Chapter Five.

Karyn waited under the shelter of the trees until the sound of the Shturmovik's engine had faded, and it was just a receding black dot in the sky to the south-east. That was close. She would have to watch the sky from here on in. Why the Russian hadn't attacked was a mystery. According to the venomous propaganda churned out by Goebbels' Ministry, the conspicuous Red crosses on the car shouldn't have made the slightest difference; the propaganda had depicted all Russians as being "bloodthirsty, uneducated beasts."

The broadcasts also ranted about German ambulances being shot to pieces by Soviet ground attack bombers; dwelling on the most gruesome descriptions of ambulances burned out, and the remains of their wounded being shrivelled to such an extent that they no longer resembled grown men, but were more like melted toy dolls; whilst other bodies lay torn and shredded; strewn around the melted hulks of the vehicles. The pilot must have seen her... he had veered away at the last moment. It could only have been because of the unmistakeable red crosses on the vehicle.

She had been lucky this time. Next time it might be quite different. She had contemplated driving down the new Reichsautobahn for as far as it went; but the Russian planes were bound to be targeting anything using it. She would take the old roads. Opening the map she plotted her route. From here, it would be Krönprinzessinnen Weg around past the Wasserwerke; with the Grosser Wannsee lake to her right; then Bahnhofstrasse past Wannsee Bahnhof; onto Königs Strasse through the centre of Wannsee town. Then, it was straight down Königs Strasse through the forest to the Glienicke Bridge. Folding the map; Karyn took a deep breath, engaged first gear, and drove out from under the cover of the trees.

The drive through the virtually undamaged Wannsee town down to Potsdam was uneventful, despite her keeping a watchful eye on the sky. As she approached the Glienicke Bridge; an ominous figure stepped out into the road and signalled her to stop. The pallid sun glinted balefully off his duty "Ringkragen"... the metal gorget suspended on a wide chain around his neck. Karyn murmured,

'Oh, Scheisse!'

And began to slow down. The Martin Horn wouldn't work this time. This one was a typical bull from the SS Feldgendarmerie... one of the hated "Kopfjäger"... the "Head Hunters," rather than a "Kettenhunde"... one of the "Chained dogs" of the Army Feldgendarmerie.

As she stopped ten metres from the bridge, he strolled up to the car cradling his MP40. With a malicious grin on his cadaverous face; instead of demanding her papers, he decided to have a little fun. Nurses were easy meat. He looked her up and down, smirked, and said...

'Zu wohin gehen Sie, mein hübsches Mädchen?'...

Parodying the first line of the English Kinderlied:

'Where are you going to, my pretty maid?'

If his tone hadn't been so sinister it would have been laughable.

Karyn looked at him coldly. Any moment now, and he would pounce. There were already four bodies dangling from the bridge girders. She had no intention of becoming the fifth. He was speaking again.

'Leaving the party to sample an Ami-Soldaten pork bayonet or two, are we?'

His voice became hard and threatening.

'Out of the fucking car, Schlampe!... Slut!'

Karyn stared at him. Her eyes were icy-cold. This asshole needed to be taken down a peg or two. She reached into her coveralls breast pocket; withdrew the SD Identity card, and handed it to him. His malicious grin vanished.

She smiled; or rather, her mouth smiled faintly... but her eyes did not. Her tone was portentous, and glacial.

'If you've quite finished amusing yourself by insulting me, Untersturmführer; perhaps you will let me proceed... or would you prefer a little light relief in the Berlin Zitadelle sector, or perhaps, even a vacation in the entertaining surroundings of the Linden Hotel?'

The "Linden Hotel"... as he very well knew; was the morbid nickname for the notorious political prison at Lindenstrasse 54, Potsdam. She saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. He handed her Identity card to her without a word; stepped back, and waved her on. As she drove onto the bridge, she saw the concealed machine-gun nest and the other members of the Kopfjäger squad, who watched her pass with unconcealed malice. A pretty blonde dancing on the end of a rope would have been quite an exciting spectacle.

As the Daimler-Benz rumbled across the Glienicke Bridge, Karyn noticed a Wehrmacht Pioniertruppe was rigging demolition charges. The Russians must be getting close. As she passed them, the pioneers waved cheerfully. She waved and drove across, trying not to glance at the dangling corpses hanging from the girders.

Potsdam was a mess. The Allies had bombed the city frequently. Severe damage was caused as they had aimed for the local barracks and the railway facilities. She came into the city by way of Neue Königsstrasse. There wasn't too much damage out here in the Berliner Vorstadt area alongside the Tiefer See. A few days earlier, a British air raid had destroyed large parts of the inner city. Smoke still hung in the air from the smouldering ruins. Two kilometres further on, Karyn began to pass the first ruined buildings. Frequently, she was able to look right into a building and see the kitchen or living room with furniture still in it.

Rubble was strewn about the road and increased considerably as she approached the shattered barracks straddling Neue Königsstrasse. A little way beyond; the road was blocked. She stopped the car and consulted the map. If she took the right-hand Burggrafenstrasse leading into the long, straight Junkerstrasse, she might be able to skirt around the worst of the rubble. Her hunch was correct. The damage to buildings on Junkerstrasse was sporadic... most of the bombing damage appeared to be further to the south. Workmen were digging in the few ruins that there were; and the road was reasonably clear of debris.

About half-way along the road she was waved down by an old Schupo. He came to the window of the car almost apologetically. His uniform was grimed with mortar and brick dust, and his hands were raw from clawing at the pile of rubble that had once been one of the gabled houses. He pushed his faded green Polizei Tschako helmet back off his grimy forehead, and spoke.

'Sorry to stop you, Fräulein Krankenschwester; but, have you any spare dressings? We think we can hear a couple of survivors from last week's Luftangriff. They've been down there for almost ten days now; and if they're still alive, they will be in a mess.'

Karyn nodded to the old Schupo.

'There are two Wehrmacht Verbandkasten on the back seat. They are unused. Take them. I wish I could stop and help, but I have to get to the Feldlazarett at Magdeburg as soon as possible.'

She reached around and picked up the two metal First-aid chests from the rear seat; handing them to the old Schupo. He forced a smile of thanks. She could see that he was almost exhausted. Poor old chap. He should have retired long ago. He looked at her; concern written all over his tired old face.

'Magdeburg, you say? You won't find much there. Last January, a big raid wiped out the old city centre and reduced nearly ninety- percent of the buildings to rubble. Over half the city has been destroyed. The Terrorfliegers were going for the Junkerswerk, the Krupps tank factory; and the Brabag synthetic petrol plants. As usual, they carpet-bombed the whole area, and thousands of civilians were killed. You'll need to be careful. They say the Ami troops have started to occupy the western part of the city.'

Karyn nodded.

'I'll just have to chance it. Which will be the quickest route?'

The old Schupo sighed.

'Well; be it on your own head, girl. Go straight down to the end of Junkerstrasse, take a left onto Hohenzollern Strasse; and then second right onto Zeppelinstrasse. All the roads down that way should be cleared of rubble by now; so follow the yellow signs indicating long-distance traffic, and put your foot down for about forty kilometres, through Geltow and Werder; picking up the Reichsautobahn Hannover-Berlin at Lehnin. Then, it's about sixty-five-kilometres west until you come off the Reichsautobahn at Rothensee.'

'Karyn thanked him and wished him good luck with his distressing task; crunched the car into gear and drove away; leaving the old Schupo standing in the middle of the road shaking his head sadly, as he watched her recede into the distance.

Geltow and Werder were deserted. Most Germans in the path of the Soviet pincer advance had either been preparing to flee for weeks or were already on their way. As she drove through the deserted streets, she wondered just how far away the Soviets were. Within the hour, she came down to the top of the acceleration lane onto the Berlin-Hannover Reichsautobahn; an apparently endless ribbon of poured concrete that ran arrow-straight, stretching into misty infinity. She stared at it, shocked by what she saw. So much for The People's Highway... this much-vaunted "Road of Joy" for all Germans, that had actually been cynically built for War.

This monument to National Socialism that would stand for centuries; a twin ribbon of flawless grey, porous concrete that would not pot-hole with the frost, had now become a cold, brutal, concrete rat-run, choked with refugees and columns of German soldiers; mingling with miserable ragged families trudging wearily to the west to escape the marauding Soviets sweeping into Berlin, where Hitler’s vaunted "Endkampf"... the Final Struggle, was being waged to the bitter end.

A great mass of distraught and unorganised refugees... both German civilians and displaced persons, were crowding all four carriageways of the Reichsautobahn. They moved on foot, on bicycles, in carts and wagons loaded with bedding and babies, and by any other means available. The refugees were trekking to the west in chaotic conditions. None of them knew how the dangerous journey would turn out, or where they would eventually find a new home. She could not possibly drive through this mass of wretchedness trudging along the Reichsautobahn in search of sanctuary somewhere or other. Most were women and children and old men; ragged, dishevelled people in the depths of despair; but as well as the soldiers, there were young men... deserters; and in amongst the refugees, a few of those who had perpetrated some of the worst war crimes of the twentieth century would undoubtedly be hiding; having discarded their uniforms and incriminating identity documents.

She unfolded the map to search for another route. Perhaps she should take the secondary roads skirting round to the south of Brandenburg; then down to Genthin and Burg; and south to the Elbe. At least there was plenty of wooded countryside for concealment from marauding Russian aeroplanes on this route. She turned the Daimler-Benz around and set off back up the country lanes towards Damsdorf and Trechwitz. According to the map, there were few roads in this area that headed west. It looked as though she would have to risk driving on the old Berlin-Hannover "Chausseen"... "Country roads" that followed the age-old commercial route across Germany to the North Sea coast. At least, a fair proportion of the route looked to be wooded. It would have to be safer than being a highly-visible target for the predatory Soviet attack aeroplanes that prowled the main highways... especially the blatantly visible Reichsautobahnen.

Two kilometres, north, she came to Damsdorf. Again, the village seemed deserted. As she drove through the empty streets, she saw no damage to the houses. If there were any villagers there; they stayed behind closed doors as the car growled past. Crops were growing in the fields, but she saw no sign of anyone working the land. Would it be like this, all the way to the Elbe? It was the same in Trechwitz, two kilometres farther west. A couple of dogs wandered the empty streets; but otherwise, it was the same, eerie silence. Everyone who could, had gone; fleeing towards their enemy in the west, rather than face the Russian barbarians pouring in from the east. The Propaganda Ministry in Berlin had been broadcasting continuously about the atrocities in the east... especially Königsberg.

Wild, lurid accounts of Russian mercilessness had struck dread into the hearts of these country folk. In a recent broadcast, Goebbels had said:

"The vehicles had rolled over people, flattening them in the ice and snow. The houses had broken windows and doors and in the streets were broken china and household goods. The buildings had been completely smashed, houses and barns were half burnt out, and some were only a heap of rubble and ash.... Women had their clothes slit open. Some were naked. They had been raped and lay on bare floors, or in the street, frozen stiff or dead. There were young girls no more than fifteen or sixteen years old. There were old women; age didn't seem to matter. An old man was nailed upside down on the door of the shed. Along the wall of a house was a row of bodies, all old men and young boys, shot in the back."

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If there was no truth in this, why had he broadcast such terrible things? Now, these animals were pouring into Berlin. They said that the first Russian troops would get the watches, the second line would get the women, and troops entering afterwards were only entitled to the leftovers; so the villagers had packed what they could and taken flight towards the Allied lines.

At the end of the main street, Karyn saw a crumpled and soiled, red and white Hakenkreuzfahne party flag thrown into the gutter. It had obviously been torn down from the flagpole that stood outside a large hall built away from the village houses. This must have been the local Party office, and the villagers must have torn it down as they left; perhaps, in retaliation for the calamity that the Party had brought upon them... or, perhaps, in the faint hope that the Russians would not completely wreck their houses and they would have somewhere to come back to when the war was over.

She sighed, and drove away up the road from the village that led into the forest to the north. The next village would be Schenkenberg, three kilometres north. From here, the road ran straight for about two and a half kilometres to the Potsdamer Landstrasse. She would turn left here and follow the Landstrasse into Jesrig; then take the Brandenburger Landstrasse on the other side of the village.

The road passed through Schenkenberg to the west of the main settlement. There were a few houses along her route, but they all appeared to be deserted. She passed two more farms and came to the crossroads in the centre of Jesrig. Turning left; she cautiously accelerated through the village; noting what appeared to be bullet holes in some of the houses. A little farther on, she came upon the gruesome sight of two smashed Kübelwagens. They were riddled with holes; and all across the road were the dead German soldiers, blown to pieces, with body parts strewn everywhere. Obviously, they had been caught, and strafed by Russian aeroplanes. She shuddered. Perhaps it hadn't been such a good idea to use the Landstrassen. It seemed as though some Russian pilots strafed anything that moved.

Cautiously, Karyn negotiated the car around the carnage and drove on. Just outside the village, she came onto a long straight section of road flanked by a line of trees on both sides. There was little or no cover for at least four kilometres... not the best place to be if any Russians flew over. They were getting a reputation for strafing everything indiscriminately... vehicles, farmhouses; villages... even the wretched columns of refugees; and a bright white car with red crosses painted on it would probably be an irresistible target if they chanced upon it.

About three kilometres from the next village on her map... a little place named Wust, situated to the north of the road; she was momentarily distracted by the sight of a crashed, burned-out American bomber. It lay in a field to the right-hand side of the road; a blackened tangle of shattered metal; the only recognisable piece of which was the tailfin and rudder emblazoned with a large black square containing a large white letter "P" pointing accusingly into the sky. As she drove past, she wondered if the crew had managed to get out.

As she rounded a bend in the road, she saw the black-and-white-striped pole of a checkpoint ahead, at the junction of a little road off to the right. They were Army Feldgendarmerie... "Kettenhunde"... the "Chained dogs." There were six of them. One of them stepped out into the road and waved her down. As she stopped; the fat Unteroffizier swaggered up to the car; a malicious smirk on his face. He didn't even bother to ask for her papers; he just snarled,

'Out, Schlamp!'

As she climbed out of the car, she knew, just by the look on his face, that the SD Identity card wouldn't work this time. She opened her mouth to say something, and he smacked her across the face with the back of his hand, knocking her to the ground. With a menacing glower on his heavy-jowled, over-fed face; he snapped,

'Remain silent until you are questioned, Schlampe!'

As she lay there, momentarily disorientated; she happened to glance up. Out to the west, two black dots were turning in this direction; getting larger by the second. Shturmoviks! Their engine drone rose to a howl as they dived down towards the road. The fat Unteroffizier half-turned and saw them. He seemed to freeze for a split-second, but it was enough. Karyn quickly rolled down into the ditch as the wicked blue flames twinkled on the approaching lead Shturmovik's wings. Cannon shells ripped up the road towards the checkpoint and the car; hacking fountains of asphalt into the air from their explosions. The fat Unteroffizier managed about three strides before he ran into the stream of shells hosing from the Russian's cannons. He disappeared; exploding into a cloud of blood, bone fragments and flesh with uniform shreds still attached. The Daimler-Benz fuel tank exploded; sending a rolling blossom of flaming petrol and whining slivers of metal showering over the other Feldgendarmes, who clawed their way screaming out from behind their log barricade with their hair and their uniforms ablaze. As they writhed on the road, frantically trying to beat out the flames; the second Shturmovik came screaming in and opened up with its cannons; raking the carnage, and blowing the remains of the writhing checkpoint party into their final, bloody oblivion.

She lay in the ditch listening as the howl of the Shturmovik engines faded and the only sound was the crackle and pop of the burning woodwork of the wrecked Daimler-Benz. Cautiously she peered over the edge of the ditch. Nothing moved. The sky was clear. She clambered out of the ditch, trying not to look at the bloody wrecks of humanity splashed across the torn asphalt. There was little point in spending any time reflecting upon her situation. It looked as though she was in for a long, dangerous walk.

As she picked her way carefully through the shattered checkpoint and body parts, an obvious thought struck her. These Feldgendarmes must have some sort of transport parked up nearby. She looked around. There were no buildings, but there was a small Wäldchen... a copse of trees to the left; a little way past the checkpoint. Perhaps they had parked their vehicle in there, out of sight of prowling Russian aeroplanes.

A little track led in amongst the trees, and she saw tyre impressions in the grass. No more than ten-metres from the road; she came upon a clearing, in which were parked three Wehrmachtsgespann... the heavy, military sidecar combinations.

She checked out the first one… a Zündapp KS 750. There was no sign of anything that resembled an ignition key anywhere on the vehicle. The second one; also a Zündapp KS 750 was the same. The third one... a BMW R75 with an MG34 machine gun mounted on the sidecar with a pair of goggles hanging from its barrel had curious, bakelite, teardrop-shaped switch in the place on the headlamp cowling, where, on the other two, there was just a hole. Tentatively, she turned the bakelite switch. The headlight came on. Damn! She turned it back and tried the other way. Nothing happened. She returned it to its central position. The switch felt as though it might be spring-loaded in this position. Tentatively, she pushed it firmly down into the aperture in the headlamp bowl. A warning light came on. Perhaps that was it.

She folded down the kick-start and pumped it a couple of times until she felt the resistance of the cylinder compression. She took a deep breath. Oh well, here goes nothing. She kicked down with all her strength. The motorcycle engine burst into life with the distinctive, thudding exhaust note of the horizontally-opposed BMWs. It had been years since she had ridden a motorcycle back in her childhood home of Grünheide in East Prussia. Then; it had been an old Russian two-stroke belonging to her Russian neighbours' children that they had used to ride round the meadows. This big BMW was something completely different. She familiarised herself with the various controls. Clutch lever on the left of the handlebars; front brake lever on the right. Footbrake lever forward of the right foot-rest. Gears: two levers on a quadrant on the right-hand side of the fuel tank with linkages that connected to a double shaft into the gearbox casing. The larger lever ran in a slot in the metal quadrant marked along its inner side with the numbers 1-4. The other shorter lever was fitted to the outer side of the quadrant. The larger of the gear levers must be the normal one; but what was the other one for?

On the outer front part of the lever quadrant was engraved the word: "Strasse"... "Street"; and the rear part of the lever slot was engraved: "Gelände"... "Terrain." The outer lever was positioned at "Strasse". Perhaps, the position "Gelände" engaged some sort of drive to the sidecar wheel. She decided not to try to find out. The longer lever projected through the gear knob; and presumably, the knob was pulled up in order to move the lever to any of the numbered positions. At the rear of the inner quadrant slot was engraved the letter "R"; presumably standing for "Rückwärtsgang"... "Reverse Gear". The big lever was resting between the engraved "R" and the figure "1".

The right-hand handlebar grip was the throttle. Tentatively, she sat in the saddle; squeezed in the clutch lever, and pushed the big gear lever backwards to where the engraved "1" position was on the lever quadrant. Gently releasing the clutch lever and slightly twisting open the throttle grip; she held her breath. The big BMW combination began creeping forward out of the little copse. At the edge of the road, she stopped and scanned the skies. She saw nothing. According to the map, she was about half-way to Magdeburg, and the Elbe. Pulling on the motorcycle goggles, she turned out onto the road and accelerated away down the Landstrassen towards Brandenburg.

The Landstrasse ran dead straight for six kilometres to the first houses of the next village. This was Neuschmerzke. Again; the village seemed deserted. The deep boom of the BMW exhaust echoed between the houses, but no-one appeared at any of the house windows or doors to see what was making such a commotion. At the end of the main street named Berliner Strasse, was a "T" junction. The signboard proclaimed that this was Belziger Chaussee and a fingerboard marked "Brandenburg" pointed to the right. Within fifty metres, the road name changed to Potsdamer Landstrasse. It skirted what appeared to be a scattering of dilapidated workshops; then turned hard left to run alongside some railway lines. On the other side of the tracks, Karyn could see that the town had been heavily bombed. At least three-quarters of the buildings she could see had been destroyed. A haze of thin smoke from the smouldering ruins still hung in the air. With a grim expression, she twisted the throttle grip open and sped on past the town that had become yet one more victim of Hitler's "All or Nothing" megalomania.

Potsdamer Landstrasse petered out two kilometres further south as it crossed the railway tracks and became Wilhelmsdorfer Landstrasse. This road turned south, crossed the railway tracks again, and became Ziesarer Landstrasse. A little farther and she came into a wooded area surrounding the village of Wilhelmsdorf... a small, rural settlement of a few houses lining the road through a clearing in the surrounded forest. Again there was no sign of life - just a couple of cats that scampered away from the sound of the BMW. At the end of the main street; a signpost marked "Magdeburg" pointed to the left. As she rode on, she relaxed slightly. The trees would shield her for a while.

Twelve uneventful kilometres later; the forest began to thin, and soon, she was in open countryside again. At the little rural settlement of Grüningen, a signpost directed her to the left at the junction in the centre of the silent village. Within half a kilometre, she was back into the forest. Two kilometres later; the forest suddenly thinned, and she was faced with the Berlin-Hannover Reichsautobahn which appeared, as if, out of nowhere. It was packed with refugees and columns of German soldiers all heading west. The Landstrasse curved sharply; ran alongside the ribbon of concrete for some hundred metres, and swung back into the welcoming anonymity of the forest... away from the conspicuously visible Reichsautobahn.

There were two more silent villages on the road - Glienecke; and the tiny hamlet of Herrenmühle, four kilometres further west. The next place would be the settlement at Ziesar. On the outskirts of the village, she spotted another checkpoint a few hundred metres ahead. As she approached; she saw that it was manned by SS Feldgendarmerie... more of the feared "Head Hunters." It was too late to turn around... and they had been busy. Seven, or eight bodies were dangling from the nearby trees and lamp posts. A young SS-Hauptsturmführer stepped into the road and waved her down.

As she brought the BMW to a standstill; he stepped forward with a cold grin on his face. He held out his hand, cast a suspicious glance at the sidecar-mounted MG34 machine gun; and arrogantly snapped his fingers.

'Papieren Bitte'... 'Papers, Please'

She studied him for a moment, pushed up her goggles, and reached into the breast pocket of her coveralls. He was one of the young fanatics; the very essence of Aryan superiority. She could almost see the swastikas glinting in his eyes. There was only one way to deal effectively with these arrogant young SS Übermenschen who resembled something straight out of one of Irma Hanke’s racial-theory classes and were convinced that they had been specially preordained to have the racially correct shade of blonde hair, the colour of Tilsiter cheese; and blue eyes above a salient jaw that looked like it had been set in concrete; and that was to outmatch them in arrogance. She looked him up and down disdainfully, and smiled... a cold, supercilious smile that would have shrivelled the testicles of a Grand Master of the Teutonic Knights. His expression froze.

The bigger the lie, the smaller the suspicion. She gave him another haughty stare and handed him the SD identity card. He warily accepted it as though it was likely to explode as soon as he touched it. He knew full-well that the most innocent-looking façade... like this pretty blonde; could so easily conceal his worst fucking nightmare. His face betrayed nothing as he read the card, but his jaw muscles tightened imperceptibly. He glanced nervously at the ominous purple-ink, rubber stamp... SS-Reichssicherheitshauptamt. Berlin SW 11. Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse 8. Almost certainly, she was from Amt 1; "Aufsichtsbehörde"... the Supervisory Authority of the Personnel and Organisation Auditing Office; sneakily checking up to see if his, and the other various checkpoints were enthusiastically executing their orders.

As he opened his mouth to say something, she glanced at the hanging corpses.

'Deserters?'

'Jawohl, Fräulein Doktor... and defeatists.'

She nodded.

'Sehr Gut. Carry on, Hauptsturmführer. Continue to be vigilant. The roads are full of these traitors scuttling away from the Führer's Endkampf in Berlin.'

She reached into the sidecar and picked up a notebook and pen. Opening it; she turned to him.

'Your name, Hauptsturmführer? Your diligence will be noted when I return to Headquarters.'

The young officer drew himself up to attention.

'Geister... Ulrich Geister; Fräulein Doktor.'

She nodded and wrote the name in her notebook.

'Danke schön, Hauptsturmführer. Now; where might the next checkpoint be situated?'

He paused for a moment. Handing her pass back to her, he replied,

'As far as I am aware; it is set up at Drewitz; about fifteen kilometres further down this road, Fräulein Doktor.'

She nodded, and gave the Hitlergruss from the elbow... just like the Führer at the Party rallies.

'Sehr Gut! Carry on, Hauptsturmführer. Heil Hitler!'

As he snapped to attention; with an immaculate, full Hitlergruss; she engaged first gear and accelerated away from the checkpoint down towards the centre of the village.

Once she was out of Ziesar; she rode under the Reichsautobahn bridge and took the next right-hand turning. She had pushed her luck far beyond safe bounds today. She would use the country lanes for the remainder of her journey.