The Kammersee Affair Page 17

  At that moment he could hear somebody calling him, from behind. “Hartman,” the voice shouted. “Major Hartman is that you? It’s me, Doctor Jurgen.” Hartman gave no indication that he had heard. He did not stop or slow down. He did not turn around. He continued toward the barrier, increasing his pace, desperate to get away from Jurgen.

  Once more he heard Jurgen calling his name. Once again he ignored the sound, hurrying as fast as possible. Unbeknown to Hartman there was someone else who had heard Jurgen calling. It was a certain SS officer, Captain Klaus Unger. The officer was just about to leave the train when he heard Jurgen call the first time. A short while after he heard the second call. He wasn’t sure on the first occasion, but the second time he knew that he had been right. Herr Weiss and Major Deitrich Hartman were one and the same.

  * * *

  Jurgen had called out to him, but there had been no response. He had called out three times now, and there had been no response. He decided that he must have been wrong. It wasn’t Hartman after all. It had certainly looked like him, but it wasn’t. He turned to walk away, but then he had been stopped by an SS Captain, making enquiries.

  “That name you just called? Hartman,” the officer asked. “Why were you calling out?”

  “Oh that,” Jurgen replied. “That was nothing, just a mistake. I thought I recognised someone, that’s all.” Jurgen explained that he knew a Major Hartman, and thought that he had just seen him, walking along the platform. “I called out, but I must have been mistaken.”

  But Unger knew that he wasn’t mistaken. He knew that he had been right when he had first seen Hartman in the train compartment. But why had he denied that he was Hartman? Why had he pretended to be somebody else? Why did he possess forged documents? There were a lot of questions Unger wanted to ask Hartman.

  “Can you point out the person?” the officer asked.

  “Why, I think so, but it wasn’t him. I’m afraid I was very much mistaken.” Jurgen looked toward the barrier for a few moments. “Yes, there he is,” he said pointing directly at Hartman. “Close to the ticket barrier.”

  Unger looked in the direction indicated. Without any further comment the officer thanked Jurgen for his assistance, saluted smartly, and hurried in the direction indicated. Jurgen watched him as he walked away. He was suddenly startled by the shrill whistle, and a hiss of steam, from an adjacent train. He turned away and walked back to where his train was waiting, and got on board. Jurgen gave no more thought to Hartman, and put the whole episode out of his mind.

  * * *

  Hartman continued moving toward the ticket barrier, and was now only a few metres away. In front of him was a large crowd slowly making their way through, blocking his way. He stopped, and cautiously looked behind him. He could see Jurgen talking to the SS Officer. He was pointing in his direction. What were they saying? He then saw the SS Captain start to come in his direction. Panic began to set in. He could not be caught now. Not now, not when he was so close. Not now that he was nearly home. He had to get away; he had to survive. He started to push his way through the crowd, knocking a number of people to the ground. As he edged through to the front he jumped over the barrier. The SS Captain could hear people yelling, and screaming ahead of him. He could see what was happening and started to run after Hartman. As he ran he started yelling “Stop that man. Stop him!”

  Hartman quickly ran to the station exit. As he reached the main doorway he glanced behind him. Less than fifty metres away he could see the SS Captain. He was still alone, Hartman realised, as he went out of the station. He must not be allowed to call for assistance. Hartman knew that once his details had been broadcast, he would have no chance. He would be hunted down, surrounded and easily captured. He knew that somehow he had to stop Captain Unger, and quickly. In order to do that, he realised, he would have to allow Unger to catch him, but only on his own terms.

  He turned and looked around; there was Unger still in pursuit, maybe thirty or forty metres away. Hartman decided to head for the area behind the station, where the goods yards were located. It was quieter there, less people, and darker. He reached the end of the main station complex, and quickly turned to the left, and ran into a labyrinth of narrow streets beyond. He checked, making sure that Unger was still following. There at the end he could see the goods yards. As he drew nearer he could see that the area had been devastated by a series of bombing raids conducted by the Allies. There were a number of derelict arches, and narrow alleyways remaining. If he could lead Unger in that direction, he had a chance. He looked around once again. Unger was still there, just a few metres away now. He was catching up fast, too fast. Hartman increased his pace and ran toward the railway arches. A few moments later he reached the line of arches, and quickly entered the first that he came to. It was lit by a single lantern fixed to the outer wall, at the centre of the arch. Inside the area was pitch-black. Areas of brickwork were substantially damaged, and there were a number of broken bricks scattered around. Water was dripping down the arch walls, forming large pools on the cobblestones below.

  He stopped and listened. He could hear Unger’s footsteps echoing along the street. Unger was no longer running, but was cautiously approaching the arches. Unger took out a torch and flashed the light into the archways. Hartman ducked further inside, to avoid the ray of light. He was a fraction slow, and Unger had seen him. The SS Officer took his revolver out of his holster, released the safety catch, and approached the arch. He slowly entered the arch, moving the torch from side to side.

  Hartman moved further back inside the archway, finding a small recessed area in which to hide. Unger continued to approach. Hartman had to distract him somehow. As Unger drew nearer, Hartman picked up a small piece of brick rubble, and threw it to the opposite side of the arch. Unger quickly turned toward the sound. Now was Hartman’s chance. He emerged out of the shadows and quickly, silently, approached Unger from behind. In his right hand was a dislodged brick. As he reached Unger he raised the brick high above his head. He then brought it back down, hard, smashing into the SS Captain’s skull. Unger fell to the ground. Hartman bent down, and hit him three more times, as he lay there. Blood began running from the wounds, mingling with the pools of stagnant water.

  * * *

  It took three hours for Unger to die from a fractured skull, and brain damage. By that time Hartman had arrived at his home. The body was not discovered for four more days. There was nothing to link the death of an SS Captain, with Deitrich Hartman, and certainly there was nothing to implicate Peter Weiss. Except maybe Jurgen. Had he been recognised and identified? He didn’t know. He had no way of knowing. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come to mind.

  * * *

  Less than an hour later and long before Unger took his last breath, a cab turned into Potsdammer Platz, and stopped outside number 42. The door opened and out stepped Deitrich Hartman, alias Peter Weiss. As he did so a number of the neighbours happily welcomed him back home.

  “Hello Mr Weiss,” said one of the neighbours. “It’s good to see you again. It’s been a long time. Did you have a good trip? Will you be back long?”

  “Oh a few weeks I think, but I expect I’ll be going away again,” Hartman replied. “What’s the news here?”

  Michel Kruger was elderly, and weary. “Apparently our glorious army has repealed the British, and driven them back to the sea,” he said, a wry smile on his face. “I understand that we have taken several thousand British soldiers prisoner.”

  “Is that right?” said Hartman.

  “Yes,” said Kruger. “I think it must be the same several thousand British soldiers who are, even now, marching on Hamburg. They are expected here within the next week or two.

  Hartman knew they were coming, but not quite so soon. “Michel, your son is in the Army isn’t he?” he asked. Kruger appeared pensive. Hartman noticed his reticence, and then continued. “Whereabouts is he do you know? You must fetch him home, and quickly.”

  Kruger turned pale. H
e looked all around, and then stepped closer to Hartman. He leant close, his voice barely a whisper. “He has deserted,” he replied. “He is in hiding, and will give himself up, but only to the British authorities.”

  “That’s good, Michel,” said Hartman, gently taking his arm. “You take great care.”

  Kruger nodded, and slowly walked away. Hartman watched until he had turned the corner. He unlocked his front door, and went in, closing the door securely after him.

  Hartman was home safe, and free. He had survived.

  Chapter Eleven

  New York – June 1945

  The Pathfinders Squadron, together with a number of other military units, eventually arrived back in the United States on 20th June 1945, almost six weeks after the end of the war in Europe. Their ship, the USS Liberty, had sailed from Southampton twelve days earlier. Altogether there were just over twelve hundred troops on board, including two hundred and twelve wounded. Also on board were almost three hundred members of the ship’s crew. Before the outbreak of the war the ship had been a luxury cruise liner sailing in the Caribbean, island hopping. In more recent times she had been used as a hospital ship based in the Mediterranean Sea, and for carrying men and equipment off to war. Now she was bringing them home again.

  After an uneventful Atlantic crossing the ship had entered New York Harbour at a little after seven thirty on the evening of the 19th June. That night the ship had lay at anchor in sight of the Stature of Liberty, waiting for the morning tide. It was a warm evening, and there was a clear sky. The side of the ship was lined with soldiers trying to catch their first glimpse of home after so long away. There a short distance away was the Manhattan skyline. Clearly visible was the Empire State Building, and close by the top of the Chrysler Building shining in the setting sun. It was so close that the troops could almost touch it.

  The following morning, at shortly after eleven o’clock, the huge troop carrier was brought into the dockside pulled by three large tugs, one at each side, and one at the prow of the ship. All around the great ship were numerous smaller vessels of every description imaginable. Police launches, fire tenders, private motor yachts, and many others, all of them offering their own individual greeting to the great liner. Sirens were blaring, bells ringing, and horns blowing, in welcome. Water cannons sent cascades of water high into the air. Ships already in dock joined in, sounding their sirens in harmony. On shore passing vehicles loudly sounded their horns.

  Slowly, carefully, the three tugs manoeuvred the ship into position. Eventually the ship berthed, the anchor dropped and the ship came to a stop. Fore and aft ropes were released and wrapped around the cast iron capstans, on the quayside, and securely tied. Gangways were lowered into position, and preparations made for the troops to disembark. The dock was lined with several thousand people, cheering and waiting to welcome their loved ones home. Many of them had been there from the night before. Rooftops of nearby buildings were full of people clambering for a better view. Every possible vantage point was occupied.

  Everywhere along the dockside flags were waving. The Stars and Stripes was flying high, side by side with the flags of the wartime Allies. There was the red, white and blue Union Jack. Next to it was the French tri-colour. Then came flags from Canada, Australia, and many, many more. Streamers fluttered down from the roofs of the dock buildings, and the cranes, mingling with streamers thrown out from the ship. A military band was parading close by, marching by the side of the ship, playing a mixture of rousing marching tunes, and popular songs.

  By three o’clock that afternoon everyone had been disembarked, and were now on their way back home. Home again, after more than four years of being away. The dockyard was now almost deserted apart from a few stragglers, sightseers and a dozen or so dock labourers. The majority of the troops were now on their way home, with their relatives, for a well-deserved rest. The men of the Pathfinders Squadron had been given a ten days furlough, before they were required to report back to their barracks ready for final de-mobilisation, or possible re-assignment.

  Less than thirty minutes later, four of the Pathfinders could be seen walking into Rooney’s bar, situated a block away from Grand Central Station. Leading the group was Master Sergeant Frank Kadowski. Following close behind were Corporal Tom Bannister, and Private Antonio Bartelli. Lagging some way behind them was Private George Scott. All, except one, Sergeant Kadowski, were waiting for trains to take them their different ways back to their hometowns. Kadowski was only there to say goodbye to his friends before he too would make his way home. Bartelli had a train to catch to Chicago in a little over two hour’s time. Scott was travelling to Detroit. His train was not due until ten minutes to six. Bannister had the farthest to travel. He was going to Texas. His train was expected to depart at twelve minutes after seven.

  * * *

  “Come on George, you’re way behind,” yelled Bannister. “On the double soldier, quick march, left, right.”

  Scott failed to hear, or choose not to. At least there appeared to be no appreciable response, and he continued to trail behind the others. He hadn’t even looked up, and continued to stare down at the ground.

  “Double is about right,” said Bartelli. “Make mine a scotch. What do you say Frank?”

  Kadowski said nothing. It was good to see the guys so happy, except for Scott that is. Kadowski looked further back to where Scott was slowly walking. He was anything but happy. What is it? What’s wrong with him? He had been like that ever since Austria. “I must try to get him to talk about it,” he said to himself.

  “Sorry, Sarge,” said Bannister. “Did you say something?”

  “No, Tom,” just thinking aloud, that’s all,” Kadowski replied. “Here we are guys, this is Rooney’s Bar. Here you will get the finest Irish whiskey anywhere in New York.”

  The bar was reasonably busy, even though it was still early in the day. Kadowski stopped at the doorway, and looked around. He was pleased to note that it had not changed during the three years, five months, three weeks and two days that he had been away.

  There were a number of service personnel inside, mainly soldiers. They were probably celebrating their homecoming as well. There were a few civilians, but not too many. Most people were still at work. “Good, that suits me very well.” He didn’t like it too crowded, or too noisy.

  As they entered the bar Kadowski noticed a table in the far corner. It was just being vacated. “Tony, you and Tom, grab those seats over there, quickly. I’ll order up at the bar. We’ll get served quicker that way, I think,” and he continued walking toward the counter.

  Bartelli and Bannister hurried over to the table that had been pointed out. The previous occupants were just preparing to leave. Bartelli and Bannister stood close by, and waited. The people finally moved away from the table, and made their way toward the exit. As they left, Bartelli and Bannister sat down, and secured two other seats for their companions. A few moments later, Scott finally entered the bar. Bannister called over to him. “George, George, over here.” Scott looked over and gave a brief cursory wave. Slowly he walked over to the corner to join them.

  “There you are George. I was getting a bit worried,” said Bannister. “You’re very quiet, and you seem very lethargic. Is anything wrong? Are you not feeling too good?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Scott curtly replied.

  “Are you sure, George?” asked Bartelli. “You don’t look well to me. In fact you look quite ill. Maybe you have a touch of flu or something?”

  “Perhaps it was the sea voyage,” suggested Bannister. “I must admit that I felt a little queasy.”

  “I’m fine, I tell you. There’s nothing wrong with me,” snapped Scott. “Okay, leave it at that.”

  “Sure, George,” said Bartelli quickly. “Sure thing, whatever you say.”

  At that moment Kadowski joined them, and sat down. “Drinks’ll be here soon,” he said. “How’s everyone? Feeling good?” he beamed. Bannister looked at him hard, and shook his head.
As he did so he glanced in the direction of Scott, and then back at Kadoski. Scott said nothing, his eyes staring down at the table. Kadowski looked toward Bartelli. He was also shaking his head slowly. What was going on, Kadowski wondered. What are they trying to tell me?

  Shortly afterwards the waiter brought over the drinks, and placed them on the table in front them. Kadowski began to pass them around the table. “Here you are, George, a cold beer for you.” There was no response from Scott. Kadowski shrugged his shoulders, and continued. “And Tony a beer for you as well, Tom, yours was a bourbon, on the rocks. Correct?” Kadowski then picked up his glass, a whiskey. “Gentlemen, to us,” he said. “And to our safe return back home. Back to the good old U S of A.”

  Bartelli and Bannister both smiled, and raised their glasses enthusiastically. Scott, obviously deep in thought, continued to stare at the edge of the table.

  “To the United States of America,” said Bartelli. “It’s good to be home.”

  “You can say that again,” said Bannister. “Here’s to us.”

  Scott still said nothing. He just sat staring straight ahead. “Not drinking, George. You’re lagging behind the others,” Kadowski laughed. “That’s not like you. Come on drink up.”

  Scott suddenly looked up, and glared at Kadowski. “Good to be home, indeed, safe return? What a joke.”

  Kadowski was taken completely by surprise. “Come on George,” he said. “It is good to home. You must feel that surely? We’ve been away a long time. And I’m glad to say that we made it through, and have arrived safely.”

  “We didn’t all make it safely back though, did we?” Scott replied angrily. “Or had you forgotten? Terry’s not here to celebrate is he? He never made it back home did he? He can’t be here, with us, having a drink, can he?”