jerkin, the young private in tin hat sitting beside him and then they collided with the ambulance's front offside wheel and bounced to one side, mounting the low parapet of the fountain in the centre of the square and turning over.
Schmidt had been thrown clear and started to get up. Schenck, who was still inside the field car, saw the young private in the tin hat jump out of the ambulance, a Sten gun in his hand. He fired a short burst that drove Schmidt back across the parapet into the fountain.
Schenck managed to get to his feet and waved his arms. 'No!' he shouted. 'No!'
The boy fired again, the bullets ricocheting from the cobbles. Schenck felt a violent blow in his right shoulder and arm and was thrown back against the field car.
He was aware of voices - raised voices. The sergeant was swinging the boy round and wrenching the Sten gun away from him. A moment later, he was kneeling over Schenck.
Schenck's mouth worked desperately as he felt himself slipping away. He managed to get the letter from his pocket, held it up in one bloodstained hand. 'Your commanding officer - take me to him,' he said hoarsely in English. 'A matter of life and death,' and then he fainted.
Major Roger Mullholland of 173rd Field Hospital had been operating since eight o'clock that morning. A long day by any standards and a succession of cases any one of which would have been a candidate for major surgery under the finest hospital conditions. All he had were tents and field equipment. He did his best, as did the men under his command, as he'd been doing his best for weeks now, but it wasn't enough.
He turned from his last case, which had necessitated the amputation of a young field gunner's legs below the knees, and found Schenck laid out on the next operating table, still in his army greatcoat.
'Who the hell is this?'
His sergeant-major, a burly Glaswegian named Grant, said, 'Some Jerry officer driving through Graz in a field car. They collided with one of the ambulances. There was a shoot-out, sir.'
'How bad is he?'
'Two rounds in the shoulder. Another in the upper arm. He asked to be taken to the CO. Kept brandishing this in his hand.'
He held up the bloodstained letter. Mullholland said, 'All right, get him ready. Come one, come all.'
He opened the envelope, took out the letter and started to read. A moment later he said, 'Dear God Almighty, as if I didn't have enough to take care of.'
7
At a stage in the war when it had become apparent to him that Germany was almost certain to lose, Karl Adolf Eichmann, head of the Jewish Office of the Gestapo, ordered a shelter to be constructed according to the most stringent specifications, under his headquarters at 116 Kurfurstenstrasse. It had its own generating plant and ventilating system and was self-sufficient in every respect.
The entire project was carried out under conditions of total secrecy, but in the Third Reich nothing was secret from Martin Bormann for long. On making the happy discovery and needing a discreet establishment for purposes of his own, he had announced his intention of moving in, and Eichmann, too terrified to argue, agreed, putting up with the inconvenience of the arrangement until March when he'd decided to make a run for it.
When Bormann and Rattenhuber arrived the place seemed deserted. The front door hung crazily on its hinges, the windows gaped and the roof had been extensively damaged by shelling. Rattenhuber drove along the alley at one side, wheels crunching over broken glass, and pulled into the courtyard at the rear of the building.
For the moment the artillery bombardment had faded and most of the shooting that was taking place was some little way off. Bormann got out and walked down a sloping concrete ramp to a couple of grey-painted, steel doors. He hammered with the toe of his boot. A grille was opened. The man who peered through had SS decals on his steel helmet. Bormann didn't say a word. The grille slammed shut and a moment later the doors
Schmidt had been thrown clear and started to get up. Schenck, who was still inside the field car, saw the young private in the tin hat jump out of the ambulance, a Sten gun in his hand. He fired a short burst that drove Schmidt back across the parapet into the fountain.
Schenck managed to get to his feet and waved his arms. 'No!' he shouted. 'No!'
The boy fired again, the bullets ricocheting from the cobbles. Schenck felt a violent blow in his right shoulder and arm and was thrown back against the field car.
He was aware of voices - raised voices. The sergeant was swinging the boy round and wrenching the Sten gun away from him. A moment later, he was kneeling over Schenck.
Schenck's mouth worked desperately as he felt himself slipping away. He managed to get the letter from his pocket, held it up in one bloodstained hand. 'Your commanding officer - take me to him,' he said hoarsely in English. 'A matter of life and death,' and then he fainted.
Major Roger Mullholland of 173rd Field Hospital had been operating since eight o'clock that morning. A long day by any standards and a succession of cases any one of which would have been a candidate for major surgery under the finest hospital conditions. All he had were tents and field equipment. He did his best, as did the men under his command, as he'd been doing his best for weeks now, but it wasn't enough.
He turned from his last case, which had necessitated the amputation of a young field gunner's legs below the knees, and found Schenck laid out on the next operating table, still in his army greatcoat.
'Who the hell is this?'
His sergeant-major, a burly Glaswegian named Grant, said, 'Some Jerry officer driving through Graz in a field car. They collided with one of the ambulances. There was a shoot-out, sir.'
'How bad is he?'
'Two rounds in the shoulder. Another in the upper arm. He asked to be taken to the CO. Kept brandishing this in his hand.'
He held up the bloodstained letter. Mullholland said, 'All right, get him ready. Come one, come all.'
He opened the envelope, took out the letter and started to read. A moment later he said, 'Dear God Almighty, as if I didn't have enough to take care of.'
7
At a stage in the war when it had become apparent to him that Germany was almost certain to lose, Karl Adolf Eichmann, head of the Jewish Office of the Gestapo, ordered a shelter to be constructed according to the most stringent specifications, under his headquarters at 116 Kurfurstenstrasse. It had its own generating plant and ventilating system and was self-sufficient in every respect.
The entire project was carried out under conditions of total secrecy, but in the Third Reich nothing was secret from Martin Bormann for long. On making the happy discovery and needing a discreet establishment for purposes of his own, he had announced his intention of moving in, and Eichmann, too terrified to argue, agreed, putting up with the inconvenience of the arrangement until March when he'd decided to make a run for it.
When Bormann and Rattenhuber arrived the place seemed deserted. The front door hung crazily on its hinges, the windows gaped and the roof had been extensively damaged by shelling. Rattenhuber drove along the alley at one side, wheels crunching over broken glass, and pulled into the courtyard at the rear of the building.
For the moment the artillery bombardment had faded and most of the shooting that was taking place was some little way off. Bormann got out and walked down a sloping concrete ramp to a couple of grey-painted, steel doors. He hammered with the toe of his boot. A grille was opened. The man who peered through had SS decals on his steel helmet. Bormann didn't say a word. The grille slammed shut and a moment later the doors
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