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.

      ‘Good God,’ Hoffer said. ‘No one could function in such a shambles. It’s impossible.’

      ‘Underneath,’ the police sergeant told him. ‘Thirty metres of concrete between those Russian shells and the Führer’s bunker. Nothing can reach him down there.’

      ‘Nothing?’ Ritter thought. ‘Can it be truly possible this clown realizes what he is saying or is he as touched by madness as his masters?’

      The car ramp was wrecked, but there was still room to take the field car inside. As they stopped, an SS sentry moved out of the gloom. The sergeant waved him away and turned to Ritter. ‘If you will follow me, please. First, we must report to Major-General Mohnke.’

      Ritter removed his leather military greatcoat and handed it to Hoffer. Underneath, the black Panzer uniform was immaculate, the decorations gleamed. He adjusted his gloves. The sergeant was considerably impressed and drew himself stiffly to attention as if aware that this was a game they shared and eager to play his part.

      ‘If the Sturmbannführer is ready?’

      Ritter nodded, the sergeant moved off briskly and they followed him down through a dark passage with concrete walls that sweated moisture in the dim light. Soldiers crouched in every available inch of space, many of them sleeping, mainly SS from the looks of things. Some glanced up with weary, lacklustre eyes that showed no surprise, even at Ritter’s bandbox appearance.

      When they talked, their voices were low and subdued and the main sound seemed to be the monotonous hum of the dynamos and the whirring of the electric fans in the ventilation system. Occasionally, there was the faintest of tremors as the earth shook high above them and the air was musty and unpleasant, tainted with sulphur.

      Major-General Mohnke’s office was as uninviting as everything else Ritter had seen on his way down through the labyrinth of passageways. Small and spartan with the usual concrete walls, too small even for the desk and chair and the half a dozen officers it contained when they arrived. Mohnke was an SS Brigadeführer who was now commander of the Adolf Hitler Volunteer Corps, a force of 2,000 supposedly handpicked men who were to form the final ring of defence around the Chancellery.

      He paused in full flight as the immaculate Ritter entered the room. Everyone turned, the sergeant saluted and placed Ritter’s orders on the desk. Mohnke looked at them briefly, his eyes lit up and he leaned across the table, hand outstretched.

      ‘My dear Ritter, what a pleasure to meet you.’ He reached for the telephone and said to the others, ‘Sturmbannführer Ritter, gentlemen, hero of that incredible exploit near Innsbruck that I was telling you about.’

      Most of them made appropriate noises, one or two shook hands, others reached out to touch him as if for good luck. It was a slightly unnerving experience and he was glad when Mohnke replaced the receiver and said, ‘General Fegelein tells me the Führer wishes to see you without delay.’ His arm swung up dramatically in a full party salute. ‘Your comrades of the SS are proud of you, Sturmbannführer. Your victory is ours.’

      ‘Am I mad or they, Erich?’ Ritter whispered as they followed the sergeant ever deeper into the bunker.

      ‘For God’s sake, Major.’ Hoffer put a hand briefly on his arm. ‘If someone overhears that kind of remark …’

      ‘All right, I’ll be good,’ Ritter said soothingly. ‘Lead on, Erich. I can’t wait to see what happens in the next act.’

      They descended now to the lower levels of the Führerbunker itself. A section which, although Ritter did not know it then, housed most of the Führer’s personal staff as well as Goebbels and his family, Bormann and Dr Ludwig Stumpfegger, the Führer’s personal physician. General Fegelein had a room adjacent to Bormann’s.

      It was similar to Mohnke’s – small with damp, concrete walls and furnished with a desk, a couple of chairs and a filing cabinet. The desk was covered with military maps which he was studying closely when the sergeant opened the door and stood to one side.

      Fegelein looked up, his face serious, but when he saw Ritter, laughed excitedly and rushed round the desk to greet him. ‘My dear Ritter, what an honour – for all of us. The Führer can’t wait, I assure you.’

      Such