The Front (Book 3): Berlin or Bust

by DiLouie, Craig

  “Christ!” Steiner yelled.

  Even while deeply shocked by what he’d just witnessed, Wolff was impressed. He couldn’t hit a Sherman tank from five meters with his Luger. The lieutenant was a dead-eye shot.

  The squad stiffened to fearful attention as Hauptmann Werner stomped onto the scene and took in the two dead men.

  The company commander said, “Leutnant, lead your men onto your planes.”

  Reiser holstered his smoking pistol and clicked his heels. “Zu befehl, Herr Hauptmann!” By your command, Captain!

  The Stukas fell out of the sky to plunge into a screaming dive. Tons of blasted dirt sprayed above SS positions. An Sd Kfz armored special purpose vehicle fireballed into the air and crashed back down in a flaming wreck.

  The paratroopers didn’t need orders to move. They shouldered their kit and rushed to board the planes as machine-gun tracers flashed in the distance. Wolff climbed into the door aft of the wing and buckled himself in along with seventeen other troopers. The cabin smelled like sweat and old canvas.

  Reiser screamed at the terrified pilots. “Get us in the air now!”

  The lieutenant staggered as the plane lurched forward. The propeller hum raised in pitch as it built up speed. A bullet cracked off the fuselage with a loud ricochet that made the men flinch. Muller prayed out loud.

  Wolff brooded as the plane lunged into the air and veered north toward the Alps. The Allies capitulating, the hasty transfer to England, previously unthinkable fighting between SS and Luftwaffe units. None of it added up.

  Somebody was lying to him.

  It wouldn’t be the first, but this time, the stakes possibly involved treason.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE MEUSE

  Muller stopped praying, though he kept his hands clasped in front of his chest just in case he needed to make a quick return.

  The Ju-52 shot up four meters per second until it reached its cruising altitude of 5,000 meters. There, the three-engine plane bounced on air pockets, its windows offering a glimpse of the other transports falling into formation before they entered a gray cloudbank.

  The Luftwaffe and the SS were fighting each other. It didn’t matter who was right or wrong. The SS was the military arm of the Nazi Party, which ran everything. Along with his comrades, Muller would likely be branded a traitor.

  Traitors were shot, no questions asked.

  He wanted to know why, but the paratroopers knew as much as he did, which was to say, nothing. The whole world, it seemed, was dachshaden.

  Home now felt farther away than ever.

  He’d grown up in Berlin during the hard times, the hungry times. One of three men out of work. Everything cost too much to afford. An egg was 300 marks, a pound of coffee 30,000. His father relied on barter to scrape a living. Political parties fought in the streets. Everybody criticized the government, which had sold out the country to France and England. The communists burned the Reichstag. Muller grew up understanding the world was topsy-turvy, everybody was against Germany, and Germany needed to defend itself.

  Then things got better. No more socialist marches under their red banners, no more street fights. Men found work, including his father, who joined the Nazi Party and took a job at a ministry. After his Jewish best friend disappeared without a word, leaving young Muller to believe the boy’s parents had uprooted, he made new friends during his compulsory stint in the Hitler Youth, where he learned about Nazi ideology. He found it simple enough if a bit silly, though of course he kept this to himself. He did, however, enjoy the uniforms, songs, and hiking trips. Every boy his age wanted to be in a club, and the Youth was the ultimate. His parents took him to Norway on vacation, a benefit of the government’s Strength through Joy program.

  The New Order had arrived.

  When he reached his teen years, he began to chafe at how the Nazis controlled everything and viciously patrolled for non-conformity. Everything was forced enthusiasm and German glory. He didn’t want to have to be enthusiastic about everything the government was doing. He hated being bossed around. One of his teachers disappeared. His friend got in big trouble for swing dancing. He began to piece together that his Jewish childhood friend hadn’t simply uprooted but was instead forced into a ghetto. The history he’d learned in school was already being rewritten. When he turned fourteen, he had to work a year at either a farm or a coal mine, and spent a dreary year milking cows and shoveling shit.

  Muller had grown up with a passion for painting. People had always told him the Führer himself was an accomplished artist. But even the arts were political in the new Reich. No art or music or books or film or anything else could be produced or consumed without approval and ultimate control by the Party, which churned out mediocre and bland creations. Fearing Muller’s moodiness might swing toward ideological purity and lead to his son denouncing him to the Party, his father began parroting Hitler at the dinner table, which made for tense mealtimes. Everybody, it seemed, wore a uniform. The block warden spied on everybody in the area. Every other day marked some national pride event requiring families to hang the Nazi flag. The newspapers carried screaming headlines like, POPE SPARKS COMMUNIST TERROR IN SPAIN! You had to yell “Heil Hitler” at everybody you passed on the street.

  So Muller’s world was already looking bleak when the war came.

  Five years of constant warfare brought together the worst of both times of his life. It was like going back to the uncertainty and rationing of his childhood, but with the Nazis controlling everything and turning it into a caricature of glory.

  Still, when he reached draft age, there was no doubt he’d be serving the empire, most likely in the Wehrmacht. His father tried to pull strings to have him trained as an officer, but Muller didn’t want that. He didn’t want to order men to kill. He volunteered for the paratroopers purely for the challenge.

  While he’d grown to despise the Nazis, he loved Germany, and he loved his parents. In the Flieger, he’d prove himself both to his father and himself. Now he was wondering if he’d ever see his family or country again.

  In the seat next to him, Ricard Schneider, who operated the flamethrower, was looking out one of the small windows that ran all the way up to the cockpit. The big soldier grunted. “Somebody needs to tell them the war’s over.”

  With that statement, the paratrooper whom everybody called Animal grunted and released a tremendous fart, pure sulfur. Muller winced as it seared his nostrils. He hadn’t been overly romantic about joining the Army, but so far all it had delivered was calisthenics, bad food, rotten company, and the threat of typhus.

  “The SS just started firing,” Muller said. “That’s what happened. Right?”

  “I’m not talking about them, kid.”

  Hearing muffled booms, he turned to look out the window. “Where are we?”

  “My guess is France, maybe Belgium.”

  An incredible battle was taking place below him. Clouds of black smoke drifted over the scarred earth. Mushrooming fireballs and waves of dust rose from the snow-covered, blackened ground. The booms became a steady rumbling thunder that grew louder by the moment.

  He shook his head and squinted to see more clearly.

  Thousands of figures loped toward a series of trenches. Singly, in pairs, in massive crowds that at this height looked like strange herds. Howitzer shells exploded in the middle of these crowds, producing empty craters.

  Muller gaped. The crowds didn’t scatter but instead kept marching toward the trenches. Another vast crowd was expanding from the river in the east. Hundreds of men appeared at its edge.

  They seemed to be walking out of the water—

  “Schneider...”

  Animal stared down at the ground in a stunned silence. Then the gray clouds closed in and obscured everything in permanent fog. Pale, he turned away and lit an ersatz cigarette with trembling fingers.

  Muller looked across the cabin. One by one, the paratroopers turned from the windows to stare off into space, shivering. Oberfeldwe
bel Wolff frowned as if trying to figure out a riddle that couldn’t be solved.

  Were they civilians being slaughtered by the Allies? It couldn’t be. The people down there had marched straight into deadly shot as if it were mere rain. An attack? No. The shooting only went in one direction.

  He said, “Sch-schneider?”

  “Shut up, rookie.”

  “What was that down there?”

  A trick of the eyes, maybe.

  “I don’t know!” The man gripped the sides of his head. “I’m going crazy! Nothing makes sense!”

  Miller turned to study his formidable comrade. The big soldier wore a fur-lined ski cap favored by mountain troops, snow camouflage quilted jacket, gray-green combat trousers with the hilt of a gravity knife jutting from his right thick pocket, and a Luger strapped over his left thigh. Black leather gloves, jump boots, gas mask in canvas bag across his chest. Yellow on his collar patch marking him as a paratrooper.

  Schneider was a veteran soldier who’d killed men with fire and didn’t appear to know fear himself. But what he’d seen down there on the banks of the River Meuse scared him.

  Which only made Muller far more terrified.

  When the Fallschirmjäger feared something, it was time to be very, very afraid.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ENGLAND

  The cloud cover broke to reveal water below. The Fallschirm had finally achieved its dream of crossing the English Channel.

  Unless the British shot them down first.

  “We’ve got company,” Steiner told Schulte.

  Spitfires, Typhoons, and Hurricanes braced the squadron on all quadrants, leading them toward England.

  “Hmm,” murmured Schulte, who was trying to sleep. “What company?”

  “Enemy planes.”

  Schulte crossed his arms and nestled back into his seat.

  Steiner snorted. “How can you nap at a time like this?”

  “Are you afraid they’re going to shoot us down, comrade?”

  “Of course I’m afraid they’re going to shoot us down.”

  “Then do something about it besides keeping me awake with your whining.”

  As always, Steiner found the sniper insufferable. He turned away to look out the windows again. Below, land returned, brown beaches followed by the odd geometric patches of farms freckled with snow cover.

  Then an X appeared, the familiar shape of an airfield.

  “Where do you...?” Steiner kept the rest of his thoughts to himself. He’d learned his lesson about talking to Schulte.

  Next to him, the sniper’s lips curled into a slight smile.

  Some of the transports had already started landing. Steiner’s plane reduced altitude but began to circle the airfield. Freezing air whistled through the cabin.

  Reiser marched to the cockpit. “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure it’s safe,” the co-pilot shouted back.

  “Do we have orders to land?”

  “Ja.”

  “Do we have enough fuel to get back to Genoa?”

  “Nein.”

  “Then land the plane, idiots!” the lieutenant screamed.

  “Christ, please don’t shoot them,” Steiner muttered to himself.

  Next to him, Schulte chuckled.

  The pilots steered into a sharp turn, banking to line up the Junkers for a landing.

  “Oh, no,” the sniper opined in falsetto. “Where are we? Who are those bad men? Who am I?”

  “Shut up, Erich,” Steiner said.

  The sniper laughed. “The children are crying and I don’t have any soup. They’re so hungry, Otto. And mother says—”

  Steiner sighed as the wheels slammed the airstrip. The propeller hum’s pitch deepened to a throttled roar. The plane rolled until braking bled out its momentum. Royal Air Force ground crews guided the plane toward a hangar.

  Reiser stood and opened the door. The men stared at him, expecting a speech.

  “Get off the plane,” he barked. “Fall in at attention.”

  The paratroopers stood with a fierce shout and put on their steel helmets, which lacked brims and had camouflage cloth covers. They snapped the leather chinstraps into place and straightened their uniforms.

  The Fallschirmjäger marched off the plane in perfect time and formed up on the airstrip as the Junkers’ three engines powered down. Nearby, Oberst Heilman, the regiment’s commander, and his staff met with a crowd of Brit and Ami officers. They all saluted each other, another milestone on this bizarre day.

  Hauptmann Werner marched past the platoon with his own headquarters, pausing to point out a hangar to Reiser. “Billet there and await orders.”

  Reiser clicked his heels. “Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann. Platoon, marsch, marsch!” Yes, indeed, Captain. Platoon, march, march!

  The man marched crisply and smartly, already belting out a song. For the paratroopers, pride and cockiness had become as instinctive as aggression and obedience. The column tramped in perfect time into the hangar.

  Several platoons of British and American soldiers were already billeted there, stowing their gear after the day’s training exercises. The Americans gawked while the British eyed them warily with their hands thrust in their trouser pockets.

  With their red berets, these Brits were airborne, the fierce paras called the Red Devils. The Americans were likely airborne soldiery as well, elite fighters.

  “Look out, fellas,” one of the Amis said, “here come the Supermen!”

  Steiner knew some English, as did some of the other Fallschirmjäger. “And here are the Amis,” he muttered, “chewing their gum.”

  The Germans had their Italians, the British their Americans. The Americans hadn’t fought so well at the start, but damn, they enjoyed an endless supply of equipment, especially devastating artillery and airpower. They’d learned fast and had become formidable opponents, though nobody was as tough as the indomitable British, particularly these Red Devils.

  Still, he’d never fought the American airborne infantry. These men had battled from Normandy to Germany and were rumored to be among the best the Amis had.

  Leutnant Reiser nodded at the Tommies, returning their wary glare, then sneered back at the Americans. “This is to be our new home, jägers.” His eyes flickered to take in his troops. “We will show our enemies how the Fallschirmjäger conduct themselves as professional soldiers. Is that clear?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Leutnant,” Steiner roared with the rest of the platoon.

  “Fall out and stow the equipment.”

  The men stacked their weapons, hauled the battered weapons containers into the hangar, and then argued over bunks.

  One of the Americans sauntered over. “Welcome to RAF Station Martlesham Heath.” He held out a pack of Chesterfields. “Cigarette, Jerry?”

  The American wasn’t much to look at. Medium height, average build. He had a boyish face belied by the eyes of an old man. The same eyes as many veterans of this war, something important they had in common.

  “Danke,” Steiner said. He refused to smoke the ersatz cigarettes handed out by the Wehrmacht but wouldn’t refuse an American brand. “Thank you.”

  The paratrooper looked surprised. “You speak American?”

  “A little.”

  The American surprised Steiner in turn by thrusting out his hand. “Corporal Frank Grillo, 101st Airborne.”

  Another soldier growled from a card game, “Quit fraternizing with the Krauts, Grillo.”

  Steiner had to agree. If the lieutenant caught him talking to the Americans, there’d be some imaginative and cruel punishment. You like the Amis, Steiner? How about you dig them a latrine? Schnell, schnell!

  “Haven’t you heard, Sarge?” the paratrooper said. “They’re our allies now.”

  Which was another fair point. Still, Steiner didn’t trust it. The 101st Airborne had been nearly annihilated in the Ardennes Snow during Autumn Mist. It was obvious Corporal Grillo had gone through hell. The kid had killed Germans and very likely
developed a taste for it, fueled on hate.

  Steiner felt the same way after fighting the U.S. II Corps along the Gustav Line. He had to admit it was hard to stand so close to an American soldier—one who wasn’t a prisoner—without lunging for the man’s throat in self-defense.

  He wondered what genius had come up with the idea of the Germans billeting between the Americans and British. Allies or not, he was bunking with his gravity knife under his pillow tonight, not that he expected to get any sleep.

  “Hey, listen,” Grillo went on. “Since we’re friends now, you up for a trade?”

  Steiner blinked. “A what?”

  “You got a Luger?”

  “Ja, ja, I have a Luger.”

  The kid grinned. “What do you want for it?”

  Steiner laughed. So that explained the odd friendliness. This unteroffizier wanted a worthless Luger to bring home as a war trophy.

  “What’s so funny, Jerry?”

  “You have no idea how much we envy you Americans.”

  “Freedom and apple pie, pal. You Nazis should try it.”

  “I am not a Nazi. And I meant we envy your equipment.”

  “You’re a machine-gunner, right?”

  “Ja,” said Steiner.

  “Hitler’s zipper. That’s what we call it from the sound.” The MG42 fired so fast, one couldn’t hear individual bullets. “What I’m trying to say is you have some pretty good weapons too.”

  Steiner had meant the quantity of equipment, not its quality, which he didn’t think too much of. No matter. “Ja, perhaps, but the barrel overheads—”

  Grillo’s expression soured. “You want to trade or not? I don’t have all day.”

  Schulte called out, “How’s the diplomacy going, Otto?”

  Steiner turned to share the exchange with his comrades. “The Amis are souvenir shopping. Anybody want to trade his Luger?”

  Some of the Fallschirm looked around and, seeing no officers, broke into devious smiles. They stepped forward with eagerness.

  “Remember, comrades,” Steiner told them, “if you want me to translate for you, you’ll have to give me two Ami cigarettes.”