The Valhalla Exchange

2

It began, if it may be said to have begun anywhere, on the morning of Wednesday, 25 April 1945, a few miles north of Innsbruck.

When Jack Howard emerged from the truck at the rear of the column just after first light, it was bitterly cold, a powdering of dry snow on the ground, for the valley in which they had halted for the night was high in the Bavarian Alps, although he couldn’t see much of the mountains because of the heavy clinging mist which had settled among the trees. It reminded him too much of the Ardennes for comfort. He stamped his feet to induce a little warmth and lit a cigarette.

Sergeant Hoover had started a wood fire, and the men, only five of them now, crouched beside it. Anderson, O’Grady, Garland and Finebaum who’d once played clarinet with Glenn Miller and never let anyone forget it. Just now he was on his face trying to blow fresh life into the flames. He was the first to notice Howard.

‘Heh, the captain’s up and he don’t look too good.’

‘Why don’t you try a mirror?’ Garland inquired. ‘You think you look like a daisy or something?’

‘Stinkweed – that’s the only flower he ever resembled,’ O’Grady said.

‘That’s it, hotshot,’ Finebaum told him. ‘You’re out. From here on in you find your own beans.’ He turned to Hoover. ‘I ask you, Sarge. I appeal to your better nature. Is that the best these mothers can offer after all I’ve done for them?’

‘That’s a truly lousy act, Finebaum, did I ever tell you that?’ Hoover poured coffee into an aluminium cup. ‘You’re going to need plenty of practice, boy, if you’re ever going to get back into vaudeville.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you,’ Finebaum said. ‘I’ve had kind of a special problem lately. I ran out of audience. Most of them died on me.’

Hoover took the coffee across to the truck and gave it to Howard without a word. Somewhere thunder rumbled on the horizon.

‘Eighty-eights?’ the captain said.

Hoover nodded. ‘Don’t they ever give up? It don’t make any kind of sense to me. Every time we turn on the radio they tell us this war’s as good as finished.’

‘Maybe they forgot to tell the Germans.’

‘That makes sense. Any chance of submitting it through channels?’

Howard shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t do any good, Harry. Those krauts don’t intend to give in until they get you. That’s what it’s all about.’

Hoover grunted. ‘Those mothers better be quick or they’re going to miss out, that’s all I can say. You want to eat now? We still got plenty of K-rations and Finebaum traded some smokes last night for half a dozen cans of beans from some of those Limey tank guys up the column.’

‘The coffee’s just fine, Harry,’ Howard said. ‘Maybe later.’

The sergeant moved back to the fire and Howard paced up and down beside the truck, stamping his feet and clutching the hot cup tightly in mittened fingers. He was twenty-three years of age, young to be a captain of Rangers, but that was the circumstances of war. He wore a crumpled Mackinaw coat, woolknit muffler at his throat and a knitted cap. There were times when he could have passed for nineteen, but this was not one of them, not with the four-day growth of dark beard on his chin, the sunken eyes.

But once he had been nineteen, an Ohio farmer’s son with some pretensions to being a poet and the desire to write for a living which had sent him to Columbia to study journalism. That was a long time ago – before the flood. Before the further circumstances of war which had brought him to his present situation in charge of the reconnaissance element for a column of the British 7th Armoured Division, probing into Bavaria towards Berchtesgaden.

Hoover squatted beside the fire. Finebaum passed him a plate of beans. ‘The captain not eating?’

‘Not right now.’

‘Jesus,’ Finebaum said. ‘What kind of way is that to carry on?’

‘Respect, Finebaum.’ Hoover prodded him with his knife. ‘Just a little more respect when you speak about him.’

‘Sure, I respect him,’ Finebaum said. ‘I respect him like crazy and I know how you and he went in at Salerno together and how those Krauts jumped you outside Anzio with those machine guns flat zeroed in and took out three-quarters of the battalion and how our gracious captain saved the rest. So he’s God’s gift to soldiery; so he should eat occasionally. He ain’t swallowed more than a couple of mouthfuls since Sunday.’

‘Sunday he lost nine men,’ Hoover said. ‘Maybe you’re forgetting.’

‘Those guys are dead – so they’re dead – right? He don’t keep his strength up, he might lose a few more, including me. I mean, look at him! He’s got so skinny, that stinking coat he wears is two sizes too big for him. He looks like some fresh kid in his first year at college.’

‘I know,’ Hoover said. ‘The kind they give the Silver Star with Oak Leaf Cluster to.’

The others laughed and Finebaum managed to look injured. ‘Okay – okay. I’ve come this far. I just figure it would look kind of silly to die now.’

‘Everybody dies,’ Hoover said. ‘Sooner or later. Even you.’

‘Okay – but not here. Not now. I mean, after surviving D-Day, Omaha, St-Lo, the Ardennes and a few interesting stopoffs in between, it would look kind of stupid to buy it here, playing wet-nurse to a bunch of Limeys.’

‘We’ve been on the same side for nearly four years now,’ Hoover said. ‘Or hadn’t you noticed?’

‘How can I help it with guys going around dressed like that?’ Finebaum nodded to where the commanding officer of the column, a lieutenant-colonel named Denning, was approaching, his adjutant at his side. They were Highlanders and wore rather dashing Glengarry bonnets.

‘Morning, Howard,’ Denning said as he got close. ‘Damn cold night. Winter’s hung on late up here this year.’

‘I guess so, Colonel.’

‘Let’s have a look at the map, Miller.’ The adjutant spread it against the side of the truck and the colonel ran a finger along the centre. ‘Here’s Innsbruck and here we are. Another five miles to the head of this valley and we hit a junction with the main road to Salzburg. We could have trouble there, wouldn’t you say so?’

‘Very possibly, Colonel.’

‘Good. We’ll move out in thirty minutes. I suggest you take the lead and send your other jeep on ahead to scout out the land.’

‘As you say, sir.’

Denning and the adjutant moved away and Howard turned to Hoover and the rest of the men who had all edged in close enough to hear. ‘You got that, Harry?’

‘I think so, sir.’

‘Good. You take Finebaum and O’Grady. Garland and Anderson stay with me. Report in over your radio every five minutes without fail. Now get moving.’

As they swung into action, Finebaum said plaintively, ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, I’m only a Jewish boy, but pray for us sinners in the hour of our need.’

On the radio, the news was good. The Russians had finally encircled Berlin and had made contact with American troops on the Elbe River seventy-five miles south of the capital, cutting Germany in half.

‘The only way in and out of Berlin now is by air, sir,’ Anderson said to Howard. ‘They can’t keep going any longer – they’ve got to give in. It’s the only logical thing to do.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Howard said. ‘I’d say that if your name was Hitler or Goebbels or Himmler and the only prospect offered was a short trial and a long rope, you might think it worth while to go down, taking as many of the other side with you as you possibly could.’

Anderson, who had the wheel, looked worried, as well he might, for unlike Garland he was married with two children, a girl of five and a boy aged six. He gripped the wheel so tightly that the knuckles on his hands turned white.

You shouldn’t have joined, old buddy, Howard thought. You should have found an easier way. Plenty did.

Strange how callous he had become where the suffering of others was concerned, but that was the war. It had left him indifferent where death was concerned, even to its uglier aspects. The time when a body had an emotional effect was long since gone. He had seen too many of them. The fact of death was all that mattered.

The radio crackled into life. Hoover’s voice sounded clearly. ‘Sugar Nan Two to Sugar Nan One. Are you receiving me?’

‘Strength nine,’ Howard said. ‘Where are you, Harry?’

‘We’ve reached the road junction, sir. Not a kraut in sight. What do we do now?’

Howard checked his watch. ‘Stay there.

We’ll be with you in twenty minutes. Over and out.’

He replaced the handmike and turned to Garland. ‘Strange – I would have expected something from them up there. A good place to put up a fight. Still …’

There was a sudden roaring in his ears and a great wind seemed to pick him up and carry him away. The world moved in and out and then somehow he was lying in a ditch, Garland beside him, minus his helmet and most of the top of his skull. The jeep, or what was left of it, was on its side. The Cromwell tank behind was blazing furiously, its ammunition exploding like a firework display. One of the crew scrambled out of the turret, his uniform on fire, and fell to the ground.

There was no reality to it at all – none. And then Howard realized why. He couldn’t hear a damn thing. Something to do with the explosion probably. Things seemed to be happening in slow motion, as if under water, no noise, not even the whisper of a sound. There was blood on his hands, but he got his field-glasses up to his eyes and traversed the trees on the hillside on the other side of the road. Almost immediately a Tiger tank jumped into view, a young man with pale face in the black uniform of a Sturmbannführer of SS-Panzer Troops, standing in the gun turret, quite exposed. As Howard watched helplessly he saw the microphone raised. The lips moved and then the Tiger’s 88 belched flame and smoke.

The man whom Howard had seen in the turret of the lead Tiger was SS-Major Karl Ritter of the 3rd Company, 502nd SS Heavy Tank Battalion, and what was to take place during the ensuing five minutes was probably the single most devastating Tiger action of the Second World War.

Ritter was a Tiger ace with 120 claimed victories on the Russian Front, a man who had learned his business the hard way and knew exactly what he was doing. With only two operational Tigers on the hillside with him, he was hopelessly outnumbered, a fact which a reconnaissance on foot had indicated to him that morning and it was obvious that Denning would expect trouble at the junction with the Salzburg road. Therefore an earlier attack had seemed essential – indeed there was no alternative.

It succeeded magnificently, for on the particular stretch of forest track he had chosen there was no room for any vehicle to reverse or change direction. The first shell from his Tiger’s 88 narrowly missed direct contact with the lead jeep, turning it over and putting Howard and his men into the ditch. The second shell, seconds later, brewed up the leading Cromwell tank. Ritter was already transmitting orders to his gunner, Sergeant-Major Erich Hoffer. The 88 traversed again and, a moment later, scored a direct hit on a Bren-gun carrier bringing up the rear.

The entire column was now at a standstill, hopelessly trapped, unable to move forward or back. Ritter made a hand signal, the other two Tigers moved out of the woods on either side and the carnage began.

In the five minutes which followed, their three 88s and six machine guns left thirty armoured vehicles, including eight Cromwell tanks, ablaze.

The front reconnaissance jeep was out of sight among the trees at the junction with the road to Salzburg. O’Grady was sitting behind the wheel, with Hoover beside him lighting a cigarette. Finebaum was a few yards away, directly above the road, squatting against a tree, his M1 across his knees, eating beans from a can with a knife.

O’Grady was eighteen and a replacement of only a few weeks’ standing. He said, ‘He’s disgusting, you know that, Sarge? He not only acts like a pig, he eats like one. And the way he goes on, never stopping talking – making out everything’s some kind of bad joke.’

‘Maybe it is as far as he’s concerned,’ Hoover said. ‘When we landed at Omaha there were 123 guys in the outfit. Now there are six including you, and you don’t count worth a shit. And don’t ever let Finebaum fool you. He’s got a pocket full of medals somewhere, just for the dead men he’s left around.’

There was the sudden dull thunder of heavy gunfire down in the valley below, the rattle of a machine gun.

Finebaum hurried towards the jeep, rifle in hand. ‘Hey, Harry, that don’t sound too good to me. What you make of it?’

‘I think maybe somebody just made a bad mistake.’ Hoover slapped O’Grady on the shoulder. ‘Okay, kid, let’s get the hell out of here.’

Finebaum scrambled into the rear and positioned himself behind the Browning heavy machine gun as O’Grady reversed quickly and started back down the track to the valley road. The sound of firing was continuous now, interspersed with one heavy explosion after another, and then they rounded a bend and found a Tiger tank moving up the road towards them.

Finebaum’s hands tightened on the handles of the machine gun, but they were too close for any positive action and there was nowhere to run, the pine trees pressing in on either side of the road at that point.

O’Grady screamed at the last moment, releasing the wheel and flinging up his arms as if to protect himself, and then they were close enough for Finebaum to see the death’s-head badge in the cap of the SS-major in the turret of the Tiger. A moment later, the collision took place and he was thrown head-first into the brush. The Tiger moved on relentlessly, crushing the jeep beneath it, and disappeared round the bend in the road.

Howard had lost consciousness for a while and came back to life to the sound of repeated explosions from the ammunition in another burning Cromwell. It was a scene from hell, smoke everywhere, the cries of the dying, the stench of burning flesh. He could see Colonel Denning lying in the middle of the road on his back a few yards away, revolver still clutched firmly in one hand, and beyond him a Bren-gun carrier was tilted on its side against a tree, bodies spilling out, tumbled one on top of another.

Howard tried to get to his feet, started to fall and was caught as he went down. Hoover said, ‘Easy, sir. I’ve got you.’

Howard turned in a daze and found Finebaum there also.

‘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.

‘Sturmbannführer Ritter?’

‘That’s right.’

The sergeant’s heels clicked together, his arm flashed briefly in a perfect party salute. ‘General Fegelein’s compliments. We’re here to escort you to the Führer’s headquarters.’

‘We’ll be with you in a minute.’ The sergeant doubled away and Ritter turned to Rösch. ‘A strange game we play.’

‘Here at the end of things, you mean?’ Rösch smiled. ‘At least I’m getting out. My orders are to turn round as soon as possible and take fifty wounded with me from the Charité Hospital, but you, my friend. You, I fear, will find it rather more difficult to leave Berlin.’

‘My grandmother was a good Catholic. She taught me to believe in miracles.’ Ritter held out his hand. ‘Good luck.’

‘And to you.’ Rösch ducked instinctively as another of the heavy 17.5 shells screamed overhead. ‘You’ll need it.’

***

The field car turned out of the Wilhelmplatz and into Vosstrasse and the bulk of the Reich Chancellery rose before them. It was a sorry sight, battered and defaced by the bombardment, and every so often another shell screamed in to further the work of destruction. The streets were deserted, piled high with rubble so that the driver had to pick his way with care.