THE FRONT
Episode 3: Berlin or Bust
By Craig DiLouie with David Moody and Timothy W. Long
THE FRONT
Episode 3: Berlin or Bust
©2018 by Craig DiLouie
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover designed by Eloise Knapp Design.
Published by ZING Communications, Inc.
www.CraigDiLouie.com
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CONTENTS
FALLSCHIMJÄGER RANKS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
FALLSCHIMJÄGER RANKS
MENTIONED IN THE 3RD FALLSCHIRMJÄGER (PARATROOPER) REGIMENT (3FJR)
Jäger: Private or paratrooper, derived from word, “hunter”
Oberjäger: Private first class
Gefreiter: Corporal
Feldwebel: Sergeant, commands squad
Oberfeldwebel: Master sergeant or sergeant first class, commands squad
Leutnant: Second lieutenant, commands platoon
Oberleutnant: Lieutenant, commands platoon
Hauptfeldwebel: Company sergeant major
Hauptmann: Captain, commands company
Oberst: Colonel, commands regiment
Generalmajor: Major general, commands division
PROLOGUE
NIGHTMARE
The front dissolved under the onslaught.
The great German winter offensive, involving half a million fighting men, died and rose again to fight the living. Hordes of dark figures materialized from the fog. Pickets sounded the alarm. Machine-guns rattled. The gunfire rose to a constant rolling roar. Officers shouted, Hold the line! Pour it on, boys! Keep it hot!
They had no idea what they were fighting.
The dead staggered under the gunfire, shrugged at the impacts of dozens of rounds, and kept coming. Grenades tossed them like ragdolls. They got back up smoking. As they neared their prey, they broke into a lurching jog.
Swarms overran the trenches at a dozen points. Grinning under their steel helmets, they poured through the gaps. The survivors fell back, fighting as they moved. One by one, the guns fell silent. The retreat became a rout.
The roads choked with panicked soldiers and screaming civilians. Vehicles moved at a crawl in the endless jam. The dead right behind, never tiring, never stopping. The rout became a slaughter.
At his Verdun HQ, Eisenhower and his top generals watched grainy recon films in a dead-quiet, smoke-filled room. Men running across the snowpack, the dead loping behind. A soldier firing wildly as a mob of uniformed figures brought him down. Somebody gasped at the sight of American soldiers tearing their countrymen to shreds. The screen turned white as the last film stopped.
Somebody switched on the lights. Nobody spoke for a while. The war had changed, but nobody understood what it meant.
Hitler’s desperate gamble had come close to whipping them, but the Twelfth Army Group had hung on while Montgomery and his Twenty-first Army Group still held in the north. Now this. This impossible horror. They had to stop the advancing undead at all costs before the front was lost and with it, all Europe.
Eisenhower unleashed Patton and his Third Army. Patton had three armored divisions pointed east, which he said he could swing north in two days. He promised to send the Boche to the infernal regions even if his boys had to kill them three times. Ike said that was fine, but the juggernaut had to be stopped. If not stopped, delayed long enough to organize a new line of defense at the Meuse.
Patton marshaled his divisions and got them moving. A major feat, wheeling an army of 100,000 men and heavy vehicles across narrow roads in snow, rain, and fog. Third Army covered 100 miles of ground in two days and made contact with the vanguard of the undead horde in a dismal sleet.
The tanks plunged into the shambles of a vast convoy. Abandoned tanks and five-tons, equipment and luggage. The heavy beasts shouldered aside vehicles and ground everything else to shreds beneath their shrieking treads. Soon, they were flinging shells into the trees in a constant barrage.
The undead crumpled under the withering fire. The tankers felt confident, shooting at somebody who rarely shot back. Patton pushed them forward. He held a fierce belief in the doctrine of mobile warfare. To him, territory meant nothing. Victory depended on finding the enemy and crushing him.
As his divisions struggled through sleet and mud toward Bastogne, the crowds of undead thickened into armies. They poured out of the dense forest on all sides, drove the infantry back, and covered the tanks in writhing carpets of bodies.
Patton ordered his men to push harder, resulting in a bloody battle of attrition that lasted four days before cold, exhaustion, constant losses, and depleted ammunition took their final toll. The dead didn’t sleep. They didn’t tire. After Patton’s HQ was overrun, the Americans broke and ran, leaving behind equipment and blinded tanks that became tombs after draining the last of their fuel.
Of the 100,000 men who drove north toward Bastogne, four out of ten did not return. Demoralized, isolated units streamed west. Ike rallied them at the River Meuse, where a thin green line prepared its last stand. A pell-mell of mixed units, green replacements, and rear-echelon cooks and clerks.
They had clear lanes of fire here. If the weather improved, they could finally bring their airpower to bear. Artillery officers set up killing zones with their howitzers. They dug in and waited. Here, just 100 miles from Paris, they’d hold.
They had no choice. If they didn’t, they couldn’t retreat fast enough to escape the undead tide.
Thousands of shell-shocked soldiers and civilians still crowded the roads, fleeing the undead advance. They warned the defenders the hordes were close behind, too many to count. Military police directed them to hastily thrown together field hospitals and refugee camps in Reims, Verdun, and Metz. These survivors brought infection with them.
The camps all reported outbreaks behind the American line as the first of the dead marched out of the Ardennes Forest, a gaunt SS officer in a leather greatcoat. A vast mass of half-frozen, rotting figures followed, lurching eagerly across the snowy fields toward the American trenches.
Christmas, 1944.
Along the line, the giant field guns opened fire on the horde.
CHAPTER ONE
WORK FOR VICTORY
Jäger Yohann Muller and Gefreiter Otto Steiner hauled the groaning rifleman across the tiled floor.
“Victory at all costs,” the rifleman said and vomited.
They heaved the man the last two meters until they were able to position his head over the bidet.
“Christ, Wolfgang,” Steiner said. “You vomit as accurately as you shoot.”
“Work for victory.” The rifleman coughed a stream of bile.
Muller had joined the Fallschirmjäger because they were the best, and he wanted to be the best. He’d survived the hard training and was now one of the elite paratroopers. Three months in Genoa, though, and still he hadn’t seen combat. The regiment had fought the Allies from Sicily to Cassino and stopped them there, at the Gustav Line, until the Amis flanked them. After five months of brutal fighting, the paratroopers withdrew to Genoa to lick their wounds and refit.
Now they celebrated because of the armistice, which had arrived like a second Christmas.
Just weeks ago, the situation seemed bleak. The Allies had thrown the Germans out of Africa and then Sicily, rolling up the Italian peninsula until stopped first at the Gustav Line and then at the Green Line farther north. The enemy had landed in Normandy and pushed across France almost to the German border. In the East, the Russian juggernaut swept through the Balkans.
One disaster after another. Hell, the way Muller’s comrades told it, it had stopped being a real war. They were fighting just to survive.
Still, he had joined the Army to do his part. Germany was his nation, right or wrong, and he would fight to stop foreigners from invading it.
Back home, everybody except the diehards knew Germany had lost the war. The better the propaganda became, the worse everything got. All the while, Adolf Hitler promised experimental super weapons that would deliver victory, though few believed him. The Führer’s aura of strength and genius had faded. The Leader no longer trusted the Army, and word had it he’d lost his mind.
But he’d done it. Operation Autumn Mist. An all-or-nothing gamble in the Ardennes Forest. Half a million men in the assault. For the past few weeks, the Wehrmachtbericht, the daily State Radio broadcast about the military situation, buzzed with the great victory and promised an end to the war. Muller wouldn’t have believed that either if it weren’t for the Avro Lancasters.
Due to Genoa’s importance as a port, the English had pounded it from the start of the war. Planes and naval guns had flattened one out of three buildings. Early this morning, the air raid sirens wailed. English bombers roared again over the Ligurian Sea, and Genoa girded itself for another pounding. Instead of bombs, papers rained from the sky, announcing a unilateral ceasefire.
While overjoyed that Germany had triumphed, Muller worried he might never see combat. He might have missed the war and the chance to prove himself to his comrades. He’d begun to wonder if he’d enlisted for Germany or for his own personal reasons. Not that it mattered, as he would have been drafted anyway.
Wolfgang retched into the bidet. The door opened, flooding the room with the piercing notes of the swing band out in the dance hall. Oberjäger Erich Schulte entered and wrinkled his nose at the smell.
“Delightful,” the sniper sighed. “Just delightful.”
Schulte marched to the mirror and inspected his appearance. Probably touching up before making his move on some local girl. The squad constantly ribbed the handsome soldier for being a ladies’ man.
“Your appearance doesn’t matter if you’re paying for it,” Steiner said.
“That kind of thinking is why you’re always paying for it, Otto,” Schulte said as he combed his hair into a neat side part. “And while you’re paying for it tonight, I’ll be bedding a sexy taxi dancer.”
“And here all this time I thought your scoped rifle was your girlfriend.”
Schulte laughed.
Steiner said, “She’s probably a partisan, you know.”
“Not after I’m done with her.” The sniper sauntered out the door.
“It’s all the same,” Steiner shouted after him. “You pay no matter what.” The lance corporal shook his head. “That asshole thinks he’s better than everybody.”
Muller agreed, but had learned to keep his mouth shut. The veterans were fiercely loyal to each other even as they squabbled.
He patted the rifleman’s back. “You all right, Wolfgang?”
“God is with us,” the man mumbled and passed out.
“Give me a hand,” Steiner said. They hauled him into a corner and left him. “Makes you wonder.”
“What does?” Muller asked the machine-gunner.
“These idiots, that’s what. War made them hardened killers, but peace turns them into raging beasts. When they aren’t fighting, they become insatiable for alcohol, food, and tits. I hope we get back in the fight before we sack the city. It’s a beautiful city, and I’d hate to see it burn to the ground.”
The soldier pushed the door open, and they returned to the crowded dance hall. Soldiers caught sight of the Fallschirmjäger patches on their sleeves and stepped aside. Along with the mountain troops, the paratroopers were the most elite infantry in the Wehrmacht, or German Army. But Muller didn’t feel like a real Fallschirmjäger, not yet.
“Do you think there will be more fighting?” Muller said.
“We haven’t beaten the commies yet, Yohann.”
They rejoined their table. The paratroopers grinned at them, eyes bleary. Muller sat next to Oberfeldwebel Jurgen Wolff, his squad leader. The thickset veteran brooded over his glass of beer. When he raised it for a drink, Muller spotted the puckered scar on the back of his hairy hand. He suspected the master sergeant had more scars than that, both on the outside and inside. The man wore four wound badges on his chest, the Iron Cross at his throat.
“How goes it, Herr Oberfeldwebel?” Muller said.
Wolff finished stuffing his pipe with Turkish tobacco and lit it. “Tired.”
Tired of it all, sounded like. Muller envied him his world-weariness. The things he’d seen. The ordeals he’d suffered and survived. Wolff was alte hasen, one of the “old hares,” the veterans who’d survived the horrors of the front line. He’d seen it all, and it had shaped him.
“Do you think it’s over? The armistice?”
The sergeant exhaled a puff of smoke. “There’s still Ivan.”
“At least we’re not fighting the whole world anymore,” Oberjäger Weber said, the soldier everybody called Kugelfest. Bullet-proof.
Muller had heard the stories. Believing Hitler watched over him, Weber often charged enemy positions under withering fire, but had never even gotten a scratch.
“Tsk, tsk, comrade,” Steiner corrected. “You forgot we’ve still got the Macaronis on our side.”
The paratroopers smirked at the joke that told itself. The Italian Royal Army was famous in the German ranks for running away in battle. A bitter joke, as they ran precisely when needed most. Now the joke was growing old as it wasn’t quite true anymore; the southern half of Italy had declared itself for the Allies.
“Have you fought the commies, Herr Oberfeldwebel?” Muller asked.
The sergeant nodded. “At Orel.”
“I wish I’d been there.”
“Careful what you wish. It was hell on earth. Now we might be going back. Last time, the Ivans killed most of my squad.”
“Were you an oberfeldwebel then?”
“No, I was a green recruit like you.”
“Ah, scheisse.” Shit. Steiner nudged Wolff. “SS, Herr Oberfeldwebel.”
A squad of Waffen-SS panzergrenadiers had entered the dance hall. They looked down their noses at everybody before finding a table for themselves.
“Pricks,” Wolff growled.
“Psychos,” Steiner agreed. “But they’re our psychos.”
Muller eyed the Waffen-SS panzergrenadiers, who stiffly shed their green wool coats around a table they’d confiscated from some artillerymen. The Führer did
n’t trust the Wehrmacht anymore, so he’d built up a shadow military called the Waffen-Schutzstaffel (SS, or ϟϟ in Armanen runes) or armed protection squadron. The state media constantly trumpeted the great fighting abilities and triumphs of the SS, most of which Muller had no doubt were fabricated.
He’d heard that over the summer, a combat group from the Sixteenth Waffen-SS Division had fought the Americans at Anzio and later destroyed the Red Star Brigade, an Italian partisan force. Which was well done except for the rumored massacre of a thousand civilians in Tuscany. What kind of animals would do that? Murder, torture—no act was too brutal for the SS in service to the Fatherland.
The paratroopers prided themselves on their chivalry. They didn’t abuse civilians or prisoners. Muller was glad for it. Back home, the propaganda portrayed the war as a very romantic and sanitary affair. The soldiers told a different story, that it had reached an unprecedented level of savagery. Muller hadn’t had any romantic illusions, particularly after seeing Berlin bombed, but also had no desire to shoot non-combatants. He wanted to survive the war with his moral self intact.
Steiner said, “Uh-oh, here comes one of the ass—heil Hitler, comrade!”
“Heil Hitler,” the soldier said, raising his hand in a lazy salute. “Leutnant Ludwig Fuchs, Sixteenth Panzergrenadiers, at your service. Always a pleasure to meet Fallschirmjäger. You are the Reich’s greatest heroes.”
The Reich. The Nazi empire that was supposed to endure a thousand years.
Wolff fixed him with a cryptic stare. “Your unit is also well-known.”
“We must compare notes sometime. I feel we have much to teach each other. Such as where my comrades and I can find company this evening. We’ve only just arrived in Genoa. I thought you would make a suggestion.”
“I know just the place, Herr Leutnant,” said Steiner.
“A clean establishment,” the Waffen-SS officer added.
“Ja, it’s—”
“With a fair price.”
The Front (Book 3): Berlin or Bust Page 1