the Valhalla Exchange (v5) (11 page)

'Coffee - hot coffee.' He poured a little into the cup and tasted it. 'And it's real,' he announced. 'A miracle.'

'See how good I am to you,' Strasser said.

'You certainly have a flair for organization,' Ritter told him.

'It's been said before.' Strasser glanced at his watch.

'And then?' Ritter said. 'After we've eaten? You were saying?'

Strasser smiled. 'I'm expecting another aircraft at seven o'clock. A very reliable man, so he should get here right on time.' Ritter opened the small judas gate, set in the main gate, and stepped outside, turning his face up to the snow. 'What air. It makes things feel clean again.'

Hoffer passed Ritter a cup of coffee and a piece of black bread. 'But I don't understand, Major. This other plane he's expecting. Who is it? Why won't he tell us?'

'Probably the Fuhrer himself, Erich.' Ritter smiled. 'After the events of the past couple of days, nothing would surprise me.'

It was at precisely five minutes to seven when Heini Berger, lounging against the bonnet of the field car, smoking a cigarette, straightened. 'There's a plane coming now, I hear it.'

Ritter opened the judas and stepped outside. Snow was still falling softly, the flakes brushing against his face when he looked up. The sound was still some distance away, but real enough.

He went back inside. 'He's right.'

Strasser had the suitcase open, the microphone in his hand. He adjusted the dials and said, in English, to everyone's surprise, 'Valhalla Exchange. Valhalla Exchange. Plain language. Do you receive me?'

An American voice answered with startling clarity. 'Valhalla Exchange. Odin here. Am I cleared for landing?'

'All clear. Closing down now.'

He stowed the microphone and closed the case. Ritter said, 'Are we permitted to know what that was all about?'

'Later,' Strasser said impatiently. 'For the moment, let's get these doors open. I want him under cover and out of sight the moment he's landed.'

Ritter shrugged and nodded to Hoffer, and with Berger's assistance they got the doors open. The sound of the plane, whatever it was, was very close now and they all moved outside and waited.

And then, suddenly, she was there, coming in out of the greyness at the north end of the runway, twin-engined, camouflaged and entirely familiar to at least one man there, Berger, who cried, 'God in heaven, that's an American Dakota.'

'So it would appear,' Strasser said.

'Is nothing impossible to you then?' Ritter asked.

'My dear Ritter, if I'd needed it, I could have had a Flying Fortress or an RAF Lancaster.'

The Dakota landed, snow rising in a cloud around her as she rolled forward, turning in towards them as Strasser waved his arms, and then she was close enough for them to see the pilot in the cockpit, the American Air Force insignia plain against the green and brown camouflage.

The plane taxied into the hangar; for a moment, the din was colossal, and then suddenly the engines cut. 'Right, get these doors closed,' Strasser ordered.

As they turned from the task, the hatch was opened and the pilot appeared. He had a dark saturnine face and appeared to be in his early thirties. He was wearing a side-cap with an SS death's-head badge and a flying jacket. He removed the jacket and caused something of a sensation.

He wore a beautifully tailored uniform of field-grey. Under the eagle on his left sleeve was a Stars and Stripes shield and the cuff-title on his left wrist carried the legend 'George Washington Legion' in Gothic lettering. His decorations included the Iron Cross, Second and First Class, and he wore the Winter War Ribbon. When he spoke, his German was excellent, but with a definite American accent.

'So, you made it?' he said to Strasser. 'Amazing, but then, I should have learned to believe you by now.'

'Good to see you.' Strasser shook hands, then turned to the others. 'Gentlemen - allow me to introduce Hauptsturmfuhrer Earl Jackson. This is Heini Berger who got us out of Berlin in the Storch.'

'Captain.' Berger shook hands. 'It gave me something of a shock when I saw you dropping down out of the sky, I can tell you.'

'And Sturmbannfuhrer Karl Ritter.'

Jackson held out his hand, but Ritter ignored him and turned to Strasser. 'And
now
we talk, I think.'

'My dear Ritter,' Strasser began.

'Now!' Ritter said sharply and he opened the connecting door and went into the next hangar.

'All right,' Strasser said. 'What is it now?'

'This American, Jackson - who is he? I want to know.'

'Come now, Ritter, the Waffen-SS has recruited men from almost every nation possible, you know that. Everything from Frenchmen to Turks. There's even an English contingent, the Britisches Freikorps. There have been, admittedly, only a handful of Americans in the George Washington Legion. Ex-prisoners of war, recruited by prospects of unlimited liquor and women. Jackson is a different specimen, believe me. He flew for the Finns against the Russians in their first war, stayed on in their air force and got caught up in their second bout with the Russians when they joined our side. When the Finns sued for peace last year, he transferred to us.'

'A traitor is a traitor, however you wrap it up.'

'A point of view, but not objective enough, my friend. All I see is a superb pilot; a brave and resourceful man with a highly specialized background which makes him peculiarly suitable for my purposes. May I also add, that as his own people would most certainly hang him if ever they succeed in getting their hands on him, he has no other choice but to serve my cause. It is his only chance of life. Now, have you anything else to say?'

'I think you've made your point,' Ritter said.

Strasser opened the door and led the way back into the other hangar. He made no reference to what had happened, simply took a map from his pocket and unfolded it across the bonnet of the field car. They all crowded round.

'Here is Arnheim. Arlberg eight or nine miles south of here. Ten miles to the west, there's a farm marked on the edge of the forest. That's where the Finns are.'

'Do we all go?' Ritter asked.

'No, Hauptsturmfuhrer Berger can stay with the planes.'

'And me?' Jackson said.

'No, you might well be useful in other ways. You come with us.' The American didn't look too pleased, but there was obviously nothing he could do about it. Strasser added, 'And from now on, as what might be termed the military part of the operation starts, Sturmbannfuhrer Ritter will be in sole command.'

'You mean I have a totally free hand?' Ritter said.

'Well, a little advice now and then never hurt anyone, did it?' Strasser smiled. 'Still, no point in crossing over bridges until we come to them, Major. Let's get these Finnish barbarians sorted out first.'

9

At the field hospital, Mullholland had had a hard night. Eleven wounded from a skirmish near Innsbruck had been brought in at ten o'clock. He and his team had worked steadily through the night on cases of varying seriousness.

His final patient, a young lieutenant, had two machine-gun bullets in the left lung. Mullholland had used every trick in his now considerable repertoire for more than two hours. The boy had died at 7 a.m. after suffering a massive haemorrhage.

When Mullholland went outside it was snowing gently. He lit a cigarette and stood there, breathing in the clean air. Sergeant-Major Grant approached him with a cup of tea.

'A rotten night, sir.'

'I could have done without it. The bloody war is as good as over, or so they tell us, and here we are, still up to our armpits in blood and destruction. If I sound depressed it's because I've just lost a patient. A bad way to start the day.' He sipped some of the tea. 'How's our German friend?'

'Not too bad, sir. He's been asking for you.'

'All right, Sergeant-Major,' Mullholland said wearily. 'Let's see what he wants.'

Grant led the way down the line of hospital tents and turned into No. 3. Schenck was in the end bed. He lay there, his heavily bandaged arm on top of the blankets. Mullholland unhooked the board from the end of the bed to check on his condition and Schenck's eyes fluttered open.

'Good morning, Herr Major.'

'And how are you today?'

'Alive, it would seem, for which I am grateful. I thought that perhaps the arm ...'

'No, it's fine, or it will be. You speak excellent English.'

'I worked for ten years in the City of London, not far from St Paul's - for an export agency.'

'I see.'

There was a pause, then Schenck said, 'Have you had a chance to consider General Canning's letter?'

Mullholland sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly very tired.

'I'm in something of a difficulty here. This isn't a combat unit. We're medical people. I've been thinking that perhaps the best thing I can do is get on to brigade headquarters and see if they can manage anything.'

'Are they nearby?'

'Last I heard, about twenty miles west of here, but the situation, of course, is very fluid.'

Schenck tried to push himself up. 'Forgive me, Herr Oberst, but time is of the essence in this matter. I must stress that to our certain knowledge, orders from Berlin have gone out authorizing the execution of all prominenti. If the SS reach Arlberg first, then General Canning, your own Colonel Birr and the rest, are certain to die. Colonel Hesser wishes to avoid this situation at all costs and is willing formally to surrender his command immediately.'

'But the area between here and Arlberg is in a very confused state, no one knows that better than you yourself. It would require a fighting unit to get through. They could run into trouble.'

'A small patrol, that's all I ask. A couple of jeeps, perhaps. An officer and a few men. If I go with them to show the best route, we could be there in four hours with any kind of luck at all. They could return at once with the prisoners. General Canning and the others could be here by this evening.'

'And just as much chance that they might run into units of your forces on the way back. They could be taking a hell of a chance, especially the ladies.'

'So, what do you suggest, Herr Major? That they wait for the SS?'

Mullholland sighed wearily. 'No, you're right, of course. Give me half an hour. I'll see what I can work out.'

He went straight to his command tent and sat behind the desk. 'It's a mess, isn't it, but he's right. We've got to do something.'

'I've been thinking, sir,' Grant said. 'What about the three Americans? Captain Howard the Ranger officer and his men?'

Mullholland paused in the act of taking a bottle of Scotch from his drawer. 'The survivors of that mess on the Salzburg road last week? By God, you might have something there. What shape is Howard in?'

'It took about fifty stitches to sew him up, sir, if you remember. Shrapnel wounds, but he was on his feet when I last saw him yesterday and his sergeant and the other bloke weren't wounded.'

'See if you can dig him up and bring him to me.'

Grant went out. Mullholland looked at the whisky bottle for a long moment, then he sighed, replaced the cork and put the bottle back into the drawer, closing it firmly. He lit a cigarette and started on some paperwork. A few moments later, Grant entered.

'Captain Howard, sir.'

Mullholland looked up. 'Fine, Sergeant-Major. Show him in and see if you can rustle up some tea.'

Grant went out and Howard ducked under the flap a moment later. He wasn't wearing a helmet and a red, angry-looking scar bisected his forehead, stopping short of the left eye, the stitches still clearly visible. His left hand was heavily bandaged. He was very pale, the eyes sunken, an expression of ineffable weariness on his face.

My God,
Mullholland thought,
this boy's had about all he can take and no mistake.
He smiled. 'Come in, Captain, sit down. With any luck we might get some tea in a few minutes. Cigarette?'

'Thank you, sir.'

Mullholland gave him a light. 'How are you feeling?'

'Fine.'

Which was as fair a lie as Mullholland had heard in many a day, but he carried on. 'I've got a problem I thought you might be able to help me with.'

Howard showed no emotion at all. 'I see, sir.'

'We carted a German officer in here yesterday with a couple of bullets in him. The unfortunate thing was that he'd been looking for an Allied unit anyway. Had a letter on him from an American general called Canning. Have you heard of him?'

'Hamilton Canning?'

'That's him. He's being held prisoner along with four other prominenti, as the Germans call them.' He pushed the bloodstained letter across the table. 'But you'll find all the details there.'

Howard picked up the letter, read it with lacklustre eyes. Grant came in with two mugs of tea and placed them on the desk. Mullholland motioned him to stay.

After a while, the American looked up. 'They seem to be in a mess, these people. What do you want me to do about it?'

'I'd like you to go and get them. Accept this Colonel Hesser's surrender formally, then return with the prisoners as soon as possible. The German officer who brought this letter, Lieutenant Schenck, is willing to return with you to show you the way. He was quite badly wounded, but I think we can fix him up well enough to stand the trip.'

'You want me to go?' Howard said.

'And those two men of yours. I've been thinking about it. We could give you an ambulance. Plenty of room then for the others for the return trip.'

'Have you any idea what it's like out there, sir, between here and Arlberg?'

'I can guess,' Mullholland said evenly.

'And you want me to go with two men and a crippled German?' Howard's voice was flat, unemotional. 'Is this an order?'

'No, I've no authority to order you to do anything, Captain, as I think you know. The blunt truth is that I just haven't got anyone else available. This is a medical unit, and as you've seen for yourself, we're up to our eyes in it.'

Howard stared down at the letter for a long moment, then he nodded slowly. 'I'll put it to my sergeant, Hoover, and Private Finebaum, if that's all right with you, sir. I think, under the circumstances, they should have some choice in the matter.'

'Fine,' Mullholland said. 'But don't take too long about making your decision, please,' and he used the phrase Schenck had used to him. 'Time really is of the essence in this one.'

Howard went out and Mullholland looked up at Grant. 'What do you think?'

'I don't know, sir. He looks as if he's had it to me.'

'Haven't we all, Sergeant-Major?' Mullholland said wearily.

Finebaum and Hoover shared a pup tent at the end of the rows on the other side of the vehicle park. Hoover was busily writing a letter while Finebaum crouched in the entrance, heating beans in a mess tin on a portable stove.

'Beans and yet more beans. Don't these Limeys eat anything else?'

'Maybe you'd prefer K-ration,' Hoover said.

'Oh, I've got plans for that stuff, Harry.'

Finebaum said, 'After the war, I'm going to buy a whole load of that crap - war surplus, you understand? Then I'm going to take it round to my old grannie who runs a strictly kosher house. So kosher that even the cat's got religion.'

'You mean you're going to feed K-ration to the cat?'

'That's it.'

'And break that old woman's heart? I mean, what did she ever do to you?'

'I'll tell you what she did. The day the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor she called me in and said, Mannie, you know what you've got to do, then she opened the front door, pointed me in the general direction of the recruiting office and shoved.'

He spooned beans on to a tin plate and handed it to Hoover. The sergeant said, 'You talk too much, but I know how you feel. I'm bored to hell with this place too.'

'When are we going to get out of here?' Finebaum demanded. 'I mean, I respect and love our noble captain, nobody more so, but how much longer do we stand around and wait for him to find his goddamned soul?'

'You cut that out,' Hoover said. 'He's had about all he can take.'

'In this game there's only two ways to be - alive or dead. Now I've seen a lot of good men go under in the year I've served with you and him. But they're dead and I'm not. I don't rejoice in it, but it's a fact of life and I ain't going to sit and cry over them either.'

Hoover put down his plate. 'Why, you son of a bitch, I've just made a discovery. You're not doing it because you're here or a patriot or something. You're doing it because you like it. Because it gives you kicks like you've never had before.'

'Screw you!'

'What are you after - another battle star? You want to be right up there in the line with those other heroes?'

'What do you want me to do, go back to sewing on fly-buttons in an Eastside cellar for thirty bucks a week when I can't get work blowing clarinet? No thank you. Before I go back to that, I'd rather pull the pin on one of my own grenades. I'll tell you something, Harry.' His voice was low, urgent. 'I live more in a single day, than I did in a year before the war. When my time comes, I hope I take it right between the eyes about one minute before they sign the peace treaty, and if you and the noble captain don't like it, baby, then you can do the other thing.'

He got up and, turning, found Howard listening. They stood there, neither Hoover nor Finebaum knowing what the hell to say. It was Howard who spoke first. 'Tell me, Finebaum - Garland, Anderson, O'Grady - all those other guys in the outfit, all the way across Europe since D-Day? Don't you ever think of them at all? Doesn't the fact of their deaths have any meaning for you?'

'Those guys are dead - so they're dead. Right, Captain? I mean, maybe some part of my brain is missing or something, but I don't see it any other way.'

'And you don't think they accomplished anything?'

'You mean the nobility of war, sir? The strength of our purpose and all that crap? I'm afraid I don't buy that either. The way I figure it, every day for the past 10,000 years, someone, somewhere in the world has been beating hell out of someone else. I think it's in the nature of the species.'

'You know something, Finebaum? I'm beginning to think you might have read a book or two.'

'Could be, Captain. That just could be.'

'All right,' Howard said. 'You want a little action - I've got a pretty large helping for you. Ever heard of General Hamilton Canning?'

He quickly outlined the situation. When he was finished, Finebaum said, 'That's the craziest thing I ever heard of. That's Indian territory out there.'

'Forty or fifty miles of it between here and Arlberg.'

'And they want
us
to go? Three guys in an ambulance with some kraut stretcher case.' He started to laugh. 'You know, I like it, Captain. Yes, I definitely like it.'

'Okay, so you go and tell Sergeant-Major Grant we're going. Tell him I'll go along in five minutes to speak to this German lieutenant, Schenck, and move it. If we're going we've got to go now.'

Finebaum went off on the double and Howard squatted down and helped himself to coffee from the stove. Hoover said, 'You sure you're doing the right thing? You don't look too good.'

'You want to know something, Harry?' Howard said. 'I'm tired right through to my backbone. More tired than I've ever been in my life, and yet I can't sleep. I can't feel, I don't seem to be able to react.' He shrugged. 'Maybe I need to smell a little gunpowder. Maybe I've got like Finebaum and need it.' He stuck a cigarette between his lips. 'I know one thing. Right now, I'd rather be out there taking my chances than squatting on my backside here waiting for the war to finish.'

The Finns were encamped at a farm just off the main road about ten miles west of Arnheim. There were thirty-eight of them under the command of a Hauptsturmfuhrer named Erik Sorsa.