Last Flight to Stalingrad by Graham Hurley (novels to read .txt) 📕

wooden chock for the main wheels. The taller of the two men glanced up and drew a finger across his throat and the propellers began to windmill before coming to a halt.

In the sudden silence, Nehmann was aware of the aircraft rocking slightly as the pilot released the canopy and clambered onto the wing. From the rear cockpit, he extracted two canvas mail sacks and handed them down to the ground crew.

He was tall, much taller than Nehmann. He climbed down onto the wet grass, and one hand swept the glasses from his face as if to get a proper look at this modest welcoming committee.

‘Oberstleutnant Messner,’ he introduced himself. ‘And you are…?’

‘Nehmann. From the Ministry.’

‘Guten Tag, Nehmann.’He extended a gloved hand. ‘Do you mind?’

He wanted Nehmann’s coffee. A man could die of thirst flying out of the zoo that was Russia. Once, under different circumstances, he said he could rely on flasks of the stuff, the real thing, Turkish or Arabian, and perhaps a cake or two to keep his spirits up. But those days had gone.

Nehmann gave him the coffee. He’d never seen a face like this before. Once he must have been good-looking, even handsome, but someone – certainly not a friend – seemed to have rearranged all the constituent parts without keeping the original in mind. The sunken eyes sat oddly in the tightness of the flesh. A scar looped down from one corner of his mouth, while more scar tissue, raised welts of the stuff, latticed his forehead.

Messner, who must have been all too familiar with the curiosity of strangers, paid no attention. He bent for the bigger of the two sacks and gave it to Nehmann.

‘Compliments of Generaloberst Richthofen,’ he said. ‘Fuck it up and he’ll have your arse.’

‘These are the film cans?’

‘Ja.’

‘And the other sack?’

‘A Russian chicken for my lovely ex-wife. And a Ukrainian rabbit with the compliments of Kyiv. You know Kyiv? Been there ever? No? I thought not. Fine rabbits, my friend. You have a car here by any chance?’

‘Of course.’

‘Excellent. In which case, the rabbit might well be yours.’

Nehmann passed the sack containing the cans of undeveloped film to the driver. The other one appeared to be moving.

‘The rabbit’s still alive?’

‘Ja.’ Messner nodded at the aircraft. ‘Alas, I have no refrigeration.’

‘And the chicken?’

‘Dead, I’m afraid. But yet to be plucked.’ Messner checked his watch and then gestured at the Promi car. ‘I need to get to Wannsee. Do we have a deal?’

*

They did. The driver returned to the Promi, where Nehmann handed over the cans of film from the Crimea. On the Minister’s personal instructions, the undeveloped footage was rushed to a processing plant elsewhere in the city. 16mm prints, he was assured, would be ready for the editing suite by early afternoon. Nehmann was expected to attend the edit, where Minister Goebbels – familiar with the footage already cut – would supervise the final version.

The Promi car was still parked outside in the Wilhelmstrasse. Messner, in the front passenger seat, appeared to be asleep. Nehmann opened the rear door to check on the rabbit and then slipped behind the wheel.

‘Still alive?’ Messner had been watching him in the rear-view mirror.

‘Very. Where are we going?’

‘Wannsee. I thought I told you. Get me to the waterfront and we’ll take it from there.’

They set off. Nehmann’s driving skills were rudimentary. He didn’t possess a licence and strictly speaking he should have returned the car to the underground garage, but Birgit said that everything would be fine as long as he was back in time for the edit.

‘We’ve got three hours,’ he told Messner. ‘You want me to drop you off at Wannsee or take you back to the airfield afterwards?’

‘The airfield. Beata was a wife to be proud of, but a man runs out of credit if he doesn’t watch his step.’

‘So what happened?’

‘I didn’t watch my step.’

Nehmann glanced across at him, surprised by this small moment of intimacy. Then, from nowhere, a truck appeared, Wehrmacht-grey, two lines of soldiers squatting on benches in the back. Heads turned to look down as Nehmann braked hard and swerved to the right. One of the soldiers was laughing.

‘Pull in, for fuck’s sake.’ Messner’s muttered oath had the force of an order.

Nehmann came to a halt beside the pavement. Messner waited for a cyclist to pass and then opened the passenger door and stepped out into the road. For a moment, Nehmann thought he’d baled out for good but then the tall figure in the leather flying jacket was pulling his own door open.

‘Move over, Nehmann. You drive like a Russian, my friend, and that’s not a compliment.’

Chastened, Nehmann did as he was told. Messner adjusted the rear-view mirror and rejoined the traffic. From the back of the car came a series of snuffles and then a brief mew. The rabbit, Nehmann thought, didn’t like his driving either.

They drove in silence for a while, following the trolley bus wires out towards Charlottenburg. For no apparent reason Messner slowed at a major intersection. Beyond, on the right, was a branch of the Dresdner Bank.

‘Just here…’ he said ‘…if I’m to believe all the stories.’

‘Just here what?’ Nehmann hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.

‘The accident. Me and the windscreen.’ One gloved hand touched his face. ‘This.’

He’d been driving his wife’s car, he explained. He’d had the devil of a toothache for three whole days and she’d managed to find a dentist. It was a winter evening, blackout, and a raid was expected. There was a deadline for the dentist, and he must have taken a chance or two.

‘You don’t remember any of this?’

‘I remember nothing. I’d been flying Goering and a couple of his people that day. Next thing, I’m in the Charité hospital. You know anything about hospitals, Nehmann?’

‘No.’

‘Just as well, especially these days. Put a woman in a uniform and she thinks she owns the world.’

‘You’re supposed to feel grateful. They probably saved your life.’

‘I know. And that only makes it worse. I