One Way Roads

by Erik Foge

  The Obergruppenführer stopped and turned to face Erik. The man’s icy blue eyes penetrated his soul. “Herr Major, what is your business in Berlin?”

  “It is a matter of state business. I am to meet with Herr Reich Minister Speer.”

  “I see. Was your brother in the Waffen SS? In Russia? He saved Lieutenant Zeuner’s life?”

  “Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer.”

  “What made you not join the SS?”

  “My height, Sir.”

  A condescending grin came across the Obergruppenführer’s face; with a mocked tone he replied, “Yes, I see that. Well, we cannot all be perfect.” He paused in thought. “I don’t normally fly with people I don’t know. However, since your brother was in the SS and he saved Lieutenant Zeuner’s life, I will give you a lift to Berlin.”

  “Thank you, Herr Obergruppenführer.” Miracle two.

  He sharply did an about face and continued on. Heinz walked alongside Erik, and Erik thanked him for his help. Outside, a polished midnight black 1940 Mercedes-Benz 770 Tourenwagen convertible with two square flag pennants pulled up in front. The flags were diagonally divided into four fields with black top and bottoms and white left and right fields. Superimposed at the center of each pennant was a silver SS eagle with a wreath and swastika.

  The driver leaped out and made his way around the car. “Heil Hitler.” He gave the salute, then opened the back door and closed it once the Obergruppenführer and Heinz were seated. He then did the same with the passenger seat for Erik.

  The car lunged forward toward the airfield and forced everyone back in their seats. Erik absorbed everything he saw. None of it was in any book or government file that he had seen, or possibly his security clearance wasn’t high enough. As they drove along the road that ran parallel to the hangers and what appeared to be several launch pads, Erik turned around, pointed in the direction of the launch pads and asked for clarification.

  “That will make us win this war,” the Obergruppenführer replied in a heartless tone and with a devilish grin.

  As Erik continued to look, he was greeted by a scene of such horror that for several minutes he sat speechless, his eyes dazzled by the terror of the Nazis’ weapon of mass destruction: the A-10 rocket, also known as the Amerika Rocket. Each projectile rested on a blunt cone of steel that rose from the ground with their tips of three severely back-swept delta fins. A lightning bolt of chills raced up Erik’s spine; he felt pure evil emanating from this man. He nodded and turned around, realizing who the man in the back seat actually was: Obergruppenführer Hans Kammler. Hans Kammler was the man in charge of Hitler’s most secret projects: Miracle Weapons and Project Bell, specifically projects such as the jet engines, rockets (V1 and V2), and Intercontinental Weapons (Amerika Rocket). Erik remembered that at one time Kammler had over fourteen million people that worked for him, mostly building underground factories. Erik shivered. If he didn’t stop Hitler’s death, Kammler’s dreams would become realities.

  The car came to a halt at the airfield checkpoint, which was well protected by two Sdkfz 232 armored cars and a half dozen SS troops. One guard peered into the car; the others stayed alert. Once the guard realized who it was, he snapped to attention and did the Nazi salute. The gate was raised and the car passed through. They drove slowly alongside a massive hangar with ground crews. Technical staff and pilots hovered around and worked on what appeared to be experimental aircraft. Amazed, Erik corrected himself: experimental jet aircraft. Though he had seen these jets—Focke-Wulf FW J. P.011-47 and Messerschmitt, ME P.1101/99—in books and government files, he couldn’t believe they were in front of his eyes.

  Erik thought out loud, “That’s just impossible.”

  He glanced back at Kammler, who had a disturbing grin and replied, “Nothing is impossible. It just costs a lot of money.” Then he told Erik that the pilots of the Jagdgeschwader Schlageter 26—better known as the “The Abbeville Boys” or “The Abbeville Kids” to both the British and Americans who flew against them—would once again have air superiority.

  Erik squinted into the hanger and noticed that the fuselage of the Messerschmitt ME P.1101/99 was an all metal construction and contained the fuel tanks and most of the armament. The wings were swept back at forty-five degrees—almost like the United States F-117A Nighthawk stealth fighter aircraft—and it had four turbojets buried in the thickened wing roots fed by an air intake in the leading edge of the wing. The main landing gear looked like it could be retracted inward into the fuselage, and the front gear appeared to be able to retract backward beneath the cockpit. A two-man crew could sit side-by-side in the cockpit in the extreme nose of the aircraft. A long barrel, which looked like a seventy-five-millimeter Pak 40 cannon, sat in the nose along with five MK 112 fifty-five-millimeter machine cannons. This aircraft would create havoc against the B-17’s. But Erik was going to do his best to make sure that would never happen.

  They continued slowly past the hangar that gave Erik plenty of time to feast his eyes on the jets. He felt Kammler’s pride in his weapons and suspected that he was enjoying Erik’s obvious amazement. He saw that the Focke-Wulf FW J. P.011-47 was an all metal twin-jet fighter. Its wings were mounted mid-fuselage and swept back thirty degrees. One turbojet was located underneath the cockpit in the forward fuselage and one was mounted under each wing—three in all. It was similar to, or a bad knock off of, the Soviet fighters Lavochkin La-200 and MIG I-320. Unlike those aircraft, though, this had space in the cockpit for a crew of three. Erik assumed that the pilot and navigator would have sat side-by-side with the radio operator directly behind them, facing the rear. The armament in the forward fuselage nose looked like four MK 108 thirty-millimeter cannons. The P-51 wouldn’t have a chance if they went head to head in combat.

  A deafening high-pitched whine suddenly penetrated Erik’s ears. He covered his ears with his hands and glanced around to locate the source of the noise. Heinz tapped on Erik’s shoulder and pointed to the runway. Erik looked, and his eyes widened at the sight of a large winged aircraft that came in for a landing.

  “What is it?” He asked Heinz, raising his voice to be heard over the noise.

  “A jet bomber.”

  The bomber landed with a bounce, and it was soon clear to Erik from the swept-back wings with vertical fins and the two turbojets under each that it was an Arado AR E.560/4, designed as a fast, medium-range tactical bomber. The crew of two sat in the cockpit in the fuselage nose where two fixed, forward-firing MG 151 twenty-millimeter cannons were mounted. The aft fuselage held two fixed rear-firing cannons of the same kind, and one that Erik knew was fired and moved by remote control via a periscope in the cockpit. He didn’t know the bomb load capacity, but clearly, it was an effective weapon.

  The whining died, but a thundering roar from large aero engines took its place.

  “To your right,” Kammler said.

  Erik’s jaw dropped when he realized what was in front of him, a Junkers, Ju 390.

  Kammler chuckled at his reaction, and Erik closed his mouth. He recalled that the Ju 390 was a part of the failed Amerika Bomber Project. The wings, mounted mid-fuselage, had an enormous wingspan—a hundred and sixty-five feet, Erik recalled—and each wing had three massive radial engines. The plane sat on four immense sets of dual wheels with huge axle suspensions that would retract into the wings, and there was a wheel near the end of the fuselage. Erik remembered that the intimidating looking aircraft was large enough to carry an eight-man crew: pilot, co-pilot, navigator, radio operator, and four machine gunners strategically located throughout the aircraft.

  One after another, the engine’s propellers stuttered into life, followed by a huge belch of thick black smoke from the exhaust pipe. Erik shook his head in amazement, but not just for the reason Kammler thought. For Erik, it was as if he had climbed into one of his history books.

  The Mercedes-Benz pulled alongside the aircraft and members of the aircrew raced to the doors closest to the plane. They opened them, and everyone got
out and exchanged Nazi salutes. An SS sergeant approached Heinz, they exchanged salutes, and the sergeant reported that the aircraft was clear for takeoff and that Kammler’s meeting with Hitler was confirmed. Heinz turned his head slightly to Kammler and nodded, symbolizing that everything was set, and then he motioned to Erik to the hatch where they were to enter. Erik walked to the plane and glanced up at the pilot and co-pilot perched high in the cockpit. They were busy going over their checklists and inspections prior to departure.

  Once on the gangway, Erik felt the steady vibration that engulfed the aircraft. Inside the narrow Ju 390, he found a seat on one side of the aisle, and Heinz took a place in the matched row of single seats on the other side. Within minutes, everyone was seated and the aircraft taxied to the runway and took off. The noise from the massive engines resonated through the airframe, and the floor quivered under Erik’s feet. Out the window, he saw three Messerschmitt ME 262s that flew in to escort them. He looked across the moss-green interior and saw more joining them on the other side.

  Heinz leaned over toward Erik. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine,” Erik replied.

  Heinz asked if he had a family and Erik said he did. They exchanged photographs, and Heinz noticed with a silly grin and raised eyebrows, that Jamie looked younger than Erik. Erik rolled his eyes and said that she was, by thirteen years. Heinz congratulated him as if he’d won a contest and asked how he got her. They then shared the stories of how they met their wives.

  Erik glanced over his shoulder and saw Kammler buried in his documents. His snake-like eyes slowly raised off the page, and he gave Erik a Cheshire cat grin.

  Erik suppressed a shiver. Can this guy be any more evil?

  Before long, the co-pilot made his way to the back of the aircraft where Erik and the rest sat and said they would be landing in twenty minutes.

  Erik stretched in his seat and again considered how to persuade Albert Speer to help him. He knew that during this time since Operation Valkyrie failed, everyone in Germany was questioning each other. The Gestapo even watched ordinary citizens, and if anyone showed a defeatist attitude, they were detained and questioned. Erik would also need to find transportation to Speer’s office by the Reich Chancellery.

  The tires screeched from hitting the runway at Tempelhof, which indicated that they had finally arrived in Berlin. The huge aircraft taxied toward the main terminal, where various military aircraft stood ready to be launched at a moment’s notice. Within minutes, the thunderous aero engines sputtered to a halt. The rear tail gunner got up, opened the rear hatch, jumped out and placed the stairs by the hatch so everyone could get out.

  SS bodyguards with emotionless faces and a two-toned 1940 Mercedes-Benz G-4 Tourenwagen convertible greeted them. Erik turned to Heinz as Kammler walked on by and thanked him once again. They said their goodbyes, and Heinz and Kammler left Erik standing on the tarmac.

  “Sir, someone left this behind,” A voice said from behind him. Erik turned. The pilot handed him a thick file.

  “Thank you.” Erik took the folder as a lone Kübelwagen pulled up. He glanced at the outside of the folder and grinned. The label read, “Die Glocke” (The Bell). What a score! He held the complete file on Project Bell, a top secret Nazi project! All he knew was that it was either a scientific technological device, a secret weapon, or a Wunderwaffe (wonder weapon). Then Erik turned to the pilot and instructed him not to mention this to Kammler or anyone. The pilot and Erik exchanged salutes and went on their way. While walking to the Kübelwagen, he glanced through the many drawings, diagrams, and documentation.

  “Hello, Herr Major. It’s good to see you again,” the driver said when Erik drew near.

  Erik looked up at a familiar face. He paused, tried to place the man, and then asked, “Are you the private that drove me to the hospital?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Why are you at Tempelhof? And I see you got promoted to time lance-corporal.”

  The young man smiled and nodded, and Erik congratulated him.

  “I was going to pick up my commanding officer,” the time lance-corporal explained, “but I just heard it was possible he was shot down.” He frowned. “The last time I saw you, you shot at the SS vehicle’s tires. They were angry.”

  Erik chuckled, imagining their reactions. Then he leaned forward. “Since your commanding officer isn’t going to arrive, could you give me a lift to Herr Reich Minister Speer’s address: No. 53 Pariser Platz,”

  “Yes Sir,” the time lance-corporal said and gestured Erik into the car.

  During the drive, Erik told the time lance-corporal that they could be informal and he could call him Erik. He learned that the young man’s name was Walter Kohl and that he was assigned to an anti-aircraft battery in the city, near his parent’s house where he lived.

  Berlin was a mess. Block after block of buildings that had once stood with pride had been turned into rubble; it was an ominous sight. The residents’ faces were etched with fear, and they regularly cast worried looks up to the sky. Among the ruins, the blood-red Nazi flag fluttered, and the words of one of the Nazis’ most-repeated political slogans were painted in white bold letters: Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer (One People, One Nation, One Leader).

  Erik was amazed and impressed that even though they knew that Germany was defeated, the German people still had their pride. The trees on Lichtenrader Street had lost most of their colorful fall leaves, mainly because of the Allied bombings. On Mahlower Street, repairmen appeared to be fixing busted underground pipes, which seemed completely absurd since the same thing would happen once the Allies bombed Berlin again. Running parallel to Columbiadamm, on the right-hand side, was a large open grassy area surrounded by trees. Through the branches, Erik saw several camouflaged eighty-eight-millimeter anti-aircraft batteries surrounded by sandbags that gave some protection from shrapnel for the crew.

  Walter drove deeper into the city and made a slight right to Platz der Luftbrücke and a right turn on Merhringdamm/B96. They passed more half-demolished buildings and piles of rubble. It appeared that the Allied bomb raids touched every part of Berlin. Finally, they turned onto Voßstraße and Walter parked the car. He pointed to the building where Speer’s office was—which was within walking distance of the Reich Chancellery—and asked Erik if he should wait for him. Erik said yes, then he darted across the street and entered the building.

  Inside, Erik glanced at the list of names and office numbers and located the right name—Reich Minister Speer, room 215. Erik prayed that Speer was here and not in a meeting with Hitler. He dashed up the concrete stairs, avoiding individuals on their way down, and finally came to room 215. He paused to catch his breath, then walked in. A petite, plain woman with round black-framed glasses and hair in a bun, sat behind a desk. Her dark eyes glanced up and she straightened her posture as Erik approached.

  Erik removed his cap. “I’m here to see the Reich Minister.”

  “Herr Major, do you have an appointment?” She glanced at an appointment book that was filled with names and times.

  “No. But I only need five minutes of the Reich Minister’s time.”

  “I’m sorry, Herr Major, but unless you have an appointment, Herr Reich Minister Speer cannot see you.” She flipped through the filled appointment pages, shook her head, and then looked up. “His schedule is completely booked. If you leave your name and number I’ll give it to him and see if he can meet you outside of office hours or fit you in his schedule.”

  Erik leaned over the desk. “My business with Speer is of the utmost urgency. It cannot wait. When he knows my business, he will want to see me.”

  “What’s your business?”

  “I can’t tell you, except to say that I’m here to stop something terrible from happening to the Führer, and if you don’t let me see him, you’ll soon understand and wish you had.”

  She observed him for a moment, then, apparently satisfied that he was genuine, motioned him to take a seat. She picked up th
e phone and spoke in a half whisper while she nodded and looked in Erik’s direction. She placed the receiver down but said nothing. Erik sat, looked down and closed his eyes, feared the worst, and hoped for the best.

  Erik lifted his head at the sound of a door being opened. Albert Speer, the thirty-nine-year-old Minister of Armaments and Munitions walked in and glared at Erik. His bluish-grey eyes matched the color of an overcast sky. He wore a brown Nazi tunic with no insignia, a bare swastika armband, and an NSDAP Golden Party Badge on his left breast pocket. Erik stood at attention.

  “You have five minutes,” Speer said, then he turned around and went in his office.

  Erik followed and mouthed a thank you to his secretary.

  “How can I help you, Herr Major?” Speer asked as he stuffed his attaché case.

  “What I’m about to share will be a shock, Herr Reich Minister.”

  Speer paid little attention and motioned Erik to get to the point as he continued grabbing documents off his desk.

  “There is going to be another attempt to kill the Führer.”

  Speer stopped and glanced at him. “What did you say?” he asked coldly.

  “Herr Reich Minister, there is going to be another attempt to kill the Führer.”

  Speer glared at Erik and replied firmly. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Major Erik Függer.”

  Speer stopped, crossed his arms, and scrutinized Erik. “Herr Major, that’s a rash thing to say,” he said in a scolding tone. “How are you sure about this?” He pointed at Erik to get his point across. “What proof do you have?”

  “I don’t have any actual proof, but,” he tried to salvage some credibility, “I have a very strong suspicion that there is going be an attempt on his life tomorrow around noon.”

  Speer gave him an incredulous look. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You want me to believe there’s an attempt on the Führer’s life, but you have no proof?”

  “Yes, I do. Herr Reich Minister Speer, I know what I am saying is mad—”