'Go! I will guide you..'
The motorbike and side-car cavalcade, led by Schulz, left the aircraft whose propellers were still spinning and headed for the exit gates which were already open. Turning right, away from the Wolf's Lair, the cavalcade plunged off the road onto a track leading into the forest.
Behind Schulz his other eight men also sat on their machines, and each man in the outrider car was armed with a machine-pistol and several spare magazines. The headlights of Schulz's motorbike shone on the deserted track, showed up a palisade of pines and the drifting mist.
They proceeded at a steady pace, guided by their leader who had a phenomenal memory for geography. He only had to follow a route once and it was engraved on his memory for ever. He had, as a precaution, brought a detailed map of the area, but he did not once refer to it as he led his column over the ice-rutted, bumpy track through the frozen forest, his only guide the beam of the motorbike's headlight.
'Halt! Dismount! We proceed from here on foot..
Schulz again led the way, holding his machine- pistol loosely. All the lights of the motorcycles and side-cars had been extinguished. From his neck a pair of night-glasses was slung, but his excellent vision in the dark took him down the broad track without their aid. The aroma of the drifting mist mingled with damp pine foliage scent in his nostrils as he moved silently forward.
Behind him, as previously ordered, six of his men – in three pairs – pushed their machines as the side-cars wobbled over the icy ruts. Their weapons were loaded in the side-cars. The only sound in the eery mist-bound forest was the occasional crunch of a wheel as it broke ice in a rut. Padded against the bitter cold in his leather greatcoat, Schulz paused.
'Get those machines off the track onto the grass,' he ordered. 'I want you to make less noise than a column of mice..
Having given the order, he moved ahead of the main body with only one man. They were nearing the lake. Turning a corner of the track, he stopped and raised his night-glasses. The lake was in view, mist like steam rising from its surface. At that moment one of Alois Vogel's men struck a match to light his cigarette, his stomach savouring the warmth of the vodka he had just swallowed. Vogel's team had only recently sent the third truck to its watery oblivion under the ice of the lake.
'Very convenient,' Schulz commented in a whisper to his subordinate. 'They are all bunched together. Place the bikes in position and await my order.'
The three motorbikes and side-cars were manhandled some distance apart, their headlights aimed to illuminate Vogel and his group of men from different angles. Schulz perched himself with his backside on the seat of one bike, =looped his machine-pistol and steadied the weapon for firing.
'Everyone is ready,' his subordinate reported to him.
'Proceed,' Schulz ordered.
Synchronization was perfect. The lights came on, their beams illuminating and blinding the targets. The forest silence was shattered briefly by the murderous crossfire of the machine-pistols.
Vogel and his men were slaughtered and so swiftly that not a single individual had time to reach for his weapon. In the glare of the headlight beams they crumpled like matchstick men, falling in grotesque attitudes, often one man toppling on top of his comrade. In less than a minute it was all over. Schulz rammed a fresh magazine into his weapon and walked slowly forward, his grey bleak eyes searching for any sign of survival.
He thought he saw one man twitch and emptied half the magazine into the heap the man lay atop of. He had no particular reaction to what had just happened, no thought as to which of the bodies had been the spy Bormann had spoken of. It was just an order to be carried out, an action his special SS team had accomplished against Soviet guerrillas time and again on the Russian front.
'Proceed to the next phase,' he told his second-in-command.
He waited while his team stripped the corpses of the SS men until they lay naked in the snow, their uniforms and the contents of their pockets neatly stacked in a separate pile. Schulz himself fetched a jerrican filled with petrol, poured it over the pile and set light to it.
By the illumination from the blaze he watched as his men completed their task systematically. A pair would take the body of one of the dead SS men by the shoulders and the ankles, swing the body back and forwards and then hurl it as far as possible out across the lake. The bodies disappeared beneath the freshly-forming ice, following the three trucks they had themselves consigned to the dark waters.
Schulz watched the macabre scene with an expressionless face. He knew the Masurian lakes. The bodies would sink deep into the foul ooze, would lie frozen there until spring. And even then they would not surface. It was never really warm in East Prussia. Embedded in the ooze, they would remain there until they disintegrated.
'Now, the uniforms and the clutter..
Two men with shovels carefully scooped up the red-hot embers of the fire Schulz had lit and cast them into one of the broken areas of the lake where the ice had cracked as a body went through it. There was a sizzle, a brief puff of steam. Only when he was, satisfied they had removed every trace did Schulz give his next order.
'Back to the Wolf's Lair airfield.- back to Berlin. And hurry it up – I have an appointment…'
Mentally to himself Schulz added the words, '.. with the Commandant of the Berghof at Berchtesgaden.'
14 March 1943. Almost eight hours later Reichsleiter Bormann was again waiting at the airfield which served the Wolf's Lair, watching a Condor land at the airstrip. As before, he waited alone except for the new team of SS guards which had been flown in earlier from Munich.
As he had mentioned to Colonel-General Jodl, 'The Fuhrer was warned that a spy had been infiltrated into the previous SS team. Which may explain certain mysterious happenings. So, the whole bodyguard has been flown to the Russian front and replaced by a group of fresh men.'
Certain mysterious happenings. Jodl had no need to enquire as to the meaning of the phrase. For some time the Russian High Command had always seemed to have advance warning of impending German attacks – as though someone at the Wolf's Lair was transmitting the Fuhrer's plans to Stalin as soon as he made his decisions.
'Rather drastic,' had been Jodl's only comment. 'Sending all the section for the sake of one man…'.
'It was the only way. By order of the Fuhrer,' Bormann had intoned.
The new Condor cruised to a stop between the landing lights which were immediately switched off. In the. gloom Bormann walked forward as the plane door opened, the flight of steps was lowered and the single passenger ran down them at a jaunty pace.
Exchanging a few words with the passenger, Bormann led him to a waiting six-seater Mercedes with a running-board and magnificent headlamps. Bormann opened the rear door, saluted and followed the passenger inside. He slammed the door and no time was wasted. The engine was running and the moment the two men had settled themselves the driver released the brake and headed away from the airfield in the direction of the Wolf's Lair. The Mercedes was preceded by a motorcycle escort of the fresh SS team while another escort brought up the rear. Bormann handed the new arrival a map marked with the walking-path through the minefields in the forest. 'For when you feel like a little exercise…'
During the drive Bormann talked at length with his passenger who merely nodded and stared ahead. This lack of reaction surprised Bormann and was the first time he sensed events were not going to take the course he had planned. A glass partition separated them from the driver who was not able to hear one word of the conversation. The car swept past Checkpoint One and then past Checkpoint Two, pulling up in front of Security Ring A.