Echo of the Reich (32 page)

“If there was so much military activity in this area,” Bronson said, “there should still be some signs of it, some buildings or whatever left standing, maybe.”

“Could be,” Angela replied. “We’ll soon find out. That must be Walbrzych right in front of us, so we’re getting close.”

The town was busy, the pavements thronged with pedestrians and the roads crowded with cars and vans, pickup trucks and buses. The BMW’s satnav took them through a part of the city named Stary Zdrój, avoiding the town center, which would presumably have been even busier.

Once clear of the built-up area, they continued southeast, through the villages of Jedlina-Zdrój and Gluszyca, leaving most signs of habitation behind and cutting deep into the Polish countryside. In this part of Poland, the road ran very close to the border with the Czech Republic, for some distance almost paralleling it less than a mile away, before turning due east as it approached Ludwikowice K³odzkie.

This road was narrower and much more serpentine than they’d experienced before, and even the satnav seemed to be having trouble because many of the tiny villages, most of them little more than hamlets containing a handful of houses, weren’t present in its database. But
at least the compass incorporated in the unit told them which direction they were heading.

“We’re here,” Angela said, pointing to a sign on the right-hand side of the road that showed that they’d just entered Ludwikowice.

“Glad to hear it,” Bronson replied. “So now where do we go?”

“I’ve got no idea. The underground facility is somewhere near here, and that’s absolutely all I know. With a bit of luck, there might be a sign somewhere, or maybe we might even see the Henge.”

“The what?” Bronson asked.

“The Henge. It’s also known as the Flytrap, and it’s a kind of circular reinforced concrete cage. There’s a theory that it was used by the Nazis as a test facility for some sort of circular craft.”

Bronson smiled at her. “You mean they were building flying saucers?”

She shrugged. “Nobody knows. They were certainly pushing the boundaries toward the end of the war, but I doubt if they’d managed to push them that far. And there is another explanation—a rather more mundane and plausible one—for the Henge.”

“And that is?”

“I’ll tell you when we’ve found it,” Angela said.

Ludwikowice appeared to be a small but surprisingly long village, with buildings extending along both sides of a narrow road that didn’t really seem to go anywhere. It looked as if somebody had built a house there years earlier, and then others had simply followed suit, the village growing in a haphazard and linear fashion.

They followed the main street, both of them looking down the infrequent side roads that appeared to lead up into the tree-covered slopes surrounding Ludwikowice, hoping for a road sign or some other indication that might point them in the right direction. But nothing looked particularly hopeful, and after almost two kilometers Bronson drove the BMW past a second sign that marked the far end of the village. He pulled the car to a stop by the side of the road and glanced across at Angela.

“The satnav isn’t a lot of help to us now,” he said, changing the scale on the map that was displayed on the screen. “Most of the roads that we passed in the village don’t even seem to be marked, and there aren’t any junctions shown on this road either, or at least, not for a few kilometers. Do you think we should go back and try one of the side turnings in the village?”

“I think what we need to do first is find somewhere to stay tonight,” she said. “It’s starting to get dark, and even if we did locate the road to the underground complex, it’s too late to explore it today. But it’s probably a good idea to go back and check those side turnings once more, just in case we see something that helps when we approach the village from this direction.”

Bronson checked the road in both directions, then swung the car round and headed slowly back into Ludwikowice. But once again, neither Bronson nor Angela saw any signs that helped them, nothing that seemed to indicate where they might find the complex. At the end of the village, he turned the car round again and headed back through toward the east.

“You are sure it’s here?” Bronson asked. “I mean, it’s
not somewhere miles up in the hills and it was just named after the village because that was the closest inhabited location?”

Angela nodded. “It’s here. The Nazis needed road access to deliver concentration camp workers to the site, plus all of the mechanical equipment and explosives they used to extend the passageways. And there was even a railway line from the complex to the nearest airfield.”

Bronson pulled the car to a stop and looked again at the screen of the satnav.

“There’s a railway line marked on this,” he said, pointing at an area to the north of the village, where a black-and-white dotted line was shown, running almost parallel with part of the road. “Even if the complex was served by a spur from an existing railway line, we can be pretty certain that the underground facility had to be somewhere near that line; otherwise they’d never have bothered providing rail access. So that at least narrows the search area.”

They set off again, driving slowly back through the village, this time looking out of the windows to their left. Yet again they reached the end of the village without spotting anything that seemed helpful.

“This is hopeless,” Angela said. “We’ll just have to come back in the morning.”

“Do you know much about road construction?” Bronson asked. “Have you ever noticed a difference between the two inside lanes and the outside overtaking lane of a motorway?”

Angela stared at him.

“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then let me tell you a story. Sometimes on motorways you can see two grooves on each of the inside carriageways. They mark the track followed by articulated lorries and heavy goods vehicles, which use only those lanes, where the weight of the vehicle has actually compressed the tarmac very slightly. Because HGVs don’t drive in the outside lane, you don’t see the same pattern of use there.”

Angela didn’t respond, just continued to stare at Bronson, but her growing irritation was only too apparent.

“Now, what you’ve told me about this underground complex the Nazis built suggests they probably had a fair amount of vehicular traffic, a lot of it no doubt heavy lorries. They obviously wouldn’t have built a multi-lane highway to get from the village to the complex, because that would have taken too long and might also have been spotted from the air by Allied reconnaissance aircraft. So they would have constructed a single-track road.”

“If you don’t get to the point pretty damned sharpish, Chris,” Angela snapped, “I’m not necessarily going to be responsible for my actions.”

“I have, sort of,” Bronson replied. “The point is that tarmac is a very good building material for roads. You can pour it continuously, which means no joins, and it gives a very smooth surface. But it has problems. It can be attacked by hydrocarbons—especially petrol, diesel and motor oil—and the surface is fairly soft. The last thing the Nazis would have been concerned about was the quality of the ride on the road up to the complex. So they wouldn’t have built the access road with a tarmac surface. They would have used concrete, because it’s a whole lot
tougher, much easier to lay because they can do it in convenient-sized chunks, and it won’t soften in sunlight or be affected by chemical compounds. About the only thing that does damage concrete surfaces is freezing, if there are gaps that water can get inside and then expand when it freezes. That can crack off chunks of concrete, but if it’s laid properly in the first place it’s not a problem. And that’s why you normally find that runways and taxiways on airfields are constructed from reinforced concrete.”

“So?”

“So two of the access roads that we’ve just passed aren’t surfaced in asphalt like all the others. They’re built from concrete, and to me they look old.”

Angela snapped her head round and looked back toward the village they’d just driven through.

“You could have given me the short version,” she said. “Which side of the road were they on?”

“The north side, where the railway line is. As far as I could see they were the only two in the area, and I reckon they’re definitely worth a bit of investigation.”

“I agree. We’ll come back here in the morning, and see what we can find in daylight. But we also need to buy some torches and other stuff before we start trying to crowbar our way inside that mountain.”

Angela paused and looked at Bronson for a few seconds.

“Occasionally, Chris,” she said eventually, “you surprise me.”

26 July 2012

Finding a hotel in the nearby town of Nowa Ruda didn’t prove to be a problem, and they picked a small establishment tucked away in a side street, where Bronson hoped nobody would spot the stolen plates on the stolen BMW. The following morning they had a large breakfast in the hotel dining room to set them up for the day, then climbed back into the car and headed north, through the suburbs of Drogoslaw, and the completely unpronounceable Zdrojowisko.

Bronson stopped in a garage on the outskirts of Nowa Ruda and topped up the tank of the BMW. The garage’s kiosk was well stocked, and as well as fuel he bought enough packet food and drink to last for two or three days, plus half a dozen flashlights and plenty of spare batteries, and a couple of sets of disposable mechanic’s overalls. Lying on a dusty shelf at the back of the garage shop, he also found a guidebook for the area. It was written in
Polish and German, and had been published about fifteen years earlier. He wasn’t sure exactly how much use it would be to them, but he decided to buy it anyway.

When he got back in the car, he passed the book to Angela, who began looking at the text and having a stab at translating some of the German with the aid of a small dictionary she took out of her handbag. After a few minutes she closed the book and leaned back in her seat.

“There’s a map in it but it isn’t a lot of use,” she said. “I don’t think it’s to scale, and there’s very little detail on it, but there is some information about the underground complex. Apparently some of the tunnels are now owned by private individuals, and one or two are even open to the public.”

“I doubt very much if those tunnels are what we’re looking for,” Bronson said.

“True enough. According to the documents I’ve looked at, the entrances to the area where the Bell had been installed were blown up by explosive charges when the complex was abandoned. But it’s a huge complex, covering almost thirty-five square kilometers, and I’ve no doubt that there are dozens or even hundreds of tunnels and chambers in it that are still completely unexplored.”

A few minutes later, Bronson flicked on the turn signal and turned the car off Ludwikowice’s long main street and onto the first of the concrete roads he’d spotted the previous afternoon.

“Here we go then,” he said.

The road was fairly narrow, perhaps eight or nine feet wide, and made up of a series of single concrete elements, each of them about six feet long. The car’s wheels made
a rhythmic thumping sound as they crossed the joints between the blocks.

“The surface isn’t in bad condition,” Bronson remarked, “bearing in mind it’s probably been here for over sixty years.”

The road climbed slowly away from the village, the slope gradual as it wound its serpentine way into the hills, and Ludwikowice quickly disappeared from view behind the car. Bronson kept the speed right down, ever conscious of the possibility of hitting a broken block or fallen tree.

Part of the way up the slope, and about six hundred yards from the main road, he drew the car to a stop and pointed.

“I was right,” he said, pointing ahead through the windscreen. “This road was definitely built by the military. That looks to me like an ammunition bunker.”

On one side of the road a spur led to a massive round-topped concrete structure built into the tree-covered hillside. The entrance, obviously originally protected by a heavy steel door, was wide-open, the surrounding concrete discolored and heavily overgrown as nature slowly and inexorably reclaimed the land.

“It’s pretty creepy,” Angela said, staring into the black oblong of the open doorway. “I’m kind of half-expecting to see a Nazi soldier walking out of there any minute.”

They continued a little further up the hill, but it was soon clear to both of them that wherever the Henge they were looking for was located, they were nowhere near it. All they found were low-lying structures made of reinforced concrete and in good general condition, apparently further storage facilities, dug into the ground.

“In the photographs I’ve seen of it,” Angela pointed out, “it looks as if it’s built on a plateau, or at least on a patch of level ground.” She gazed out through the windscreen at the tree-covered slope in front of the car. “There’s no sign of anything like that here, unless the Nazis lopped off the top of the hill.”

Bronson nodded.

“I think you’re right. Let’s head back down to the village and try the other concrete road.”

Ten minutes later, with a distinct sense of déjà vu, Bronson slipped the car into first gear and again began climbing up the concrete slope of the hill, this time on the opposite side to the road that had terminated near what he’d supposed were ammunition bunkers. Almost as soon as they left the main road, the trees crowded in, the green canopy almost meeting above the road, shutting out the daylight.

Angela had opened up the guidebook again, and was looking at one particular section of it, which dealt with the German occupation of the area.

“I don’t know if it’s relevant,” she said, “but there’s a passage here which refers to a building erected in this area during the Second World War—if I’m translating the German correctly, that is—but it’s obviously not the Henge. It’s described as the
Fabrica
, which I think means ‘factory.’ There’s a picture of it as well, and it just looks like that—like a factory, I mean—the walls still standing but the roof collapsed. Maybe it was bombed by the Allies.”