Last Man to Die

by Michael Dobbs

  They drove directly into the underground garage off Hermann Goering Strasse. Even by night and with many of its windows blown out or boarded up, the looming edifice of the Reich Chancellery was clearly recognizable. Teams were at work dealing with the rubble from the most recent aerial onslaught but it was no longer being taken away and hidden, merely pushed aside to allow access. Inside the building the upper storeys had been vacated, parts of the roof and most of the windows having gone, but on lower floors and in the cellar there were still hundreds of people scurrying about their business. Indeed, as Hencke emerged from the garage into the heart of Berlin’s main government complex, he entered a different world. While outside the great capital city lay in ruins, inside there remained at least a semblance of discipline and control. Even the driver had started saluting senior officers again. Telephones still jangled, commands were barked, soldiers scampered to obey. Yet as Hencke was led by an orderly through a maze of underground cellars and tunnels, he couldn’t help but notice how fragile seemed this veneer of order. There was no hiding the weariness in the limbs, the ashen signs of exhaustion in the faces of men who had survived too long on too little sleep, the soiled uniforms which bore the dust and filth of excursions into the outside world and which no one bothered any longer to clean or replace. In many places the refuse of meals and drinking sessions lay uncleared, and Hencke passed two generals who were obviously drunk. Strangely their uniforms bore the least sign of battle grime, the only stains seeming to have come from spilt wine and soup.

  Soon they were out of the cellar and up to the ground floor, where spartan utility gave way to the splendour of marble floors, rich carpets and still finer tapestries, all of which were spotted with the marks of fallen plasterwork. The lights burned brightly for the windows were heavily boarded and, as the orderly led the way down corridors and through rooms which echoed to their footsteps, Hencke was conscious of the soiled splendour of a once magnificent showpiece. Drawing-rooms had been transformed into sleeping quarters bursting with metal cots; where great receptions had once been held were piled man-made mountains of provisions and wooden crates; a burnished Steinway in the music room had been pushed aside to make way for an array of maps surrounding a briefing table, and everywhere there was a sense of desperate struggle to avoid the short descent into chaos. But still the heart of government was beating, even if the effort involved was proving colossal.

  The orderly, a lieutenant, stopped outside a towering pair of carved doors and instructed him to wait. He knocked sharply and from deep within there came a muffled order to enter. He disappeared for a second and exchanged a few brief words before reappearing. ‘He’s ready for you,’ was all he said before ushering Hencke through the doors.

  The room behind the doors had once been a small reception-room – small, that is, only by comparison with the great halls through which they had passed. It was a good thirty metres long and decorated with gilded mirrors, oil paintings of traditional hunting scenes and a vast crystal chandelier which cast a delicate light across the inlaid oaken floor. Whatever furniture had once adorned the room had gone. In the middle now stood a large baize-covered table surrounded by chairs, sufficient for a briefing meeting of thirty, with a huge map of Berlin and its approaches pinned up at one end of the room. At the other end, beside an ornate fireplace whose mantel was covered in fine pieces of blue and white porcelain, was a vast pillared desk with a marble top which was all but hidden beneath neat piles of paper. And beside the desk stood the unmistakable, reed-like figure of Josef Goebbels.

  ‘Hencke! Is it really you inside those rags? What a spectacle you make! But you are most welcome!’ Goebbels paced stiffly across the room, his right foot pointing awkwardly inwards, extending his hand in greeting. A smile of amusement played on his lips as he studied his unkempt prize. While the undersized Reichsminister was dressed immaculately in a conservative double-breasted suit with a pearl-white shirt, his dark hair brushed back and glossy with brilliantine, Hencke made a miserable sight. The change of clothes provided by the local police after his rescue on the beach had never fitted properly; now they were stained with the mud and dust from shifting obstructions and rubble. His boots and trousers had become soaked from the flooding of broken water pipes, a dark brown stain of dried blood clung to his left sleeve and around his neck still hung the grimy handkerchief he had used to protect his mouth from the burning air.

  ‘Ha! I see you come well gift-wrapped,’ Goebbels chuckled, clapping his hands in delight. He was clearly exultant. ‘I am not a superstitious man, Hencke, but to have you delivered back to us, on such an auspicious day, is more than even my scepticism can take.’ He saw the bewildered look on Hencke’s face and led him towards two comfortable chairs which stood on either side of a low occasional table. ‘Sit down, my dear Hencke. We have much to talk about.’ He poured coffee from a silver pot and began.

  ‘Do you know what day it is?’

  ‘Herr Reichsminister, I scarcely know what year it is. I have been in a prison camp, on the run, in fishing smacks on the Irish Sea and in a submarine at the bottom of the North Sea …’

  Goebbels stretched over to grasp his hand and still him. ‘The twentieth of April, my dear Hencke. The Fuehrer’s birthday. I have organized a very special celebration for him. And a very special prize. Hencke, you are that prize!’

  ‘I … am to be presented to the Fuehrer?’

  Goebbels’ saturnine face was unusually animated. ‘Yes. Oh, yes. The arrival of perhaps the bravest man in Germany represents the return of hope and good fortune. My God, it will be better medicine than anything those quacks have poured into him in months.’ The long creases about his face became suddenly harder and his voice lost its celebratory edge, becoming quiet, almost conspiratorial. He leaned close to Hencke as if afraid his words might be overheard, the blood vessels at his temples swelling as he strained forward. ‘You must realize, Hencke, the Fuehrer may not be the man you remember. The assassination attempt at Rastenburg last year … it caused him grave damage. He was so close to the bomb it was a miracle he survived. His ear drums shattered, his hearing damaged, his sense of balance gone …’ Goebbels was talking slowly, choosing his words with care. ‘The worries he has borne over so many years on our behalf have taken their inevitable toll. He has given so much of his own strength to our cause, it is vital for us in turn to replenish it with our full support and encouragement. He is tired, unwell. He needs reassurance. While he has the will to carry on, so does Germany. Later today all of the party’s leaders are arriving from their posts around the country to honour and strengthen him, to reinforce his desire to carry on in his great task. And that is why your arrival is so timely and so important. You are the embodiment of the German spirit to continue the fight; he will regard your presence as an omen of good fortune, a harbinger of victories yet to come.’

  ‘I fear I will disappoint the Fuehrer …’

  ‘Hencke, you are Odysseus escaped from the clutches of the Cyclops and returned to Ithaca. This is no time for modesty. You have achieved more than any other captured German since this war began … But tell me, we know so little of you – no more than your name.’ He was on the edge of his chair – like a cat waiting to pounce, thought Hencke. ‘Tell me more about yourself.’

  So they sat while Hencke talked, of his childhood in the Sudetenland, the German-speaking part of Czechoslovakia which had been almost the first of the Third Reich’s territorial claims in Europe, stripped from the Czechs in 1938. Of his modest life as a schoolteacher, of his even more modest entry into the Wehrmacht as an ordinary infantryman, of his capture outside Bastogne on Christmas Day last as the Ardennes offensive turned to ignominious rout, of his incarceration and of his run for freedom. And as he spoke his mind was in turmoil. He’d only just arrived and already he was taking coffee with Goebbels – they were going to push him at Hitler! – could it all be so easy? Of course not. He needed time to think and his confusion and obvious exhaustion were causing his words to stumble.
He took refuge in a yawn, mumbling an apology before Goebbels interrupted him.

  ‘I have tired you enough. There is much for us to discuss still, but you must get some rest before our celebration this afternoon – it would not do for you to fall asleep on the Fuehrer! And we must do something about your gift-wrapping … Hencke, I am appointing you to the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, the most elite division in the Waffen SS. Its name is synonymous, as now is yours, with valour and dedication to the Fuehrer. I congratulate you! So, rest. There are a few hours before the Americans return to snatch our sleep from us and wake the dead. We can continue this later …’

  Hencke’s head swam from fatigue and the overwhelming atmosphere. He hadn’t seen Goebbels give any signal, but when he looked up the orderly was waiting to escort him away. He rose stiffly with Goebbels’ hand on his elbow for support. ‘Sleep well, brave Hencke,’ the Reichsminister said, assisting him towards the door. At the threshold he paused, taking Hencke’s hand.

  ‘I have never been able to fight in the front line, but you seem to have shown enough heroism for both of us. You’re a very brave man, Hencke. Indeed, coming from the Sudetenland it could be said that you were part of this war even before it began.’

  Hencke nodded. Goebbels didn’t know how right he was.

  ‘Tell me, where in the Sudetenland were you born?’

  Hencke froze. The hand which held his, which had supported him across the room, had now become a restraint, a manacle holding him back. He knew their conversation had become interrogation and he would need all his wits about him. But his tired body no longer wanted to fight the fatigue and he felt paralysed by the touch of the hand and the brush of the seemingly innocent words. Goebbels’ dark eyes and lean, saturnine face had the hypnotic power of a swaying cobra, and for a moment it appeared as if Hencke could say nothing. He knew why Goebbels had asked.

  ‘Eger,’ he said softly. ‘February the second, 1910. I was born just outside Eger.’

  Goebbels nodded. ‘They will be very proud of you. Well, goodnight, Hencke. And don’t worry about a thing. We’ll take care of you.’

  And Hencke was gone. With a thoughtful look Goebbels walked back to his desk. He spent some time pondering over a slow burning cigarette before he lifted the phone.

  ‘Bormann? Hencke’s arrived. In Berlin. In the Reich Chancellery. Look, you’re the man with the records. I want you to find out a little more about him. Schoolteacher. Born second February 1910 outside Eger in the Sudetenland … No, seems fine, but he’s too valuable for us to take chances. I’ve arranged for someone to keep an eye on him, just in case. At times like these you can never be too sure …’

  Replacing the receiver he checked his watch. He opened a large drawer in his desk and switched on the small radio which was inside, fiddling with the tuning dial before settling back to listen to the news service of the BBC. Nowadays it was the only way he could find out precisely what was going on. And Goebbels always insisted on knowing what was going on.

  The orderly, who had not spoken a word on the journey through the Reich Chancellery to Goebbels’ study, seemed to have relaxed. Once the Reichsminister appeared satisfied with his guest the tension had seeped out of the lieutenant, to be replaced by a stubbornness and even pugnacity. Hencke thought he could smell alcohol on his breath.

  ‘How well do you know Berlin?’ he enquired of Hencke.

  ‘Not at all. I’m from the Sudetenland.’

  ‘Rumour says you’ve come to save the city. That’s nice of you, very generous,’ the lieutenant continued, oozing sarcasm. He clearly had little time for heroes, particularly new ones. ‘So let me show you a little of what you’ve come to save.’ Without waiting for any sort of response he led the way along a back corridor and down a staircase. They were headed once more for the cellar. Soon they had left behind the lofty ceilings and soiled splendour of the upper floors and were down once more in the low, bare, monochrome world of hollow expressions and deep-sunk eyes rimmed red with fatigue. They proceeded along the corridor that ran through the cellar complex to a point where it became cluttered with bundles of blankets and rags. Inside the rags were soldiers, all badly wounded, some of whom already appeared to have given up the struggle and to be dead. There was a sweet, disgusting smell in the air and flies buzzed freely around. Up ahead Hencke could see doors and the lieutenant was headed for them, but barring his way was a broken, toppled figure, once a full man, now unable even to continue sitting propped against the wall. The body was hunched, the eyes bruised and tightly closed, the only sign of life being a low moan of despair coming from between swollen lips. Judging by the gaudy brass buttons that still clung to what was left of his uniform, the body appeared once to have been a young recruit from a naval training college. It was clear he would never return there. The lieutenant picked him up and gently leaned him back against the wall.

  ‘Come on, old chap. Can’t hold up progress,’ he whispered in the lad’s ear. He lit a cigarette to place between the puffy lips but the lad seemed to have neither the strength nor spirit to respond and the cigarette fell to the floor. The lieutenant crushed it angrily with his boot before looking back at Hencke. ‘Looks as if you’re too late to save that one. Never mind, plenty more inside.’

  They went through the door, and the scene in front of them banished any last vestige of tiredness from Hencke’s mind. Beneath a solitary lamp stood an officer and two women. The officer wore a barely recognizable uniform which was covered in blood, some old and caked, much of it fresh. The two women, scarcely less bloodied, were obviously nurses. On a high table between them lay a body with its stomach open and entrails pouring out on either side of the incision. The doctor was having trouble since the body was twitching and he was uttering curses about the lack of morphine. His eyes were as red and smeared as his uniform and his face grey from lack of sleep. One of the nurses was crying silently, not tears of weakness or fear but tears of compassion; the body before them seemed to belong to a youth no older than sixteen. Set back from the table, on a hard bench where he lay supported by a large stuffed cushion, was an old man. Even at a glance he was clearly not long for this world yet between racking bouts of coughing he was giving instruction and advice to the surgeon, who sought counsel frequently. Perhaps the man wielding the scalpel was not a qualified doctor at all. In one corner of the improvised surgery lay four other forms on stretchers, waiting their turn.

  No one took the slightest notice of Hencke and the lieutenant. Not even when one of the nurses slopped something into a bucket and brought it over to the large bin close to where they were standing did she look at them. Hencke saw that the slops were yards of entrail, and the bin contained amputated arms and legs, some still with their boots on, in addition to much gore. He desperately wanted to vomit, but looking at the nurses made him feel foolish. He swallowed the bile and clenched his jaws until he thought his teeth would crack.

  The lieutenant seemed unaffected; he had seen it many times before. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and dragged Hencke towards a door on the other side of the room which required them to push past the table. Still no one looked up. Hencke suspected they would still be there, bent over the table, even when the Russians came.

  As he and Hencke walked through the door the lieutenant switched on the torch buckled to his belt, for whatever was on the other side was in semi-darkness. It was a large room, packed with beds jammed side by side which could only be reached by narrow passageways at their feet. There were well over 300 beds, all full, many with two patients sharing each narrow palliasse. In spite of the hum of a ventilation fan the stench was appalling, a rancid mixture of death, decay, gangrene, sickness and broken bowels. By torchlight a handful of nurses were floating about the room, ministering, comforting, cleaning. One was carefully unwrapping the bandages from a corpse, laying those which appeared the least soiled on a table for later use. The door of a medicine cabinet on the wall stood ajar, the shelves inside bare.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be happy to
hear you’ve brought them hope,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Still, a truckful of aspirin might have been more practical.’

  Their journey was not yet over. Hencke was led along the side of the room, past patients who groaned with pain, some of whom reached out and implored them for a cigarette, many who seemed to lack the strength either to complain or to implore. Without knowing where he was going, Hencke hurried on. At the far end of the room was another door like the one through which they had entered and Hencke approached it with a feeling of considerable relief. The lieutenant stood back to allow him through first, proffering the torch.

  Hencke’s first impression was that this was another hospital ward, for he could see rows of cots lined up in the gloom. But as soon as he took a breath he could tell this was not so; the stench was gone, or was at least different. He flashed the torch around and could see bodies on the beds.

  ‘Turn off that fucking light, you fool,’ a voice growled in the dark. Hencke shone the torch in the direction of the sound. In the beam of light he could see an overweight, pink body stretched out on a bed. It was one of the drunken generals he had seen earlier that evening. Astride him, her breasts bobbling up and down as she tried to get some rhythm going, was a young woman. He shone the torch away and played it quickly over the rest of the room. It needed no more than a second for him to realize what he had intruded upon. The room seemed to have been intended as a small extension to the main hospital ward, but the beds were strewn around in haphazard fashion. On many of the beds lay men entwined with women, sometimes with two women, either actively involved in sex or taking a break with a bottle or cigarette. To one side several beds had been pushed together, and on top of this platform Hencke saw the confused and contorted shapes of group sex. The men appeared to be mostly elderly, the women all young. ‘Angels of the night,’ whispered the lieutenant, ‘who work just as hard as the girls next door. They call this the Recovery Room.’ From somewhere in the gloom, accompanied by raucous laughter and much crudity, a young female voice began to groan and then rise, unintentionally mimicking the anguish of a wounded soldier. Hencke felt sick again.