perimeter. What were we defending against – a German insurrection or a Russian take-over? We dropped lower and I felt the wheels shudder and drop. Our speed fell and we bounced once, twice, then bumped to a halt. We eased ourselves out of our seats and climbed down on to the tarmac. It was hot. The air shimmered and trembled.
A bus came scurrying out from a long flat building with more than a hint of the Parthenon about it. An American flag fluttered on top of the colonnades. The bus picked up the Army blokes, the crew and the mail. I stood like a lemon for a while. Then a jeep headed my way from one of the caverns under the terminal. As it drew up I could see it was driven by a corporal wearing signaller’s badges.
“Captain McRae, sir?” he called out.
Captain again. Is that how Cassells had set it up? I walked over to the jeep and the soldier leapt out, saluted smartly and threw my battered case in the back.
He was a good looking lad – lad! I must have been all of five years older than him. Smartly turned out in battledress with his black beret at a rakish angle. I imagined he had no trouble pulling the frauleins. I got in beside him.
“You can drop the Captain stuff, Corp. And the saluting. Civvy Street now. The name’s Danny.”
He looked at me to make sure I wasn’t taking the piss. “Fine by me, Danny. I’m Vic.” He tossed his beret under the dashboard, slammed the jeep in gear and we shot off. Now I could see that the dozen or so planes stacked off the runway were American B-47s.
“Where are we going, Vic?”
“Don’t you know, sir? Danny?”
“This was all arranged in a bit of a hurry.”
“I’m to take you to Colonel Toby. Toby Anstruther. Mil Int.”
Military Intelligence. Seemed a good place to start.
“It’s not far. We’re on Kurfurstenstrasse. In the Brit sector.”
Despite the warmth of the day, I felt a curious chill. The German street names were bringing it all back to me. There is a harshness about the language which makes it peculiarly suited to giving orders. I found my hard-won vocabulary rushing through my head like water in a mill-wheel.
“You all right, Danny?”
I shook my head. “Fine. Just a bit queasy. Bumpy ride. How long have you been here, Vic?”
“Six months. I’m on a two-year stretch.”
“What’s it like?”
A smile lit his face. “Did you bring any fags?”
“A carton. Why?”
“That makes you a millionaire. You can buy anything with a pack of fags. Booze.
Women. Anything. I’ve got my own gaff, here. A two-bed flat just round the corner from the office. In Kantstrasse. That’s Kant, not…”
“I get the picture,” I laughed.
“But it might as well be. The women drop their drawers for a cup of real coffee.
If you want anything while you’re here, just say the word.” He rubbed his nose with his finger and gave me a wink.
Spivs in uniform. Human nature will out in any conditions. “Your own flat? Is there anywhere still standing?”
“Sure. Take a close look.”
We drove through the barbed wire gate at the airport perimeter and out on to the Templehoffer Damm that seemed to run towards the city centre. If there was a centre any more. Rudimentary street signs had been set up at junctions: poles bearing bashed original plates retrieved from the shattered buildings, or wooden signs with white writing. They seemed more like markers for an archaeological dig.
But my view of the city from the air had been too fatalistic. Sure, whole buildings had been razed or turned into black stumps, and there were more piles of bricks than habitable structures; but there were functioning parts. Kids played at soldiers on the bomb sites, clambering on burnt-out tanks and trucks.
Here and there little groups of women in headscarves tugged at the mounds of stones.
“What are they doing?”
Vic laughed. “That’s the Trummerfrauen, the rubble-women. They’re reclaiming the bricks. Paid by the number. It’s either that or whoring.”
Some of the women had hammers and were chipping away at the mortar. Others stacked the cleaned bricks in neat piles by the roadside. Riding in the livery of the victor, I felt embarrassed at witnessing their puny efforts. I shouldn’t have; here was a spark of hope that hadn’t been extinguished. One or two straightened their stiff backs and looked at us as we swept past. I turned my face away.
Maybe it was the heat of the day that made me conscious of the smell: a pong of drains and brick dust, especially when we rolled to a halt at intersections to let a convoy go by.
Vic laughed. “You’ll get used to it.” He must have seen my nose twitch.
“Hardly surprising. Do the sewers work?”
“Everything works. Sort of. We’ve got the street lamps on again, the underground, some trams and of course the bars. They all work. All rationed, mind. Unless you know where to get it.” His nose got another rub.
“See over there.” Vic pointed to his right. A big, bashed building stood adrift in a sea of flattened rubble. I could make out giant columns supporting the faзade. I’d seen it on a hundred newsreels.
“The Reichstag. What’s left of it. In the Russian sector now.”
I stared at it, trying to visualise the little madman at work there, planning to rule the world but in fact wrecking his own country and redrawing Europe. One man. How was it possible?
It was a short drive. There was little traffic, mostly military. Old men pulled prams piled high with wood – broken floorboards for cooking-fires. Gaunt men in Wehrmacht greatcoats, faces dirty and eyes hollow, hovered at crossroads like the spirits of hanged men. I felt like a tourist gawping at the ruins of an ancient civilisation. Berlin was in worse shape than London, but there was a horrible symmetry of suffering. Maybe this was the war to end wars. Then I thought of the Red Army spread like a rash across East Europe. But surely the Soviets had had enough of war? Hadn’t they lost enough men?
We dodged and dipped our way round and through potholes caused by our bombs and filled with shattered house bricks. We pulled up outside a three-storey stone building: 233 Kurfurstenstrasse. It looked like an office, insurance or the like. There were no guards or barbed wire to put the spotlight on its new occupants. Vic straightened his tie and pulled down his tunic. He dug out his beret, dusted it down and jammed it on his head.
“After you, sir.” His eyes met mine. Time to put on our ranks.
We pushed through the main door and climbed two flights of stairs. Through open doors we could see secretaries and office staff. But it would be wrong to describe the scene as bustling. In fact there was a distinct air of lethargy. A secretary filing her nails here, two others nattering there, and one bloke chatting up another girl. I realised I was hearing German spoken, and understanding most of it. Something stopped me from mentioning my shaky skills.
We came to a closed door. Stencilled on the glass were the words OIC MIB. Vic knocked. A voice said, “Come!” and he pushed open the door. Vic stood to one side.
“Captain McRae, sir!”
“Thanks, Corporal,” I said, and walked in trying to keep my right arm down by my side.
“Come in! Come in, McRae. I’m Toby Anstruther.”
He was bald and bouncy, and his uniform belt hung loose to give his well-fed midriff some lebensraum. I guessed his age at late forties. The pips of a half-colonel sat proud on the uniform of the Lancashire Fusiliers. Probably saw active service in the Great War and was seconded by his regiment to Intelligence for this one. I thought I saw a Military Medal ribbon among a decent collection.
I was beginning to feel underdressed.
We shook hands and he pulled up a couple of easy chairs over a coffee table. I’d barely sat down when the door swung open and a very pretty girl came in bearing a tea tray. Toby caught my eye as it travelled admiringly over her tight pencil skirt.
Her dark blue eyes smiled at me. “Do you have everything, sir? Can I get you something to eat? A sandwich?”
