The Lucy Ghosts Read online

  THE

  LUCY GHOSTS

  A 1992 RETRO BOOK

  KINDLE EDITION

  by

  Eddy Shah

  Copyright: Messenger Group Ltd.

  PRAISE FOR EDDY SHAH

  ‘He deserves being labeled a writer, not just a celwbrity who has written a book.’

  The Sunday Times

  ‘In art, as in life, Eddy Shah is a born story-teller’

  Anthony Holden

  ‘A tough riveting book that is convincing and timely.’

  Michael Hartland, Daily Telegraph

  ‘Like Jeffrey Archer he keeps you turning all the pages.’

  The Sunday Telegraph

  ‘There is no denying his talent. The story telling is on a par with almost any thriller writer, well-paced, with cliff hanging breaks that force one to read “just one more chapter”.’

  Oxford Times

  ‘A breathless racy thriller.’

  Sunday Express

  ‘Eddy Shah has done it again.’

  Manchester Evening News

  Preface.

  Tegel Airport, West Berlin.

  January 12th, 1990.

  The people of Germany, driven by the forever need to be a united nation once again, had only just torn the first few slabs in the Berlin Wall when I flew into Tegel Airport.

  The reason for my visit was simple. I had never been to Berlin and I wanted to see this great concrete barrier, the definitive symbol of the Cold War.

  It was a time of life when I decided to see the world for myself instead of through the safe eyes of the television news camera.

  I stayed in East Berlin, actually drove through the infamous Checkpoint Charlie crossing shed before it was insignificantly hoisted up by a giant crane and delivered to the oblivion of a museum where it resides today. It was a time of learning and wonder, I saw the expectancy of a new era in the faces of those who passed me.

  It was an exciting visit, and I was touched by the mushrooming hopes of a new Europe that seemed to promise peace and prosperity.

  Yet there was a brittleness that went beyond the cold of the January air. I knew the promised land was a long way off, that the road to freedom would be tortuous and painful, that the destination we all wanted might never be reached.

  But I was privileged and pleased to be there, to be brushed in the few fleeting moments of my life by history in the making.

  Two instances stood out above the many I experienced.

  The first symbolised youth and the relentless drive of enterprise that we take for granted in the West, that is only slowly being grasped by those in the East.

  Like all the tourists who came, I wanted to take back a small piece of the wall that was now being torn down. I have to admit that, even though I had a small hammer and chisel, I actually cheated and bought my concrete chunk of history from a young man who was peddling his wares near Checkpoint Charlie.

  Following my capitalistic instincts, I started to negotiate with the young man, not a German, but an Englishman. He was from Manchester (the same town I come from) and was working his way across Europe, selling sections of the Wall to tourists helped pay for his adventurous sojourn.

  It was an odd moment, with Russian soldiers driving past in their Lada cars, the over-shadowing watch towers and barbed wire that had claimed hundreds of lives, and two Englishmen bargaining for a piece of painted concrete that had divided a nation and would now adorn my mantelpiece.

  The second instance was more important and gave me the idea that led to this book.

  I had flown a Citation jet into Berlin. After my short stay, I returned to the airport and waited for the plane to be refuelled.

  The refueller was an old German, near to retirement age. As he pumped fuel into my wings, we spoke of Berlin and of the way things were.

  He told me that, although he was a Berliner, he had never visited East Berlin since the wall was put up. In that time he had visited America, Africa and Australia.

  As soon as the Wall came down he had crossed into the East, and now spent most of his weekends driving across East Germany with his wife. In his small Mercedes car, with a picnic hamper in the trunk, he had visited all the major cities, and regaled me with stories of the beauty of the countryside in the East.

  'Nothing has changed,' he said in impeccable English. 'To go there is like going into the past. There are few modern buildings, the Russians never had the money to build, only to waste on defence. It is like it was before the war.'

  'I didn't realise that,' I said.

  'Oh, yes,' he replied before saying the words that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  'For them, the 1939 war has only just finished.'

  It was the closest I came to seeing the world through the eyes of a German.

  The tearing down of the Wall wasn't a step towards world peace, towards a safe future, as the rest of us saw it.

  To many Germans, it was simply the end of a fifty-year war.

  Wiltshire 2012.

  Since then, the Right Wing of German politics has orchestrated riots in Rostov, Ketzin, Dresden and Berlin. During that same period the united Germany has, after a painful birth, become a powerhouse of industry, commerce and social revolution.

  To avoid another war, the German people have thrown themselves wholeheartedly into the new Europe, the great Union that was born out of the Common Market. That Europe now envelops 27 member allied and peaceful states across the very land that for centuries pitted tribe against tribe in some of the greatest battles throughout history.

  That peace has lasted but the economy has stumbled badly. Greece and other Mediterranean countries, because of their southern European attitudes have fallen behind the efforts of their harder working, more efficient northern partners.

  A world economic decline can once again change the face of a peaceful Europe. Economic and technological superiority is the new war. And the Germans may once again find themselves at odds with their neighbours.

  This book is about the end of the old Germany and the march into the new.

  Hopefully, European countries will not fall under the influence of a strong, nationalistic and extremist leader. The collapse of the Russian Empire is another barrier removed from any such leader's ambitions.

  This book is a warning to those who say it couldn't happen again.

  And a reminder that there are many who still wish it would.

  BOOK ONE

  BEFORE TODAY.

  Peenemünde

  Northern Germany

  1945

  They were still at Peenemünde, burning the pile of papers, when that last act of attrition, a V1 doodlebug rocket, was hurled at London, launched from the belly of a Heinkel bomber over the North Sea, .

  The few scientists left at Peenemünde, seven of them, knew nothing of this. Nor did they appreciate that for all their efforts to turn the tide of the war back in Germany's favour, no more rockets could be launched because there was no more fuel; the supply had simply dried up.

  In truth, their attention was elsewhere. It was directed towards the sounds of gunfire from the Polish border only a few miles to the east.

  When they saw the first flashes of exploding shells spark across the sky no more than twenty miles from their position, many of them decided to leave the testing site and make their way to Berlin, to the safety of the capital.

  They knew the War was over.

  If they were to surrender, then it was the Americans to whom they must turn. The Russians were to be avoided at all costs, they were barbarians who would exact a most cruel revenge.

  The sky flash visions and nightmare sounds of battle from the east meant the Red Army was getting closer. Peenemünde must be abandoned to its own fate, the rocke
t test pads and launch structures weren't important any longer.

  Before they departed in the last truck, they piled up the secret files they had taken from General Walter Dornberger's offices, doused the paper stack in petrol and set fire to it. Dornberger, the head of the rocket section, had long since left the site and was already surrendering to the Americans with his brightest aide, the twenty one year old Werner Von Braun.

  The papers this young group of scientists were burning were not the secret technical data that they had meticulously prepared and worked on these past few years. That had already been taken by the senior officers as insurance for their safety in the hands of the Americans. The turncoats of war had turned, loyalty no more than a commodity on the open market like beans or a bar of chocolate.

  These documents actually related to the foreign work imported to Peenemünde. The Poles, the Czechs, the other Slavs..... and the Jews. It was a slave force, transported in its thousands to this god-forsaken northern peninsula. This place which was a technical triumph for the Germans, became a death curse for its workers.

  'Get the truck started!' said the senior administrator, a man in his early twenties called Grob Mitzer.

  One of the others, the most junior of the scientists, rushed over to the truck and started the engine. He watched the remainder of the group through the side window. They all stood around the blazing fire, some still throwing piles of documents on the pyre, others mesmerized by the leaping flames that were the final reminder of their failure.

  'Damn the politicians!' said Mitzer.

  'Damn Hitler!' said the scientist, Heinrich Spiedal, next to him.

  'No. It wasn't him, Heinrich. He did what was right for Germany. It was the others. The politicians and the Generals. The clever arses. That fat pig Goering and his kind. Those bastards let him down.'

  'He's right, Heinrich. They let him down.' It was Albert Goodenache who now joined the discussion. 'Christ, they're all running for cover now. Did you hear that Martin Boorman was seen just over the border with Russian soldiers?'

  'When?' asked Spiedal.

  'The other day. You remember that group of nurses that came through on their way to Rostock?'

  Spiedal nodded.

  'One of them saw him. Some General's daughter. She'd met him before.'

  'She said it was Boorman?'

  'So she said. And he wasn't even under guard. Just sat in the back of some staff car on his way east.'

  'I don't believe it.'

  'I'm just telling you what she said.'

  'The big wigs are O.K. But what do we do now?'

  'Start again,' said the administrator. That was Grob Mitzer's duty and his strength. At twenty one he was the architect of order amongst the unbridled enthusiasm of the young rocket scientists. His nature was to close one file and immediately open another. 'As we did after the Great War. Like the Fuhrer said, this is a thousand year war, that's all. Never forget'

  A sudden burst of gunfire in the distance rattled them into sudden activity.

  'Time to go,' said Mitzer. He turned and shouted at the others. 'Come on, everybody. Into the truck. Before it's too late. Albert, Heinrich, get in the front with me.'

  The group, startled by the ferocity of the latest explosions, ran towards the truck, their faces lit up by the blazing fire and the redness of the erupting sky.

  'That's near Swinoujscie,' someone shouted. 'They must have crossed the border.'

  'Come on, come on,' urged Mitzer. 'Let's get going.'

  He followed the group of hurrying scientists and stood behind them as they climbed into the back of the truck, an unmarked grey Army vehicle which had been used for transporting the work force to the site from their wooden slatted huts the other side of the sand dunes. There were no seats, only a slatted wooden floor on which the scientists stood, holding themselves upright on the bowed metal cross members that were supports for a canvas tarpaulin that had long since been lost.

  When the last of the group had climbed on, Mitzer swung the tailgate up and locked it into position with a metal latch.

  'Hang on tight,' he shouted. 'It's going to be a bumpy ride.' He ran round to the front and opened the driver's door, startling the young scientist he had sent on ahead to start the engine. Albert Goodenache and Heinrich Spiedal sat jammed together on the passenger side of the short wooden bench seat that stretched across the cab. 'In the back. Join the others. I'll drive. I know the way,' he shouted at the driver.

  The man started to protest, but Mitzer cut him short, reached up and pulled him out of the cab. He sprawled in the wet mud. As he started to pick himself up there was a piercing, shrilling sound followed by a booming explosion from what seemed only a few hundred metres away.

  'Hurry up, or you'll get us all killed,' yelled Mitzer, putting his hand out to help the fallen scientist. 'Come on, come on.'

  The scientist scrambled through the mud to the rear of the truck as Mitzer climbed into the cab and slammed the door.

  The engine screamed as he poured on the power, but nothing happened.

  'Damn and shit!' cried Mitzer.

  'What's wrong?' asked a frightened Albert Goodenache.

  'We're too heavy. Too much mud. Too much bloody mud.'

  Mitzer took his foot off the accelerator, swung the door open and climbed out into the mud. He rushed round to the rear of the truck.

  'Everybody out,' he shouted as he unlatched the tailgate and swung it down. 'It's too heavy in the mud. You'll have to push to get it going.'. The scientists stood there; they were men of reason and considered logic, not an instinctive breed by nature. 'Come on, get out. Do you want us all killed?' He climbed up onto the back and started to push them out; some jumped, most fell into the mud. He leapt down amongst them and started to help them to their feet. 'Push, damn you. Get behind and push. Come on, we only need to get out of this mud then we'll be on our way. Hurry, Hurry!'

  He rushed back to the cab and jumped in, put the truck back into gear and gently fed power to the engine.

  'Shall we help?' shouted Heinrich Spiedal.

  'No, stay where you are,' replied Mitzer.

  'But....'

  'Do as you're bloody told,' he ordered, then leant out of the cab and shouted back at the group. 'Push, damn you, push, push, push for everything you're worth.'

  The shrilling distant sound came again, low to start with, then building in its intensity until it exploded on the sand dunes near the experimental rocket launch tracks. As the shell deafened them, so the truck, having been rocked backwards and forwards by the small group, finally broke loose of its slippery hold and shot forward. The pushers collapsed as they lost their grip.

  Another shell exploded nearby.

  'Stop!' shouted Heinrich Spiedal. 'Wait for the others.'

  Mitzer kept his foot rammed to the floor, not wanting to lose momentum, not wanting to be clawed back into the wet soft earth under the vehicle.

  Thirty metres on he drove onto the road and safety.

  He stopped the truck to wait for the others.

  At that moment Albert Goodenache saw the silhouette of a Russian soldier lift into view across the sand dunes. Before he could shout a warning, the soldier opened fire on the small group.

  Mitzer heard the scientists calling, screaming for him to wait as they scrambled out of the mud.

  He put his foot down and drove away. The shouts of those left behind disappeared as the sounds of war enveloped them.

  The three of them never looked back at Peenemünde, the place that was to have been their shrine. The two scientists said nothing. Their cowardice and shame sat on the bench with them. They had nothing left to say to each other.

  After five minutes, Mitzer stopped to check the petrol cans tied to the back of the cab. There were four of them, containing nearly one hundred and twenty litres in total, enough to get them to Berlin. He looked back at the explosions, knew he could outrun the Russians as long as the truck kept going. He tried not to think of those he had left behind. He cli
mbed back into the truck and, without a single glance or comment to his two companions, drove off towards Wolgast and the road to Berlin.

  'We should go west, not south,' said Albert Goodenache after they had been travelling for nearly half an hour.

  'Why?' asked Mitzer.

  'Because Berlin will be lost to the Russians. If not today, then tomorrow. Peenemünde is directly north of Berlin. All their effort will be directed there. Go west, towards the Americans and the British. They're not the barbarians, the Russians are.'

  'Alright. We'll follow the country roads. Towards Hamburg. Do you agree, Heinrich?'

  The young scientist nodded. He wanted only to get back to his bride of four months, Trudi, who waited for him in Dusseldorf. To hide with her and avoid the questions that would be asked of him, of his Nazi Party membership, of his treatment of the workers he had controlled at Nordhausen and Peenemünde, of what he saw as expediency and others would see as evil.

  They drove on, through the villages of Jarmen and Demmin and the town of Gustrow. They saw few people, mostly straggling refugees who, like them, were escaping the oncoming Russian army. One group tried to stop them but Mitzer kept his foot down and almost ran them over. They skirted Gustrow and followed the road to Schwerin.

  The sounds of war were far behind them now, but visions of defeat became clear as dawn broke. The isolated groups of refugees they had passed in the dark swelled as the morning light flooded the countryside. These people had slept in the hedges and ditches for protection against the night's cold and were now striking out for the last leg towards the safety of the western allies. The country roads were filled with an army of homeless people, a sad pitiful line of Germans moving west. Many pulled handcarts piled high with their belongings, but most carried whatever they felt was worthwhile on their backs. It was a pathetic sight, a people beaten into submission, now trying to salvage whatever they could from the days when they had arrogantly set out to conquer the world. There were children everywhere, many struggling to keep up with their parents, many crying for food. A shabby, shuffling line stretching to the horizon.