“Yes. It’s a three-hundred-mile flight and we’ll have to refuel somewhere, but I’ll tell you what,
“A sound idea.”
Hoffer and Schneider opened the sliding door and Ritter climbed into the Storch and started the engine. The three men clambered in and Hoffer closed the door.
Outside, the fleeing refugees turned in astonishment, then fled to either side as the Storch bumped over rubble and glass and turned toward the Victory Column. The rain was torrential.
Ritter boosted power and roared down the avenue toward the Victory Column. People scattered, the Storch lifted and, at that moment, Russian artillery opened up, shells exploding on each side. The plane banked to starboard, narrowly missing the Victory Column, and rose up through the fog.
At two thousand feet, Ritter leveled off. “We’ll stay low until we’re well away.”
When one looked down, there was only fire and artillery bursts and drifting smoke and fog. Hoffer said, “It looks like hell on earth. I can’t believe we’re out of it.”
Von Berger got two cigarettes from his silver case, lit them and passed one back to Hoffer.
“So, you were right after all, Karl. It’s Stalingrad all over again.”
Speaking above the roaring of the engine, Ritter cried, “As I said, it’s three hundred miles to Holstein Heath, and I’m very low on fuel. I’m going to make for the Luftwaffe base at Rechlin.”
“That’s fine by me,” von Berger told him, “if you think it wise.”
“It is. We have no idea what’s going to be available to us along the way. Mind you, it all depends on the weather at Rechlin. We’ll see.”
Some time later, he descended through the torrential rain and fog and called in. “ Rechlin Tower. This is Captain Ritter, out of Berlin. Must land to refuel.”
There was a crackle of static and a voice said, “I suggest you try elsewhere, Captain. The fog’s bad here. We’re down to four hundred meters.”
“I’m dangerously short of fuel.”
“The visibility’s getting worse all the time, believe me.”
Ritter turned to von Berger inquiringly. The Baron selected another cigarette and Hoffer lit it for him. Von Berger blew out smoke and said to Ritter, “We got out of Stalingrad and we’ve got out of Berlin. Everything else is a bonus. Let’s do it.”
“At your orders,
The Storch descended very quickly, nothing but the fog surrounding them, and the driving rain, a gray, impenetrable world. Von Berger had no fear, too much had happened already – some strange destiny was surely at work. Even at four hundred meters, there was nothing.
He cried out to Ritter above the noise of the engine, “Go for it. What’ve we got to lose?”
Ritter nodded, a strange fixed smile on his face, took the Storch down, and suddenly at a suicidal level of three hundred meters the Luftwaffe base of Rechlin came into view: the buildings, the hangars, two runways. There was evidence of bombing and two aircraft burned at the side of the runway, an old Dornier and a JU885 night fighter. A fire crew was in the middle of dousing the flames.
Ritter made a perfect landing and taxied past the astonished fire crew to the hangars and switched off.
“Well, that was close.”
“You’re a genius, Ritter.”
“No, sir. It’s just that now and then one gets better, usually when it’s needed.”
As they got out, a field car drove up, a Luftwaffe colonel at the wheel. He got out. “Good God, it’s you, Ritter. Straight from Berlin? I can’t believe you got out. How are things?”
“You wouldn’t want to know. This is
“May I inquire about your purpose, Baron?” Strasser asked.
Von Berger opened the briefcase and took out the Fuhrer Directive, which he passed across. Strasser read it and noted the signature.
“Your credentials are impeccable, Baron. How may I assist?”
“We need refueling for an onward flight to Holstein Heath.”
“I can handle that, all right. We’ve still got plenty of fuel and you are welcome to our hospitality, but there’s no way you’re going anywhere for some time. Just look.” He waved toward the runway, the fog rolling in at ground level.
“I’ll see that you’re refueled and checked out, but there’s no guarantee of departure. You can use the officers’ mess, and in the unusual circumstances, your men may join you. I’ll drive you all there.”
“I’ll stay with the plane for the moment,” Ritter said. “Make sure everything is okay.”
Strasser got behind the wheel of the field car. Von Berger and his two men got in and they drove away.
The mess was strangely desolate, an orderly at the bar, another acting as a waiter. He brought Hoffer and Schneider stew and bread and beer, and they sat by the window and ate.
Schneider said, “I can’t believe I’m out of Berlin. It’s like a mad dream.”
“Where are you from?” Hoffer asked.
“ Hamburg.”
“Which isn’t looking too good these days. You’re better off with us.”
Behind them, in a corner by the bar, the waiter served von Berger with ham sandwiches and crusty bread and salad. Strasser came back from his office to join him.
“ Champagne,” he told the waiter and turned to von Berger with a smile. “We’re lucky. We’ve still got good booze and decent food. I don’t think that will last.”
“Well, at least it’s the Yanks and the Brits who are coming, not the Russians.”
“You can say that again.” They sampled the champagne when it came and started on the sandwiches, and Ritter joined them.
“Everything’s being taken care of, but I can’t see us getting off for a few hours. What’s going to happen to you, Strasser?”
The colonel poured him a glass of champagne.
“Gentlemen, I don’t know what your mission for the Fuhrer is and I don’t want to know. Personally, I await the arrival of the Americans with every fiber of my being.” He toasted them. “To you, my friends. It’s been a hard war.”
There were plenty of staff rooms at headquarters, and they all helped themselves to beds. Von Berger, dozing, was awakened by Strasser at two-thirty in the morning.
“Time to go.”
Von Berger sat up. “How is the weather?”
“The fog has cleared to a certain extent, but the rain is still bad. The word is that the Russians have totally encircled Berlin. That could pose a serious threat here. Let’s hope the Yanks make it first.”
“Off we go, then.”
The Storch waited beside Runway One, Ritter with it, Hoffer and Schneider inside. Strasser got out of the field car and handed von Berger a bag. “Sandwiches, sausages, a couple of bottles of booze. Good luck, my friend.” He shook von Berger’s hand vigorously and suddenly embraced him. “What in the hell were we all playing at? How did we get in such a mess?”
Von Berger was incredibly moved. “Keep the faith. Things will change. Our time will come. I’ll seek you out.”
Strasser was astonished. “You mean that, Baron?”
“Of course. I’ll find you, believe me. I shall repay your help this night.”
He clambered into the plane after Ritter, closed everything, and outside, Strasser put his heels together and gave him a military salute. Von Berger returned it. The plane roared down the runway and lifted into the murk.
