“I said troops are on the way from Poland, Den . . .”
Hoffman waved him silent. “I heard all that! I’m not deaf. How goddamn many troops?”
“Our intelligence says that to send less than five divisions would be useless.”
“Five divisions!” Hoffman yelled, his face paling. “Five fucking divisions?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hoffman cleared his throat, composed himself and sat down, smoothing his hair with his hands. “We are talking of full combat divisions.”
“Yes, sir. That is what intelligence thinks.”
“That would be approximately one hundred thousand men. Why then, is Germany sending such a token force?”
“Intelligence thinks they are only an advance team, sir.”
“Yes. Yes. That makes sense. Now I want you to leave me. I must think.”
The aide left. Happy to do so.
Hoffman leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. So, he thought. We are once more fighting the world, as Hitler—God rest his glorious soul—did so many years ago. They are fools to fight us. Fools! This plan that I am now carrying out was fully planned years before I was born. Victory was assured me by the very blood that runs through my veins. I cannot fail. That is not only unthinkable, it is impossible.
He thought for a long time, wrote out a message, then rose and walked to his communications building. “Order all commanders to halt their advance immediately. We must prepare for a major assault against us.” He handed the message to the radioman. “This will explain everything. Send this in code to all commanders. Immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
Corrie sat for a moment, trying to make some sense out of the communique just radioed to her from communications central. It just didn’t make any sense. Finally, she handed her headset to another Rebel and walked into Ben’s office, a room just off what had once been a den in the old home.
“Makes no sense, General,” she said.
Ben rubbed eyes weary from hours of staring at maps. “What doesn’t, Corrie?”
“We just decoded this. Hoffman has ordered an immediate halt to all advances. He has instructed his troops to prepare for a major counteroffensive by the Rebels.”
Ben looked at her for a few seconds, then shook his head in confusion and disbelief. “Would you repeat that, Corrie.”
“‘Rebels being reenforced by five divisions of troops unfriendly to our goals. Preparing to launch major counteroffensive against us on all fronts. Stand or die. Heil Hitler.’ It’s from the headquarters of Field Marshal Jesus Hoffman.”
“Do they know something we don’t, Corrie?”
She shrugged her shoulders as the rest of Ben’s team gathered around. “Do you suppose Ike or some of the other commanders sent out false information?”
“Not without first clearing it with me. I do not understand this at all.”
“All our batt coms are requesting orders,” Corrie said. “What do I tell them?”
Ben leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Tell them to mount up. We attack!”
THIRTEEN
The Rebels punched at Hoffman’s lines from all directions, using mortars, rockets, and light arms. Every Rebel who could carry a rifle took part. It was hit hard and run like hell. They didn’t really inflict a lot of physical damage, since the majority of Rebels had moved north of I-20, but the psychological effects on the Black-shirts was significant.
“We have repulsed the first wave!” Generals Schleyer, Maihofer, and Schmidt proudly radioed to Hoffman. “Our casualties are very light.”
But General von Hanstein wasn’t buying any of it. He didn’t believe Ben had five divisions coming to his aid. He didn’t believe there were five solid divisions of troops anywhere in the world except for the troops they were already fighting.
He sent a patrol north of his position to check it out. They reported seeing only very small bands of Rebels. They guessed they were Rebels—they couldn’t be sure since those they spotted were in no regular uniform. None of those they saw showed any inclination to stand and fight. They requested permission to pursue and engage.
“Negative,” General von Hanstein quickly nixed that. “Return to base.” He got Field Marshall Hoffman’s HQ. “This is a ruse, sir,” he informed Hoffman. “I don’t know what Raines is doing, but he does not have five divisions of additional troops. It’s some sort of trick.”
“Nonsense!” Hoffman snapped. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that our intelligence is the finest in the world. They have been on top of this situation since the first transmission. You are wrong, General von Hanstein.”
Von Hanstein held his temper and his tongue. He had always been of the opinion that Field Marshal Hoffman’s intelligence people would have difficulty finding their own asses with both hands and a seeing eye dog. But he knew better than to argue with Hoffman.
“Yes, sir,” von Hanstein said. “As you say, sir.” Von Hanstein walked outside and stood for a moment. “Ben Raines is up to something,” he muttered. “I know you’re up to something, Ben Raines. But what?”
Ben didn’t know himself until he stood facing a map. Then he started smiling.
“We’re in trouble,” Cooper whispered to Jersey. “The general’s grinning.”
Ben turned around. He smiled at his team. “I have a plan,” he said, then started laughing.
“GSG 9 people are in camp,” Corrie said. “And Ike’s on the horn and he’s hot.”
“Go, Shark,” Ben keyed the mic.
“Goddamnit, Eagle!” Ike roared. “You’re supposed to be north of I-20 by now.”
“GSG 9 people rolling up, sir,” Jersey called, looking out the window. “They look pretty damn tough to me.”
“They are,” Ben said. “Shark, we’re been delayed some. We’ll be packed and on the road within the hour. That’s a promise.” Ben was careful not to tell him in what direction they’d be heading, however.
“That’s good, Eagle,” Ike said. “General von Hanstein is not fifteen miles from your location.”
Ben grinned. “That is a fact, Ike. Yes, indeed. That is a fact. Eagle out.” He stepped outside and shook hands with a smiling Colonel Lenz of the German GSG 9.
The two men spoke for a moment and Colonel Lenz laughed. “Everyone said you had more than your share of courage, General Raines,” he said. “This proves them correct. It’s a fine plan. Let’s do it.”
“You’ve got some memorizing to do, Colonel,” Ben said. “We’d best get to it.”
A half hour later, Ben gathered his team around him and laid it all out. There was just about one minute of silence after Ben had told them what they were going to do. Jersey finally found her voice and summed up the feelings of everyone present. “Holy shit!”
Von Hanstein finally but reluctantly followed orders and prepared for an offensive from the Rebels, spreading his people out along a line east to west. The easternmost units were side by side with men of the Fifth Division, the westernmost units talking with personnel from Hoffman’s First Division. Ben and his Rebels, and Colonel Lenz and his GSG 9 men, all of them now dressed in seized Blackshirt uniforms, with Lenz spearheading, headed south and just drove right up to the first checkpoint on Highway 67 and stopped.
“You there!” Colonel Lenz barked at a guard. “We’re from General Schleyer’s Eighth. We’re trying to get to Field Marshal Hoffman’s HQ, with a personal message from General Schleyer and this idiot driver of mine took the wrong road. Can you help us?”
“Certainly, sir,” the guard said. “Just stay on this road for about twenty more miles. You’ll come to Highway 87. Turn west and you’ll run right into the field marshal’s HQ. Have you seen any Rebels, sir?”
“We’ve seen nothing. I think it’s a ruse and so does General Schleyer. But . . .” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “We are only soldiers, hey. What can we do?”
“Yes, sir,” the sentry said with a grin. “I imagine General von Hanstein would be g
lad to talk to you. He shares your views about this so-called assault. His CP is only a mile past the intersection. He’s pretty thin down there. All our troops have been deployed along this line.”
“Certainly, we shall speak with him,” Lenz said. “Do call the General and advise him we are on the way.”
The sentry waved them on through. “Heil Hitler!” he stiff-armed.
Lenz forced a smile, returned the stiff-armed salute, and mouthed the hated words. Then he spat out the window. “Up yours, asshole,” he muttered, when they were past the checkpoint. He grinned at his driver. “He’d probably shit on himself if he knew he’d been standing this close to a Jew, Zuckerman.”
Zuckerman then proceeded to heap some highly uncomplimentary remarks on the heads of the Blackshirts and Lenz laughed aloud. Down the road, the convoy pulled over and he ran back to Ben’s vehicle, an armored car seized from one of many Rebel ambushes of Blackshirts. “That’s the hard part,” he told Ben. “Von Hanstein will have fresh coffee and cake waiting for us.”
“I can’t believe that sentry didn’t smell a rat,” Ben said. “We’re not exactly a small force.”
“I must admit, I was a bit apprehensive. You ready?”
“Let’s do it.”
Lenz chuckled. “If we pull this off, it’ll send this Hoffman bastard spinning right through the ceiling.”
Von Hanstein stood for a moment after receiving the message from the checkpoint. Something bothered him about this. Why did this officer take the northern route instead of the much safer southern route? “Oh, well,” he finally muttered. “Make fresh coffee, Carlos,” he told a Blackshirt. “Company is on the way from Schleyer’s Eighth.”
The sergeant paused and narrowed his eyes. “From a hundred and twenty five miles east of us, sir?” he questioned. “At this time of high alert?”
“Odd, isn’t it, Carlos?” von Hanstein said softly. “Ah! I have it. The party must have set out long before the alert. That’s it.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure that’s it.” But the sergeant was far from convinced as he set about making fresh coffee and laying out cookies and small pastries. Something about this just didn’t feel right to him. His duties done, he checked his sidearm and made certain his rifle was close at hand.
Carlos looked outside. Not enough men, he thought. The camp is nearly deserted. General Raines is crazy enough to do something this daring . . . Bah! He shook his head and pushed those thoughts from him. The guards at the checkpoint would not have allowed the convoy through if anything had seemed out of the ordinary. You’re letting your imagination run away with you, he silently admonished himself.
“Sergeant Rogillo!” the voice broke into his thoughts.
Carlos looked up. “Sir?” he said to a lieutenant.
“Daydreaming, Sergeant?” the lieutenant asked, a smile on his lips.
“I . . . ah, guess so, Lieutenant,” Carlos admitted, red-faced.
“That’s not like you. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, sir. Nothing at all.”
“Be alert then. We don’t want a bad report going back to General Schleyer, now, do we?”
“No, sir.” On this last day of his life, Carlos busied himself setting out cups and saucers.
General von Hanstein sat in his office, behind his field desk and drummed his fingertips on the wood. He again read the message. Odd that the officer did not give his name. Perhaps he should give General Schleyer a call? He opened his mouth to call for an aide, then sighed and shut his mouth. What was he thinking of? Schleyer would think him a fool!
He rose and walked into his communications room. “Have there been any further attacks from the Rebels? Anywhere along the front?”
“Just a few skirmishes, sir. Nothing of any significance.”
Something is wrong, von Hanstein thought, returning to his office. Something is very, very wrong.
Sergeant Carlos Rogillo had gone to communications and spoken with the guard at the checkpoint. The guard had been very indignant. Of course, he was certain the men were from the Eighth. He’d recognized Sergeants Zimmerman and Rozas. And the colonel was SS.
SS, Carlos mulled that around. SS? No way. Why would an SS colonel be acting as a messenger boy? Those turds thought themselves to be above such mundane tasks. Especially a colonel. Carlos felt eyes on him and turned, looking at Major Schlosser, looking at him.
“What’s the matter with you, Sergeant?” the major asked. “Your behavior is quite odd.”
“I . . .” The sounds of approaching vehicles cut off his reply.
Major Schlosser waved him silent.
General von Hanstein stepped out of his office, straightening his tunic.
“SS troops, sir,” Lieutenant Bachman said. “A lot of SS troops.”
“SS?” von Hanstein said. “That explains a few things. Those arrogant bastards think they’re invincible. That’s why they took the northern route. Showboating. Do you recognize any of them, Hans?”
Hans Bachman peered out the freshly cleaned window of the old farmhouse. He shook his head. “I . . . I’m not sure. I think I know this colonel, sir. I mean, I’ve seen him around.”
“Show them in,” von Hanstein said, then walked back into his office. “Bring them to me.” He’d be damned if he’d grovel to a colonel, even if he was one of those goddamned SS people.
Boots sounded on the porch.
Sergeant Carlos Rogillo opened the front door for Major Schlosser to greet the visiting troops. The major stepped out, smiling. Carlos stepped to one side and looked around the Major. There were women in this group. That’s odd, he thought. The SS did have women in its ranks, but they were usually office personnel. The colonel and his senior officers were probably making a lark of this trip, carrying their personal cunts along with them. That’s usually what those perverted SS females were used for. All of them were twisted in some deviant manner. Carlos looked for a familiar face. He knew Sergeant Zimmerman. He couldn’t find him in the milling crowd. Odd, the SS troops seemed to be taking up a loose defensive position. Paranoid bunch of bastards.
Carlos turned around and walked to his desk, automatically straightening his uniform. Like most regular troops, he was slightly afraid of the SS. They just were not normal people.
“Good afternoon, Colonel,” Major Schlosser said. “Please come in. You must be tired. After you’ve freshened up, we have coffee and cake.”
“Danke, Colonel,” Lenz said with a smile.
Schlosser stepped to one side. The man behind the colonel seemed somehow familiar to him. Tall, with a lot of gray in his hair. Hard mean eyes, too. Old for a major. Probably fifty. The man stared directly at him and Schlosser was suddenly very uncomfortable under the hard gaze.
He was only seconds away from becoming a whole lot more uncomfortable. For a very brief period of time.
Colonel Lenz and Ben Raines stepped past Schlosser and entered the command post.
General von Hanstein looked up from his desk, stared at the tall major, and felt the blood drain from his face. “That’s Ben Raines!” he screamed.
Jersey gave Major Schlosser a burst in the belly from her H&K and the slugs knocked the major backward. Sergeant Carlos Rogillo grabbed for his pistol and Major Dietl shot him through the heart. Carlos fell across the pastry table and died with his face on a cookie platter.
General von Hanstein felt the muzzle of a .45 not too gently touch the side of his face. He cut his eyes and stared into the face of Ben Raines.
“Welcome to Texas,” Ben said. “You asshole!”
FOURTEEN
The battle for the headquarters of General von Hanstein was very short and very brutal. The Rebels and the GSG 9 men took only a few prisoners, General von Hanstein among them. The Rebels and the GSG 9 personnel gathered up all the weapons, ammo, and food, loaded up the beds of trucks, and took off, heading south. The radio operator had been killed in the first burst of gunfire, so it was doubtful he managed to get off any messages . . . but Ben wa
sn’t going to take any chances.
“We’d never make it by heading north,” he told Colonel Lenz. “So we head south and cut east once past Austin, then cut north once we’re clear of Schleyer’s Eighth Division lines. I’ve marked maps in case we get separated.”
“And if we meet enemy long the way?” Colonel Lenz inquired, a hard glint in his eyes. The commander of the German troops liked the way Ben Raines fought a war.
Ben smiled. “Why . . . I guess we’ll just have to engage them, won’t we?”
The two men laughed, shook hands, and ran to their vehicles.
General von Hanstein, trussed up like a pig, lay in the bed of a deuce and a half. He glowered at everyone who came near him, and refused to speak a word.
“They’ve discovered the camp,” Corrie told Ben, monitoring on a Blackshirt radio. “Hoffman’s ordered a full-scale search underway immediately. He’s ordered planes up.”
“Head straight for the ruins of San Antonio,” Ben said. “They’ll never expect us to do that. We can’t make it tonight, but we can make this state park a few miles down the road and camouflage the vehicles. The roads are in too bad a shape to try running at night without lights. Step on it, Coop.”
The convoy made the old overgrown state park, hurriedly camouflaged their trucks and armored cars, and settled in for a very tense night.
“Do we bump Therm and tell him where we are?” Corrie asked.
“Negative. No transmissions of any kind. No fires, no smoking. Cold camp. We just sit tight and silent.”
“Ike is going to be screaming and climbing the walls,” Corrie reminded Ben.
“Good,” Ben said, opening a field ration packet and smelling it before tasting it. “Maybe he’ll lose some weight.”
Ike McGowan wasn’t the only one screaming and climbing the walls. Field Marshal Hoffman was having a temper tantrum. Hitler would have been proud. Between violent fits of temper, which included breaking glasses, cups, and one very old bottle of brandy, Hoffman ordered a replacement commanding general in to take over von Hanstein’s division, a massive air and land search underway, the sentry who let the Rebels and the GSG 9 men through put up against a wall and shot, and then a bottle of aspirin and two tranquilizers. When he finally managed to calm down, he called a meeting of his staff officers. None of whom were looking forward to the meeting.
Battle in the Ashes Page 12