguished-looking. He was certainly not the sort of person one would expect to find lurching drunkenly through one of the wilder forests of western Germany.

  Paul checked the man’s pulse rate and raised his eyelids. The man was unconscious but whether the impact had caused it or the alcohol he had imbibed, Paul could not say.

  Paul decided that the only thing to do was to get the man into the back of his car, praying that he had no internal injuries, and take him to hospital for examination. He was bending down to get a grip on him in order to lift him when the eyelids fluttered open. The man groaned, then tried to focus his eyes in the dim light of the headlamps. A hoarse voice gasped, ‘Ridiculous!’

  Paul frowned. The liquor that reeked on the elderly man’s breath was acting as an anaesthetic. The shock of the impact, judging from his slurred voice, had not sobered him.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Paul said. ‘You just take it easy. I’ll get you to a hospital.’

  The man shook his head. ‘Too late for that … ’ he wheezed.

  Paul smiled. ‘Now, you are not that badly hurt. I’m a doctor.’

  The man grimaced, jerking his head almost violently. A thin hand came up to grasp Paul’s lapels.

  ‘Not for me! Too late for us … for everyone … Warn them about the … bomb! End of Reich! End … end of world!’

  The man groaned and passed out again.

  Paul stared down at him in astonishment. Then, as he was about to resume his effort to lever the man into the back seat, he hesitated and decided to check the man’s pockets. There were a few marks and an almost empty bottle of Schnapps in an outside pocket, and a badly worn old leather wallet in his inside pocket. Paul took it out and examined the contents by the light of the headlamps. There were a few letters addressed to a Profe
ssor Ludwig von Knilling. The name seemed oddly familiar to Paul, but he could not place it immediately. There was also a military pass, and it was this which made Paul gasp and drove all other thoughts from his mind. The pass allowed Professor Ludwig von Knilling access to all security areas within Project Wotan!

  Paul hesitated another moment before thrusting the wallet back into the old man’s pocket.

  He was bending once more to lift the man when the beam of a strong torch fell on him.

  ‘Stay still! Do not move!’ cried a harsh voice.

  Paul froze, blinking in the powerful beam.

  He became aware of several men crashing out of the underbrush around him. A tall shadow came up. It was the figure of a man in uniform. Dimly, Paul made out the flash of an SS badge. Then he found himself grasped roughly by the arms and felt a cord being twisted quickly, efficiently around his wrists. In a moment his hands were expertly tied behind his back.

  ‘What the … ?’ he began.

  ‘Shut up!’ a voice snapped.

  Without warning a blindfold was drawn across his eyes. He was manhandled forward along a path and then lifted and flung onto a hard surface. It took him a moment or two to realize that he had been pushed into the back of a truck. He lay sprawled uncomfortably as the engine started and the vehicle bounced forward over an uneven surface, gathering speed. The journey seemed to go on forever before the vehicle finally stopped and hands hauled him out. He was led across what seemed to be a concrete surface, up some stairs and then across a wooden floor. Then he was pushed down into a chair.

  Hands searched his clothes, removing the documents.

  After a minute the blindfold was ripped off. A bright light shone in his face. He blinked and closed his eyes.

  ‘Who are you?’ demanded a voice that seemed icy-cold with malevolence.

  ‘Horder, Doctor Paul Horder.’

  ‘Are you a doctor of medicine?’

  Paul nodded, screwing up his eyes in an effort to see his interrogator.

  ‘Where do you practice?’

  ‘You have my identification papers so you must obviously know … ’

  The voice interrupted: ‘I am asking the questions, Herr Doctor. You will answer.’

  ‘Frederick the Great Hospital in Münster.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Wherever “here” is, I am here because you brought me,’ Paul said truculently.

  He felt a sharp stinging blow across his cheek.

  ‘We are not patient people, Herr Doctor,’ a voice hissed in his ear. ‘You will answer, please. What were you doing in the forest?’

  ‘I was trying to find the road to Freckenhorst to pick up the highway to Münster. As a matter of fact, I was lost.’

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘Visiting some friends in Dortmund. I was told one could take a short cut through the Grunewald.’ He hoped the lie sounded plausible.

  ‘So?’ There was a silence. Obviously his interrogator was weighing up the credibility of the story. ‘What happened on the road?’

  ‘The road? Ah, you mean the accident?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I thought I was on the road to Freckenhorst but it turned into a trackway. I was wondering where I could turn when an old man lurched out in front of me. He came straight out of the bushes into the path of my car. I could not stop before I hit him. I climbed out and found that he was unconscious. The man reeked of alcohol. It wasn’t exactly my fault that I hit him. He was drunk.’

  There was a sigh of exasperation from behind the bright light. ‘He said nothing to you?’

  Paul shook his head.

  ‘He was unconscious, I tell you.’

  ‘You know who the man is? You searched him for identification?’

  ‘No. I was just going to do that but I had no chance before you … your men … came along.’

  There was a silence, then Paul became conscious of someone whispering. Finally a voice said: ‘Very well, Herr Doctor.’

  Someone tied the blindfold around his eyes.

  ‘Hey … ’ he began to protest, but the same harsh voice bade him be silent. Again he was manhandled from the room. This time he realized he was being bundled into the back of a car. As it drove off he was bounced and rolled in his seat. Eventually the car stopped and someone began to untie his hands. A voice said close to his ear: ‘You will sit here and wait for fifteen minutes before removing your blindfold. You will say nothing about what has happened this evening. Nothing about the accident nor of subsequent events. Is that understood?’

  ‘I understand,’ Paul said.

  He heard the car door slam and sat waiting expectantly.

  A vehicle drove off and silence descended. He waited nervously, wondering what was going to happen next.

  After a while he cleared his throat and said, ‘Excuse me … ‘

  There was no reply.

  Slowly he moved his hand to his head and drew down the blindfold.

  He was alone. He was sitting on the back seat of the Porsche in total darkness. He peered round. There was nothing to be seen. The blindfold had at least adjusted his eyes to the darkness, and peering forward he could see his torch lying on the front seat of the car with the ignition key. He climbed out of the car and looked around.

  He seemed to be parked on the outskirts of a village. He recognized the silhouette of the dark cluster of buildings, including a squat-towered church, as Freckenhorst. He climbed into the Porsche and started it up, turning onto the road for Münster.

  The mystery of Project Wotan was certainly deepening, Paul thought. Why was von Knilling’s name so tantalizingly familiar to him? And why were the Gestapo and the SS going to such incredible lengths to cover up the existence of the project?

  Chapter Eleven

  Brigadeführer Arnt Heiden glowered as the elderly man stumbled toward his desk, supported between two SS guards. The old man’s face looked pasty and grey, lacking even a hint of natural colour. His eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. He tried to hold himself erect but his body trembled visibly.

  Heiden stared at him with obvious distaste. ‘So, Herr Professor?’

  Heiden’s voice was like a whiplash. The old man started nervously, but said nothing. The seconds ticked by.

  ‘I am waiting for your explanation,’ Heiden said impatiently.

  ‘I was drunk, Herr Brigadeführer.’ The man tried to control his voice but it rose to a plaintive whine. ‘I was drunk. What harm is there in that?’

  ‘Harm?’ Heiden’s voice was a sneer. ‘No harm in ordinary circumstances, von Knilling, but you, unfortunately, are the most important man on this project. There is the harm. You have been drunk before. But this is the first time you have left the site undetected and gone wandering in the forest. You could easily have been picked up by the bandits that hide in the Grunewald. As it was we found you in the company of a civilian doctor.’

  Von Knilling ran a frail hand through his tousled hair. ‘I do not remember,’ he said thickly.

  ‘Herr Professor,’ Heiden’s lips pursed. ‘I am in charge of Project Wotan. It is a project on which the Führer himself is keeping a close watch. Should anything happen to jeopardize this project then I must answer to him … answer with my life. You have been guilty of gross indiscipline, gross breaches of security. You have become a pathetic old drunk. I will not tolerate that.’

  ‘Then take me off this project.’

  Heiden stared seriously at him for a moment before bursting into raucous laughter.

  ‘You are not a simpleton, Herr Professor. You know there is no way you can desert this project. Unfortunately for us — that is for me, because I would not tolerate your presence here for a moment if it were not necessary — you are irreplaceable. You know more about Project Wotan than anyone else on the scientific staff. Without your knowledge the project would come to nothing.’

  Von Knilling bit his lip and tried to lift his head to give himself a semblance of authority
.

  ‘Then if you realize that, you must realize that my protests should be heeded.’

  ‘I am aware of your protests. They are all on file.’

  ‘Then why don’t you take notice of them? Why don’t you act on them?’

  Heiden sat back, reaching out a hand for a coloured folder on his desk and flipping through it.

  ‘What are they concerned with? Supposed dangers to personal safety. That, my dear von Knilling, is my concern. Your concern is simply to complete the project by February twenty-eighth.’

  ‘The project!’ Von Knilling’s voice rose in a whine of despair. ‘Don’t you realize the dangers of this project? Haven’t I pointed them out clearly enough? We are entering new scientific territories for mankind, new frontiers of science, and we don’t know the power we shall be unleashing. Do you think the deaths that we have had in recent weeks are mere accidents or that they are unrelated? Ten deaths in two weeks! How many more deaths do you want before you will listen to me?’

  Heiden stared coldly at the old man. ‘Are you threatening me, Herr Professor?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Great God!’ The old man’s voice was almost a sob. ‘Will you listen to what I am saying?’ Von Knilling became animated, bending forward across the desk, spittle appearing on the unshaven stubble of his chin. ‘It is since we have begun experiments with the core of the weapon that the deaths have begun. Neutrons, beta particles and gamma rays have bombarded our bodies. These particles and rays destroy the body cells … they cause their nuclei to degenerate and break their walls … ’

  Heiden held up a hand impatiently. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

  ‘I am trying to tell you that we have unleashed a powerful and destructive force of which we know nothing as yet. We should not proceed further until we know … ’

  ‘Not proceed?’ Heiden was shocked. ‘Indeed, we shall proceed, Herr Professor … with or without you!’

  ‘But the deaths … we are all going to die soon, all of us who were in the silos when the force was unleashed. Some died fairly quickly, others — like Stenzel — took more time but died eventually. I am not immune. I will die as well. But this madness must be brought to an end first.’