Mr. Calder & Mr. Behrens Read Online Free Page B

perimeter of the airfield.
    The driver jammed on his brakes so hard that the car behind them nearly ran into them. He shouted something and pointed out of the car window, as a pandemonium of noise erupted.
    Six Russian fighter planes, coming low out of the sun, dived at the convoy, their cannons blazing.
    Mr. Behrens jerked the nearside door open and rolled into the ditch. The driver landed on top of him. Round the airstrip, after a moment of paralysed silence, the German anti-aircraft guns opened up, but they were firing into an empty sky. The six planes, hedgehopping, had swung right with the precision of well-trained chorus girls and disappeared in the direction of their own lines.
    In thirty seconds it was all over. As the firing died away, Mr. Behrens cautiously raised his head.
    Most of the occupants of the rear three cars had reached the ditch. The people in the front four cars, having nowhere to go, had either jumped out on the far side of the cars and lain flat, or had simply stayed put. Most of the actual casualties had occurred in the thick lines of black-shirted troops surrounding the perimeter, and field ambulances were already on the move.
    Colonel Mulbach was standing beside their car. He pointed. Whatever Major Mendel’s troubles had been, they were over. He was sprawled across the back seat. A bullet had gone through the back of his skull. The satchel was still on the floor of the car. The Major’s blood was dripping on to it from a pool which had formed on the edge of the seat.
    Mr. Behrens took the satchel, feeling as he did so for the catch under the handle. His guess had been wrong. His fingers found the catch, and it was not yet set.
    Footsteps approached the car. Mr. Behrens looked up and saw an SS colonel, unknown to him, approaching. The colonel took a quick disinterested look at Major Mendel, took the satchel, swung on his heel and walked back towards the head of the convoy where interest seemed to be centring round the front two cars. Mr. Behrens followed cautiously.
    Every instinct told him that something had gone badly wrong and that he ought to keep clear. It was professional pride alone which took him forward.
    A dozen Russian bullets had whipped through the back of Hitler’s car, apparently without hitting anyone. The car itself was empty. Of Hitler there was no sign at all.
    In front of the car stood SS General Pohl, squat and self- possessed, backed by a semi-circle of staff officers and guards. General Busche had got out of his car and was approaching with Major Nachtigal on one side and Captain Heimroth on the other. Approaching was the wrong word. They were being driven forward by SS guards behind them.
    The scene reminded Mr. Behrens of something, but for a second he could not put a finger on it. Then everything clicked into place. What he was witnessing was a field court-martial.
    General Pohl said, “As you observe, General Busche, the Fuehrer changed his plans at the last moment. He decided to leave from Airfield South, and should by now—” Pohl made play of consulting his watch “—be well on his way back to Rastenburg.”
    General Busche examined the bullet-riddled car and said, “It was fortunate for him that he changed his mind.”
    “Very fortunate, and a demonstration that Providence intends that he should live and fulfil his glorious destiny. Yes?”
    “No doubt about it,” said General Busche.
    “He instructs me, however, to add,” said General Pohl, and the sneer in his voice was no longer concealed, “that the bag of despatches which was to have been placed in the plane, is of such importance that he insists they be taken to Rastenburg at once.”
    “I see.”
    “And since there are a number of matters, General Busche, urgent and important matters, which he desires to discuss with you, he has decided that you should yourself fly back to Rastenburg with the despatches. Major Nachtigal and Captain Heimroth will accompany you. The plane will be flown by