Fuhrerbunker: The Novella Range Read online

  THE NOVELLA RANGE

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  Führerbunker

  Ian Shimwell

  Führerbunker Copyright Ian Shimwell © 2012.

  ALSO AVAILABLE IN THE NOVELLA RANGE:

  Legacy of the Musketeers

  The Prime

  Murder By Suspects

  The Novella Range Collection

  The Gift of Christmas

  AND AVAILABLE IN NOVELLA AUDIOBOOKS:

  Legacy of the Musketeers

  The Prime

  The Gift of Christmas

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  ONE

  The harsh winter was nearing its end. The embattled Soviet soldiers moved on. Their progress was slow but through the clearing smoke they could see the outskirts of Berlin. Allied bombers had reduced most of the buildings to rubble. As they advanced, they were confronted by more gunfire but the superior Soviet firepower eventually subdued this irritating and futile gesture of the Germans.

  General Zhukov allowed himself a rare smile. From the unimaginable sufferings from the defence of Stalingrad they had slowly, painfully and purposefully driven the Nazi dogs scampering back to their home city. The home that will be stormed, ransacked and ruined. The onslaught will not stop until the greatest prize of all is unearthed…

  As the General passed the ruins of what was probably a house, he detected a movement and the slightest of sounds. Following his orders, the Russian soldiers removed the bricks and debris and discovered a sobbing German girl. She looked battered and bruised but otherwise remarkably unhurt.

  “Please you must help me” she stuttered, “my sister is trapped in there. She may still be…”

  General Zhukov simply shot her dead. Calmly, he put his still smoking revolver away. Another figure joined him by his side. Zhukov surveyed the heavily moustached, determined figure. “What is it, Commander Sinsky?” Zhukov said, still staring dead ahead of him.

  “Comrade Zhukov,” saluted Sinsky proudly. “Progress is good. How long, how long do you think it will be?”

  Thick black smoke bellowed from somewhere deep within Berlin. Zhukov never took his eyes of it. “Not long, comrade. Is there anything else?”

  “No General.” Sinsky then turned away and saw the small and slight figure of Wiltskoff trip over a boulder and fall flat on his face. He ran up to him; roughly grabbed him by the shoulders and hauled him up.

  Wiltskoff shrunk away from Sinsky’s hold that was nearly tearing his uniform. “I’m sorry comrade,” he stammered.

  There was an edge of cruelty to Sinsky’s smile. “Just watch where you’re going in future.” He then brutally threw Wiltskoff back to the ground. A ripple of laughter passed amongst the soldiers.

  When he was sure Sinsky had gone, Wiltskoff dared to lift his head up and groaned in despair. The lenses of his spectacles were now broken.

  Inside a small German house, a woman was sat down waiting in anticipation. Her once vibrant blonde hair was now greying. Her once classically beautiful features were now marred by the lines of age. Her once proud city was now being eaten away by enemies of the Third Reich. She could just hear the distant rumble of gunfire and bombings. The Fatherland was on his knees. A thousand years… the Reich had barely a thousand hours. Berlin was being raped, but nothing and nobody would spoil today.

  After what seemed like an eternity she could finally hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Her face lit up as her son walked through the doorway. She blinked as if to photograph him, to capture this moment forever. The proudest moment of her life.

  He looked simply glorious in his immaculate uniform. The silver buttons stood out from the enticing and contrasting velvet of blackness. The Nazi swastika banner almost shouted from his arm, above the insignia ‘Der Führer’. And the piercing light from the jagged metal of the SS badge reflected into her eyes like lightening.

  Now standing, she forgot herself for a moment and flung her arms around him. He was only eighteen years of age, yet had achieved this.

  Karl Schlecht gently but firmly removed his mother from him. “Calm yourself Mother; I am only doing my duty.”

  A tear formed in her eyes, remembering him being a boy so full of energy and mischief. He still had the same Aryan blonde hair that shone of superiority, but his blue eyes no longer sparkled of playfulness – instead they burnt of intensity.

  “Yes Karl, but your duty will be a great one. I am proud that you have been selected to become The Führer’s personal bodyguard.”

  Schlecht gently took his mother’s hand and they sat down side by side. “I know Mother, I know. I would serve the Third Reich in anyway necessary from the front line to the humblest factory worker. My life belongs to The Führer. His will is my will.”

  She held his hand that bit more tightly. “I still have some tea left. I will make some. It will be our farewell drink.”

  She went into the kitchen and busied herself making the tea. When she thought about it, she wasn’t really surprised by Karl’s remarkable success. In his later years at school he had scared some of the teachers with his fervent support of Nazi ideology. His Hitler Youth Leader described him as utterly dedicated and utterly ruthless. How quickly he was promoted. His loyalty to the Führer never in question.

  The steaming mugs of tea were now ready. Carrying them, she said: “If only your Father was here with us…” Her voice cut off, as though she knew Karl had gone. “Karl,” she cried but her tone had a hollow ring to it. She looked at Karl’s cooling tea and at the now empty seat mournfully. He had left his treasured, mint-condition copy of Mein Kampf on the coffee table. She now knew that she would never see her son again.

  The landscape was hellish. Ruined buildings were still smouldering. The city of Berlin was literally crumbling away. But, like a blinding beacon, Schlecht with his head held high, cut through the scenes of devastation purposefully. He was like a knife slicing through a carcass.

  Schlecht’s mind though, drifted to the last words his mother said. He had heard from behind the door. She had never spoken of his father before. He had always wondered…

  His gleaming boots crunched to a halt. He had reached the still-beating heart of the Fatherland. His gaze lifted to take in the view of his destination: The New Chancellery. The moment had arrived. It was time to report for duty with those mysterious words his superior had instructed him to say.

  He approached the grand revolving doors and sighed, surprisingly for him, tentatively. He took a deep breath and pushed through the doors and instantly marvelled at the exquisite architecture. He walked past an assortment of military and security personnel until an ageing, bespectacled clerk challenged him.

  Schlecht immediately saluted. Hand flat, he raised his right arm and cried: “Heil Hitler,” as he clicked his boots together.

  The Clerk responded but then asked, “State your purpose here.”

  With a slight frown of awkwardness Schlecht said a tad woodenly, “I wish to inspect part of your Servant’s Quarters.”

  A faint knowing smile glanced over the Clerk. “You wish to view the Butler’s Pantry, I see.”

  The Clerk led him through a series of hallways and corridors that inevitably led downwards. At the bottom of a certain set of steps was a particularly uninspiring small wooden door that looked terribly worn.

  “The Butler’s Pantry,” the Clerk grandly declared as his hand gestured towards the door.

  Schlecht opened the door and peered curiously inside. The Clerk then suddenly pushed him inside and slammed the door shut. Schlecht was greeted by nothing but sheer blackness. He instinctively tried to open the �
��Pantry’ door but found it to be locked. Another door, on the opposite side, creaked open. Schlecht walked towards the dim light and found yet another set of steps leading downwards.

  As Schlecht stepped off the last step, a voice greeted him.

  “Welcome Lieutenant Schlecht. Welcome to the Führerbunker. I am Private Waltz.”

  They saluted and Schlecht surveyed the unassuming dark-haired soldier, who was wearing full army uniform. He wasn’t quite as tall as Schlecht but he was around the same age.

  They walked through a long corridor that Waltz informed him was known as the Bulkhead and approached some sort of dining passage. Schlecht noticed that most of the personnel seemed to ignore them. Rarely saluting, they wore all their immaculate SS uniforms as he did. Everyone was SS, he pondered, everyone except Private Waltz. Thus, he asked the obvious question.

  Waltz stopped for a moment. “It’s because I’m just the general dogsbody around here.” He tapped his rifle. “I provide extra security. I run errands for whomever so wishes. I’ve even looked after Goebbels' six children on occasions. I expect I’ll be running after you soon too,” he added wryly.

  Schlecht smiled a touch too thinly. “I hope we can be friends.”

  “Yes,” said Waltz as he led Schlecht down some more stairs.

  They had reached a sitting area, so naturally they both sat down.

  Schlecht stared at the Private intently. “Have you ever run any errands for The Führer himself?”

  Waltz considered for a moment. “Oh yes. I have – on occasions. Come to think of it though, not recently.”

  “Why is that, do you think?”

  “It’s that damned fellow, Bormann. I mean Martin Bormann, Hitler’s Private Secretary.”

  An amused smile passed through his lips. “Yes, I do know.”

  “Of course sir. But Bormann never lets Hitler out of his sight unless the latter is resting. It’s as if he wants to keep Hitler all to himself. It drives Goebbels mad, I’ll tell you.”

  Schlecht straightened himself. “Well things will change around here – to a degree – because I will be The Führer’s Personal Bodyguard,” he announced majestically.

  Waltz began laughing. He tried to stop himself, because Schlecht looked quite insulted, by putting his hand over his mouth but was still giggling all too visibly.

  “I am not without humour,” declared Schlecht. “Please share the joke. In fact, I insist upon it.”

  Waltz detected an edge of menace in Schlecht’s tone which quelled his amusement. “You claim to be Hitler’s bodyguard, but with Bormann to get through, you’ll be lucky to even see The Führer, never mind guard him.”

  Schlecht decided to smile sympathetically. “I appreciate the irony, but as regards to your point – we’ll see. I am here to do a job. I will protect The Führer.”

  They both stood up and Waltz said, “And I’m sure you will.” They walked through the Conference Chamber and Waltz then knocked on a door.

  Schlecht strained his ears and faintly heard a muffled ‘enter’ from within. “Where are we going now?” he asked.

  Now it was Waltz’s turn to hold the upper hand. “To meet The Führer himself – Chancellor Adolf Hitler.”

  From as far back as he could remember, a lifetimes dream was about to be realised. Schlecht braced himself as he opened the door, to meet his Führer.

  TWO

  The bitter conflict was nearing its end. Progress was still slow but General Zhukov could sense that this horrific war was reaching its conclusion. A conclusion that he will take a historic part in. His thoughts though were disrupted by his deputy who had just rushed back to him.

  “It is as you suspected sir,” stated Commander Sinsky.

  “So the street appears baron but you have detected German snipers and infantry staked out in a number of strategic hiding places.”

  Sinsky nodded. “That is perceptively correct sir.” He paced around for a second or so. “The men are dying to storm the area. Shall I give the order?”

  The General’s narrow eyes widened. The body language of Sinsky betrayed his impatience and restlessness. And Zhukov slyly considered his subordinate. The man was a fool and his oversized moustache didn’t help either. “And dying would be the operative word, comrade. Ever heard of those damn English fools, ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’?”

  “No sir.”

  “I thought not. The fact is if we rush in they are well placed to pick us off like flies.” Zhukov sighed and waited for the information to sink in, as though Sinsky was a slow child. “We must advance through these densely housed streets by stealth. Then circle round and double-back to catch the enemy off-guard and at our mercy.”

  Sinsky’s moustache twitched which meant he was smiling. He obviously liked now what he was hearing.

  Zhukov continued. “What we positively, absolutely must not do is simply walk down that street. We would be dead in seconds.” He pointed to the offending rows of houses but then gasped in astonishment.

  The Commander too could not believe what he was seeing. Alone and seemingly in a world of his own, Wiltskoff was wandering carefree in the middle of the street. Sinsky smiled, “If he wasn’t so daft, I would say he has a death wish – and that wish is about to be fulfilled…”

  The General spoke coldly and plainly. “Let me put it like this – if Wiltskoff dies like this, then I will hold you responsible.”

  Sinsky immediately barked an order for a platoon of men to grab him. The soldiers leapt into action but most of them were instantly shot down by the German snipers. One somehow managed to get through and bungled Wiltskoff to safety at the expense of his own leg.

  Wiltskoff sheepishly glanced at the enraged commander whose reddening face looked like it was going to blow a gasket.

  “I’m sorry sir. You see – or rather I can’t. I just cannot see very well without my glasses.” The stuttering soldier stammered on. “I didn’t know where I was going. It’s amazing really that I’m completely unhurt.”

  Sinsky’s gun shot out and was pointing directly at the quivering Wiltskoff. “You comrade are a serious liability and as your ranking officer have the right to do this.” The Commander’s finger tightened on the trigger.

  There was only a small lamp on in Hitler’s office. Nevertheless, Schlecht could just make out a darkened figure sat behind a great wooden desk. He presumed it was The Führer himself and with a passion saluted: “Heil Hitler.”

  Waltz switched the wall light on. The figure that saluted back was a stout and brutish one, Martin Bormann.

  Schlecht tried to betray his disappointment he felt but evidently his expression gave him away.

  Bormann stood up and shook his hand. “I’m sorry to be a bit of a let-down but our leader is currently resting and wishes not to be disturbed. He has asked me to look after you.”

  Waltz made an awkward attempt of whispering to Schlecht and did so loud enough for Bormann to obviously hear him. “Didn’t I tell you, you wouldn’t get to see Hitler?”

  Bormann inflicted the Private with one of his contemptible stares. “We wish to be alone, so be a good man and waltz off, will you?” He smiled thinly as Waltz left the office. “Now sit down Schlecht, we have much to discuss.”

  Bormann’s smile widened which gave Schlecht a bizarre, flashing image of a sneering gargoyle facing him. Despite the disturbing image, he sat down.

  “You are Karl Schlecht, newly appointed to be Hitler’s personal bodyguard.”

  Schlecht confirmed the statement.

  Bormann’s eyes flickered intensely. “Your orders have now changed.” Schlecht was about to protest but Hitler’s Secretary quelled this by speaking over him. “The order comes direct from The Führer. You are effectively to be my bodyguard and simply do as I tell you. Is that understood?”

  “I don’t understand why,” Schlecht replied.

  “Daily news of Allied advances has not improved The Führer’s health. He spends most of the day resting and now simply wants to be
left alone – either alone or with his companion Eva Braun. Now, do you understand?”

  “Perfectly, sir.” The flickering had now stopped and Schlecht could feel Bormann’s eyes almost burn into him, as if he was trying to read into his very soul.

  “For the next few days I want you to be my eyes and ears. I want you to mingle – but beware of Waltz.”

  “Waltz?” repeated Schlecht incredulously.

  “Befriend him, by all means,” Bormann continued. “But don’t trust him. He is that snake’s, Goebbels’ lap dog, who is out to discredit me. Be careful.”

  “I will,” decided Schlecht.

  Over the next few days, Schlecht did indeed mingle. He met and spoke to many of the personnel who worked in and effectively ran the Führerbunker. He had briefly met the Propaganda Minister, Goebbels – Bormann’s rival – whom had spoken to him only very guardly; and met his wife Magda and their delightful and plentiful children, all six of them. His gradual friendship with Waltz had continued, even playing cards to amuse themselves during quiet times and, smiled Schlecht, to win small amounts of money. He hadn’t seen anything of Hitler who was obviously becoming increasingly reclusive. Nor had he met Eva Braun, but that was about to change as he walked along a corridor and Bormann, accompanied by Eva, turned the corner. Hitler’s mistress and bodyguard literally bumped into each other.

  There were mutual, embarrassed apologies and then Bormann introduced the blushing pair to each other.

  Schlecht took a mental step back so he could view Eva Braun in full. She was wearing a long SS overcoat, but underneath a long, flowing cream coloured dressing gown. He had accidently felt part of her shapely figure during their collision. She had long blonde hair. She was beautiful.

  “Why can’t I have a good-looking bodyguard?” Eva queried teasingly.