The Valhalla Exchange. Jack Higgins

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      ‘You all right, Harry?’

      ‘We lost O’Grady. Ran head-on into a Tiger up the road. Where are you hit?’

      ‘Nothing serious. Most of the blood’s Garland’s. He and Anderson bought it.’

      Finebaum stood, holding his M1 ready. ‘Heh, this must have been a real turkey shoot.’

      ‘I just met Death,’ Howard said dully. ‘A nice-looking guy in a black uniform, with a silver skull and cross-bones in his cap.’

      ‘Is that so?’ Finebaum said. ‘I think maybe we had a brush with the same guy.’ He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and shook his head. ‘This is bad. Bad. I mean to say, the way I had it figured, this stinking war was over and here some bastards are still trying to get me.’

      The 502nd SS Heavy Tank Battalion, or what was left of it, had temporary headquarters in the village of Lindorf, just off the main Salzburg Road, and the battalion commander, Standartenführer Max Jäger, had set up his command post in the local inn.

      Karl Ritter had been lucky enough to get possession of one of the first-floor bedrooms and was sleeping, for the first time in thirty-six hours, the sleep of total exhaustion. He lay on top of the bed in full uniform, having been too tired even to remove his boots.

      At three o’clock in the afternoon he came awake to a hand on his shoulder and found Hoffer bending over him. Ritter sat up instantly. ‘Yes, what is it?’

      ‘The colonel wants you, sir. They say it’s urgent.’

      ‘More work for the undertakers.’ Ritter ran his hands over his fair hair and stood up. ‘So – did you manage to snatch a little sleep, Erich?’

      Hoffer, a thin wiry young man of twenty-seven, wore a black Panzer sidecap and a one-piece overall suit in autumn-pattern camouflage. He was an innkeeper’s son from the Harz Mountains, had been with Ritter for four years and was totally devoted to him.

      ‘A couple of hours.’

      Ritter pulled on his service cap and adjusted the angle to his liking. ‘You’re a terrible liar, you know that, don’t you, Erich? There’s oil on your hands. You’ve been at those engines again.’

      ‘Somebody has to,’ Hoffer said. ‘No more spares.’

      ‘Not even for the SS.’ Ritter smiled sardonically. ‘Things really must be in a mess. Look, see if you can rustle up a little coffee and something to eat. And a glass of schnapps wouldn’t come amiss. I shouldn’t imagine this will take long.’

      He went downstairs quickly and was directed, by an orderly, to a room at the back of the inn where he found Colonel Jäger and two of the other company commanders examining a map which lay open on the table.

      Jäger turned and came forward, hand outstretched. ‘My dear Karl, I can’t tell you how delighted I am. A great, great honour, not only for you, but for the entire battalion.’

      Ritter looked bewildered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

      ‘But of course. How could you?’ Jäger picked up a signal flimsy. ‘I naturally passed full details of this morning’s astonishing exploit straight to division. It appears they radioed Berlin. I’ve just received this. Special orders, Karl, for you and Sturmscharführer Hoffer. As you can see, you’re to leave at once.’

      Hoffer had indeed managed to obtain a little coffee – the real stuff, too – and some cold meat and black bread. He was just arranging it on the small sidetable in the bedroom when the door opened and Ritter entered.

      Hoffer knew something was up at once, for he had never seen the major look so pale, a remarkable fact when one considered that he usually had no colour to him at all.

      Ritter tossed his service cap on to the bed and adjusted the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves that hung at the neck of his black tunic. ‘Is that coffee I smell, Erich? Real coffee? Who did you have to kill? Schnapps, too?’

      ‘Steinhager, Major.’ Hoffer picked up the stone bottle. ‘Best I could do.’

      ‘Well, then, you’d better find a couple of glasses, hadn’t you. They tell me we’ve got something to celebrate.’

      ‘Celebrate, sir?’

      ‘Yes, Erich. How would you like a trip to Berlin?’

      ‘Berlin, Major?’ Hoffer looked bewildered. ‘But Berlin is surrounded. It was on the radio.’

      ‘Still possible to fly to Templehof or Gatow if you’re important enough – and we are, Erich. Come on, man, fill the glasses.’

      And suddenly Ritter was angry, the face paler than ever, the hand shaking as he held out a glass to the sergeant-major.

      ‘Important, sir? Us?’

      ‘My dear Erich, you’ve just been awarded the Knight’s Cross, long overdue, I might add. And I am to receive the Swords, but now comes the best part. From the Führer himself, Erich. Isn’t it rich? Germany on the brink of total disaster and he can find a plane to fly us in specially, with Luftwaffe fighter escort, if you please.’ He laughed wildly. ‘The poor sod must think we’ve just won the war for him or something.’

       3

      On the morning of 26 April, two Junker 52s loaded with tank ammunition managed to land in the centre of Berlin in the vicinity of the Siegessäule on a runway hastily constructed from a road in that area.

      Karl Ritter and Erich Hoffer were the only two passengers, and they clambered out of the hatch into a scene of indescribable confusion, followed by their pilot, a young Luftwaffe captain named Rösch.

      There was considerable panic among the soldiers who immediately started to unload the ammunition. Hardly surprising, for Russian heavy artillery was pounding the city hard and periodically a shell whistled overhead to explode in the ruined buildings to the rear of them. The air was filled with sulphur smoke and dust and a heavy pall blanketed everything.

      Rösch, Ritter and Hoffer ran to the shelter of a nearby wall and crouched. The young pilot offered them cigarettes. ‘Welcome to the City of the Dead,’ he said. ‘Dante’s new Inferno.’

      ‘You’ve done this before?’ Ritter asked.

      ‘No, this is a new development. We can still get in to Templehof and Gatow by air, but it’s impossible to get from there to here on the ground. The Ivans have infiltrated all over the place.’ He smiled sardonically. ‘Still, we’ll throw them back given time, needless to say. After all, there’s an army of veterans to call on. Volkssturm units, average age sixty. And a few thousand Hitler Youth at the other end, mostly around fourteen. Nothing much in between, except the Führer, whom God preserve, naturally. He should be worth a few divisions, wouldn’t you say?’

      An uncomfortable conversation which was cut short by the sudden arrival of a field car with an SS military police driver and sergeant. The sergeant’s uniform was immaculate, the feldgendarmerie gorget around his neck sparkling.

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