“Hey, Frankel, what’s happening?”
“My God, it’s you, Karl. These Ukrainians, we know what they did in Neustadt. Young Meyer escaped on his motorcycle, came and gave us warning. We all left in a hurry, faded into the forest. I hear they did terrible things.”
Von Berger got out and held out his hand. “Frankel.”
The old man’s eyes widened. “Baron, this is unbelievable.” He kissed the hand. “Meyer told me about the Baroness and your son.” He turned to Hoffer. “And your Lotte?”
Kelly and Hanson came round from the jeep, and Ritter and Schneider joined them. Kelly said, “What’s happening?”
“The mayor of Plosen is just about to tell us,” von Berger said in English, then in German, “Where are they, Frankel?”
“I stayed close to observe. They came in two trucks and a Kübelwagen. They rampaged round the village and discovered two young women. Then they went to the inn, the White Stag. I could hear shouting, breaking glass. They’re all drunk.”
“Any guards?” Hoffer asked.
“Not that I could see.”
Von Berger patted his shoulder. “Take care of your people and I’ll take care of these animals.”
“But, Baron, there are twenty-four of them.”
“Really? I thought it was twenty-one.” He turned to Ritter, Schneider and Hoffer. “So, that’s six for each of us. Can we manage that?”
“Haven’t we always, Baron?” Hoffer opened a battle pack, took out double ammunition clips taped together and handed them to Ritter and Schneider.
Von Berger opened his black leather coat, took the Luger from his holster, checked it and put it in his right-hand pocket. “Have you a spare, Karl?”
Hoffer produced a Mauser from the battle pack and handed it over. Von Berger put it in the left-hand pocket of his coat.
“Twenty-four of these bastards and four of you. That’s odds of six to one,” Kelly said.
Von Berger smiled, grimly. “We’re Waffen SS. We’re used to it.” He clapped Schneider on the shoulder. “He’s only a boy, but he knows how to do the job. Six to one? So what? Take your camouflage blouse off, Karl.” Hoffer did so, and Kelly saw the medals, the paratrooper’s badge, a single Knight’s Cross at the throat.
“You will also have observed that Captain Ritter has the Knight’s Cross. It’s been a long war and it’s had a bad ending, but you must understand one thing. We intend to kill these Ukrainians, all twenty-four. Kill them.” He turned to his men. “Is this not so?”
Even Ritter got his heels together as they gave the answer: Jawohl, Sturmbahnführer.
He ignored Kelly completely now. “Let’s go,” and they scrambled into the truck and drove away.
As the jeep followed, Hanson said, “That guy is crazy, they all are.”
Kelly nodded. “Absolutely.” He took the Colt from his holster and started to reload it as they followed the truck.
They paused in the trees and looked down at the White Stag. It was quite large and very ancient, with the village church and a graveyard behind. Kelly glanced through field glasses at the two trucks and the Kübelwagen. There was no sign of guards, but the noise of drunken laughter drifted up. He passed the field glasses to von Berger, who had a look. He handed them back.
“I’ll go in the front door, which will put them off balance. They are, after all, supposed to be under SS authority. I suggest the rest of you go by the graveyard.” He said to Ritter, “Karl knows it well. The bar is very large. There are two rear entrances via the kitchen and side windows.” He turned to Kelly. “One favor. I’ll borrow your jeep to drive up to the door. You two can stay here and my friends will approach on foot.”
Kelly shook his head. “No, I won’t lend you the jeep. But I will drive it.” He turned to Hanson. “Give me that Thompson. I’ll see you later – maybe.”
“Go to hell,” Hanson said. “With all due respect, sir. I’ve been fighting since D-Day. A walk through a graveyard with the SS sounds just about right.”
Kelly and von Berger waited to give them a chance to slip down through the edge of the forest and move behind the church into the graveyard. Von Berger watched for movement through the glasses.
“Now,” he said, and Kelly drove them down the hill and parked beside the other vehicles.
Von Berger led the way up the steps, pulling on his leather gloves, and Kelly followed, holding the Thompson across his chest. Von Berger eased open the door and stepped in, followed by Kelly.
The Ukrainians were scattered around the room, some sitting at tables, a number standing at the bar, a couple behind the bar serving drinks. The leader was a Hauptsturmführer, a brute of a man in a soiled uniform, his face dirty and unshaven. He had a young woman on each knee, their clothes torn, faces bruised, eyes swollen from weeping. One by one, the men noticed von Berger and stopped talking.
There was total silence. Von Berger stood there, his legs apart, his hands in the pockets of the black leather coat, holding it apart, displaying that magnificent uniform, the medals.
“Your name?”
“Gorsky,” the Hauptsturmführer said, as a kind of reflex.
“Ah. Ukrainian.”
It was the way von Berger said it that the Ukrainian didn’t like. “And who the hell are you?”
“Your superior officer, Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger. It was my wife, Baroness von Berger, and my son, along with fifteen others, that you butchered at Schloss Adler and Neustadt.”
Men were already reaching for weapons. Kelly lifted his Thompson, and suddenly Gorsky pulled the two girls across his knees in front of him so that only half his face showed.
“So what are you going to do about it? Take them, boys,” he shouted.
Von Berger’s hand came out of his right pocket with the Luger and he shot Gorsky twice in the left side of the skull, narrowly missing the girls, who dropped to the floor as Gorsky went backward in the chair.
The carnage began, Kelly spraying the bar area. A side window crashed open and Ritter and Hanson fired through. Some of the Ukrainians turned to run and flung open the doors to the kitchen, only to find Hoffer and Schneider. There was an exchange of fire, but not for long. There were dead men everywhere, just a few still moving. Hanson had stopped a bullet in the shoulder and Schneider in his left arm.
Von Berger took the Mauser from his other pocket and tossed it to Hoffer. “Karl. Finish them.”
“For God’s sake,” Kelly said.
“It is his right.”
Hoffer found five men still alive and shot each one in the head. The girls had run for it, screaming. Ritter had opened a battle pack and was putting a field dressing on Hanson, while Schneider waited.
“So that’s it?” Kelly surveyed the bodies.
“No. Now we go home and bury our dead. After that, we are yours to dispose of.” Von Berger put a hand on Kelly’s shoulder. “I am in your debt eternally. I will repay you.”
“Repay me?” Kelly was mystified.
“A matter of honor.”
He was, of course, handled personally by top officers in both British and American intelligence, since he had been one of Hitler’s aides in those last few months in the Bunker. His account of events was fascinating and recorded in the smallest detail, but for Allied intelligence there was a problem with Max von Berger. On the one hand, he was unquestionably SS, and a commander. On the other, he was a brave and gallant soldier who seemed never to have involved himself in the more unsavory aspects of the Nazi regime. Never involved himself in anything remotely connected with the Jewish pogroms. In fact, it was soon established that he had had a dangerous secret all along – one of von Berger’s great-grandmothers on the maternal side had been Jewish.