Bad Company

by Jack Higgins

  There were plenty of staff rooms at headquarters, and they all helped themselves to beds. Von Berger, dozing, was awakened by Strasser at two-thirty in the morning.

  “Time to go.”

  Von Berger sat up. “How is the weather?”

  “The fog has cleared to a certain extent, but the rain is still bad. The word is that the Russians have totally encircled Berlin. That could pose a serious threat here. Let’s hope the Yanks make it first.”

  “Off we go, then.”

  The Storch waited beside Runway One, Ritter with it, Hoffer and Schneider inside. Strasser got out of the field car and handed von Berger a bag. “Sandwiches, sausages, a couple of bottles of booze. Good luck, my friend.” He shook von Berger’s hand vigorously and suddenly embraced him. “What in the hell were we all playing at? How did we get in such a mess?”

  Von Berger was incredibly moved. “Keep the faith. Things will change. Our time will come. I’ll seek you out.”

  Strasser was astonished. “You mean that, Baron?”

  “Of course. I’ll find you, believe me. I shall repay your help this night.”

  He clambered into the plane after Ritter, closed everything, and outside, Strasser put his heels together and gave him a military salute. Von Berger returned it. The plane roared down the runway and lifted into the murk.

  Ritter had given von Berger earphones and a throat mike. He spoke to him now. “I’ll take it very carefully. With our low speed and the weather, it could be three and a half hours, maybe even four to Holstein Heath. Most of the time, I’ll fly at two or three thousand, maybe higher if the weather continues bad.”

  “That’s fine.”

  The flight was difficult with the rain and the patchy fog, sometimes clear and at others swirling relentlessly. One hour, two, the whole trip became monotonous. Von Berger had passed the food bag to Hoffer, who opened it and handed the sandwiches and sausages around. The wine was cheap stuff with a screw cap and he poured it into paper cups. Even Ritter had some and held out the cup for a second helping.

  “Come on, it won’t do me any harm. I need whatever help I can get in this weather.”

  Von Berger finished his food, knocked back his wine and lit a cigarette. Rain beat on the windows. It was the strangest of sensations hammering through the bad early morning weather. What am I doing here? he thought. Is it a dream? I should be in Berlin. He shook his head. I should still be in Berlin.

  And then he thought: But I’m not. I’m on the way home to see Elsa and little Otto and Karl will see his Lotte and the two girls. It’s a miracle and it’s because of the Führer. There must be a meaning to it.

  Ritter said, “It’s still a bit thick down here. I think we’ll be okay. I’m going up to four thousand.”

  “Fine.”

  They came out through intermittent fog. It was clear up there and clear to the horizon, a full moon touching the edge of the early morning clouds.

  Suddenly, there was a roaring, and the Storch was thrown to one side in the turbulence as a plane banked away to starboard and returned to take up station on the starboard side. They could see the pilot in the cockpit, the Red Star on the fuselage.

  “What have we got?” Ritter asked. “Looks like a Yak fighter, the new model with cannon. That could damage us.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Well, I’m really too slow for him, but that could also be an advantage. Planes that are too fast sometimes overshoot. I’ll go down and hope he’ll do something stupid.”

  He banked, went down fast to three thousand meters, then banked again to port, went to two. The Yak started to fire its cannon, but too soon, because of his excessive speed, and he overshot and banked away.

  He came in again, and this time punched a couple of holes in the starboard wing and splintered the window. Ritter cried out and reared back and there was blood on his face.

  Ritter said, “I’m okay, it’s just a splinter. It’ll give me an interesting scar. I’m getting tired of this – I’m going down further. I’ll show this bastard how to fly.”

  He went hard, all the way, and leveled at five hundred feet. The Yak came in again on his tail and Ritter dropped his flaps. The Storch seemed to stand still, and the Yak had to bank steeply to avoid hitting them and went down into the farmland. There was a mushroom of flame below and they flew on.

  “I said you were a genius,” von Berger told him.

  “Only some of the time.”

  Von Berger turned to Hoffer. “Get the battle pack open. Find a dressing for his face. Give him a morphine ampoule, too.”

  Ritter said, “Better not. I’ll tell you what, however – open that other bottle, whatever it is.”

  “I thought it was wine, but it’s vodka,” Hoffer told him.

  “Good. I’m always better flying on booze.”

  It was perhaps five or five-thirty in the morning that they came in toward Holstein Heath, approaching at two thousand feet, the dark, mysterious forest below, the Schwarze Platz, villages dotted here and there, and then Neustadt and Schloss Adler above it on the hill.

  Von Berger felt incredibly emotional as the plane banked, very low, Ritter searching for a suitable landing.

  “There,” von Berger growled. “The meadow by the castle.”

  “I see it.” Ritter turned in, slowed and made a perfect landing, rolling to a halt.

  In the quiet, it was Schneider who said, “I still can’t believe it. We were in Berlin and now we’re here.”

  Behind them, a few people were coming up hesitantly from the village as von Berger and the others got out of the plane. Von Berger stood holding Hitler’s briefcase, as a dozen men and a few women approached.

  The leader, an aging white-headed man, almost recoiled. “My God, it’s you, Baron.”

  “A surprise, Hartmann,” von Berger said. “How are you?”

  “Baron, what can I say?” Hartmann removed his cap, took von Berger’s hand and kissed it. “Such terrible times.” He turned to Hoffer. “And you, Karl.”

  Von Berger said, “Here we are, safe by a miracle, from Berlin. I’ll explain later, but first I must see the Baroness, and Karl, his Lotte and the girls.”

  Hartmann actually broke into weeping. “God help me, Baron, the news is bad. They are in the chapel at the Schloss.”

  Von Berger froze. “What do you mean?”

  “Your wife and son, Baron. Lotte and her daughters and fifteen villagers are in the church awaiting burial.” He turned to Hoffer. “I am so sorry.”

  Hoffer was stunned, horror on his face. Von Berger said, “Who did this thing?”

  “SS.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “Einsatzgruppen.”

  Einsatzgruppen were not Waffen SS, but extermination squads recruited from the jails of Germany, many of the men Ukrainians. Von Berger had heard stories, that in the last few weeks they had thrown off all restraints, started looting and killing on their own, but he had hardly believed it to be true.

  He was moving in slow motion now. The dream was so bad it was unbelievable. He said to Hoffer, “You go and see to your family and I’ll see to mine.” He turned to Ritter. “You’d better be off. My deepest thanks.”

  “No,” Ritter said, “I’ll stand by you. I’ll come with you, if I may.”

  “That’s kind, my friend.”

  They went up the steep path to the Schloss, von Berger and Ritter, followed by old Hartmann, and came to the ancient chapel. Von Berger pushed the door; it creaked open and he smelled the church smell, saw the memorials to his ancestors and the main family mausoleum, its doors standing wide. A coffin stood there, the lid half back, his wife inside, with his young son cradled in her left arm. He gazed down at her calm face, noticed the bruises.

  “What happened to her?”

  “Baron, what can I say?” Hartmann asked.

  “Tell me,” von Berger said. “Was she violated?”

  “Every woman in the village was, Baron. Then the Ukrainians got dru
nk and started shooting and the deaths happened.”

  “How many of these bastards were there?”

  “Twenty – twenty-one. They moved on to Plosen.”

  Ten miles up the road through the forest.

  “So, we know where they are.” Von Berger turned to Ritter.

  “You can still go. I appreciate more than you know what you’ve done. As I told Strasser, things will change for all of us, and I’ll search you out.”

  Ritter’s face, with the dressing on the cheek, was haggard. “I’ve no intention of going.”

  “Then go down to the village with Hartmann and make sure his truck is ready to leave. I have private business here.”

  Ritter and Hartmann left. Von Berger stood by the mausoleum for a while, then went to the rear, where there were two statues of saints. His hand passed inside one, it groaned and creaked open. He slipped the Führer’s briefcase inside, then closed the secret door. He leaned over, kissed his wife and son, and left.

  In the village, the tenants waited and he passed amongst them, holding his hand out to be kissed, though not in arrogance; it was a tradition that had reigned in Holstein Heath for hundreds of years. These were his people, and the women who cried in despair did it because they looked to him for guidance.

  Hoffer came to him, his face bleak. “Your orders, Baron?”

  “We’re going to get these swine. Are you ready to leave, Hoffer?”

  Before he could reply, young Schneider said, “And me, too, Baron.”

  “Excellent.”

  “And you can include me,” Ritter said. “I can shoot a Schmeisser with the best of them.”

  As chance would have it, it was at that moment that the Americans arrived.

  Not that they were much of a force. It was a single jeep and the young captain in the passenger seat wore a steel helmet and combat gear. His shoulder patch indicated an Airborne Ranger. A sergeant was at the wheel. They rolled to a halt and sat there, watchful.

  “Does anyone here speak English?” the captain asked.

  “Of course,” the Baron said.

  “Good. I’ll take your surrender. My unit is about ten miles back. I’m Captain James Kelly, on forward reconnaissance. This is Sergeant Hanson.”

  “And what might you be doing here?”

  “Hey, buddy.” The driver picked up a submachine gun. “Watch your mouth.”

  Ritter and Hoffer and young Schneider raised their Schmeissers threateningly, and Kelly said to Hanson, “Can it.” He spoke to von Berger. “We have information that the castle would make a possible headquarters. Who are you, anyway?”

  “Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger, owner of Schloss Adler and Holstein Heath.”

  Kelly shook his head. “Wait a minute. I’ve got a report that says von Berger’s in the Bunker with Hitler. One of his aides or something.”

  “True as of yesterday,” von Berger said. “If you will look behind you at the meadows, you will notice the Storch in which Captain Hans Ritter here flew me and my two men out of Berlin.”

  Kelly nodded. “Okay, we’ll argue about it later. You can all surrender your weapons now.”

  “This is a great coup for you, Captain, but, if you don’t mind, not just yet. We’ve urgent business to take care of first.”

  “And what would that be?”

  Max von Berger told him.

  Kelly shook his head. “That’s a terrible thing, but you four guys are going to take on twenty-one of these bastards? You could get killed and I can’t allow that to happen.”

  “I see. I’m too valuable to lose?” Von Berger shook his head. “It’s been a long war, Captain. From El Alamein to Stalingrad, I’ve seen hell on earth, and for me the war is over. I don’t want to kill you, but I must kill these men. I could not live with myself otherwise. So we will leave in the old woodcutter’s truck, drive ten miles down to Plosen, and there we’ll find the Ukrainians and get the business done.” He turned to Hoffer. “You drive.”

  Kelly started to say something, and then he stopped. “Ah, hell, Baron, I guess I’d do the same thing. But afterward…”

  “You’re an optimist, I see. All right, let’s go.”

  The road wound through dark, somber forest all the way to Plosen. When they were close, they came across a crowd of women and older men moving along either side of the road. Hoffer pulled up and recognized the village mayor.

  “Hey, Frankel, what’s happening?”

  “My God, it’s you, Karl. These Ukrainians, we know what they did in Neustadt. Young Meyer escaped on his motorcycle, came and gave us warning. We all left in a hurry, faded into the forest. I hear they did terrible things.”

  Von Berger got out and held out his hand. “Frankel.”

  The old man’s eyes widened. “Baron, this is unbelievable.” He kissed the hand. “Meyer told me about the Baroness and your son.” He turned to Hoffer. “And your Lotte?”

  Kelly and Hanson came round from the jeep, and Ritter and Schneider joined them. Kelly said, “What’s happening?”

  “The mayor of Plosen is just about to tell us,” von Berger said in English, then in German, “Where are they, Frankel?”

  “I stayed close to observe. They came in two trucks and a Kübelwagen. They rampaged round the village and discovered two young women. Then they went to the inn, the White Stag. I could hear shouting, breaking glass. They’re all drunk.”

  “Any guards?” Hoffer asked.

  “Not that I could see.”

  Von Berger patted his shoulder. “Take care of your people and I’ll take care of these animals.”

  “But, Baron, there are twenty-four of them.”

  “Really? I thought it was twenty-one.” He turned to Ritter, Schneider and Hoffer. “So, that’s six for each of us. Can we manage that?”

  “Haven’t we always, Baron?” Hoffer opened a battle pack, took out double ammunition clips taped together and handed them to Ritter and Schneider.

  Von Berger opened his black leather coat, took the Luger from his holster, checked it and put it in his right-hand pocket. “Have you a spare, Karl?”

  Hoffer produced a Mauser from the battle pack and handed it over. Von Berger put it in the left-hand pocket of his coat.

  “Twenty-four of these bastards and four of you. That’s odds of six to one,” Kelly said.

  Von Berger smiled, grimly. “We’re Waffen SS. We’re used to it.” He clapped Schneider on the shoulder. “He’s only a boy, but he knows how to do the job. Six to one? So what? Take your camouflage blouse off, Karl.” Hoffer did so, and Kelly saw the medals, the paratrooper’s badge, a single Knight’s Cross at the throat.

  “You will also have observed that Captain Ritter has the Knight’s Cross. It’s been a long war and it’s had a bad ending, but you must understand one thing. We intend to kill these Ukrainians, all twenty-four. Kill them.” He turned to his men. “Is this not so?”

  Even Ritter got his heels together as they gave the answer: Jawohl, Sturmbahnführer.

  He ignored Kelly completely now. “Let’s go,” and they scrambled into the truck and drove away.

  As the jeep followed, Hanson said, “That guy is crazy, they all are.”

  Kelly nodded. “Absolutely.” He took the Colt from his holster and started to reload it as they followed the truck.

  They paused in the trees and looked down at the White Stag. It was quite large and very ancient, with the village church and a graveyard behind. Kelly glanced through field glasses at the two trucks and the Kübelwagen. There was no sign of guards, but the noise of drunken laughter drifted up. He passed the field glasses to von Berger, who had a look. He handed them back.

  “I’ll go in the front door, which will put them off balance. They are, after all, supposed to be under SS authority. I suggest the rest of you go by the graveyard.” He said to Ritter, “Karl knows it well. The bar is very large. There are two rear entrances via the kitchen and side windows.” He turned to Kelly. “One favor. I’ll borrow your jeep to drive
up to the door. You two can stay here and my friends will approach on foot.”

  Kelly shook his head. “No, I won’t lend you the jeep. But I will drive it.” He turned to Hanson. “Give me that Thompson. I’ll see you later – maybe.”

  “Go to hell,” Hanson said. “With all due respect, sir. I’ve been fighting since D-Day. A walk through a graveyard with the SS sounds just about right.”

  Kelly and von Berger waited to give them a chance to slip down through the edge of the forest and move behind the church into the graveyard. Von Berger watched for movement through the glasses.

  “Now,” he said, and Kelly drove them down the hill and parked beside the other vehicles.

  Von Berger led the way up the steps, pulling on his leather gloves, and Kelly followed, holding the Thompson across his chest. Von Berger eased open the door and stepped in, followed by Kelly.

  The Ukrainians were scattered around the room, some sitting at tables, a number standing at the bar, a couple behind the bar serving drinks. The leader was a Hauptsturmführer, a brute of a man in a soiled uniform, his face dirty and unshaven. He had a young woman on each knee, their clothes torn, faces bruised, eyes swollen from weeping. One by one, the men noticed von Berger and stopped talking.

  There was total silence. Von Berger stood there, his legs apart, his hands in the pockets of the black leather coat, holding it apart, displaying that magnificent uniform, the medals.

  “Your name?”

  “Gorsky,” the Hauptsturmführer said, as a kind of reflex.

  “Ah. Ukrainian.”

  It was the way von Berger said it that the Ukrainian didn’t like. “And who the hell are you?”

  “Your superior officer, Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger. It was my wife, Baroness von Berger, and my son, along with fifteen others, that you butchered at Schloss Adler and Neustadt.”

  Men were already reaching for weapons. Kelly lifted his Thompson, and suddenly Gorsky pulled the two girls across his knees in front of him so that only half his face showed.

  “So what are you going to do about it? Take them, boys,” he shouted.