As a result, the Reichsführer had been most displeased. Once again, his explicit orders to erase all evidence of Entlösung had not been fully carried out. Baer was summarily recalled to Berlin to face a very difficult interview. Himmler was suitably scathing. Why was this area not destroyed completely? Baer had offered a list of reasonable excuses, only to see them rejected one by one by a frigidly uncompromising Reichsführer. There had been enough time, and all demolitions should have been completed as soon as the Soviets showed any possibility of breaking through the regional defences. The fact that nobody in the Wehrmacht had bothered to inform Baer until it was much too late was utterly irrelevant. He should have acted sooner.
Baer was then abruptly dismissed and left to kick his heels around what was left of Berlin before his fate was decided. It was not long in coming. A few anxiety-filled days later, one of Himmler’s assistants delivered his punishment. The letter from Himmler was short and to the point- immediate demotion in rank by one grade, and a new posting to a camp in the Thüringen area. It could have been a lot worse. Baer was expecting a one- way ticket to some front line SS unit, where life expectancy could be counted in minutes rather than days. Perhaps the Reichsführer had taken Baer’s exceptional performance during his time as Auschwitz camp commandant into consideration before passing final judgment…
So here he was, stuck in yet another facility that reeked of death and despair. However, compared to the scale of racial cleansing that had gone on in Auschwitz, Mittelbau-Dora was small beer indeed. His former camp had exterminated at least a million Jews and other sub-humans while he was in charge, something that he was still very proud of. Auschwitz was a dedicated killing machine that had made a significant contribution to the racial purity of the Reich, a strictly controlled operation that ran smoothly and almost entirely without any operational hiccups. The only conceivable blot on its performance was that ridiculous incident with the misdirected troop train, but that had been easily corrected. The beauty of it all was that there was very little evidence of the scale of the killing, bar the stench that covered the surrounding area. Eventually, even he had got used to that. It was all so neatly and tidily controlled, an operation that was virtually invisible in its efficiency. It appealed to his Germanic sense of order and discipline.
But here, things were very much more disorganized. The whole area of the camp and surrounding operations was a mess, a testament to inefficiency, sloppy planning and disorder. It affronted his sensitivities as a meticulously well-organised administrator. There were dead bodies lying all over the place, ignored where they dropped, and left to rot where they lay. Nobody seemed to be remotely concerned about keeping the camps functioning in an orderly manner. As long as enough workers were provided to take care of immediate labour requirements, then that was all that mattered. In the two weeks since he had taken over from the previous commander he had struggled to install some form of order into the camp’s operations, but so far with little success. The previous commandant, Obersturmbannführer Otto Förschner, had left him a monumental mess, and with minimal resources to sort it out.
The area around the small city of Nordhausen was a mass of secondary camps dominated by the main labour camp at Dora itself. On his arrival he had visited all the outlying camps under his command. There were nearly forty of them. All of them mimicked Dora in their disorganization and chaotic conditions. Their single priority was to provide slave labour for the Mittelwerk rocket factory complex. This was located underground, below the Kohnstein hill region that formed the southern boundary of the Harz Mountains. His visit to the Kohnstein complex, part of the usual ‘getting to know you rigmarole’, had been short and not very productive. Security was tight. He’d met the SS officer in charge of the facility, a veteran of the Eastern front.
The rockets assembled at Mittelwerk were vital to the war effort, that much he knew. They powered the V1 and V2 Vengeance weapons that were already wreaking havoc among the enemy rear areas. Jet engines were also manufactured at the Kohnstein factory. There were rumours of other secret weapons as well, but security was tight and few details were forthcoming.
Obersturmbannführer Hartmann was decidedly unfriendly and very abrupt. It was quite apparent that the man had little time for him, and resented any interruption to his busy schedule. The message was clear - keep supplying the workers, and take care of all other business. We’re much too busy here to be concerned with any minor difficulties you may have outside. Don’t waste our time and bother us with trivia - speak to RSHA if you have any problems. And that was that.
Still, at least he had wide latitude in his own area of command. He’d made some inroads into cleaning the camps up. There were no crematoria facilities, so many of the bodies were buried in huge, open graves or in ditches that bordered roads and tracks. Those who were no longer fit to work and about to die were railed off to Buchenwald, where they could die in a more dedicated extermination facility. However, these were comparatively few in number compared to those who simply expired on the spot, in the middle of a job. This problem was compounded hugely by a lack of food. The current camp population was approximately eight thousand, but food deliveries were barely enough to keep a quarter of that total alive, even on minimal rations. One of his staff had calculated that probably two hundred inmates a day were dying of the combined effects of heavy labour and severe malnutrition. On top of that were those who were beaten to death for attempted sabotage, or summarily executed for the most trivial of offences. That was something he was quite unconcerned about. After all, most of the inmates were captured Russians or Polish and French Jews, none of whom had any right to a long, happy life. As long as fresh supplies of workers were delivered by train every day to keep topping up the numbers, then all would be well, and he would sleep easy.
But he needed to bear in mind the example of Auschwitz. Who knows how long it would be before the heart of the Reich would be torn open by the Allied advance? He had no wish to be captured by a vengeful enemy and be associated with command of a death camp, so this was another good reason to clear up the mess and bury the evidence.
And what of his own future? The war would soon be over, and it was already apparent that those who could were making plans for their own escape. He was certain that most of the top SS command were busy buying their way out, with faked Swiss or Spanish passports, and the right contacts in the right places. He had heard a very quiet rumour that Hans Frank had already disappeared, and was lying low in preparation for the best time to flee Europe and head elsewhere, to where he could not be caught. But Baer had no wish to do that. Germany was his home, and besides he did not have access to the kind of sources that would give him that level of protection. Perhaps his brother Erich would be sympathetic. The man worked in the Reich Forestry service, up near the Danish border not far from Hamburg. Erich would have enough influence to find him a job and hide him from further investigation. Baer had a small collection of diamonds, a highly illegal source of income from a series of shady deals carried out in the last few weeks before Auschwitz was lost to the Soviets, when he had finally decided that his own safety was more important than the future of National Socialism. They would no doubt be useful in helping him to disappear from view…
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his office door.
‘Enter.’
It was Keller, his adjutant.
‘Sir, your three o’clock appointment is here.’
‘Thank you. Give me a minute, then send him in.’
Baer looked at his schedule for today. There was a Sturmbannführer Simon to see him, sent over from Sondershausen at the request of RSHA. Simon? Surely it was not the same officer on that strange day in Poland last year? The rank was different, but a promotion could have quite easily occurred in the intervening months. What was the purpose of his visit? RSHA had not given a reason. He would soon find out.
The door opened, and an officer in field grey walked in, not without some difficulty. Baer stood up, taking in the
newcomer’s appearance. Yes, it was the same man but he was different, slimmer, almost a pale shadow of the man he had met last May. The face was thinner, more lined than before, and there was a touch of grey at the sideburns. He returned the Nazi salute and gestured to a chair. The other man sat down. The relief to be off his legs was quite apparent.
‘Sturmbannführer Simon, a pleasure to meet you again.’ Baer watched him carefully while the newcomer gradually adjusted himself into a more comfortable position. ‘May I offer you some refreshment? It’s some time since we last met. I hope my behaviour did not cause any offence at the time, but you must surely have understood the, ah, delicate position we both found ourselves in.’
‘Yes, of course, Sturmbannführer Baer. Thank you, perhaps a glass of water later.’ The emphasis on Baer’s demoted rank was not unmissed. ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice. As you probably know, this visit is at RSHA’s request.’ Simon had already decided to play a straight bat and ignore any references to their previous meeting, although he would never forget it. That Baer was in command here, the same Baer as on that fateful day in Auschwitz, had come as quite a surprise. Perhaps this was the same surprise that Schellenberg hinted at. And now, for whatever reason, they were at the same rank.
‘Yes, although they have not told me the reason. Perhaps you could explain.’ Privately, Baer was more than a little worried. Perhaps Himmler had sent him to check up on conditions here, to snoop on him behind his back and report clandestinely.
‘I have been ordered to perform an overall security assessment of the facilities here at the Nordhausen-Dora complex, and all other local operations. I require access to all your facilities at a moment’s notice, at any time.’ Simon slowly extracted a letter from his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk. Baer picked it up and studied it for a moment. The letter was straightforward enough, and signed by a Brigadeführer. There appeared to be no obvious hidden motive, as far as he could see, but relying on its face value could well be dangerous. He decided to dig a little deeper.
‘I can see no problem with that,’ he acquiesced, the picture of cooperation. ‘Tell me, Max, if I may be so bold, how far will your survey extend? I’m most anxious to ensure that all is as it should be, particularly if higher command becomes involved more directly in the running of these camps. By the way, please call me Richard.’ Baer was keen to keep his personal concerns under control and appear nonchalant, but he was unable to hide the hint of anxiety that crept into his voice.
Simon smiled briefly. It was obvious that Baer was on some sort of hook. Why not enjoy letting him hang there, the picture of uncertainty. He was in no rush to help him out.
‘I’m afraid I can’t really say, Richard. This is on a need to know basis only. My orders explicitly prevent me from revealing anything else.’
Baer was still the picture of affability, despite a sinking feeling in his stomach. ‘Of course, Max. Naturally, I understand your position.’ He smiled, desperately trying to keep his anxiety hidden. ‘Out of interest, are you going to report about the internal conditions here?’
This last question was the give-away. ‘I couldn’t possibly comment, Richard. You know how it is. It all depends on whether this affects security. But I can promise you one thing - that is you’ll be the first to be informed.’ Max left him dangling there. The exact interpretation of that last comment would keep Baer on his toes. That was all he needed to know for the moment. If this slimy bastard was under pressure from the top then so much the better. He would not lose any sleep about it.
Baer smiled again, all the time struggling to maintain his composure. It was quite obvious that Simon would go no further.
‘Thank you, Max. I’ll bear that in mind. Please see my adjutant on the way out. He’ll arrange all the necessary documentation and inform the various facilities you wish to see. Is there anything else I can help you with?’
‘No thanks.’ Simon slowly levered himself up out of the chair. It was only at this stage that Baer took in the Oak Leaves cluster above the Knight’s Cross. ‘Congratulations on your promotion and decorations Max if I may again be so bold,. It looks to me as if you’re recovering from more wounds again, same as last time?’
‘Yes, thanks - something like that.’ Simon slipped on his field cap and retrieved the letter from the desk. ‘Thank you for your cooperation. I’m sure RSHA will be suitably, ah, grateful.’ With that, he saluted, turned and walked out of the office.
Baer watched the door close and sat down again. His face fell. How much did Simon know about his recent demotion and disgrace? Was he working directly under orders from Himmler himself? It was hard to tell. He didn’t recognize the name or signature on the letter, but it appeared to be genuine. Was it worth risking a discrete enquiry back to RSHA? Probably not, considering the present cloud he was under. Besides, there was really no one there at the moment that he could trust well enough to ask the necessary questions.
There was nothing more he could do but to play a waiting game, keep his eyes open, and make sure he did not leave himself open to further criticism and censure. And if the going became too rough, then a set of forged papers and civilian clothes would be his best bet if he needed to make a sudden escape north…
Kohnstein factory complex, Nordhausen area 1000 15/3/1945
Simon levered himself out of the passenger seat of the Kubelwagen and stood by the camouflage-painted vehicle, his breath condensing in the frosty air. It was a clear day, rare for this time of year in the Harz. The ground was frozen hard, and clumps of snow and ice lay scattered across the area that lay just outside the factory entrance. The air was crisp and cold. Overhead the sky was ice blue, a picture-perfect panorama broken only by a few shreds of cotton wool clouds high up. He shivered. The journey over from Sondershausen had taken nearly an hour, just about long enough for the primitive heating system in the Kubelwagen to make a half-decent attempt to warm its occupants up and provide some protection from the subzero temperatures outside.
Today’s duties were clearly established in his mental diary. First, a trip to the underground secret weapons establishment at Kohnstein, followed by a return to the SS Panzer school at Sondershausen to begin a series of tactical discussions and field training exercises for the next course of recruits and officer cadets. The last two days had been spent getting to know the area, and understanding the remit of his new posting. Yesterday’s visit to see Baer was an obligatory formality, but useful enough in its own way. Nearly all the relevant documentation he needed was either ready for collection or shortly would be. However, today’s visit here would be far more important.
This was the secret base for biological weapons synthesis. Rocket production here was just as vital, especially the newer types he had heard hints about. These weapons needed to be delivered accurately and at a suitable range. Most of the technical problems associated with the mobile launchers had been overcome, emphasizing that this underground factory would be the only place where sabotage would be completely effective. Once the rockets were ready it would be a simple matter to scatter them far and wide on their mobile launchers and launch this biological offensive. If production of either could be temporarily delayed then there might be a chance to disrupt Himmler’s plans sufficiently and save countless lives. And if Schellenberg was correct then the Allies would be here soon, maybe in six to eight weeks at the latest, if not sooner. In the meantime he would have to find some way of halting further progress. But first he would need a lot more information.
The guards positioned at the final checkpoint were minutely inspecting his paperwork, just the same as the half dozen or so other security roadblocks they had already negotiated on their way over from Sondershausen. After a few minutes one of them walked back to the main sentry building, probably to check that the necessary clearance had been granted in advance. Although he was naturally on edge and tense, Simon was relatively unconcerned. Like all the other checks this should be merely routine, the sort of scrutiny one would expec
t at a maximum- security installation. His credentials should stand up to any inspection. Schellenberg guaranteed to have taken care of all the necessary details.
He took his time to survey his surroundings. The factory entrance was cut abruptly into the side of a large, steep hill, itself covered in a mass of tangled pine trees that marched away into the middle distance on all sides. When closed the outside of the massive doors had been painted to look like a normal hillside. Between them a double rail track led straight into the mouth of the tunnel entrance, alongside a minor road and a muddy path that bore the marks of regular heavy foot traffic. The road was deeply rutted and broken up, although in these frigid temperatures the ground around it was sufficiently hard enough for driving over, even with heavy trucks. The main road from Nordhausen that led on north towards Herzberg and Northeim turned west over five hundred meters away, leaving only the much smaller route that led up to the gates.
It was clear from his tactical inspection of the area that every effort had been made to keep the factory’s activity concealed from Allied air reconnaissance. Heavy camouflage netting was strung between surrounding trees to cover the transportation routes into the factory. He could just make out a couple of camouflaged cooling stacks and radiator vents positioned halfway up the hillside. Both of them were expertly disguised to look like natural features. The railway lines were the most obvious potential give-away from the air, but someone had taken great pains to minimise the chances of aerial recognition. In addition to the netting the tracks were heavily disguised at ground level all the way from the nearest rail junction, and covered with large mobile covers that were easy to move back into place once a train passed by. External buildings were kept to an absolute minimum. Anything that vaguely resembled a man-made structure or vehicle was draped in disruptive pattern netting and located between clumps of trees.
The Fall of the Father Land Page 10