Last Man to Die

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘Wish me luck, eh …?’ Hencke muttered bitterly, glancing derisively at the few pounds in his hand. It was all going wrong.

  ‘Not even that. NEUTRAL. Don’t you understand?’ The Spaniard was. becoming agitated again, wondering whether he had already gone too far. He began striding away, wishing to put as much distance as possible between himself and this nightmare that had been thrust towards him.

  Hencke made after him, but all he could see was the man’s back. ‘One other thing you can do for me? It won’t hurt …’ He began to raise his voice as the diplomat’s figure receded into the distance. ‘You have the means. Get a message back to Berlin for me. From Peter Hencke.’ He had to shout now. ‘Tell them I’m coming back!’

  The diplomat didn’t falter in his stride. In a moment he was gone.

  Hencke was left alone, defeated. His fever was getting worse, he had nowhere to go. He looked ravenously at the complaining ducks.

  ‘I find it so difficult to believe, Willie.’

  ‘Seems little doubt, Prime Minister. A farmer’s widow, living on her own. They found her with half her chest missing, a shotgun on the kitchen table and a pile of prisoner’s clothes on the floor. And none of those we’ve recaptured seem to have been anywhere near the area. The one out there is our man.’ He looked quizzically at Churchill, who appeared more affected by this news than even by the initial reports of the mass escape. The Old Man sat brooding.

  ‘I suppose … I suppose I, too, might have killed. If necessary. To gain my own escape.’

  ‘Not a defenceless old widow, you wouldn’t. That’s sheer bloody murder.’

  ‘Murder? Self-defence? A casualty of war? Who knows, Willie, what each of us is capable of.’ He shrugged. ‘It will at least give us an excuse for hanging on to that division of troops.’

  ‘An excuse?’

  ‘A bargaining chip, perhaps. I’ll not hand them over until I can be sure I can send them to Berlin.’

  ‘I … don’t understand. You’re using the troops against the Americans. I thought they were supposed to be used against the POWs.’

  ‘We must make the appropriate noises over the escaped Germans, Willie, but they are as nothing compared with the opportunity of reaching Berlin. I would willingly set free a thousand Germans and, yes, sacrifice a thousand innocent widows if it would give us Berlin.’

  ‘But there is no connection …’

  The Old Man sat silently, gazing through the window.

  ‘I fail to understand, damned if I do.’ The tone was angry, hurt. ‘All the way through you seem to have had’ – he picked the word with care – ‘almost a sympathy with these escapees. Almost as if you identified with them. Excused them.’ Even murder, he thought, but did not say so.

  ‘I was once on the run myself, remember?’

  ‘Even so. This one’s a murdering war-trained Nazi, you can’t possibly identify with him. I still don’t understand.’ Or care for this, his tone implied.

  ‘There are many things we don’t understand, yet which have their purpose.’ And after that he would say no more.

  They were overhead again tonight, as they had been for nights innumerable and ceaseless, wave after wave of them on their way to Leipzig, perhaps, or Hanover, or most likely Berlin. Down in the tiny cellar it was impossible to tell if they were British Lancasters or American B-17S, since the throbbing of heavy bombers sounded much the same when you had buried yourself as deep beneath the ground as you could go, but the two elderly women held each other’s hands for comfort and hoped the planes were British. The Americans were more trigger-happy and careless – or was it just plain skittish? – and liable to unload their bombs anywhere. The small town of Friesenheim had for centuries nestled comfortably in the security of the valley carved through Westphalia by the headwaters of the Ruhr river, but the valley ran west to east from what was left of the industrial complexes concentrated along the Rhine and acted as a highway for Bomber Command right into the heart of Germany. Friesenheim was on no one’s list of priority targets, but that hadn’t prevented it from being hit several times in the last month as bomber crews got into trouble, got into a panic, or simply got it wrong. In places like Friesenheim there was no such thing as the skill or the art of survival, it was nothing more than a matter of fortune. You crept into your shelters and stayed there for days on end until the weather was bad enough to keep the bombers away, not knowing how long your meagre food supplies were likely to last, sharing everything with the rats, your nerves shot to hell as the walls closed in and praying that you would be one of the lucky ones who wouldn’t die in this hole, or be buried alive, or be drowned as the sewers burst and flooded into your hiding place.

  You spent a lot of time praying, because prayer was all you had to defend yourself, yet frequently even prayer was not enough. A few nights previously a rogue 10,000-pounder which had become stuck in its bomb rack was dislodged and dropped over Friesenheim by a USAF crew on its way home. The townsfolk were well sheltered and 133 of them, mostly women and children, had been packed into the ancient crypt which acted as an air raid shelter underneath the Evangelical church. The pastor had been conducting, encouraging all present to sing at the top of their voices in the hope that it would drown the noise of battle overhead. His wife scurried around serving ersatz coffee and comforting a baby born four days previously.

  No one heard the bomb. The walls of the church were thick and the crypt deep, as was the fashion in the Mittelalter days during the long and glorious reign of Charlemagne when the first foundations had been laid. But there was a grille set in the ground at the back of the nave which was used to facilitate the passage of heavy objects such as coffins or casks of wine in and out of the crypt. It was only a small grille but the bomb had struck the grating at an angle, bouncing down the chute and into the crypt, where it exploded in the middle of the pastor’s choir practice. A fluke, a million to one chance, but in the confined space the devastation was appalling. Only twenty-three had been pulled alive from underneath the collapsed church and several of those had died in the days since, the local hospital long ago having run out of anaesthetics, of antibiotics, of trained doctors, and of hope. Of the pastor, his wife and the baby there had been nothing left but a memory.

  The two elderly women found it hard to change the habits of a lifetime so, in spite of the evidence of the crypt, they huddled in their cellar and continued praying and hoping, smoking cigarettes made out of dandelions and listening to the radio. They found the radio of most comfort. It was their link with sanity, letting them know in the middle of the darkest night that life still went on somewhere outside their tiny, fear-filled world. Otherwise it would be easy to imagine that they were the only people left alive, that the rest of humanity had killed itself and they were left in the darkness as the last survivors of a mad, suicidal world.

  Only the radio and the next wave of bombers brought them back to reality. And reality tonight was another interminable broadcast by Goebbels. As always it brought news from the war front and a call for still further sacrifice to resist the criminals threatening the homeland, larded with vituperative attacks on the nameless Jewish conspirators who had promoted the war and sought the extinction of the German race – although it was clear to most listeners that in recent weeks the emphasis of the news had changed, with reports from the battle fronts becoming briefer and more vague, while the denunciation of those responsible for the growing calamity grew ever more fantastic. Yet tonight there was something different, a new element in the formula. News of a massive break-out by German prisoners of war in England, ‘a powerful illustration that the spirit of our fighting men is not broken and clear proof of how vulnerable our enemies still are, even in their homeland. The British Tommies scurry around after escaped prisoners when the whisky-sodden war criminal Churchill would have them butchering German women and children. Even without their weapons, the unquenchable determination of our German soldiers is continuing to resist the onslaught of our enemies and helping to defe
nd the Fatherland. Resistance, in all manners, at all times, must be our watchword!’

  One of the women held a piece of loaf and hard cheese in her hand, all they had left until the bombing stopped and they could forage for new provisions. Tears were trickling down her cheek and falling on to the stale, dark bread but she seemed not to notice. She was staring into another world that she remembered from long ago, one which had long since been destroyed and which she knew she would never see rebuilt.

  ‘The British are sparing no effort to recapture our escaped German soldiers, but even after many days they have not succeeded. The entire country is on alert, looking out for one brave German whom all the might of the British cannot seem to apprehend. My friends, a new German hero has been born, a man who singlehandedly is defying thousands of British security men and tweaking the bulbous nose of Churchill. Even when thrown into one of the British torture camps he refused to submit. He continued to fight. His courage and devotion to duty never wavered. His resolution should be an example to us all. The whole of Germany salutes one of our bravest men. Peter Hencke!’

  The woman wiped her nose with a small embroidered handkerchief she took from her sleeve, but the tears continued to flow. ‘What’s the use? Why run? Why resist any more? Haven’t we done enough already?’ The words were soft, scarcely audible, directed more to herself than the other woman.

  ‘Frau Deichsfischer,’ the other muttered, ‘you mustn’t give up hope.’

  ‘I’ve given up everything else … A husband. My sons. Two brothers. How much more do they want from me? What else do I have to give?’

  They lapsed into silence as the crackling voice across the radio continued its address.

  ‘Peter Hencke has set the historic example demanded of us all by the Fuehrer. Resist! To the bitter end! Knowing that the National Socialist spirit will survive and outsmart our enemies. Even now our Fuehrer is working in Berlin on plans which will bring new victories to our German armies and exhaust the Allies’ will to continue the fight. Even in these dark hours we must not forget that victory can still be ours, so long as we remain determined to keep the faith and never to give in. Long live the German Volk. Long live our beloved Fuehrer, Adolf Hitler! Death to the Jewish conspirators! My friends, keep up the good fight!’

  The strains of the national anthem blared out across the cellar and Frau Deichsfischer reached out to lower the volume. As she did so the bread, by now thoroughly soaked with her tears, crumbled in her hand and fell to the floor. She looked at the crumbs in despair. ‘In God’s name, why do they want us to go on? What can be worse than this?’

  ‘The Russians, Frau Deichsfischer,’ the other whispered. ‘The Russians.’

  The transcript of Goebbels’ broadcast lay on Cazolet’s desk. As was the custom with Goebbels’ lengthy ramblings, the important sections had been highlighted in pen and he scanned them quickly. He arrived at the references to Hencke and rubbed his tired eyes in a futile attempt to persuade them they had made a mistake. How on earth had Goebbels discovered the identity of the one remaining escapee? Without a name, he was just a statistic, a single digit in the vast lists of war; with it he became human, could be touched and sensed, and Goebbels was transforming him into the torch carrier for the entire German war effort. ‘Bloody hell,’ was all Cazolet managed to say before placing the transcript on top of the Prime Minister’s despatch box. The Old Man wasn’t going to like this.

  ‘The Fuehrer will not permit it, Erich, because I will not permit it. I hope I make myself clear?’

  There was no response, only a look of defiance on the other man’s face.

  ‘Erich, your son’s there, isn’t he?’ Dr Josef Goebbels, Reichsminister for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, held up his hand to stifle the other man’s protests. ‘Look, I know you’re not arguing for a withdrawal on personal grounds, but since your son is there let me explain why it’s imperative we hang on to Prague as long as we can. No matter what the cost.’

  From an immaculate silver case he offered a cigarette to Major Erich Hirschfeldt, one of the longest-serving members of the FBK – Fuehrerbegleit-kommando – the hand-picked SS detachment which acted as the Fuehrer’s personal bodyguard. The major’s hand trembled slightly as he took the cigarette. His hand hadn’t shaken, Goebbels reflected, at any other time during all the years in which Goebbels had known him, when Hirschfeldt had led the street gangs which had split so many heads in the early days and had suffered so many casualties themselves, when he had personally executed dozens of men at Hitler’s order after Stauffenberg’s failed assassination plot, or even a few weeks ago when he had clawed his way out from under the collapsed roof of the Reich Chancellery’s east wing after being buried for almost five hours. Yet that was all gone. He was no longer a fearless defender of the cause but a simple German father, scared about his son, needing a shoulder to cry on.

  ‘He’s … the only son I have left, Herr Reichsminister,’ Hirschfeldt stammered as he tried to light the cigarette.

  ‘I can understand how you feel, Erich. Remember, I have a son and five daughters myself.’ Goebbels smiled reassuringly. He hated playing agony aunt but he couldn’t afford to have Hirschfeldt falling to pieces. The impact on the others would be appalling. It was bad enough that day by day they were being forced to retreat out of the sunlight and magnificent edifices of the Reich’s Hauptstadt into the underground cellars with their bare concrete walls and atmosphere of catacomb decay; they couldn’t survive the collapse of discipline too. Goebbels had to hold on to them all, everyone in Berlin from the Fuehrer and Hirschfeldt all the way down to the telephone operators and drivers because, if they fell apart, everyone in what was left of the Third Reich would know about it within hours and it would all be finished within days. He must get them to hold on, for just a little longer.

  ‘I know things look grim but all is not lost. Think, Erich, think of what might still be salvaged. This coalition between capitalists and Stalinists – how long can it last? Every day as their armies draw closer across the battlefields it becomes more likely that this bastard alliance will break apart and they will fall upon each other. Churchill hates Stalin, Stalin loathes Churchill and that sick old man Roosevelt understands and trusts neither. We only have to hang on a little longer, Erich. Give the damned alliance time to disintegrate, that’s all we need.’ His voice was soft and encouraging, full of confidence; it was confidence not yet shared.

  ‘But do we have time? Will there be anything left to save?’ The agony was chiselled into Hirschfeldt’s face. Once he’d had a faith built of steel which could withstand any number of blows, but Hirschfeldt had watched incredulously as his own faith had rotted and rusted away beneath the tears he had shed for his son. He would have condemned other men for it – had condemned many for much lesser offences in the earlier years of glory, but now it had taken over his entire being and he felt unable to resist.

  ‘They will go for each other’s throats – believe me,’ Goebbels said with passion. ‘In months, maybe only weeks. That’s why your son and Schoerner’s army must hang on to defend Prague as long as possible; they cannot be allowed to withdraw or capitulate. Will your grandchildren forgive us, Erich, if we surrender our armies on foreign soil without a fight? Did we forgive our fathers’ generation for the humiliation of 1918? I have no intention of surrendering our armies intact so they can be dragged off to prison camps while our enemies march across our undefended frontiers to pillage their way through our womenfolk. Think of your wife, Erich, is that what you want for her? Schoerner must hold on in Czechoslovakia as long as possible. If it means more sacrifice, it is a price we must willingly bear.’

  He studied the major closely – the drooping head, the hunched shoulders, the once-immaculate black uniform grown dusty and tarnished, the boots unpolished, the dark rings around the eyes supported by a two-day growth of stubble. Goebbels was a master with words, but he also realized that words alone were not always enough. They hadn’t worked with Hirschfeldt.
/>   ‘Look, Erich, perhaps you need a change. This scurrying around like troglodytes is enough to depress anyone. If you really feel it’s so important, I could get you transferred to Prague, to be with your son. How better to take care of him …?’ And how better to take care of you, you miserable bastard, whose long face and doubting eyes are in danger of infecting everyone around the Fuehrer? As if the Fuehrer didn’t have enough doubts himself. So off to the eastern front with you, Fritzi, and a chance to die usefully for your country instead of living miserable and contagious here in Berlin. And by your death allow Goebbels the chance to create another heroic myth, of a man at the right hand of the Fuehrer who insisted on defending the Reich to his last breath. Hirschfeldt had been a good servant, up till now. He deserved the opportunity to die a hero.

  Hirschfeldt looked up with exhausted eyes. He had been around the silver tongue of Goebbels long enough to know what he really meant. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Reichsminister. I love my country …’ He took a long pull on the cigarette and tried to muster a smile, but it didn’t carry much conviction. He nodded in resignation and acceptance of his fate.

  ‘You’ll be all right, Erich. Trust me,’ Goebbels said, gazing at the wreck of a once-mighty man in front of him. The spectacle started him worrying. He began to wonder whether Peter Hencke had a family …