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

gesture. A couple of them dug a tiny hollow at the base of the flagpole while another consulted a map and a compass. The nose of the plane, he said, should be pointing at distant Stalingrad. He gestured at a shapely mountain away to the north, then checked the map again.

‘That direction,’ he said, ‘would be perfect.’

*

News of the ascent of Mount Elbrus arrived at Hitler’s Ukraine headquarters long before the photographs. The Führer had spent the afternoon poring over large-scale maps of the Caucasus, demanding to know why Army Group ‘A’ appeared to be stalling in the face of fierce Soviet resistance. By now, Wehrmacht troops – supported by Panzers – should have been pushing over the Terek River towards the oil wells at Grozny but Soviet aircraft appeared to have the sky to themselves and were inflicting serious damage on the German formations below.

Richthofen, at his headquarters at Mariupol, was on the receiving end of the Führer’s wrath and despatched Messner to find out why FK VIII’sBf-109s weren’t doing their jobs. After an eternity of delays, Messner finally made radio contact with the Fighter Wing responsible, only to discover that the twenty-eight aircraft available lacked both fuel and ammunition. Without cannon shells and full tanks, the Bf-109s would be staying on the ground.

Hitler was in no mood for excuses. He telephoned Goering at his nearby headquarters and demanded his presence. Albert Speer, the Minister of Armaments, had just arrived from Berlin and when the three men got together in the early evening Hitler led them into the map room. His forefinger jabbed at the lines of advance that had stalled in the mountains. His generals had promised to be down on the coast by now. He was counting on Black Sea ports, on Grozny oil wells, and that final thrust deep to the south-west that would deliver Baku, key to limitless supplies of black gold from the Caspian basin. This, according to Speer, would come closer to winning the war than any other single victory. So why was progress so slow?

The question was directed to Goering. When Hitler pointed out that his commanders on the ground were blaming lack of supplies, the Reichsmarschall blustered about aircraft serviceability and the lottery that was the weather over the Caucasus. On the steppe, he said, the Luftwaffe could guaranteeregular flights. Europe’s biggest mountains, on the other hand, had a mind of their own. Either way, he’d see to it that normal service would be resumed. On this matter, as on so many others, the Führer had his solemn word.

At this point, the conversation was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Hitler turned to find the Oberfunker in charge of communications with a message that appeared to be urgent. It had come, he said, from Army Group ‘A’ headquarters down in the Caucasus. The Oberfunker had a smile on his face. Goering visibly brightened. Good news at last, he thought.

‘Lass es mich haben…’Hitler wanted sight of the despatch.

Putting on his glasses, he walked across to the window for the last of the light. He read the message twice, his face visibly darkening. Then he turned back to the waiting faces by the map table.

‘Show me,’ he barked.

‘Mein Führer?’ The Oberfunker was looking confused.

‘This mountain. Elbris? Elbrus? Where is it?’

The Oberfunker indicated a point of the map some seventy kilometres inland from the coast. His ink-stained finger was shaking. The oil wells at Grozy lay two days march away to the east.

‘The biggest, you say?’

‘The tallest, Mein Führer.Five and a half thousand metres. A monster.’

‘Enough. Leave us.’

Hitler couldn’t take his eyes off the map. He was bent over the table, each hand supporting the weight of his body. The Oberfunker stole away from the room without a backward glance.

By now, Hitler was shaking with rage. Here was the reason all that effort had come to nothing. Expecting an army to fight, they instead wasted their days with stunts like these. All that effort, all that determination, all that energy squandered on a lump of rock. This was a theatre of war, not a circus ring. He wasn’t blaming the men themselves. No, that’s not where the blame belonged. He didn’t doubt for a moment that climbing a mountain like that would demand real guts. But that wasn’t the point. These men were soldiers. They were in the mountains to kill Russians, to kick open the door to the oil wells, not to get themselves diverted to some profitless adventure that didn’t matter a damn.

He paused for a moment to fumble for a handkerchief and wipe his mouth. Speer was staring down at the table. A thin mist of spittle had settled wetly on the map. Hitler ignored it.

‘I ask for victories,’ he roared. ‘And all they can give me is a mountain top. What use is that? Can anyone help me here? Can anyone explain? Maybe we shouldn’t have gone into the mountains at all. Maybe the temptations were too great. War is about concentration of resources, concentration of effort, an agreed line of advance. Get those things right, get the enemy where you want him, and you can smash him to pieces.’ He took a step back from the table and drove his right fist into his open palm. Is this something we should be teaching our generals? ‘Is this something they’ve neglected to learn? Or should we simply stop fighting and climb mountains instead? Look. Look here.’ He stabbed a finger at the map. ‘There are hundreds of them, thousands of them. Who needs an enemy when you can climb a mountain instead? Wonderful idea, gentlemen. Let’s stop bothering the Russians and climb a few more mountains. Can either of you organise that? Or must I do everything myself?’

The question hung in the air, unanswered. Hitler was leaning on the table, his head down again, his voice low. For a second or two he seemed exhausted. Then he stirred.

‘So, whose idea was this?’ His voice was low.

Goering and Speer