Last Flight to Stalingrad by Graham Hurley (simple ebook reader .TXT) 📗

sound effects against the action and thought hard about music, the effect would be mesmeric.

‘Try Tannhäuser,’ he said, ‘for that sequence at the very end.’ He turned to Nehmann and got to his feet. ‘Come.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘Ten minutes of your precious time?’

*

They talked in Goebbels’ office on the first floor. Through a single window Nehmann could see the three secretaries who policed his ever-expanding empire. Goebbels certainly inspired a degree of loyalty but Nehmann knew it was based largely on fear. Over the past few weeks, everyone agreed that the Minister had become more and more unreasonable, barking at minions and quick to assign blame when a word or two of encouragement or at least understanding might have been wiser. Just now, though, much to Nehmann’s surprise, he was almost gleeful.

‘Wolfram von Richthofen dined with the Führer last night,’ he announced. ‘Alone.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning that the Fat One is shitting his pants.’ He nodded at the phone. ‘He called earlier. I think he might have been drinking. He said he had no choice but to take this insult personally. Richthofen is Luftwaffe, of course. He’s working miracles down in the Crimea, as we all know, and nothing makes the Führer happier than a man who delivers. That’s why Richthofen has personal access. That’s why Hitler gives him everything he asks for. The Fat One has at last understood that. But it’s far, far too late.’

The Fat One was Hermann Goering, father of the Luftwaffe.His downfall, according to Goebbels, began at Dunkirk when he failed to bomb the British Army into oblivion, and continued over the following months when the RAF wrecked Hitler’s plan for landings along the English Channel coast. Since then, he’d retreated to his lavish new ministry and sulked, testing Hitler’s patience to its limits.

‘And now Richthofen,’ Goebbels repeated. ‘If this was a novel, I wouldn’t change a sentence.’

‘You think he’s in trouble?’

‘I think he’s fucked. What he wants is a big fat slice of Richthofen’s glory, but he knows there isn’t a chance in hell. Good things happen in the Luftwaffe in spite of the Fat One, not because of him. Very troubling…and you know why? Because vanity and disappointment never mix. Fucked. And fucked good.’

Nehmann could only nod in mute agreement. Lately he’d become a sounding board for Goebbels’ wilder outbursts, and it was becoming tiresome. Hitler quietly encouraged murderous turf wars among his courtiers but Nehmann was beginning to resent getting caught in the crossfire.

‘Any ideas?’ Goebbels was watching him carefully.

‘About what, Minister?’

‘Us. This.’ Goebbels’ gesture took in his own office and the secretaries beyond. ‘The Fat One is wounded. Ribbentrop needs putting out of his misery. Hess has gone mad and fled. We have the advantage, Nehmann. The stars are shining down upon us. Thanks to people like Richthofen and Manstein, we could be sitting on a great deal of oil within months. That, believe me, will transform everything. Hitler knows it. Stalin knows it. Roosevelt knows it. Even that drunkard Churchill knows it. So now is the moment to cash in on all that glory. Something inventive. Some initiative that will really bring it home to people. The winter was hard. The food situation is a real problem. Fuel is even worse. The home front is where this war will really be lost or won. The people deserve a bit of good news. And the summer is exactly the right time to let them have it. So…’ he tapped his desk ‘…any ideas?’

Nehmann took his time. Goebbels, in common with a number of other Nazi chieftains, loved the sound of his own voice but for the last minute or so Nehmann had been paying special attention. Not simply because his lord and master was putting him on the spot but because, thanks to Georg Messner, he realised he had exactly the answer the little dwarf was after.

‘How much do you know about Mount Elbrus?’ he asked.

5

BERLIN, SATURDAY 18 JULY 1942

The fortress at Sevastopol fell to Manstein’s 11th Army on 1 July 1942. An ecstatic Führer received the news at the Wolf’s Lair, his headquarters in East Prussia. Four weeks of ceaseless bombardment and heavy fighting had reduced whole areas of the fortifications to rubble, killed tens of thousands of Soviet troops and humiliated Stalin. The threat to German armies in the south had ceased to exist and the road to the oil fields lay open. That very same day, by radio message, Hitler promoted Manstein to Generalfeldmarschall,news that left a sour taste in the mouth of Generaloberst Wolfram von Richthofen.

Two and a half weeks later, Werner Nehmann was summoned to the Ministry of Propaganda. Lately, Goebbels had been sleeping especially badly and it showed. The pools of darkness around his eyes were deeper than ever. He occupied one of two armchairs in the office and he had one leg crossed over the other. If his foot was beating time with his pulse, Nehmann thought, then the Minister needed medical attention.

Goebbels told him to shut the door and pull up the other chair.

‘Richthofen,’ he said, ‘has been appeased. The Führer announced his promotion this morning. Chief of Luftflotte 4.He flies to Mariupol tomorrow morning to take charge. Rostov should be ours within the week. You want to guess how much operational territory Richthofen now controls? Think of the Reich and treble it. Think Napoleon with wings.’

Nehmann did his best. It was an awkward image.

‘And Mount Elbrus?’ he asked. ‘Messner’s little triplane?’

‘I talked to Manstein. A detachment of one of his Mountain divisions will be on the summit in weeks before they push on down towards the Black Sea. You were right; it’s the tallest peak in Europe. Plant the war flag on the top and you’re looking at an image we’ll be sending round the world. My congratulations, Nehmann, a brilliant concept on your part. Messner’s little triplane, as well? Consider it done.’

The prospect of yet another propaganda coup seemed to brighten the Minister’s mood. Then his hand strayed to a pile