River of Death. Alistair MacLean
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no expert, Wolfgang.’ Spaatz considered. ‘A hundred million deutschmarks?’
‘A conservative estimate, my dear Heinrich, very conservative. And to think he already has a thousand million overseas.’
‘I’ve heard it was more. In any event, we will not dispute the fact that the Field Marshal is a man of gargantuan appetites. You only have to look at him. Do you think he will some day look at this?’ Von Manteuffel smiled and took another sip of his cognac. ‘How long will it take to fix things, Wolfgang?’
‘How long will the Third Reich last? Weeks?’
‘Not if our beloved Fuehrer remains as commander-in-chief.’
Spaatz looked gloomy. ‘And I, alas, am about to join him in Berlin where I shall remain to the bitter end.’
‘The very end, Heinrich?’
Spaatz grimaced. ‘A hasty amendment. Almost the bitter end.’
‘And I shall be in Wilhelmshaven.’
‘Naturally. A code word?’
Von Manteuffel pondered briefly, then said: ‘We fight to the death.’
Spaatz sipped his cognac and smiled sadly. ‘Cynicism, Wolfgang, never did become you.’
At the best of times the docks at Wilhelmshaven would have no difficulty in turning away the tourist trade. And that present moment was not the best of times. It was cold and raining and very dark. The darkness was quite understandable for the port was bracing itself for the by now inevitable attack by the R.A.F.’s Lancasters on the North Sea submarine base or what, by this time, was left of it. There was one small area of illumination, and subdued illumination at that, for it came from low-powered lamps in hooded shades. Faint though this area of light was, it still contrasted sufficiently with the total blackness around to offer marauding bombers a pinpoint identification marker for the bombardiers crouched in the noses of the planes of the surely approaching squadrons. No-one in Wilhelmshaven was feeling terribly happy about those lights, but then no-one was anxious to question the orders of the S.S. general responsible for their being switched on, especially when that general was carrying with him the personal seal of Field Marshal Goering.
General Von Manteuffel stood on the bridge of one of the latest of the German Navy’s longest-range U-boats. Beside him stood a very apprehensive U-boat captain who clearly didn’t relish the prospect of being caught moored alongside a quay when the R.A.F. appeared, as he was certain they would. He had about him the air of a man who would have loved nothing better than to pace up and down in an agony of frustration, only there isn’t much room for pacing on the conning-tower of a submarine. He cleared his throat in the loud and unmistakable fashion of one who is not about to speak lightly.
‘General Von Manteuffel, I must insist that we leave now. Immediately. We are in mortal danger.’
‘My dear Captain Reinhardt, I don’t fancy mortal danger any more than you do.’ Von Manteuffel didn’t give the impression of caring about any danger, mortal or otherwise. ‘But the Reichsmarshal has a very short way of dealing with subordinates who disobey his orders.’
‘I’ll take a chance on that.’ Captain Reinhardt didn’t just sound desperate, he was desperate. ‘I’m sure Admiral Doenitz - ’
‘I wasn’t thinking about you and Admiral Doenitz. I was thinking about the Reichsmarshal and myself.’
‘Those Lancasters carry ten-ton bombs,’ Captain Reinhardt said unhappily. ‘Ten tons! It took only two to finish off the Tirpitz. The Tirpitz, the most powerful battleship in the world. Can you imagine - ’
‘I can imagine all too well. I can also imagine the wrath of the Reichsmarshal. The second truck, God knows why, has been delayed. We stay.’
He turned and looked along the quay where groups of men were hurriedly unloading boxes from a military truck and staggering with them across the quay and up the gangway to an opened hatchway for’ard of the bridge. Small boxes but inordinately heavy: they were, unmistakably, the oaken chests that had been looted from the Greek monastery. No-one had to exhort those men to greater effort: they, too, knew all about the Lancasters and were as conscious as any of the imminent danger, the threat to their lives.
A bell rang on the bridge. Captain Reinhardt lifted a phone, listened then turned to Von Manteuffel.
‘A top priority call from Berlin, General. You can take it from here or privately below.’
‘Here will do,’ Von Manteuffel said. He took the phone from Reinhardt. ‘Ah! Colonel Spaatz.’
‘We fight to the death,’ Spaatz said. ‘The Russians are at the gates of Berlin.’
‘My God! So soon?’ Von Manteuffel appeared to be genuinely upset at the news as, indeed, in the circumstances, he had every right to be. ‘My blessings on you, Colonel Spaatz. I know you will do your duty by the Fatherland.’
‘As will every true German.’ Spaatz’s tone, as clearly overheard by Captain Reinhardt, was a splendid amalgam of resolution and resignation. ‘We fall where we stand. The last plane out leaves in five minutes.’
‘My hopes and prayers are with you, my dear Heinrich. Heil Hitler!’
Von Manteuffel handed back the phone, looked out towards the quay, stiffened then turned urgently towards the captain.
‘Look there! The second truck has just arrived. Every man you can spare for the job!’
‘Every man I can spare for the job is already on the job.’ Captain Reinhardt seemed oddly resigned. ‘They all want to live just as much as you and I do.’
High above the North Sea the air thundered and reverberated to the throbbing roar of scores of aero engines. On the flight deck of the point plane of the Lancaster squadrons, the captain turned to his navigator.
‘Our E.T.A. over target area?’
‘Twenty-two minutes,’ the navigator said. ‘Heaven help those poor sods in Wilhelmshaven tonight.’
‘Never mind about the poor sods in Wilhelmshaven,’ the captain said. ‘Spare a thought for us poor sods up here. We must be on their screens by now.’
At that precise instant another aircraft, a Junkers 88, was approaching Wilhelmshaven from the east. There were only two people aboard, which seemed a poor turn-out for what was supposed to be the last plane out of Berlin. Colonel Spaatz, seated beside the pilot, looked uncommonly nervous and unhappy, a state of mind that was not induced by the fact that their Junkers was being almost continuously bracketed by exploding anti-aircraft shells - practically the entire length of their flight lay over what was now Allied-occupied territory. Colonel Spaatz had other things on his mind. He glanced anxiously at his watch and turned impatiently to the pilot.
‘Faster, man! Faster!’
‘Impossible, Colonel.’
Both troopers and seamen were working in a frenzy of activity to transfer the remaining treasure chests from the second military truck to the submarine. Suddenly, the air raid warning sirens began their ululating banshee wailing. As if by command, and in spite of the fact that they had known this was inevitable, the workers stopped and looked up fearfully into the night sky. Then, once more, again as if by command, they resumed their frantic efforts. It would have appeared impossible that they could have improved upon their previous work-rate but this they unquestionably did. It is one thing to be almost certain that the enemy may appear at any time: it is quite another to have the last lingering vestiges of hope vanish and know that the Lancasters are upon you.
Five minutes later the first bomb fell.
Fifteen minutes later the Wilhelmshaven naval base appeared to be on fire. Clearly, this was no run-of-the-mill raid. By this time Von Manteuffel could have ordered the most powerful arc-lamps, searchlights if necessary, to be switched on and it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference.