crunching the rutted snow, Vogel glanced impatiently at his watch. He used his gloved thumb to remove the film of ice which had formed on the glass casing.
'He should arrive soon now,' he remarked. 'I wish this accursed fog would lift..
'It is normal,' Bormann replied calmly, 'and the Fuhrer's pilot is an expert.'
It was indeed normal. For half the year this dreary part of Germany was smothered in a white mist and covered with snow. It was an eery, hushed atmosphere. The mist rolled in drifts like a sea-fog, occasionally parting to expose vague silhouettes of the stands of endless pine forest. Unlike the SS officer, Bormann stood quite motionless, always patient, his hands clasped behind his back.
One of the most puzzling figures in recent history, Bormann was a short, heavily-built man with a Slav face. He had a strong nose, a mole-like head and rarely showed any emotion. It was impossible ever to know what he was thinking: on the surface he appeared to be no more than Hitler's faithful secretary who transmitted the Fuhrer's orders and ensured their immediate execution. But to more perceptive observers there was something sinister in his chameleon-like personality. 'He is Hitler's shadow,' one general had observed. 'And the shadow is darker than the man who casts it.'
'Here he comes,' said Vogel.
He left Bormann's side and issued orders to the twenty armed SS men who formed the Fuhrer's personal bodyguard. Bormann turned his head slightly. Vogel was right: the sound of an approaching plane's engines had broken the silence of the rolling mist. Still no more than a distant mutter, the sound was growing louder. Bormann went inside a building and emerged with an Alsatian he held on a chain. After his long flight from Smolensk the Fuhrer would be pleased to see Blondi, the dog Bormann himself had found for Hitler to comfort him after the defeat at Stalingrad.
It was by little considerate acts such as this that Bormann had cemented his position as Hitler's personal secretary; the man who passed on most of the Fuhrer's orders to everyone. Bormann had even changed his sleep pattern to accord with the Fuhrer's. In this way he was never absent from Hitler's side at the Wolf's Lair. The fact that he was hated by Goering, Himmler and all the other Nazi chiefs disturbed him not at all. Bormann's ambition was to be what he was, Hitler's shadow, ever present when decisions were made.
'He's coming in to land,' Vogel called out. 'Shall I inform headquarters?'
'No. Leave that to me.'
Bormann remained where he was, scanning the heavy overcast for his first sight of the plane which was very close now. Luckily the mist was briefly dissolving as a light wind blew up, exposing the runway on which the machine would land.
Hitler's luck again, Bormann said to himself wryly. For the whole day the airfield had been blotted out and now it was going to be an easy task for the pilot to bring his plane down safely. As though sensing the arrival of his master, the Alsatian tugged at his lead. 'Stay still!' Bormann snapped, his cold eyes searching for the machine.
Aboard the Condor Adolf Hitler had donned his military greatcoat and peaked cap. His expression was severe and arrogant, the face of a world-conqueror ready to be greeted by the waiting SS guard. Yet only half an hour earlier he had reduced his small group of aides to hysterical laughter as he paraded up and down the corridor mimicking Prime Minister Chamberlain when the Englishman had visited him at the pre-war Munich conference. He peered out of the window for his first sight of the ground.
No one with him inside the plane could have guessed that he was a bundle of nerves at this moment. He hated landing just as much as he hated take-off. I shall never fly again, he promised himself. But he knew that, if he had to, he would do the same thing all over again. His blue glaucous eyes flickered. He had caught sight of a glimpse of pine trees.
On the airfield below Bormann had seen the machine descending. It appeared and then disappeared again as the pilot turned for the final run-in. Glancing round the airfield where Vogel had drawn up his troops ready for the Fuhrer's arrival, Bormann sensed the normal atmosphere of tension and excitement which always surrounded these occasions.
What news would Hitler bring back from the Eastern front? A few minutes before his departure he had taken the Chancery Leader aside and hinted at his plans – which was most unusual. It was Hitler's invariable rule to keep to himself all major strategic decisions until the moment of announcement.
'Bormann,' he had confided, 'we are on the eve of a massive manoeuvre which will tip the whole balance of the war in our favour – a manoeuvre so audacious it is worthy of Napoleon or Frederick the Great…'
'I will await your return eagerly,' Bormann had replied.
The plane came into view again, much lower now and no more than one kilometre from the airfield. It was descending rapidly when it again vanished in the overcast. As Bormann stood there he saw a blinding flash which dissipated the mist. He actually glimpsed the machine breaking up in mid-air followed by a muffled detonation. Then the mist rolled in again and the hush of the fog-bound forest descended. Silence.
Stunned, he didn't move for several seconds, but the Alsatian did. With a low, moaning howl it leaped forward, freeing itself from his grip, running off in the direction of the explosion. The dog's flight jerked Bormann into action. He shouted towards Vogel.
'Send two men to the control tower! Close down all communications! Ring the airfield with troops! No one is allowed in or out! Then come with me.'
Vogel reacted instantly, issuing the instructions before running to join Bormann who had hurried over to where a Kubelwagen stood. The strange vehicle – with wheels at the front and caterpillar tracks at the rear – was for negotiating difficult terrain. Bormann was behind the wheel as Vogel arrived with his warning.
'They may have heard the explosion at headquarters…'
Bormann thought for a moment, idling the engine as Vogel got into the passenger. seat beside him. 'Kempner, he called out to Vogel's second-in-command. He studied the SS man who stood at attention below him. No sign of panic. He took another quick decision.
'Kempner. Drive back to headquarters. Inform them that the Fuhrer's plane has been delayed by bad weather – that it has put down at another airfield. Tell them he has cancelled tomorrow's conference at noon. And if anyone mentions hearing an explosion, say it was caused by a fox running over a mine..
It was only too plausible an explanation. The Wolf's Lair was ringed by minefields and there had been many a false alarm when foxes had detonated a mine. Leaving Kempner running for a car, Bormann set the Kubelwagen in motion, beckoning for several SS men to climb aboard.
Soon he was driving along a track through the pine forests, the airfield lost from view as the mist swirled amid the trees in a sinister fashion. He did not have to drive far. Suddenly they came to a clearing where pine trunks were blasted stumps projecting at awkward angles like mutilated limbs. As he stopped the vehicle the scene they gazed at was appalling, horrific.
Bits of the plane were scattered everywhere. It must have been close to tree-top level when the detonation occurred – and the blast had gone downwards. Fragments of bodies were caught in the branches of trees. It was like a slaughterhouse where a maniac with a meat-axe had run berserk. A stench of petrol mingling with burnt flesh hung in the mist. Blondi, the Alsatian, was sniffing around the charnel house. Bormann and Vogel climbed out, followed by the SS men.
'He could not have survived this,' Bormann said slowly.
'What do we do?' asked Vogel.
'Wait a minute while I think…'
Bormann had risen to the position of being Hitler's right-hand man because of his powers of meticulous administration and planning. The Fuhrer hated the donkey work of routine and had come to rely on the quiet, stocky deputy to deal with all details. He would issue an order and Bormann would process it – to such an extent that he could send out any instruction, ending it with the words no one dare question: 'By order of the Fuhrer.'
At this moment he held the fate of Germany in his hands and he showed what he was made of. As he stood in the snow with the mist drifting among the encircling pines, surveying the carnage with the stench of death in his nostrils, his mind was racing.
'Vogel, cordon off the entire area. Shoot anyone who tries to approach it. Bring in trucks and clear up the mess. Miss nothing. Every remnant of corpses – bits of the plane – go aboard the trucks which will be driven to a remote spot. Empty the mess out and burn it – then bury it…'
He was interrupted by a nearby sound of someone retching. An SS man came stumbling through the mist, so shaken he omitted to salute Bormann. He had difficulty speaking.
