Devil's Guard- The Complete Series Box Set

by Eric Meyer

  The Fuhrer stalked out of the room with Bormann close behind him. Most of the officers stayed to enjoy the food and drink but I’d had enough, I left to go back to my platoon. I’d only been back for half an hour when Wiedel came to find me.

  “We need you now, all of you, we’ve detected a transmission. This could be what we’ve been looking for. Come with me.”

  We followed him to the headquarters radio room. A furious looking Abwehr major was standing outside the door, protesting that he’d been thrown out of his own office. Wiedel ignored him and we went inside, there were banks of radio equipment with operators sitting in attendance with headphones clamped around their ears. We walked through to an office where an operator in plain clothes, obviously Gestapo, was adjusting a suitcase-sized radio. Von Betternich was watching him carefully.

  “We’ve got a similar set at Kharkov so that with any luck we can triangulate between the two points, Wiedel explained. “How are you doing?”

  The operator looked up. “I think it’s him, I’ve been in touch with Kharkov by telegraph and they say the same, it’s almost certainly our man.”

  “Excellent, where is he, do you have a location?”

  The man looked confused, embarrassed. “Well, yes, that’s the strange thing.”

  “Strange? Where is he, what do you mean?”

  “Here.”

  “What do you mean here? In Vinnitsa?”

  “I mean here, Sir, in this headquarters.”

  The enormity of his statement struck us all at once. If the traitor was here, in this headquarters compound, it was entirely possible that it could be a high-ranking officer, or at least a senior officer of some kind to have the means to access secret information and to have the freedom of action to hide a transmitter and quietly transmit in the middle of Army Group South’s Headquarters. Once again, politics was a threat to our hunt for the traitor. Supposing it was a General officer, even a Feldmarschal? God help us all.

  “Right, assemble your men, Hoffman, we’ll look around and see if we can’t catch this person.”

  I looked at him doubtfully. “It could be difficult with the Fuhrer here and all of these senior officers.”

  “In that case if any of them object the Fuhrer can simply order them to cooperate. We’re wasting time, we need to get moving if we’re to have any chance of catching the bastard.”

  I ran out, alarming the Leibstandarte sentries, and told the men to form up. We split into two parties. I went with Wiedel and two of the troopers. Mundt took the other three and went with von Betternich. We went from door to door of the accommodation block, checking bedrooms, dining rooms, offices and storerooms. We drew a blank and began to search outside the main buildings, the stores, ammunition dumps, kitchens and motor vehicle workshops. We were emerging from a spare parts store when I heard a shout from near the perimeter fence. It was Mundt.

  We ran over to him.

  “Someone went through the fence, look!”

  There was a narrow gap, low to the ground, just large enough to enable one person to pass through. Bauer crouched down squeezing through and the rest of us followed, except for von Betternich who stood inside the fence with an unfathomable look on his face, his walking cane clutched in one hand. I had this uncomfortable feeling that he was he was already several steps ahead of us? If so, what those steps were was anyone’s guess. I focussed my attention on the job in hand. Whoever had passed through had left a simple trail, footmarks in the soft, damp forest floor. Bauer kept the lead, I followed him and the rest were close behind me. We made good time and soon we were coming up on our quarry, we could hear him making heavy going through the forest. Suddenly his heavy footsteps stopped, he’d gone to ground and I suspected that he had twisted an ankle. We slowed down and cocked our machine pistols.

  “Remember, we want him alive,” Wiedel said quietly.

  I nodded and passed it on to the men. We pushed carefully forward but there was no sign of him, then some sixth sense made me look behind. He had just got to his feet and was standing unsteadily, bringing up a huge pistol, I recognised it instantly, a Mauser.

  The Mauser C96 was a semi-automatic pistol, originally produced by our own arms manufacturer Mauser from 1896. Several countries had manufactured unlicensed copies and Russia was no exception. It was instantly identifiable by the integral box magazine in front of the trigger, the long barrel, the wooden shoulder stock that could double as a holster or carrying case, and a grip shaped like the handle of a broom, so that some people nicknamed it 'the broomstick'.

  I heard Wiedel shouting, “Don’t shoot, we want him alive,” then one of the men fired a long, low burst that took him in the legs and he collapsed to the ground. I ran up and kicked the Mauser out of his hands, then looked at him closely. He was a partisan, possibly Ukrainian, but more probably Russian. His cap was adorned with a red star and when I went through his clothes he had a packet of documents in his pocket together with a map.

  “Who are you?” Wiedel shouted at him, lifting him up by the shoulders. “Who is your contact inside our headquarters?”

  Although in obvious pain, he managed to hawk and spit at the Gestapo man. Wiedel smashed his hand across the man’s face, threw him to the ground and put his boot on one of the wounds on his legs. The Russians may have possessed legendary courage in the face of pain but I think we all winced as the animal scream came out of his throat.

  “Who are you, who is your contact? Quickly, tell me man and I’ll get treatment for your legs!”

  He shook his head, his bearded face screwed up in agony.

  Wiedel took out his pistol and screwed it into his mouth, causing him to gag and choke.

  “For the last time, your name!”

  The man’s eyes were watering with the pain of the boot on his leg and the gun in his mouth. He started to mumble and Wiedel took out the pistol.

  “Colonel Mikhail Romanenko, NKVD on assignment to the partisans, that is all I will tell you.”

  The NKVD, the People's Commissariat for Internal Affairs, we’d scored a high-ranking prisoner. Wiedel pressed him further, asking him the name of his contact and putting his boot on the wound again when he refused to answer, but the man passed out with the pain. I heard the sound of footsteps coming from the HQ, when they appeared through the trees it was von Betternich limping along but in front of him was Reichsleiter Martin Bormann. I could hardly contain my surprise. We stood to attention and Bormann spoke first to Wiedel.

  “Explain!”

  Wiedel told him how we had chased him and shot him in the legs, he told him the name that the man had given us. Bormann took out his pistol, a Luger, and knelt down beside the Russian.

  “Who is your contact inside this headquarters? Answer me!”

  He pushed the barrel of his pistol against the man’s head. “It’s no use pretending to be unconscious. If you wish to live, answer me. I will count to five!”

  He started counting, one, two, three, suddenly the man’s eyes flicked open, he saw Bormann kneeling over him with the pistol and his eyes flared suddenly, it was as if he recognised him, but that was ridiculous. Four, five, ‘crack’, the sound of the shot whipped around the forest. The Russian fell over, dead with a Luger bullet in his brain. I was so shocked. The second, or third, most powerful man in the Third Reich had just executed a prisoner before our eyes.

  “Search him thoroughly and then leave his body for the wolves,” Bormann said contemptuously. Then he began walking back alone to Headquarters. Von Betternich had a neutral look on his face. Once more I had the impression that he knew long in advance what was to happen.

  “Wiedel, come, we must accompany the Reichsleiter. Hoffman, search him and leave him as ordered. When you’re done you’d better make a sweep of the area to make sure there are no other partisans near here.”

  They walked away and we still stood, frozen with incredulity.

  “That was interesting, Sir,” Mundt said.

  I nodded. “An understatement Willy, so
mething is happening here that we do not understand.”

  “Did anyone else think that the Russian partisan knew Reichleiter Bormann?” Wesserman asked.

  I fixed him with a hard stare. “Schutze Wesserman, don’t even think anything like that unless you wish to become a guest of the Gestapo.”

  He shook his head. “Understood, Sir. But I still don’t understand it all.”

  “Keep it that way, Gerd, you’ll find it’s by far the safest way.”

  We returned to the headquarters and an orderly found us beds for the night. In the morning, von Betternich told us that we were returning to Kharkov that day. Our business was at an end.

  I wasn’t sure if he’d achieved what he wanted or not, I didn’t even ask. Between the reported army officers plotting to kill the Fuhrer, Martin Bormann’s involvement with von Betternich, which meant the head of the SS, Heinrich Himmler as well as the identity of the traitor giving our secrets to the Russians, there was a nightmare of possibilities. Like an infinite maze that I had absolutely no wish to penetrate. Then of course there were the Russians. There was no question now that we would shortly join battle with them inside the Kursk salient, probably within days. As we drew nearer to Kharkov the signs were everywhere, companies of heavy and medium armour parked alongside the road just inside the trees for camouflage, crews working frantically to bring them to readiness. Infantry everywhere, Panzer Grenadiers, artillery parks under huge camouflage nets, stacks of ammunition crates awaiting transport to their units, it was as if the Fuhrer’s message last night had spread like wildfire to the somnambulant armies. The drums of the Gods of War were beating. Soon their armoured legions would be unleashed to bring down a torrent of fire and hell on the enemy.

  Chapter Seven

  'The Russian Colossus has been underestimated by us. Whenever a dozen divisions are destroyed the Russians replace them with another dozen'.

  Chief of Staff Franz Halder von Armin

  After the excitement of seeing the army top brass and even the Fuhrer face to face, the grimy railway yard at Podvirky was a severe dose of reality. It was dark when we got back and I went to report to Muller, there was no sign of von Meusebach. I told him about seeing the Fuhrer. He only had one question.

  “Did he have any news about Zitadelle?”

  “They’re meeting at the Wolfschanze on the first of July, Hitler is giving them the date then. It should only be days away, Sir.”

  “I hope so, this waiting is getting us all down as is this miserable village of Podvirky. Anything would be better than this.”

  “Are there any orders for my platoon?” I asked him.

  He considered for a few moments. “We’ve got the anti-partisan patrols covered, so you may as well get some sleep. The CO is in the city at present, he’s entertaining some friends in a hotel there.”

  He must have seen my look. “I know, I know, I’m sure he’ll be back shortly.”

  “But Sir, we’re about to mount a major attack, shouldn’t he be here?”

  He shrugged helplessly, as if to say ‘it’s out of my hands’. “Report to me in the morning, Hoffman, I’ll have a better idea then of what needs to be done.”

  I saluted and left.

  I strolled around the darkened village. The stench of coal dust, oil and excrement was pervasive. Few soldiers moved around, it was as if the whole place was holding its breath waiting. Waiting for the next Russian air attack, waiting for the partisans to carry out one of their lightning raids, storming in and causing massive destruction and death, only to disappear as quickly into the vast steppes. Waiting for one man, the master of all Western Europe, to give them the final order that would fling them into the salient and into the maw of the Russian guns.

  It made me think of the legendary English ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’, that doomed cavalry charge in the Crimea. In October 1854 Lord Cardigan led 673 cavalrymen straight into the valley between the Fedyukhin Heights and the Causeway Heights, named the ‘Valley of Death’ by the poet Tennyson. The opposing Russian forces comprised twenty battalions of infantry supported by over fifty artillery pieces. These forces were deployed on both sides and at the opposite end of the valley. Astonishingly, despite intense fire from three sides that devastated the charging cavalry, the Light Brigade was able to reach the Russians at the end of the valley and force them back from their guns, but they suffered massive casualties and were forced to retreat with more than half the brigade lost. Was Kursk to be our own doomed charge, racing to do battle with the descendants of those Russians in the Crimea, with a similar expectation of utter defeat? I was gazing directly at four Tiger tanks, the Panzer VI, massively armoured and mounting the huge, 88mm gun that could dominate the modern battlefield. It would not be another Crimea, we were too heavily armed and equipped to suffer such a rout, but winning was another matter. We were all suffering from low morale, the last few months had brought us all to the point of despair, if we couldn’t shake it off we would be handing the Russians victory almost before a shot had been fired.

  In the morning a messenger came to tell me to report to von Meusebach. He was as elegantly turned out as usual, although his face looked rather more haggard than I’d remembered, perhaps he was suffering from too much good food, heavy drinking and too many willing women during his frequent stays in the Kharkov hotel. He studied me with bleary eyes.

  “So you met the Fuhrer in Vinnitsa?”

  I told him I’d been in the same room, which was not quite the same thing and that he would be making his announcement shortly. He grunted. “About time, we all want to give Ivan a beating and go back to the Reich with a chest full of medals, don’t we, Hoffman?”

  Was that what he intended? For most of us all we wanted was for the war to be over so that we could go home. I remembered his behaviour at the skirmish outside Belgorod. Perhaps someone should inform him that to give Ivan a good beating you first had to face him and swap blows. But that someone would not be me!

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good man. I’ve got another job for you, report to General Hoth in Kharkov, he has asked for an experienced reconnaissance platoon, so I immediately thought of you.” He gave me a twisted smile. It was almost a sneer. “While you’re there, I’ve left a briefcase in a hotel room, the Hotel October, you can collect it for me. Room 324, they’re expecting someone to collect it, be careful, the contents are top secret.”

  The Hotel October was where Nadia had been staying, as far as I knew she was still there. It would be a chance for me to see her, even if it was a brief visit, it would be better than nothing.

  An hour later we were clanking along the track that led to Kharkov in our Hanomag 251 half-track.

  “Any ideas what this reconnaissance business is, Sir?” Mundt asked me.

  I shook my head. “It won’t be anything good, Willy. Other than that I’ve no idea. We’d better go and collect this briefcase first, we may not get a chance once we’ve seen Hoth, he may send us straight out.”

  We pulled up outside the hotel.

  “Give me about twenty minutes, I need make a brief visit while I’m here, Willy.”

  He smiled. “Give her my regards.”

  Kharkov was coming alive, as if the word had spread already that we would soon be moving, the street was bustling with people and vehicles, most of them military. Soon they would all be heading east towards Kursk. I went inside and the desk clerk gave me the key for room 324, I ran up the stairs and put the key in the door. Before I could open it someone snatched it open and I was staring at Nadia. Her face wore a smile that faded into surprise when she saw me and everything clicked into place. So this was where von Meusebach had been spending his nights away in Kharkov. Not that I had any reason to object to Nadia sleeping with who she wished, but him, that flabby, oily lawyer who was doing his best to turn a fighting regiment into a laughing stock.

  “I’ve come to collect your boyfriend’s briefcase.”

  Her face fell at my icy tone.

  “Ju
rgen, it’s not what you think, really, but you weren’t here.”

  I knew that I was acting stupidly, but if it had been anyone else I wouldn’t have been so angry.

  “Would you give me the briefcase, I don’t have time to talk, I need to get to Headquarters.”

  She passed me a brown leather case. Her eyes were on me, soulful and sad.

  “Would you come and see me when you get back?”

  I realised that I was acting like a love struck schoolboy cheated out of his date by the playground bully.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  She smiled when she saw that I had softened a little. “Until then, Jurgen.”

  Mundt was surprised when I climbed into the vehicle. “You were quick, is everything ok?”

  “It could be better, Willy.” Damnit, of all people, fucking von Meusebach, it was like a knife in the guts. “Let’s go and see what the good General wants of us.”

  Generaloberst Hermann Hoth, commander of the Ninth Army, was in a mobile command centre festooned with radio aerials on the outskirts of the city, touring the troops that were about to join battle with the Soviets. I waited outside while officers came and went, messengers ran in and out and occasionally I could hear his voice shouting orders to his staff. Eventually an officer came and beckoned me in. There were four steps leading up to the command cabin at the rear of the truck. Inside was chaos, radio operators, staff officers and harassed orderlies taking notes and making marks on a map on the wall. Hoth was at the other end of the cabin, abruptly, he turned and saw me waiting.

  Hermann Hoth was fifty-eight, a Colonel-General in the Wehrmacht with a courageous record in the Great War, during which he was awarded the Iron Cross First and Second Class. After leading his troops to victory in France he’d become one of the most successful Panzer commanders on the Eastern Front. He commanded the Fourth Panzer Army and was regarded as one of the linchpins of the forthcoming offensive. The Fourth Panzer Army under his command was the largest tank formation ever assembled. He beckoned me forward.