The Fall of the Father Land

by D. N. J. Greaves

  ‘Sturmbannführer, I beg to report that whoever commanded Blue Force owes me several drinks and needs a good kick up the arse!’

  It was none other than Charlie Hofheinz.

  ‘Charlie, you smooth talking bastard…Its great to see you again!’ Simon was amazed and delighted. This was a complete surprise, utterly unexpected but nonetheless very welcome indeed. Simon grinned broadly and stepped forward, giving his friend a quick hug. “Well, look at you…now an officer, maybe even a gentleman to boot, although I find that hard to believe.’ He turned to wink at Enseling, who was watching them both with interest. ‘What’s happened to you since we last met?

  I’ll bet you have more than a few stories you can tell me, eh?’

  ‘Yes Sturmbannführer.’ Hofheinz grinned. ‘One or two, perhaps. I -‘

  ‘No more formality, please Charlie,’ Simon interrupted. ‘From now on call me Max unless we’re in company, just as it used to be. By the way, this is Willy Enseling, fresh from hospital and my old friends in GrossDeutschland, about to be transferred into the SS just like I was.’

  Enseling leaned forward and shook Hofheinz’s hand. ‘Glad to meet you, Charley. Congratulations - looks like you know more than a thing or two about handling armoured warfare. Was that your own trick, or is it something Ivan has recently introduced?’

  Hofheinz grinned back. ‘Thanks. A bit of both, really. The Russians have finally begun to equip their tank and mechanised corps with reconnaissance battalions, much along the lines of what we used to do in the panzer divisions, until we began to run short of men and vehicles. They’re still getting the hang of it. The British and Americans are much better at it than they are, but I doubt Ivan will take long to catch up.’

  ‘Where did you learn that?’ Simon asked him.

  ‘Oh, you know - Normandy, Belgium, Hungary, all the usual places these days we seem to find ourselves in, and with all the usual suspects in tow …’ The smile faded from Hofheinz’s face, replaced almost immediately by a hard, far-away stare. Simon was immediately aware that some of these memories were perhaps not the best. A quick change of subject was called for.

  ‘We’ll talk about that later, over a few beers’ he quickly interjected. ‘Right now I could do with getting back to some warmth, with a bit of lunch thrown in as well. Willy, you don’t mind if I drive back with Charlie? We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘No, Max. No problem at all,’ Enseling replied, instantly in tune with Simon’s request.

  ‘I’ll catch up with you later, after the afternoon classroom exercises’. Simon turned to his old friend. ‘Come on, man, let’s go.’ He put his arm around his friend’s shoulders. ‘I’ve got a lot to talk to you about.’

  Der Rot Löwe, Kaisersallee, Sondershausen 1700

  They were sitting in a private booth in a small bar, the Rot Löwe, situated just off the main road that led out towards where the new Panzer School was located. The afternoon classes were finished for the day and the students had been dismissed for the evening - a rare opportunity to catch up on reading, equipment and weapons maintenance, as well as a hundred other things they needed to keep abreast of. Even sleep, the most precious of commodities.

  The bar was quiet. Only a few stools were occupied. Beer supplies had been somewhat disrupted of late, thanks to the dislocation on the roads by enemy air forces that ranged almost unopposed across the length of breadth of the Reich. The surrounding buildings and hills of the densely forested Hainleite range close by were fading into the gathering gloom of the early evening, dim blurs and shadows as the light failed. Only a few outside lights were visible. The blackout would come into force in the next half hour, and the bar shutters would be closed and curtains drawn, strictly in accordance with the regulations.

  They kept their voices low. You never knew who was listening, who might report on conversations that might be interpreted as unpatriotic, or even treasonous. It barely mattered at this stage of the war what uniform you wore. Anyone was fair game. Stories of SD security squads, roaming the rear areas in search of suitable candidates pour encourager les aûtres, as the French would put it, were commonplace. Summary trials took place at the drop of a hat for those judged not to be contributing one hundred percent to the Reich in its desperate time of need. Invariably they were immediately followed by swift dispensation of ‘justice’, usually in the form of a quick lynching – bullets were too scarce and precious to waste on these shirkers.

  Hofheinz had spent the last hour or so talking about what had happened to Simon’s former unit in France, Belgium and Hungary. It was not easy listening. There were only a few survivors left from over four hundred men who had made up the battalion numbers. It was Russia all over again, only worse. The normally cheerful Hofheinz was scathing in his contempt for the way the war was being run. That was nothing new, but Simon was quite shocked by the bitter change he noted in his friend.

  ‘You didn’t miss a great deal when they took you away from us and put you on that new assignment,’ Hofheinz was saying, quietly. ‘We had a couple of months’ quiet to form the new Heavy Panzer battalion, and then the Allies landed. If you thought things were bad in Russia, Max, they were infinitely worse in Normandy. Nothing could move in daylight, unless it was a very cloudy day or raining. The Luftwaffe was nowhere to be seen, and the enemy air force ruled the skies. Their artillery was the worst I’ve ever come across and considering what we experienced on the Eastern Front that’s saying something.’ He related the stories of St Aignan de Cramesnil and the escape from the Falaise pocket. ‘We lost virtually everything. Tanks, equipment, even the shirts off our backs for those few lucky enough to get away. We had to swim across the Seine – there was only one bridge still available, and we were nowhere near it. All the rest were already destroyed by the Allies.’

  He shook his head sadly, and then carried on. ‘The Ardennes was almost as bad. We were part of Sixth SS Panzer Army. Our task was to break through the weak enemy defences and race for the bridges across the Meuse, with Antwerp as the next stop. What happened? Another fucking fine mess. Some idiot directed our attack onto the strongest American positions, along the Elsenborn Ridge.’ He snorted scathingly. ‘Guess who that was?’ He looked around carefully and lowered his voice. ‘Fucking Grofarz, who else. He’d decided that, because we were SS and therefore ideologically pure and trustworthy, we would be bound to smash the enemy and secure victory. What a stupid tosser!’

  Hofheinz laughed grimly. ‘I got that little gem straight from Dietrich himself.’ Hofheinz was referring to the army commander, SS Obergruppenführer Josef Dietrich, a former street tough and bruiser from the earliest days of the fledgling Nazi Party in Munich, but promoted well above any military prowess he may have had to the exalted position of army commander. ‘Old Sepp came to see us for himself, on one of the rare days that he was sober. He may not be much of a soldier but by God he’s a realist, and he’s got precious little time for any arse-licking Führer crazed idiot these days. I overheard him talking about the disaster in France to some senior officers from a Wehrmacht parachute - infantry division who were questioning some of the less comprehensible decisions from on high. The gist of what he said was this – ‘there is no option but to follow orders blindly and to the letter. Even I, a senior SS officer cannot change this, not unless I want to put myself straight in front of a firing squad! I know what we’ve all been through is madness, but we have no choice in these matters’. What do you think of that?’

  Simon was not that surprised. ‘I’ve heard this sort of thing before. Gille, Viking’s commander when we were trying to break through to them at Korsun, said much the same thing. I met him, you know, not long after we said goodbye at Breslau.’

  ‘Gille?’

  ‘No the Führer.’

  ‘What? You mean, Grofarz himself?’ Hofheinz was incredulous.

  ‘Yes. He presented me with these’. Simon pointed to the Oak Leaves that glittered above his Knight’s Cross.

  Hofhein
z gave a low whistle. ‘So what was he like?’

  ‘Well, it was only a brief presentation, a handshake, a few words of congratulation and then off he went.’ Simon cast his mind back almost a year. ‘He didn’t strike me as being a great orator with a powerful, charismatic presence. He just looked old, tired and rather worn out.’

  ‘So – no words of wisdom then, no stirring exhortation to carry on the fight against the brutal enemy, the barbarous Bolshevik hordes…’

  Simon grinned briefly at Hofheinz’s mimicry of the Führer in full cry. One or two heads at the bar turned around.

  ‘Not really – and keep your bloody voice down. There may be one or two here tonight who may take exception to any piss taking.’

  Hofheinz looked suitably chastened, but only for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose it’s all that responsibility on his shoulders, running the war, you know – all that strain…’

  ‘More like a guilty conscience, if you ask me. Remember what we saw on the way back from Poland?’ His words had an instant, sobering effect. Simon left the rest unsaid. There was no need to say anything else. The memory of the horrors of Auschwitz was still there.

  After a few moments of silence, Hofheinz carried on.

  ‘Hungary was almost as bad as Normandy. It doesn’t matter anymore if we knock out ten, twenty or even more enemy tanks for each one of ours lost. Ivan will always find more to replace them and slowly grind us down. Another bloodbath, another failed offensive’, he sighed. This time the mission was to liberate the surrounded forces trapped inside Budapest and get them out of the mess that the deteriorating situation in Hungary had become. ‘When virtually all our tanks were destroyed, and most of our men dead or in hospital, we get a message from OKH, from the Führer himself. Apparently, he’s displeased at our latest efforts, and has decided that we are not worthy to bear his name anymore. Would you believe it?’ Hofheinz’s voice rose. ‘Hitler ordered every member of what was left of the Leibstandarte, and anybody else in Sixth SS Panzer Army who wore them, to remove the honorary cuff with the Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler script from their sleeves.’ He shook his head in bemusement. ‘Dietrich was absolutely speechless with anger. It just so happened that he was visiting our unit to congratulate us on our latest defensive effort when the message came through - just one of those strange little coincidences that happen from time to time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody quite so pissed off as he was that day. Sepp was shaking and quivering with rage. Can you imagine it? After all the shit we’d gone through, all the battles, the dead, wounded, maimed and scarred for life, all the madness… we then receive this? Is that the sort of thanks we deserve for all our efforts over the last six years?’

  Hofheinz continued. ‘It should have been a day to remember. I’d already heard that I was well overdue for some sort of recognition, some sort of reward that recognised our recent battles. Dietrich simply strode up, looked at me, and offered me a choice – either a battlefield commission right there on the spot, or a cast-iron recommendation for the Knight’s Cross. Another bit of tinsel to add to those already in my collection…’ Hofheinz chuckled bitterly and pointed at the medals across his chest – the Iron Cross first and second class, and all the rest – wound badges, tank destruction and close combat clasps and so on. This was the paraphernalia of some of the more seasoned veterans, by this stage of the war; those that were still left alive. ‘No disrespect intended to those that already have it, of course.’ He winked at Simon.

  ‘Then he said this – ‘I should go for the promotion if I was you, Charlie. All of this’ – he pointed to all his numerous decorations –‘all of this is just a pile of worthless junk. Besides, the pay’s much better as a junior officer’. I took his advice, and a few minutes later I was no longer an Oberscharführer but a brand new Untersturmführer with what was left of the battalion to command. All the other senior officers were either dead or hospitalized. Later on that day, we heard from division HQ that Dietrich had sent a latrine bucket full of medals and Leibstandarte arm cuffs by special delivery for the particular attention of Grofarz himself.’ He paused and winked at Simon. ‘I’m not absolutely certain if they cleaned out the bucket before putting them in there. Dietrich doesn’t mess around.’

  Hofheinz laughed mirthlessly. ‘My time in command didn’t last long. It was typical fucking sod’s law. Less than twenty four hours later I was lucky enough to get this…’ He pointed to his left thigh. ‘A Russian machine-gun bullet smashed the femur, so the docs told me. I spent eight weeks in some out of the way clinic in Bavaria, then a transfer here as an officer instructor. Still, it’s better than being in Hungary at the moment – or should I say Austria. I’ve heard that Ivan has managed to break through towards the west and nearly reach the outskirts of Vienna. I wonder what the former Austrian house-painter himself has to say about that piece of good news.’

  He broke off, leaned forward for his drink and swallowed. Simon looked at him closely as he drank. It seemed as if his friend had reached the same level of war weariness and contempt for those in command as he, and doubtless quite a few others, had. But there was something else there as well – a hard bitterness that he had never seen before in his friend, something that had changed him over the course of the last ten months.

  During their conversation his mind had started to explore a few possibilities, some courses of action that would soon be most likely needed. His last words with Schellenberg were still fresh in his mind. Even so, he knew he had to be careful in what he said and how he said it. What he was going to propose was clearly treason. Charlie was a good mate, but Simon was still a little unsure as to where his inner loyalties lay, even now.

  ‘You haven’t said a great deal about yourself, Max’. Hofheinz looked at him. ‘I’ve done most of the talking. What happened after you were ordered to Berlin? Anything you can tell me about?’

  ‘Yes, but only a few details, Charlie.’ Simon shrugged apologetically. ‘A lot of it I can’t tell you about…military intelligence secrets, all that sort of thing. I’ve been sworn to secrecy, and you probably wouldn’t believe me if I could tell you everything, anyway. But here goes. I’ll tell you what I can.’ With that, he launched into a shortened version of the events in Berlin and the mission abroad. He left out all references to Canaris, Patricia, the real reason for his mission and his ‘turning’ by MI6. There was simply no reason for Hofheinz to know, and the last thing he wanted his friend to hear about was Simon’s involvement in successfully duping German Intelligence into believing that the Normandy landings were only a sideshow, and not the real thing. Too many of their friends had failed to come back from France. In a way, he still felt dirty about betraying his own side. Yes, ‘betraying’ – there was no other way to describe it. It was a bitter pill to swallow, and even despite what he had seen and heard of Auschwitz and other places, the fact that he had finally turned against his own country still haunted him at night, when sleep was hard to come by. Maybe time would ease his sense of guilt.

  Hofheinz hid his surprise well. Only a few raised eyebrows expressed his silent amazement at what had happened to Simon.

  ‘So you see, Charlie, things have been more than a little interesting for me as well, but in a rather different way to what I was expecting when I left you and headed off to Berlin. As I said, the mission they sent me on was ultimately a failure, and I was very lucky to get back alive. Even so, nine months’ recovery in a special clinic was not quite what I thought I’d be letting myself in for. I’m still a bit stunned by your arrival today. I never thought we’d meet up again.’ He laughed. ‘One of the nicer surprises I’ve had recently, I must say. I wonder if some guardian angel has our best interests at heart.’ Was it indeed coincidence, or was it more than just mere luck. Schellenberg? How would he know who Charlie was…?

  Their glasses were nearly empty. Simon made his mind up. Now would be as good as any time to ask his friend to consider what he had in mind. A tentative plan was forming in his mind. Several options an
d permutations were falling into place. The only major uncertainty left was the British. How would MI6 get in contact? What did Menzies have up his sleeve? Somebody should have been in touch by now…

  One thing at a time. There was little point in worrying too much – perhaps things would become clearer soon. But he would not broach what was on his mind to his friend here – it was far too open a place for that sort of discussion.

  ‘Finish your drink, man. There’s something I need to talk to you about…outside, not in here. I have a special favour to ask. Interested?’

  Hofheinz nodded. He picked up his glass and swiftly emptied the contents down his throat. ‘Lead on, boss. I’m all ears’.

  SS Field HQ, Mittenwalde 25/3/45 1130

  The early spring sunshine shone fitfully through the gloomy wrack of dark clouds that hung over the city. The view from the top of the hill Schellenberg was standing on was quite panoramic. He could make out the low hills and woods that skirted Lake Havel to the west, almost as far away as Potsdam. From there his gaze swept right, across the centre of the city and further over to the flat plain and dense forests that stretched east towards Seelow. The Oder River lay beyond. That’s where the Russians were, less than fifty kilometres away – far too close for any comfort. The city looked to be peaceful, but the appearance was deceptive. Large areas of the city were a mass of rubble, ruin heaped upon ruin

  The Red Air Force had yet to make its appearance today, probably as a result of the heavy rain and low clouds that had settled over Berlin and across to the east during the night and early morning. He tried to imagine the chaos going on at the enemy air-fields in Poland. The majority were muddy grass strips, useless in the rain. There would be little in the way of air missions from there today. As for the western Allies, the Americans and British had largely given up their relentless bombing of the capital. There wasn’t much point these days, with so little left to target and the Russians now so close.