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 Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger and his boys.” He turned to von Berger. “Colonel Strasser is an old friend.”
“May I inquire about your purpose, Baron?” Strasser asked.
Von Berger opened the briefcase and took out the Führer 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 Führer 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.
Ritter had given von Berger earphones and a throat mike. He spoke to him now. “I’ll take it very carefully. With our low speed and the weather, it could be three and a half hours, maybe even four to Holstein Heath. Most of the time, I’ll fly at two or three thousand, maybe higher if the weather continues bad.”
“That’s fine.”
The flight was difficult with the rain and the patchy fog, sometimes clear and at others swirling relentlessly. One hour, two, the whole trip became monotonous. Von Berger had passed the food bag to Hoffer, who opened it and handed the sandwiches and sausages around. The wine was cheap stuff with a screw cap and he poured it into paper cups. Even Ritter had some and held out the cup for a second helping.
“Come on, it won’t do me any harm. I need whatever help I can get in this weather.”
Von Berger finished his food, knocked back his wine and lit a cigarette. Rain beat on the windows. It was the strangest of sensations hammering through the bad early morning weather. What am I doing here? he thought. Is it a dream? I should be in Berlin. He shook his head. I should still be in Berlin.
And then he thought: But I’m not. I’m on the way home to see Elsa and little Otto and Karl will see his Lotte and the two girls. It’s a miracle and it’s because of the Führer. There must be a meaning to it.
Ritter said, “It’s still a bit thick down here. I think we’ll be okay. I’m going up to four thousand.”
“Fine.”
They came out through intermittent fog. It was clear up there and clear to the horizon, a full moon touching the edge of the early morning clouds.
Suddenly, there was a roaring, and the Storch was thrown to one side in the turbulence as a plane banked away to starboard and returned to take up station on the starboard side. They could see the pilot in the cockpit, the Red Star on the fuselage.
“What have we got?” Ritter asked. “Looks like a Yak fighter, the new model with cannon. That could damage us.”
“So what do we do?”
“Well, I’m really too slow for him, but that could also be an advantage. Planes that are too fast sometimes overshoot. I’ll go down and hope he’ll do something stupid.”
He banked, went down fast to three thousand meters, then banked again to port, went to two. The Yak started to fire its cannon, but too soon, because of his excessive speed, and he overshot and banked away.
He came in again, and this time punched a couple of holes in the starboard wing and splintered the window. Ritter cried out and reared back and there was blood on his face.
Ritter said, “I’m okay, it’s just a splinter. It’ll give me an interesting scar. I’m getting tired of this – I’m going down further. I’ll show this bastard how to fly.”
He went hard, all the way, and leveled at five hundred feet. The Yak came in again on his tail and Ritter dropped his flaps. The Storch seemed to stand still, and the Yak had to bank steeply to avoid hitting them and went down into the farmland. There was a mushroom of flame below and they flew on.
“I said you were a genius,” von Berger told him.