– often under appallingly crude conditions and without aesthetic – on inmates from the concentration camps; but Wilson was obsessed with extending his life, and as soon as an experiment produced results, he made personal use of it, no matter how painful. He used himself a lot, in fact: gave his blood and urine and shit and even semen; underwent numerous tests and experiments. He had operations on his failing heart, on his stomach and joints; he even had some basic plastic surgery to make him look younger. He was a man obsessed, Colonel.’
‘And no longer like a seventy-five-year-old.’
‘No, the pig looked much younger.’
The vehemence was startling, but Bradley knew he could use it. ‘Why did you move in with him,’ he asked, ‘if you detested him so much?’
‘Because he asked for me,’ she said. ‘It was an SS hospital and he had a lot of influence. I wanted to have a few small luxuries, so I moved in with him.’
‘Why did he want a woman at his age?’
Greta Bernecker, swathed in her bandages, actually managed a smile. Bradley didn’t like her, but he had to admire her guts. The combination of bandages and courage reminded him of Gladys in the ambulance in Paris. Thank God, she was now back in London – and writing letters again.
‘It wasn’t romance,’ Greta said, ‘if that’s what you’re thinking. No, he needed a trained nurse, one who understood his needs, and since I’d been looking after him for so long, I was an obvious choice... He was a vigorous man, Colonel – those operations had done him good – but he wasn’t interested in normal sex. What he wanted was his own semen – for the experiments, nothing more – and since I’d already done it for him, he wanted me to masturbate him and then bottle his semen and arrange for its delivery to the hospital. I did the same with his piss and shit and blood. It was a job and I did it.’
‘Did he treat you well?’
‘Yes. In the sense that he wasn’t cruel. He was neither cruel nor kind – he simply didn’t have such emotions – and as long as I did what he asked, he let me have what I wanted. But I thought he cared for me at least a little... It’s a human conceit.’
‘But he didn’t care.’
‘No. Not a bit. When the order came for him to move out, he just moved out and left me. I meant nothing at all to him.’
‘Did anyone mean anything to him?’
‘Not that I noticed. I think he was dead from the neck down. He had no heart, no soul. He was all brain – a mathematical machine, above human emotion. I’ve never met a man like him.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’
‘No. I don’t think so. He left me and went to the Harz Mountains and is probably still there. I want you to find him and hang him. It’s all he deserves.’
‘Yes, Frau Bernecker.’
‘Now I’m tired and wish to go to sleep. Goodbye, Colonel.’
‘Goodbye.’
Unable to move anything else, Greta Bernecker closed her eyes. Bradley, elated and disturbed at once, walked out of the ward.
By nightfall, Bradley had left his makeshift office in the ruins of Cologne and was resting on one knee, like Davy Crockett, with an M-1 rifle in his hands. The sky above him was filled with black clouds of bursting flak, phosphorescent streams of tracers, descending parachutists, and fat-bellied Allied bombers and gliders. All combined to make a noise that could strip the senses bare.
Bradley gazed across the river, along the length of that enormous bridge, and saw the water geysering up all around it and roaring dramatically. There were infantrymen bunched up all around him, behind him, in front of him, and as the ones in front jumped up and yelled obscenities and rushed forward, the distance between him and the bridge decreased all too rapidly.
He moved forward at a crouch, holding his M-1 like a woman. He heard the shouting and the roaring and the rumbling of tanks and halftracks and thought that he was living a dream too intense to be borne. Then he was all alone there: not one soul in front of him; just the river and geysering water and that enormous length of bridge, plus a dizzying drop down into the river, where dead bodies were floating.
American bodies, he thought, and started shaking. I can’t do this. It’s too much.
‘Go, dammit! Get going!’
Someone grabbed him by the shoulder, shook him violently, and threw him forward. He jumped up and ran like the wind, straight onto that damned bridge. The wind was worse out in the open, carrying all the noise to him, and the German shells were looping down around him and the water was roaring. He was drenched, but kept going; now he simply had no choice. When he glanced around him, he saw geysering water and more men falling off the bridge. Shocked, he looked away, raising his eyes to the heavens, where he saw the bombers and bursting clouds of flak and tracers painting the night. Death in war could be so beautiful, always lighting up the darkness, but it was still blood and broken bones and burning and it made him feel nauseous.
‘Keep going, goddammit!’
Which he did, as he had no choice. Running above death and destruction. Advancing beneath a night sky rendered exotic by modern technology. He ran and fell down, jumped up and ran again, while the water splashed over him, then fell away again, and bawling men, some of whom were his friends, jerked frantically and fell down. He couldn’t stop to check their pulses. Once you started, you couldn’t stop. You just had to keep going, through the hellish noise and chaos, and pray to God, as Bradley was doing right now, that you’d somehow get through it.
‘Goddammit, fuckin’ German sons of bitches!
Goddammit, we’ve made it !’
Bradley didn’t know who was shouting. All the voices seemed the same. They were filled with exultation and dread and a childish defiance. He just followed the other men, still running, crouched low, his M-1 bouncing off his chest, and raced through raging water into more hellish noise and emerged to a stretch of solid ground that was erupting in flame and smoke. He jumped off the bridge, bringing his M-1 up, taking aim, but the wave of men filing up behind him forced him onto the scorched ground.
It was earth and it was black and torn asunder by bomb and shell and his buddies were spreading out across it and heading into the darkness.
Bradley stopped for a moment, briefly blind and deaf, drenched, and then realized that he was standing on the soil of the Thousand Year Reich.
He held his rifle at the ready and marched forward, into Germany.
To Wilson.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX The move began on the first day of April. Kammler had arrived back from the Hague at the end of March, after firing the last of his 1,050 V2 rockets on London. He had immediately informed Ernst that as the American army was rapidly approaching Nordhausen, the whole complex was to be evacuated forthwith.
‘As you know,’ he said, seated in his office in the Nordhausen Central Works, his back turned to the panorama of forested hills and sky framed by the large window behind him, ‘it is Himmler’s intention to use Wernher von Braun and his five thousand technicians as pawns in a possible trade-off with the Allies. While I personally disapprove of this, I cannot argue with the Reichsführer, who is increasingly neurotic. I therefore had to agree to personally move them to a safe place in Oberammergau, in the Bavarian Alps. I plan to do that in four days’ time. While I am thus engaged, I expect you personally to supervise the evacuation of the laboUr force from Camp Dora and back to Buchenwald, Bergen-Belsen, Neuengamme, Ravensbruck, and similar camps around Brunswick and Hanover. Brook no resistance. Execute those who either cannot or refuse to go. Make sure the evacuation is completed by the fourth of April, when the evacuation of the Kahla complex is due to begin. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ernst replied. Although he had formerly detested Kammler’s icy efficiency, he had to admire it now. ‘But I fail to see how you can make it back here from Oberammergau by April 4.’
‘I won’t be coming back,’ Kammler said. ‘As soon as I’ve settled von Braun and his men there, where they’ll be placed under guard, I’ll take a
plane to Kiel and join you there. Once there, I’ll remain with Wilson and his team until you return to Berlin to pacify Himmler.’
A tremor of fear passed through Ernst at the thought of returning to Berlin, let alone seeing the increasingly demented Himmler.
‘Pacify Himmler?’ he asked tentatively.
Kammler smiled with cold, mocking amusement. ‘When I saw Himmler yesterday in that quack's sanatorium in Hohenlychen, he expressed his concern that the much discussed Schriever saucer be testflown as soon as possible and insisted that I send you to see him, to give him a full report. To avoid any kind of suspicion, you must do just that.’
Knowing that escape from the besieged Berlin was becoming more difficult every day, Ernst did not feel too happy. He was ashamed of the tremor in his voice when he said, ‘But I may not get out of Berlin in time to rejoin you in Kiel before you leave for Argentina.’
Kammler chuckled maliciously. ‘You’ll get out, all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve personally arranged for an SS plane to fly you out of Reinickendorf Airport on the night of April 10, which should give you plenty of time to see Himmler, sort out what he wants you to do regarding that idiot Schriever and his saucer, and make your escape before Berlin falls. Any more questions?’
‘No, sir.’
Ernst saluted and left Kammler’s office; then he went to work with no great enthusiasm, but considerable efficiency. No longer revolted by what he had to do, he arranged for the first of the Camp Dora inmates to be moved out that evening. He personally supervised the movement of some groups to Bergen-Belsen. Some were driven there by truck or train; others were made to go on foot, forced along by the snapping dogs and cracking whips, usually without food or water. If they lacked the strength to go on, they were shot, their bodies dumped in the ditches. Even here, Allied aircraft flew constantly over the roads and railway lines, bombing the lengthy columns of prisoners and increasing the chaos. By normal standards, it was a nightmare, but Ernst took it in his stride. He was disgusted not because of any moral outrage, but because he was risking his own life to escort this ragged column of Jewish scum and other useless human rubbish to what would be their final destination.
Yes, he knew that they were marked for extermination before the Allies arrived.
He went to bed late and awoke feeling groggy. He was more alert later when Kammler’s special train, with its sleeping cars and dining car and many well-armed SS guards, left with Wernher von Braun and about 500 of his V-2 experts and their families, on the first leg of the journey to Oberammergau. Once they’d gone, Ernst paid a visit to the Kahla complex, where he found Wilson, silvery-haired but lean and remarkably fit, supervising the packing of the last of the components and drawings for the Kugelblitz. Because the workable model had been blown up a few weeks before, the hangar outside Wilson’s office looked vast and cold.
‘Will you soon be finished?’ Ernst asked of Wilson.
‘Yes. Today, I think. Most of the components have already been boxed. Copies of the drawings and notes have been placed in three separate, portable safes and will be taken with each group, to ensure that if one lot is lost, the others will make it. Those in charge of the papers have been instructed to destroy them if there’s the slightest chance of Soviet or Allied forces capturing them. And since the Kugelblitz itself has been blown up, there’ll be no evidence left here regarding what we were doing.’
Ernst smiled. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Wernher von Braun’s men did something similar with their papers. I gather that two of his engineers, Dieter Huzel and Bernard Tessman, hid the archives of the Peenemünde research station in the disused iron-ore mine near the village of Dorten, not far from Bleicherode. All over Germany, in disused mines and evacuated caves, the Third Reich is hiding its scientific secrets. We’re the only ones who are burying ourselves with our secrets – hopefully in the Antarctic.’
‘We’re not burying ourselves,’ Wilson corrected him. ‘We’re creating our own world.’
‘I hope so,’ Ernst replied.
He didn’t see Wilson for the next two days; he was too busy supervising the continuing evacuation of Camp Dora and ensuring that those in charge of the ragged columns of prisoners would not be merciful to anyone too ill to march. As before, they were moved out at night, by truck and train or on foot. Driving back and forth in his jeep, between the trucks and the trains, along the roads filled with those marching, he heard the snarling dogs, cracking whips and gunshots, and saw bodies in the ditches or sprawled beside the railway tracks, their crumpled forms illuminated by moonlight and stars, or by the incandescent flashing of the exploding bombs from the planes growling overhead.
On the horizon, where the starry sky met black earth, the Allied big guns also flashed constantly, moving forward inexorably.
By the fourth day, both Camp Dora and the Nordhausen Central Works had been cleared of all prisoners. Then Ernst could begin moving out the technicians and troops. By nightfall the caves were empty, the great tunnels echoing eerily, the railway tracks leading into a darkness in which nothing stirred. Ernst drove back to Kahla, leaving Nordhausen to the Allied troops, and found Wilson, his technicians, and the SS troops ready to leave. They went in three groups, one on each successive night. On the third night, Ernst joined Wilson and his team on the last train from Kahla.
The Allied guns sounded much louder as the train pulled away.
General Nebe was in charge and shared a car with them. His face was impassive, but his dark eyes were restless, first studying his fellow officers, then examining his pistol, then gazing out of the window at a darkness fitfully illuminated with distant explosions.
‘The Americans are rich and have an endless supply of aircraft and bombs,’ he said. ‘No wonder they’re winning.’ After that rare observation Nebe contented himself with his restless roaming, from one carriage to another, going outside when the train stopped, checking the box cars containing the components or the workers they had decided to take with them to help with unloading.
Occasionally there was trouble – usually a prisoner in revolt. At such times Nebe moved with calm efficiency, usually by dragging the recalcitrant, ragged figure from the box car, making him or her kneel by the tracks, then putting a single bullet through the back of the victim’s neck and kicking the body down the incline or into the brush.
That night brought another problem, near the station of Wolfsburg. A group of resistance fighters or possibly escaped prisoners attacked the train where it had stopped to change tracks. There were perhaps a dozen men, all wearing civilian clothes, firing rifles and pistols through the windows as they leapt up from the dark field and ran alongside the train. Nebe knew what they were doing: trying to capture the engine. While his men fired at them, he hurried though the linked cars to the engine and personally protected the driver until the train had pulled out again. When it did so, Ernst saw many of the resistance men sprawled dead in the dirt.
None of this bothered Wilson, though he said, ‘Nebe enjoys the smell of blood in his nostrils. I’m glad he's on our side.’ Other than that, he kept to himself, snatching sleep when he could and spending his waking hours with his notebook and pen, playing with mathematical formulas to distract him from the smouldering ruins of Germany outside the train.
They were bombed before dawn, just as Ernst was about to sleep. The sudden roaring almost split his eardrums as he dived to the floor. The bending tracks shrieked and he thought of Wilson and his crates. The whole car climbed up and crashed down and then rolled onto its side. The noise was deafening. Ernst slid along the floor, struck a wall, and rolled over Wilson. He turned around and saw the windows above him, glass shattered and glinting. Men screamed or bellowed curses as Wilson crawled toward the nearest door. A bloody corporal formed a stirrup with his hands, Nebe planted his boot in it, then the corporal heaved him up through a window. More bombs fell and exploded around the train as Ernst found a cleared space. He pulled himself up through the window. The night roared and spewed flames. He crawle
d away from the window, rolled off and crashed down to the ground outside.
‘Get the crates!’ Wilson bawled.
He saw Wilson hurrying alongside the car, which was practically on its side. Men were dropping through the windows and crashing down and rolling away from him. Ernst followed Wilson, crouched low. A silhouette was bellowing orders. Ernst clawed two or three men from his path and then saw the box car. General Nebe was already there. Six or seven trucks were near the train, and a dozen men were labouring under Wilson’s crates with smoke billowing over them. Another bomb fell nearby. Nebe stepped forward and barked an order. The men heaved the crate up into the truck, then some knelt down to rest. General Nebe’s jackboot glistened. He kicked one of the lolling men. All the men jumped up, grabbed at their weapons, and climbed into the truck. Wilson was in there with the crates, so Ernst climbed up beside the driver. Nebe slipped in beside him, barked an order, and the truck started moving. The bombers passed overhead. A gray dawn began to break. Ernst saw a truck ahead, another behind, and was surprised to be still alive.
The dawn that broke over the devastated land was smoke-filled. All that remained were charred trees, smouldering buildings, and dusty columns of refugees, the latter heading in the opposite direction, away from the Soviets. They were gone soon enough, and the countryside became anonymous. Eventually the trucks stopped on a hill just outside Kiel, offering a view of the Baltic Sea beyond a broad, windblown field.
They were at a military station, surrounded by SS guards.
An enormous bunker, half buried in the ground, its sloping roof covered in earth and grass, dominated the middle of the field. Presumably it could not be seen from the air.
‘That’s where we’ll stay until the U-boats arrive,’ Nebe explained with a shrug. ‘It’s as safe as we’ll find.’
The remaining workers from the concentration camps unloaded the train and carried the crates and boxes into the bunker. When they were finished, Nebe said to Ernst, ‘Now we have to get rid of them. My SS men will help us load the submarines, but we’ve no room for this scum. Take care of the men in the bunker and leave this lot to me.’
INCEPTION (Projekt Saucer, Book 1) Page 43