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Ritter fell into the cabin on hands and knees and Berger yelled excitedly, 'More light! I'm going to need more light!'

Ritter fumbled in the box for another flare. The Storch was roaring down the avenue now, its tail lifting, but already one of the tanks had started to move. Berger had to swerve violently at the last moment, his starboard wing-tip just missing the tank's turret, and for a moment seemed to lose control.

But a second later and he was back on course again. Ritter put his hand out of the window and discharged the flare. In its sudden glare, the Victory Column seemed terrifyingly close, but Berger held on grimly. She yawed to starboard in the crosswind and he applied a little rudder correction.

And then, quite suddenly, they were airborne, lifting off the avenue in a hail of rifle bullets, the Victory Column rushing to meet them.

'We'll hit! We'll hit!' Hoffer cried, but Berger held on grimly, refusing to sacrifice power for height, and only at the very last moment did he pull the column back into his stomach, taking the Stork clear of the top of the Victory Column by fifteen or twenty feet.

'Dear God, we made it. How truly amazing,' Strasser said.

'Surely you never doubted me, Reichsleiter?' Heini Berger laughed, unaware in the excitement of the moment of his slip of the tongue, stamped on the right rudder and turned away across what was left of the rooftops of Berlin.

It was at roughly the same moment that the SS guard on duty at the exit of the bunker leading on to Hermann-Goringstrasse heard a vehicle approach. A field car turned into the entrance of the ramp and braked to a halt. The driver, a shadowy figure in the gloom, got out and came forward.

'Identify yourself!' the sentry demanded.

Martin Bormann moved into the circle of lamplight. The sentry drew himself together. 'I'm sorry, Reichsleiter. I didn't realize it was you.'

'A bad night out there.'

'Yes, Reichsleiter.'

'But it will get better, my friend, very soon now, for all of us. You must believe that.'

Bormann patted him on the shoulder and moved down the ramp into the darkness.

8

There was no immediate easing of tension in the Storch for, as they flew across Berlin, the Russian artillery bombardment seemed to chase them all the way. There were numerous fires in many parts of the city and the darkness crackled with electricity on the edge of things as one shell after another found its target.

'Something to remember, eh, Major?' Strasser said, looking down at the holocaust. 'The Twilight of the Gods.'

'All we need is a score by Wagner,' Ritter said, 'to enjoy ourselves thoroughly. We have been well trained, we Germans, to appreciate the finer things.'

'Oh, it could be worse,' Strasser pointed out. 'We could be down there.'

The Storch rocked violently and something rattled against the fuselage. 'Anti-aircraft fire,' Berger cried. 'I'm going down.'

He threw the Storch into a sudden, violent corkscrew that seemed to last for ever, the whine of the engine rising to fever pitch; and finally and only when the fires below seemed very close indeed, he pulled back the column and levelled out.

Hoffer turned his head away and was violently sick. Strasser said, with a slight edge of contempt to his voice, 'He has no stomach for it, I think, your sergeant-major.'

'So what?' Ritter said. 'They tell me Grand Admiral Donitz is sick every time he puts to sea, but he's still Germany's greatest sailor.'

Gradually, the flames, the darting points of light on the ground, faded into the night. Berger shouted above the roar of the engine, 'I'll tell you something now we're out of it. I never thought we'd make it. Not for a moment.'

'You did well,' Strasser said. 'A brilliant piece of flying.'

It was Ritter, suddenly irritated, who said, 'Not out of the woods yet.'

'Nonsense,' Berger shouted. 'A milk run from now on.'

And he was right, for conditions generally could not have been more in their favour. They flew on through the night at 500 feet in darkness