by Ib Melchior
Within seconds the entire dump area was alive with frantic action. Pfc Rosenfeld missed it all.
16 Apr 1945
Kronach
1019 hrs
The Liaison Room adjoining the top secret War Room on the second floor of the Corps CP building was relatively calm when Erik and his teammate, Special Agent Donald Lee Johnson, walked in. Major Lund, who ran the place, and who’d managed to make himself indispensable doing it, was briefing a brigadier general and two bird colonels gathered around a map spread out on a table. He acknowledged the arrival of the two CIC agents with a friendly nod, and without missing a comma in his situation briefing.
Erik and Don had themselves taken Gestapo chief Standartenführer Gerhardt Wilke to Corps HQ for strategic interrogation. The man had turned out to be a veritable encyclopedia on the Gestapo setup in Sudetenland. The Czechs would be very interested.
They had arrived in the picturesque little town of Kronach, where the forward echelons of XII Corps were headquartered, the day before, in time to attend the memorial services for President Roosevelt, held in the gardens behind the Corps HQ buildings. The moving commemorative address had been given by the Corps CG, Major General “Matt” Eddy.
The sudden death of the Commander in Chief had been deeply felt by everyone. Erik, though he’d never even seen him, felt a sharp personal loss. FDR had been President ever since he was old enough to remember. It was as if part of the United States was gone.
Erik perched himself on the corner of a desk and began to riffle through a stack of mimeoed intelligence reports. Don sauntered over to the window. He looked out.
From a rocky hilltop on the opposite bank of the river the great medieval fortress Feste Rosenberg looked down majestically on both the old and the new sections of the town of Kronach—seemingly without paying any special attention to the complex of two- and three-story brick buildings with gray tile roofs that housed the Corps CP.
Don had an excellent view of the old castle. He enjoyed it. In fact, he’d enjoyed seeing—and being in—a lot of places. In England, in France, in Luxembourg—and Germany. To his own great surprise he found that his interest in actually seeing places linked with history could go hand in hand with the grim business of wartime counter intelligence work. A little guiltily he sometimes thought of himself as a tourist in GI boots—although he’d never admit it, least of all to Erik, who’d tramped all over Europe and spoke five or six languages fluently. Just as well. It sure was an advantage to someone born and raised in Amarillo, Texas, who had trouble even with English!
Don contemplated the massive stone castle on the hill. Proud. Forbidding, he thought, even under enemy occupation. Well, it wasn’t the first time. History did have a way of repeating itself—even if it occasionally took a little time. Some three centuries before, the Swedish king Gustavus Adolphus had made his headquarters in Feste Rosenberg when he had invaded Germany, bent on liberating his German Lutheran brothers. This century it’s the Jews’ turn, Don thought wryly.
He wondered idly where that bit of useless information came from. Part of that ninety percent of his college education he was supposed to forget? Only hadn’t?
Don joined Erik. Major Lund was finishing up. He walked the general and the two colonels to a large map on the wall next to the area situation map. The map bore the legend:
Unconfirmed Installations in
R E P O R T E D R E D O U B T A R E A
It showed the Alpine regions of Bavaria, Austria and Italy, with the city of Munich to the north. A large area in the center had been marked off with a heavy broken line and was studded with military symbols. Lund indicated the map.
“There it is,” he said. “Up to date.”
“And unconfirmed,” the general commented dryly.
“Yes. But indications show that the Nazis are preparing for a bitter fight from there.”
“Sort of a last stand, you mean.” The general sounded vaguely patronizing. Brigadier General Millard P. McGraw was a combat officer. He didn’t think too much of desk officers and tabletop campaigns.
“Exactly.” Major Lund turned to the map, continuing the briefing he’d given hundreds of times before. “As you can see, sir, the actual area of the National Redoubt—the so-called Alpine Fortress —takes in parts of the Bavarian Alps, western Austria and northern Italy—some twenty thousand square miles of virtually impregnable mountain terrain.”
“Quite a piece of real estate!” said one of the colonels, impressed.
“You bet! Hitler’s own stronghold—Berchtesgaden—lies right in the center.” He pointed it out. “Right—there.”
The general studied the map. He looked skeptical. He turned to Lund.
“What about the supposed fortifications? The military installations?”
“We’ve had literally hundreds of reports, sir.”
“From what kind of sources? Any of them reliable?”
Major Lund looked up. Pretty damned snide way of putting it, he thought.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “From our own intelligence sources. From the British. The OSS. And from neutral sources through Switzerland. Even from anti-Nazi factions inside Germany.”
The general grunted. Major Lund pointed to the symbols on the map. He spoke with a conscious effort to keep from sounding testy.
“As you can see, General, they indicate food, gasoline, ammunition, chemical warfare dumps—most of Germany’s supply of poison gas is there—pillboxes, concrete bunkers, power stations. Troop concentration points, lines of heavily fortified positions—some of them reported to be connected for miles by underground railroads . . . We’ve even had reports about underground bombproof factories.”
General McGraw looked at him.
“It’s a helluva scary picture you’re painting, Major—even if it’s only half true.” There was a ring of sarcasm to his voice. It wasn’t lost on Major Lund. The G-2 officer felt the warmth of hot blood rising on his neck. That one-star SOB, he thought. It isn’t up to me to go out and verify the reports that come in. But I’d better damned well post them—for bastards like him to make snide remarks about! Lund knew, of course, what he himself thought about the Alpine Fortress bit. A lot of it was propaganda. Goebbels talk. A lot of the reports were exaggerated. A lot unreliable. But there was enough left to make him worried. Good and damned worried. He glanced at the general. He was again studying the map.
“Munitions?” he asked curtly.
If it’s a picture you want, you bastard, Lund thought, I’ll paint you one! Aloud he said:
“Yes, sir. All kinds . . .”
The general looked at him with a slightly raised eyebrow. Lund went on:
“. . . including V-2 missiles capable of carrying heavier explosive loads than the ones they used on London.”
He looked directly at the general, speaking with studied candor:
“In fact, sir, the intelligence chief of the Seventh Army reports that several supply trains have been arriving in the Redoubt Area every week since February, and some of them have been reported to be carrying a new type of gun. The report even mentioned an underground factory that’s set up to produce Messerschmitts!”
Despite himself the general looked impressed.
“Patch’s G-2 boys said that?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir. Lieutenant General Alexander Patch’s intelligence chief, sir.”
“I’ll be damned!”
“Yes, sir.”
The general shot Lund a quick glance. Was that little prick putting him on? Lund quickly continued:
“I mean, sir—both General Marshall and General Bradley are extremely concerned, sir.”
The general grunted. It was true enough. The wires to his CP had been burning up with messages. He looked at the map again. I’ll be double-damned, he thought. If the Nazis did get a real foothold in that bitch of a place, they could hold out for years.
“What’s the estimated capacity of the Redoubt area?” he asked.
“Ab
out three hundred thousand troops, sir. At this time.”
For a moment the general was silent. Then he looked at Major Lund.
“Thank you for your briefing, Major. It was most—helpful.”
He turned on his heel and, followed by his two colonels, left the room.
Don grinned at Major Lund.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked.
Lund was cooling off. “Some division CO too big for his britches, and not big enough for his star,” he said.
“So you had your fun with the poor bastard.” Don nodded toward the Redoubt map. “What about that stuff? Anything to it?”
Lund grinned.
“I only paint pictures, boys.” He didn’t quite manage to keep a little bitterness from showing.
One of the intelligence noncoms, who worked in the room, brought him a cup of coffee. It was just what he needed. He gave the soldier a grateful nod.
“We’re going back up. Anything special?” Don asked.
Lund was sipping his coffee. It was hot.
“SOP,” he said. “You can take the local poop off the Enemy Situation.”
Erik had picked up one of the mimeoed intelligence reports from the desk. He held it up.
“Is that the full report on the Redoubt?” he asked.
Lund, sipping his coffee, nodded.
“Never had a chance to read it.”
Erik scanned the report. He became interested. Suddenly he looked up.
“Listen, Don,” he said. “Listen to this! Here’s a real picture of doom. It’s from the March 11 SHAEF Intelligence Summary.” He began to read:
“. . . defended by nature and by the most efficient secret weapons yet invented, the powers that have hitherto guided Germany will survive to reorganize her resurrection. . . . A specially selected corps of young men will be trained in guerrilla warfare, so that a whole underground army can be fitted and directed to liberate Germany from the occupying forces.”
Don shook his head slowly.
“Sounds more like a page from a Nazi mythology than an intelligence report!”
Major Lund put down his empty cup.
“Bradley and SHAEF don’t agree with you.”
“Could happen!”
“There’s been a little change since you were here last. Our main effort now is to split Germany in two by driving through the center —prevent their forces from consolidating in the Redoubt. And to pull it off, orders have just come down from SHAEF diverting more than half our forces.”
“Looks like we’re going to have quite a race,” Erik observed. “Can we cut them in half before they can get set in their Alpine Fortress?”
Don brightened. “Hey!” he said. “I’d like to place a small bet on that race, sir! Where’s the two dollar window?”
Major Lund grinned. Then he grew sober.
“Save your money, Don,” he said. “It’s still anybody’s race.”
He turned and walked slowly to the big wall map of the Reported Redoubt Area.
“But I’ll tell you this. A hulluva lot of men on both sides will be dead or wounded by the time you’d be ready to collect your bet. The whole damned campaign has been changed. Our prime target has been changed. We’re going for the Alpine Fortress—not Berlin!”
Berlin
2207 hrs
All around the outskirts of Berlin the night sky was tinged with a blood-red glow, and the distant, deep-throated booming of heavy artillery washed in waves over the battered city.
At exactly 0400 hrs that morning the eastern front at the approaches to the capital had exploded into an earth-trembling roar as, in the same instant, Marshal Georgi Zhukov’s twenty thousand guns fired their high explosive shells into the Nazi defenses.
The battle of Berlin had begun. The final guns were thundering the Götterdämmerung. . . .
Potsdamerstrasse, leading to Potsdamer Platz and on to the Chancellery, had been heavily damaged in the American and British air raids. The buildings lining the street had been gutted. Walls enclosing emptiness stood like beat-up sets on some gigantic studio back lot. The street itself was littered with rubble. On the corner of the square the ruins had been cordoned off and skull-and-cross-bones signs proclaimed: ACHTUNG! MINEN! There were many unexploded bombs cuddling their unleashed death in the wreckage. Water from broken mains gurgled in muddy bomb craters and ran sluggishly through the littered gutters. Fire still smoldered and smoked among the ruins, wherever anything remained that could still burn.
A path had been cleared down the middle of the street, but Stabsgefreiter Werner still had trouble guiding his motorcycle between the blocks of shattered masonry and torn pavement. His left shoulder hurt. It never had healed quite the way it should. He was doing all right, though. It was only a few blocks to the Chancellery and the Führer Bunker.
Stabsgefreiter Stefan Werner had been a Wehrmacht motorcycle courier in Berlin for over a year now. He used to consider himself lucky. He was. He still remembered vividly how it had been. He had been wounded at Stalingrad on January 19 two years before. He still had cold-sweat nightmares about it. . . .
He, and two of his comrades, had manned a machine gun. Their position was set up in the wreckage of” a devastated building. A Russian artillery shell had landed in the ruins and a wall had collapsed on their position. His two comrades were killed. Werner was half buried and knocked unconscious. When he came to, Russian soldiers were picking their way through the rubble. He buried his face in the brick chips. He lay dead still. He knew the Russians were taking no prisoners at Stalingrad. He felt the soldier come up to him. He felt him stop and look down at him. He could smell him. He tried not to breathe. Fear crawled like an icy spider along his spine. And then he felt the searing hot lance of pain, as the Russian jabbed his bayonet into his back. He nearly bit his lip in two, trying to keep from moving or crying out. Then once again he lost consciousness.
He was lucky. His heavy overcoat and his shoulder blade deflected the bayonet just enough. His blood froze over the open wound, keeping him from bleeding to death. And when he regained consciousness, he was on a lazarett train, going home. . . .
The street looked blocked ahead, and Werner cut across the Potsdamer Square and over to Wilhelmstrasse. Ahead he could see the ravaged, fire-blackened Chancellery buildings.
Suddenly two shots rang out in front of him. A lone man came running down the dark street, his long, field-gray army coat flapping around his ankles. Behind him two uniformed figures pressed in pursuit, their metal breast shields clanging as they ran. Military police.
Again a shot rang out, as the fleeing man ducked behind the burned-out bulk of a Wehrmacht truck. One of the MPs shouted after him.
“Halt!”
Werner pulled up to get out of the line of fire. Deserter, he thought. Or looter. He felt sorry for the running man. He knew what would happen to him if he was caught alive.
Another shot. It clanged off the metal truck body. The man suddenly leaped from his hiding place and raced down the street. Quickly one of the MPs brought up a submachine gun and fired a burst of bullets after the fleeing man. He fell to the ground, screaming. At the same time Werner felt a sharp blow on his left arm. Surprised, he looked down. It was dark and he could see nothing. His arm felt numb. He removed his heavy leather glove and touched the spot. His fingers came away sticky with blood.
Damn! he thought savagely. Ricochet! Of all the goddamned, stinking luck!
The wound suddenly began to burn with pain. He flexed his fingers and gingerly moved the arm. It was only a flesh wound, but it hurt like hell.
Out on the street the MPs had reached the man lying in the gutter. They tried to stand him up. He screamed. Both his ankles had been broken by the submachine gun bullets. The MPs took hold of his arms and dragged him toward a lamppost standing starkly alone in the desolation. . . .
Werner dismounted. He checked his courier pouch and started on foot for the Chancellery.
The two SS men standing guard in the shelter o
f the shrapnel-scarred Chancellery archway barred the way. Werner stopped. He was holding his left arm to keep the pain at a minimum when he moved.
“Papiere herzeigen!” one of the guards demanded curtly.
“Urgent dispatch. Generalfeldmarschall Keitel,” Werner said, as he handed the SS man his orders.
The guard examined the papers by the light of a flashlight. Werner’s arm dripped a few drops of blood at his feet.
The SS man returned the papers. He motioned Werner into the darkened passage.
“In Ordnung.”
Werner hurried on. He knew the way. He’d brought other dispatches to the Führer Bunker before. He knew the harsh, rigid security followed by the SS.
He emerged from the Chancellery ruins into the gardens and made straight for the massive windowless blockhouse with the single heavy steel door leading to the Führer Bunker deep underground. From above, black, empty holes in soot-stained walls, where the windows used to be, stared down at him and the desolate gardens below, like huge, gaping sockets robbed of their eyes. The once beautiful grounds around him were ruthlessly destroyed; bomb craters, chunks of concrete, broken columns and smashed statuary lay scattered among uprooted trees. An abandoned cement mixer squatted next to the concrete blockhouse, its bowels crusted, its usefulness long since past.
Werner’s orders were checked again at the blockhouse bunker entrance, and he started down the long, narrow flights of stairs as the steel door clanged shut behind him. His arm throbbed and ached. He supported it as best he could.
In the brightly lit concrete-walled corridor at the bottom of the steps two grim-looking SS men, armed with Schmeisser machine pistols, gruffly halted him.
It’s crazy, he thought. I guess they don’t trust anybody after that assassination business. Automatically he said:
“Urgent dispatch. Generalfeldmarschall Keitel.”
“Stay where you are,” one of the SS guards ordered curtly. He stepped up to the courier.
“Your dispatch pouch!”
Werner handed it over.