The Fall of the Father Land

by D. N. J. Greaves

  Steele weighed up his options. He carried a Walther PPK in a shoulder holster under his left arm. A smaller Beretta was fitted to a leg holster, an extremely snug fit inside his right boot. His SS dagger was in his kitbag. The remaining guards he could easily dispose of, but that would blow his cover. Besides it was a fair hike to the nearest cover. The wooded hills were nearly a kilometer away, and the parade square just beyond the gates was filling up with troops and armoured vehicles. The odds for a successful escape did not look good at all. Perhaps it would be better to wait and see what would happen in the next few minutes. His pulse began to quicken, his eyes taking in all the details of his immediate environment. Casually he undid his greatcoat, ready to free up his weapon. At least he would be ready if the worst came to happen…

  The guard was returning, this time with what appeared to be a couple of senior officers and two other armed soldiers. They soon reached the checkpoint. One of the officers walked up to him. Steele tensed, springing slightly onto the balls of his feet, at the same time keeping a wary eye on the others.

  ‘Untersturmführer Akkerman?’ The officer gazed at him impassively.

  ‘Yes sir.’ Steele saluted, his right arm ready to slide inside his greatcoat and whip out the PPK in an instant.

  ‘Good. We’ve been expecting you. Come with me. There is something I need to ask you.’

  Flossenberg concentration camp, Bavaria, 0830 16/3/1945

  They never turned the light off. The naked bulb constantly threw its stark light out, a harsh glare like a powerful searchlight that lit up every corner of the room and made sleep difficult, if not at times impossible. It was just one of their little tricks to make life as uncomfortable and unbearable as possible. But he could cope with that. Even the constant hunger was not so bad. Since his arrival he had gradually become used to the starvation diet. After a few months he reckoned that his stomach had shrunk so much that the minimal servings of whatever the disgusting mess that passed for food here would just about enable him to survive. He estimated that his weight had dropped by about ten kilograms, quite a significant loss for a man of such a small frame, but he was still here, tired, weak, with a constant racking cough that never got better, but surviving nonetheless.

  The intense cold was probably the worst of all the things that he had to put up with. His cell was tiny, windowless apart from a barred grille set high on the rear wall, unheated and more like a freezer compartment than a room. Sheets of frozen condensation and black mould lined the walls. The damp air made his breathing more difficult and aggravated his chest infection. The only comfort was that the low temperatures kept the smell down from the latrine bucket placed a feet away from where he lay on the bone-chilling floor.

  He had managed to come to terms with his predicament, and although the outlook was poor he had not given into abject depression and demoralization. What worried him were the fate of his fellow conspirators and the lack of news from the outside world. There was almost no chance of finding out how the war was going, and whether the Allies were yet inside Germany’s borders. The last thing he’d heard was that the front in France had collapsed and that the Russians were in Poland, but little else since then. The guards here seemed to be just as much in the dark as the prisoners, from what he could piece together from their conversations. He knew in his heart that the Nazis were nearly finished, but would they resort to some desperate last-minute madness, a sort of Wagnerian Gotterdamerung that would engulf the country and turn it into some form of hell on earth? It was quite possible- the last perverted act of vengeance from desperate, insane men. At least he knew that his family was safe. The girls were hidden away, protected and hopefully beyond reach. Erika had been spirited into Switzerland as soon as the failed assassination attempt became news. Sadly, there was little chance for him to follow her. Since Max Simon’s visit the watch on his house had intensified almost to the point of house arrest. Besides, he knew that one day Himmler would catch up with him. He could face that with a degree of equanimity knowing that his loved ones were safe and beyond the Reichsführer’s clutches.

  What about his accomplices - and their plot to kill Hitler? It had been a lot worse for his fellow conspirators and others arrested after the 20th of July. So many friends were being brutally tortured and executed, all as slowly as possible to maximize the agony. The method the Gestapo favoured most was an agonisingly slow death by hanging, usually with piano wire. At first Himmler’s lackeys had not come for him. It was only several weeks later that he was finally arrested, as a so- called ‘enemy of the state’. Shortly afterwards he made his first, and probably last, acquaintance with the less savoury parts of 8 Prinz Albrecht Strasse, the basement and torture cellars. Even Himmler himself had turned up in person to watch his interrogators begin. They had started by delivering a few well- aimed blows to the more vulnerable and tender parts of his anatomy. The method that followed was a Gestapo favourite – whips soaked in water, something they called ‘Kashumbo’. However, for reasons not made entirely clear to him at the time, the interrogators avoided carrying out too rigorous a session, leaving his face unmarked, thus guaranteeing that at least he would be presentable in front of a public trial.

  But no charges were ever made. Himmler had merely contented himself by watching with icy, gloating amusement. After that they left him alone. He spent a few weeks in solitary confinement, bound hand and foot in chains, on a diet of bread and water. Then one day his guards marched in, quite unexpectedly. After a few cursory blows he was roughly cleaned up, handcuffed and escorted to a transport detail that took him out of Berlin. Only later did he find out that the destination was Flossenberg, a hellhole reserved for special ‘guests’ of the Reich, set deep in the pine forests of the Sudetenland, up in the hills near the former Czech border.

  So here he was, finally cornered, but it could have been much worse. All in all the experience of being the Führer’s guest at one of his infamous concentration camps was less severe than he thought it would be. It was just as well for him that the camp staff appeared to be complacent and more than a little lazy- after all, it was quite a cushy assignment for them. Physical punishments were relatively minor- just the occasional kick during a bout of floor scrubbing while his guards mocked him and occasionally spat at the diminutive figure working away on his hands and knees. They seemed to take a vast amount of pleasure in watching an admiral of the Reich scrubbing and polishing away, just like a menial house servant.

  So why had they gone relatively easy on him? Was it the Führer’s personal intervention, making sure that an old loyal servant was not abused too much? That was unlikely - usually a trip here was part of a one-way ticket. The only special dispensations handed out in a place like this were particularly nasty punishments and beatings. So why hadn’t they strung him up? Was Himmler still scared about the dossier Canaris had hidden away? That was more difficult to answer. The interrogation sessions here were child’s play to what he had really expected. Yes, there were the usual thugs and bullies present among the concentration camp staff, but he had played the simple senile old fool and up until now it had worked. Nobody had yet managed to break down his resistance, and he could cope with the physical abuse. Perhaps Himmler was merely toying with him, like a kitten with a captive field vole learning just how far it could go with its prey before delivering the final killing bite.

  He had been able to communicate with the others imprisoned in this cellblock. Shortly after his arrival he’d begun by tapping the walls to the cells on either side to try to communicate with whoever else was being held in captivity. Soon he had discovered that the man to his left was Nils Lunding, the former head of Danish Military intelligence. To his right it was none other than Hans von Oster, his former deputy at the Abwehr headquarters in Bendlerstrasse, and the man behind the bomb plot when Hitler flew to Smolensk in September 1943. Gradually he managed to piece together a picture of the other prominent residents of this fine establishment- quite a few senior Army officers were present, in
cluding his old friend Manfred Simon, Judge Advocate General Carl Sack and a few priests and theologians. All of them shared one thing in common- resistance in one form or another against the tyranny of the Nazi state, sufficient enough to displease the Reichsführer.

  Canaris was about to turn over and ease himself into a less uncomfortable position on the floor when he heard the sound of marching boots rapidly approaching. A key turned in the lock and the door swung wide open. Two guards stood there, looking at him with a mixture of loathing and contempt. The more senior roared at him.

  ‘On your feet Herr Admiral Shitface!’ A well-aimed blow from his boot caught Canaris in the side. The older man grunted in pain, and then eased himself up as quickly as he could to stand in front of them. The throb in his side made him gasp for breath He wondered if a rib was broken.

  ‘About time!’ The same guard laughed harshly and then reached forward to lift up his head and cuff him hard across his face. ‘Special surprise for Prisoner 106 today. Somebody’s come from Berlin to persuade you to be a bit more cooperative. They’ve got something for you, something you’ll really enjoy. I hope you like special treats, oh yes. This one will make you hot with excitement!’

  The other guard guffawed with laughter, and then quickly moved behind him and pinioned both his arms together into a steely grip. Handcuffs were jammed roughly over his wrists, and a kick propelled him out of the cell into the adjoining corridor. He slammed up against the far wall. Just then the sound of a prolonged, terrible scream, almost sub-human in its agony, rent the air.

  ‘Looks like they’re warming up for the main attraction,’ observed the second guard, with a grin. ‘You’re next.’ With that, they pushed him further up the corridor towards a distant room with an open door. A disgusting smell of burning flesh met him.

  Sondershausen area, Germany 1230 21/3/45

  Simon steadied the binoculars in his hands, adjusted the manual focusing ring, and rested his arms on the parapet of the wooden observation tower. Even now, his arms ached and grew tired after too much exertion. The cold air was enough to make your eyes water. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, and carefully studied the low hills and woods in the distance. He could just make out half a dozen well-camouflaged tanks hidden along the edge of a small wood. Other ‘friendly’ forces were scattered elsewhere nearby, equally well hidden and lying in wait.

  ‘Everything’s in position, Sturmbannführer’. It was Hauptmann Enseling, standing beside him. Simon grunted in acknowledgement. ‘Thanks, Willy. That’s the last I can see of all the dispositions from Blue Force. Red Force should show up anytime now. And stop calling me by my rank, for God’s sake. I’m Max when there’s nobody else around – remember?’ He softened his voice with a smile.

  ‘Sorry sir – I mean, Max’.

  ‘That’s better. Fellow officers don’t insist on strict observance of military etiquette, unless it’s absolutely necessary - especially if they come from the same unit. Got it?’

  ‘Yes, Max.’

  ‘Good. Then let’s see how your tactics work. I want to see how von Manteuffel won his battles. Better start warning your lot now.’

  Enseling picked up his headset, and began issuing orders. He job was to direct the deployment of Blue Force, which was made up of a new group of officer cadets and NCO’s. Some of them were combat veterans promoted through the ranks, others were novices in the art of command and control. Enseling had set them up exactly along the lines of the Battle of Targul Frumos the previous April, down on the Russian-Rumanian border. There, the elite GrossDeutschland Panzer division had managed to halt the Soviet drive on the oil fields at Ploesti, and in the process destroy over four hundred enemy tanks.

  The division commander at the time, von Manteuffel, had made clever use of the terrain, and with excellent camouflage had lured the best part of several Soviet tank corps forward to their doom. He achieved this stunning victory with a depleted panzer regiment, less than forty tanks in all. The rest of the division was similarly under strength, but their defence was first class.

  Willy Enseling had served in GD’s Panzerjäger battalion in charge of an assault gun troop, and had personally accounted for nine T-34s in the battle. His recent transfer to the SS Panzer School was exactly along the same lines as Simon. Himmler’s Panzer school needed experienced instructors, and few could be spared from the desperate defence of the Reich. And just like Simon, Enseling was still recovering from battle wounds and as yet not officially considered fit for combat duties. A formal draft ordering him into the Waffen SS was expected any day now. The two of them had got on well from the start.

  ‘Here comes Red Force’. Simon had already spotted a mass of vehicles moving across the snowy landscape no more than three kilometres away. They had reached the crest of a low ridge of hills between two woods, and some of them were working their way forward into the area where Blue Force was hidden. The roar of engines was becoming increasingly louder in the cold air. Red Force consisted of a similar number of inexperienced officer cadets, but to even things up, the Panzer School Commandant had told Simon that he was sending an experienced officer to control them for this exercise, a new Untersturmführer who had only arrived at the school late yesterday evening. Perhaps this new officer would give Red Force a better chance, or perhaps not. Enseling looked like he knew a thing or two about armoured warfare. Simon was impressed with the way he had positioned his forces, and how he was setting the trap lying in wait for Red Force. Willy’s voice rang out with crisp instructions. All that the ‘enemy’ had to do now was move a few hundred meters further forward, directly into the killing zone.

  Suddenly Red Force halted, the majority of its tanks keeping back in the cover of hull-down positions on the ridgeline. From the leading edge a few APCs and tanks moved forward and began to spread out across the down-slope, simulating the activities of an enemy reconnaissance battalion.

  Simon smiled to himself. Someone up there has spotted a trap. Instead of charging forward recklessly into a killing zone, they’ve sent a few expendables to lure out the unwary and spring the trap. Good. The next few minutes should be illuminating.

  The APCs spread out, easing themselves nearer to where Blue Force lay in wait. It all depended on how good their camouflage was, and who would keep cool under pressure. No real shots would be fired, but there were plenty of observers scattered around to keep score and determine who had achieved tactical surprise, who were the victors and who were the losers. Afterwards the ‘battle’ would be relived, using models and a sand table to demonstrate the correct solution.

  The reconnaissance APCs moved nearer and nearer and then suddenly stopped, reversed and roared back up the slope. At that same moment, several Blue Force tanks moved from the edge of one the small copses and took up firing positions. Flat barks echoed across the landscape as the defenders fired on the escaping recon team. A confused fight began to take place, with answering fire from Red Force tanks along the ridgeline. Simon was dimly aware that Enseling was roaring into his microphone. More and more tank motors revved into life. A rapid redeployment of Red Force tanks was taking place, many of them disappearing from view behind the crest of the hill. He thought he knew which way they were going.

  Enseling was studying his map, and barking out fresh instructions to his ambush teams. He looked across at Simon, who caught his glance and smiled, looking pointedly at his wristwatch. Willy began to redouble his efforts. The exercise would no doubt finish shortly, and his trap was not working as planned. Somehow somebody up there on Red Force had realised the danger his tanks were in, and had pulled back just in time.

  The remaining minutes passed by quickly. Firing on the ridgeline and forward slope had ceased. Suddenly tank engines could be heard on both sides of the distant ridgeline and two groups of tanks suddenly roared into view, arcing around the edge of the woods towards where the original Blue Force ambush teams had lain in wait. Several of them halted as the others advanced, and began firing.

  ‘Bugge
r!’ Enseling roared, looking frustrated. Whoever was in charge of Red Force knew how to smell a trap, and was quick enough to react and turn the tables on the enemy. Just then a yellow flare shot up into the grey skies. He dropped his headphones in disgust.

  ‘End of exercise.’ He swore several times. ‘Damn and blast! That was some

  canny bastard over there. The Russians never use recon – they simply send their tanks forward and keep going until they hit trouble. By all rights Red Force should have walked straight into that trap.’

  Simon could barely stop from laughing. He walked over to Enseling and put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Not to worry, dear boy, these things happen,’ he said, soothingly. ‘Besides, Red Force could be British or American, and not necessarily Ivan and his friends. Different armies use different tactics. Let’s find out who was in charge of Red Force – he’ll be able to tell you what went wrong.’

  A few minutes later, a procession of vehicles began to pass by. Most of them had red splotches on their armour, some had blue. All of them had seen better days and were no longer fit for battlefield service. Some of them were enemy tanks – a few T-34s, some M4 Shermans, and even a couple of antiquated French Renault light tanks. Several Kubelwagens belonging to exercise control brought up the rear and kept an eye on the procession. One of them detached itself and sped across the snow towards the observation tower.

  ‘Ah, here comes the Red Force commander’. Simon watched closely as a bulky figure in a hooded winter camouflage combat uniform stiffly climbed out of the passenger seat and limped slowly towards the wooden hut. There was something about him that looked vaguely familiar. As the figure moved closer he stopped and pulled back the hood, revealing an officer’s side cap and a large grin.