The Doomsday Decree

  The Doomsday Decree

  Peter MacAlan

  © Peter MacAlan 1988

  Peter MacAlan has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1988 by W.H. Allen & Co.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  ‘We will not capitulate … no, never. We may be destroyed, but if we are, we shall drag the world with us … and leave no one to triumph over Germany.

  If the war is to be lost, the German nation will also perish. This fate is inevitable. There is no need to consider the basis of a most primitive existence any longer. On the contrary, it is better to destroy even that, and to destroy it ourselves.’

  Adolf Hitler, 19 March 1945

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Historical Note

  Chapter One

  The sleek black Horche saloon car rolled slowly westward along the Unter den Linden, slushy snow spraying from its wheels. It was the only vehicle moving on the once-elegant avenue. Along its broad tree-lined length the conquering armies of the Third Reich had marched proudly to debonair bands in celebration of their victories, but now the most fashionable avenue in Berlin was all but deserted. From the back seat of the low-slung SS staff car, the smartly clad figure of an SS Brigadeführer watched the passing scene with a grim expression.

  Arnt Heiden stared in dismay at the rubble-strewn street. He would hardly have realized he was in Berlin were it not for the imposing eight-storey-high silhouette of the Brandenburg Gate looming ahead, miraculously still straddling the end of the avenue. Set square on its twelve Doric columns across the former via triumphalis it was still the most famous landmark of the German capital. Yet there was nothing else Heiden recognized as the staff car took him through the cold January-grey city centre. He could see no hint of the affluence and prosperity which the Unter den Linden was noted for; no sign of the expensive shops or the ornate facades of great banks and libraries which had formerly lined the avenue.

  All he saw now was blackened rubble and pitted pavements running alongside a pot-holed road. On each side were the shells of roofless, windowless buildings rising out of piles of rubble; there were great expanses of nothing but smashed brick and concrete and twisted steel. And everywhere was the pervasive smell of smoke, of charred wood. A few trails of vapour, rising into the bleak winter sky, could be seen here and there across the city. Haze hung low on the ragged skyline, drifting slowly around the blackened shells of buildings.

  The driver of the vehicle, a staff sergeant — a scharführer in the Waffen-SS — caught Heiden’s gaze in the driving mirror and the corner of his mouth turned down expressively.

  ‘Is this your first visit to Berlin, Herr Brigadeführer?’

  ‘My first in two years,’ replied Heiden automatically before noting the impudence the man displayed in addressing a brigadier so familiarly.

  The driver sighed and gestured with one hand through the windscreen to the macabre starkness of their surroundings.

  ‘British bombers by night and American bombers by day. The city’s changed a bit.’

  The Horche was moving very slowly now, zig-zagging through the rubble scattered on the roadway. In the distance beyond the Brandenburg Gate, on the other side of the Tiergarten, Heiden could see several fires still blazing unchecked, adding to the black pall of smoke hanging low over the area. He had seen similar sights in Münster and Dortmund but somehow he had never expected Berlin to have suffered such bombardment.

  A billboard caught his eye to one side of the avenue. In large letters was painted one of the exhortations of Doctor Josef Goebbels, the Reich’s club-footed propaganda chief: ‘The Führer Commands! We Follow!’ Looking more closely, Heiden saw that some cynical Berliner had risked the wrath of the Gestapo to make an insertion on the poster. The message now read: ‘The Führer Commands! We Bear What Follows!’

  The driver made a left-hand turn into the Wilhelmstrasse. Along its length was a similar scene of devastation, although the imposing government and administration buildings seemed a little better preserved. Yet still the tell-tale piles of rubble, the fire-blackened buildings, showed where the Allied bombers had left their loads. In the Wilhelmstrasse black-uniformed SS troops were much in evidence, members of the Führerbegleitkommando manning road blocks. Before the Horche had moved very far, they were stopped and their credentials checked in spite of the markings on the vehicle and the uniforms of its occupants.

  The Horche drew to a halt outside a yellowing brown three-storey building whose L-shaped structure rose impressively out of the dirt and rubble surrounding it. The discoloured walls were pitted and fractured by shrapnel. Even the grotesque golden eagles clutching garlanded swastikas in their claws, which hung imposingly over each entrance, were tarnished and dirty. Dirty, too, and torn, were the great red swastika flags which hung with deathly stillness at the main doors of the building.

  Climbing out of the staff car, Heiden gazed up momentarily at the jutting balcony in front of the main doors and pursed his lips. From that famous balcony the world had been harangued by many a frenzied speech. The official street address of this building was 77 Wilhelmstrasse, but it was better known as the Reichskanzlei or Chancellery of Adolf Hitler, and from the Voss-strasse to Hermann Göring-strasse, the Chancellery seemed to be the only building rising unscathed from the rubble.

  Heiden moved through the various SS checks. The guards were diligent in their searches, confiscating his side-arm as he moved into the inner offices of the Chancellery. There to greet him was the new Deputy Leader of the Party. Heiden had met Martin Bormann a number of times before. He was a short, stocky man, with a bull neck and coarse features. He spoke in an abrupt, almost rude manner, not even bothering to reply to Heiden’s punctilious Hitler salute.

  ‘So, you’ve got here at last.’ Bormann’s tone had a querulous quality. ‘You are to see the Führer himself and give a personal report on your progress.’

  He thrust his pugnacious jaw forward and scowled before adding, ‘I trust progress has been good?’

  Heiden shrugged. ‘There are problems … ’ he began.

  Bormann gestured irritably. ‘That is just what the Führer does not want to hear,’ he snapped. Then he glanced sharply at Heiden. ‘Have you met the Führer before?’

  ‘Once,’ replied Heiden. ‘When I was appointed to this project eighteen months ago.’

  Bormann half-nodded, pursing his thick lips. It made his face ugly. ‘Then be prepared for a change. The Führer is … is not as other men. He is a genius, the greatest leader the world has known.’ Bormann’s voice became a little defensive. ‘But there have been many setbacks recently.’

  Heiden’s mouth turned downward. There was little need for Bormann to tell him that. The offensive in the Ardennes, on the western front, had virtually been halted over a week ago as
the Panzer regiments had run out of fuel for their tanks. Field Marshal von Rundstedt had launched his massive assault with twenty divisions, initially catching the Allies by surprise and sending them reeling back. Then Eisenhower, the Allied commander, had rallied his divisions and thrust back. A friend of Heiden’s who worked on von Rundstedt’s staff had told him that the offensive had cost the Reich 200,000 German casualties, 600 tanks and 1,500 aircraft. Scarcely had the Reich received this blow than news came that the Soviets, with 180 divisions, had crossed the German borders in the East. On 20 January a total of three million Soviet troops, supported by endless columns of T-34 tanks, attacked three-quarters of a million Germans along a 400-mile front. Only the broad stretch of the River Oder remained as the last major obstacle between the Soviet Army and Berlin. The Soviets were less than one hundred miles away. And the Luftwaffe had all but ceased to exist. By night and day the Allied bombers pounded the German cities and towns. No, there was no need for Bormann to speak of setbacks.

  ‘I can only tell the Führer the truth,’ Heiden grimaced.

  ‘And what is the truth?’ Bormann demanded belligerently.

  ‘The earliest we can be ready is at the end of February.’

  Bormann looked slightly relieved. He stroked the end of his bulbous nose with pudgy fingers. ‘Be positive about it. This is January twenty-ninth. Four weeks from today will be an acceptable date.’

  ‘I said that would be the earliest.’

  Bormann moved forward, suddenly smiling. He took Heiden’s arm as if he were his closest friend. ‘My dear Heiden … do not be unduly pessimistic. The Führer has too many pessimists about him. I am sure that you will be ready as you say … in four weeks’ time.’ He emphasized the ‘will’ just enough to turn it into a command. ‘Now, let us go and bring this good news to the Führer.’

  Adolf Hitler, Führer of the Third Reich, had just finished his regular noonday conference. He was adamant against changing the habits of his life even in extremis. He rose at 11.30 a.m. and took his morning bath before eating a hurried breakfast. He held his first conference at noon, discussing the affairs of the day with his political and military staff. Then Fräulein Manzialy, his half-Greek, half-Tyrolean vegetarian cook, would prepare a late lunch. Sometimes Hitler would invite his advisers to eat with him, but more often than not he preferred to eat in the company of his secretarial staff.

  As Heiden entered the Führer’s dining room behind Bormann, the Führer was swallowing a collection of brightly-coloured pills prescribed for him by the shrewd, ambitious medical charlatan, Doctor Theodor Morell.

  Hitler acknowledged Heiden’s salute with a trembling gesture of his left hand. Doctor Morell was fastening his medical bag and taking his leave. His very appearance caused Heiden to shiver. He was an elderly, shambling man of intense ugliness, whose Svengali-like powers caused him to be feared and hated by everyone in Hitler’s inner circle. It seemed that the doctor attended Hitler daily, giving him injections and feeding him pills, vitamins and concoctions of his own invention. With hardly a glance at Bormann or Heiden, Morell left the room.

  Heiden found himself staring at the Führer and trying hard to control his astonishment. The man had changed — changed utterly since Heiden had last seen him in the early months of the previous year. The Führer’s face was puffy now, and there were deep lines scoring it. His colour was ashen, as if he were bloodless, and his eyes — dark, haunted eyes — were deep-set and glazed with mucous film. There seemed no animation in them at all, as if the man were no longer within the shell of his body. Even seated, his shoulders stooped, giving him a shrunken, prematurely aged look. The hunched attitude reminded Heiden of the posture of a bird of prey … a vulture, perhaps. Hitler’s right arm was trembling slightly; he was clasping it tightly in his left in an effort to stop it.

  ‘It is good to see you, Brigadeführer.’ The voice was expressionless.

  Heiden clicked his heels and jerked his head forward in a formal bow of acknowledgement.

  The Führer’s eyes gazed through him as if he were not there. ‘I have been Europe’s last hope,’ the hunched figure said in a soft voice. So soft, Heiden had to strain forward to catch the words. ‘I could have made Europe great, but she proved incapable of refashioning herself by voluntary means. I tried charm and persuasion but she was impervious to it. In the end there was only one course. Violence.’

  His voice rose higher and suddenly a curious animation shone in his eyes. ‘But Europe will be rebuilt. She will be rebuilt on a foundation of the ruins of her decadent past. On the ruins of her vested interests and unjust economic structures. On the ruins of her mental rigidity and narrow-mindedness. Napoleon understood, but he failed. I shall succeed. The Reich will triumph!’

  As if he had summoned up some mysterious reserve of energy, the shattered little figure of the Führer suddenly became animated. In an explosion of rage, his face changed colour and saliva drooled from his lips. For a moment he seemed to start rising to his feet, but then he slumped back, gasping for breath, his head drooping heavily, his whole body twitching involuntarily.

  Heiden saw Bormann’s warning glance to him, but he could not read the exact meaning of the Deputy Leader’s grimace.

  A moment later Hitler’s eyes were re-focusing and his voice had changed utterly. Now a jovial, bantering tone entered it.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, Heiden. We will win. Never fear. As soon as the Americans and British realize how far the Russians are advancing into Germany, into Europe, they will sign an armistice with the Reich in order to prevent a Communist take-over of the Continent. They will soon be fighting alongside us.’

  Heiden tried not to show surprise. As he fumbled for a suitable reply, Bormann nodded ponderously.

  ‘You are right, my Führer. As always. The Americans and British certainly did not think that we would hold them off as we have done. They will want an armistice so that the real enemy of civilization can be fought and destroyed.’

  Hitler parodied a smile, without movement of his facial muscles. ‘Yes, yes. We will get a telegram from the British and Americans in a few days. I am sure of it.’

  There was a silence. Heiden did not know how to respond.

  Abruptly he found Hitler’s black, expressionless eyes on him. A frown passed across the Führer’s face and then a dim recognition spread over his features.

  ‘Heiden? Ah, yes. Yes. You have come from Münster?’

  ‘Yes, my Fuhrer.’

  ‘Good. That is good.’ The face was animated again. ‘That is very good. For you hold the answer. If the British and Americans don’t come to their senses then we can still win this war … eh?’

  Bormann nodded enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely so, my Führer!’

  ‘We have fantastic weapons which the Allies do not dream of,’ Hitler continued. ‘They have already tasted our vergeltungswaffen — our vengeance weapons, our V1s and V2s. Soon they will taste more.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Bormann was like an actor feeding the Führer with supporting lines. ‘Reichsmarshal Goering has already assured us that one thousand of his new jet fighters will soon be in service, while the Grand Admiral Doenitz says that the new electro U-boats will dominate the seas within weeks. With such weapons we shall be invincible.’

  Hitler ignored him, his eyes on Heiden. ‘What will make us invincible is Project Wotan. What is the progress on our V4 weapon?’

  Heiden shifted uneasily, glancing towards Bormann. The pudgy Deputy Leader was looking at him anxiously.

  ‘Well, my Führer … ’ Heiden hesitated. ‘The weapons will be ready for launching by the end of February.’

  Bormann looked relieved, but Heiden pressed on. ‘However … ’

  A spasm crossed the Fuhrer’s face.

  ‘However,’ Heiden continued, ‘the scientists on the project would prefer it if the weapon could be tested. It is an unknown quantity, and without testing anything could go wrong … our project site is within close proximity to two German cities, and … �
�

  Hitler stared unseeingly at Heiden. ‘The future of Europe depends on you, Brigadeführer,’ he said coldly. ‘The V4 is the key to the future of our civilization. If it fails, Germany will cease to exist. But if it succeeds … ’ His voice trailed off and he was quiet for a few moments. Then he continued: ‘Four weeks. What better than to test the weapon in action against the enemy and save time? The V4s must fly in four weeks’ time, Brigadeführer. The Reich, and your Führer, are relying on you.’

  Chapter Two

  The young soldier walked with an unsteady gait along the street. Few people seemed to take notice of him. In these times there were many young soldiers in the streets who had, perhaps, taken a little more Schnapps than was good for them. It was not unusual. Besides, this young man wore the black uniform of the Schutzstaffeln, the dreaded SS. His uniform bore only the single chevron of a Sturmann, or corporal, but no one in their right senses would risk a condemnatory glance at one of the Führer’s chosen elite. Especially one who wore on his collar the silver initials SD which denoted a member of the Sicherheitsdienst, the security service. The SD was the scourge of the Reich, with absolute power of life or death over every German citizen. So the young man lurched onward undisturbed, his erratic course observed but not commented upon by the other pedestrians.

  Underneath his forage cap, however, the young corporal’s face was unusually pale. A sheen of sweat made the white skin glisten. He seemed to have difficulty breathing, for his mouth was permanently open and a trickle of saliva drooled from one corner. His eyes were bleary and seemed to stare unseeingly, never focusing on any one thing. He tripped suddenly on the pavement edge and with arms flaying collided with the stone wall of a nearby building, which was all that saved him from measuring his length on the pavement.

  An old man, following behind him, stepped quickly and nervously around him and hurried onward without so much as a backward glance.