Steiner let out a loud sigh. “So what were the Tommies talking about, Yohann?”
“We’re jumping tomorrow tonight,” Muller said.
“Good,” Oberfeldwebel Wolff said from his place several ranks ahead. “Once I’m back in combat, I won’t have to listen to this crap anymore.”
“Are you saying you believe Herr Wolfensohn, Oberfeldwebel?” Weber asked.
The sergeant snorted. “I don’t believe anything the SS says, Kugelfest.”
Schneider’s faced broadened in a smug smile. “So you’re saying you agree the Amis cooked it up to destroy Germany.”
Steiner sighed again. “They’re working with us to save Germany—”
“What I’m saying,” Wolff said tersely, “is it doesn’t matter who made it. It’s here, it’s killing our people, and our duty is to destroy it. We’re going. That’s all you need to know.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
BLAME
RAF Station Martlesham Heath fell silent as the world turned black with night. Lying in his bunk, Steiner couldn’t sleep despite his exhaustion. Around him, the paratroopers of three nations murmured and tossed in their sleep. A man cried out, reliving some personal horror.
Horror kept Steiner awake.
Ghouls walked the earth. They shambled toward the Allied lines in their thousands and tens of thousands. They were everywhere in Belgium and Luxembourg. Even more of the things migrated across Germany, turning it into a charnel house.
The war was over, already lost while he got drunk and played cards in Genoa, and a new war had begun. A war of survival against the undead.
He just couldn’t get his head around it.
The Nazis had given the same bug to Wehrmacht forces on the Eastern Front. Right now, it was likely spreading through Poland and the Balkans.
Denied victory, Hitler might just take the whole world down with him.
The scale of this nightmare was too much to comprehend.
No use sleeping now. He got up, pulled on his trousers, and hitched his suspenders over his shoulders. He put on his boots and quilted jacket and quietly crept through the cavernous hangar until the freezing night greeted him outside.
His back to the hangar’s metal wall, he lit one of his Chesterfields and blew a stream of smoke into the frosty air. Around him, the RAF station’s crisscrossing airstrips and big utilitarian buildings stood silent under a starry sky.
The weather was continuing to clear. Good for flying.
As the Brit officer had said, the party was on.
The machine-gunner sagged against the wall until sitting on the cold ground. A crushing weight had fallen on his chest, not just a bone-deep weariness but also an exhaustion in his soul. The crushing weight of shame.
He’d fought for the madman who’d done this.
Steiner hated Hitler now. He’d hated him for a while but had never had the courage to admit it, even to himself.
The black-and-white images came back to him, one grisly sequence standing out from the rest. A German soldier emptying his MP40 into a lurching American. The American staggering, chest smoking, before lunging forward.
The German tearing off his helmet to throw in a final desperate defense against the creature, whose jaws opened impossibly wide as he closed...
Huddled on the ground, the machine-gunner lowered his head against his forearms and sobbed.
Soldiers found different ways of denying death. Wolff knew if he died, it would be for the Fallschirmjäger, the man’s personal god. Schulte was cynical and chased skirts. Muller had his sense of family honor to uphold. Weber held to his belief in vast conspiracies against Germany. Animal antagonized everybody.
Steiner just laughed at it. The psychotic SS, the shrieking officers, the crazy Italians, the spunky Americans, the stiff Brits, the savage bloodshed over patches of dirt. These were all jokes that told themselves. The whole war was a big joke, a cosmic joke about the ridiculous things people believed and what they’d kill and die for. Limitless fodder for endless sarcasm.
But this. This just wasn’t funny anymore.
A voice above him: “What’s wrong with you?”
Steiner looked up through blurred vision to take in three dark figures standing over him. Americans.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer, as he faced the inevitability of shame for the rest of his life, something no amount of humor could ever help him deny.
“Thinking about what you did, you fucking Kraut?” The man kicked him hard with his boot. “I know you speak English. Answer me.”
“We did not know,” Steiner sighed in his heavily accented English.
“You knew. All you Krauts knew.”
Another American said, “Or you didn’t want to know.”
“Maybe he thought a guy like Hitler would never, ever do something like this.”
“What could I do?” Steiner moaned.
He was one man, fighting for his country and following orders. His unit had never abused prisoners or killed civilians.
What could he do? What could one man have done?
Nonetheless, the shame crushed him.
“What could you do, Fritz? How about kill yourself—”
“Do it,” Steiner said.
The Americans looked at each other. “Do what?”
“I know why you followed me here. I want you to do it.”
The Americans said nothing. The gravity knife one of the paratroopers held glimmered in the starlight. The air thickened with impending violence.
Make it quick, Steiner thought.
“Christ, look at him,” one of the Americans said. “I can’t.”
“Because we aren’t him, Escobedo.”
“Better he live with what he did,” the third said. “It’s punishment enough.”
Another man stepped out of the hangar. “You boys have three seconds before I put my boot up each of your sorry asses.”
The Americans jumped. “Sorry, Sarge.”
One spat on Steiner’s shoulder. “Maybe another time, Fritz.”
“Back in your bunks, you stupid idiots,” the newcomer growled. “We’re seeing action tomorrow night. Get your shut-eye while you can.”
The men skulked back into the hangar under the sergeant’s frosty glare. The sergeant approached Steiner and sat next to him, looking up at the stars.
“Weather’s clearing,” the man said. “We’ll be able to launch bombers and fighters to help out our guys fighting at the Meuse. It’ll buy us time to do our jobs. Your officers told you we’re jumping tomorrow?”
Steiner nodded. His mouth had gone dry. He was shivering with burnt adrenaline. He’d thought the Americans were going to put him out of his misery.
“I’m Sergeant Pierce,” the American told him. “You speak English, right?”
“Ja,” Steiner said. “A little.”
“You come out here to commit suicide by American?”
“Everybody I know back home might be dead because of a madman for whom I fought for years.”
During the war, everybody horrible thing he’d had to do with his MG42, he’d stuffed it in his rucksack. A little more weight to carry every day. The weight of at least twenty Americans mowed down under his gun’s withering fire.
This new weight might be too much to carry.
“We fought those things at Bastogne before we ran out of ammo and ran like hell,” said Pierce. “It was hell. Those men who almost jumped you, they lost a lot of friends.” He sighed. “Even if my boys survive this, I don’t know how many of them are going to be right in the head at the end of it.”
Steiner understood. The Americans carried their own unbearable weight.
“Are you still loyal to Hitler?” Pierce added. “Are you fighting for him now?”
“Nein.”
“Good.”
Rage burned in Steiner’s chest now. “Fuck Hitler.”
“Don’t fight for him then. Don’t even fight for Germany. I’ve got a suggestion exactly where to put your
loyalty and lay down your life.”
Steiner frowned. “Do not ask me to fight for America.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, pal.”
“Then where? Where should I put my loyalty?”
“The human race.”
“The human race,” Steiner echoed.
“Yeah. Fight for that. Our countries, this war, none of it matters anymore. Not when facing this. We’re all in this together. And we happen to need you. And when I say ‘we,’ I mean anybody with a pulse.”
Steiner thought about it. He couldn’t erase the stain, but he could make amends. “I will fight.”
Sergeant Pierce stood and dusted his pants. “That’s good to hear. Because if we don’t do our part, it’s the end for all of us.”
CHAPTER NINE
MISSION
The Fallschirmjäger tramped into a separate hangar used for the mission briefing. Oberfeldwebel Wolff took his seat in one of the folding chairs and lit his pipe. Schulte sat next to him and crossed his legs with a futile sigh. Schneider’s bulk filled the chair on the other side, releasing a sulfurous fart.
The officers had told the paratroopers they were jumping tonight, weather permitting. The Fallschirmjäger knew they were going to Berlin. Otherwise, they had few details, which would be forthcoming.
By tonight, Wolff would be back in the field braving the elements, hard fighting, fuckups, and bad rations.
A hard existence, being in combat, but it was the devil he knew. It beat idleness. He wanted to be useful. He wanted to end this scourge.
The last of what was left of the 3FJR, 550 strong, marched into the room and took their seats facing a stage and enormous map taped to the wall. The air filled with babble and cigarette smoke.
The map showed Berlin.
Oberst Heilman stomped up the steps onto the stage carrying a wooden pointer as long as a spear.
At the sight of their fierce and vaunted commander, the paratroopers rapped their knuckles against their metal chairs, creating a racket like military drumming.
Heilman said, “Fallschirmjäger, destiny has an odd sense of humor.”
The last of the knocking, the German version of applause, died out.
The commander extended his pointer and slapped it against the map behind him. “Our destiny is taking us to Berlin to save our nation, to save all nations, from a unique enemy that has united us with our former foes. Operation Valhalla.”
“Couldn’t they pick a better name than a place where heroes go after they die?” Schulte muttered next to him.
Wolff was thinking about what Heilman had said. He didn’t care about other nations, not really. Less than a week ago, he’d fought to subjugate the whole world to Germany’s will. He wanted his country to survive above all others. For that alone, he was all in for this operation.
The pointer shifted to a section in downtown Berlin. Tiergarten. “There is an Army Research Center located in the park here on its western side.”
Obergruppenführer Wolfensohn chimed in. “The special projects research facility was constructed in Berlin due to enhanced security need. It was built in the park on the assumption the Allies would not bomb it. However, as it conducted biological weapons research, most of the four-level facility is underground for the city’s protection. The most vital research is on the bottom level.”
“That is the prize,” Heilman said. “And it’s ours.”
“Lucky us,” Schulte murmured.
“Shut up,” Wolff said.
The sniper’s mouth curled in a slight smile. The man lived for a reaction and didn’t mind provoking one even from his sergeant.
The first phase of the airborne operation was for C-53 Skytrooper planes to drop American Pathfinder units onto the drop zones. These airborne troops would place radar beacons and marking lights. The lights would be different colors, designating the drop zone as friendly or hostile.
Heilman tapped an area west of Berlin. “Our regiment will drop here, five miles from Tiergarten. Farmland near Spandau. We will assemble on the west bank of the Havel and cross by raft to the Grunewald. From there, we will travel along Reichsautobahn 2 straight to Tiergarten.”
Wolff studied the map. The plan called for the regiment to stick to unpopulated areas as long as possible. Farmland, then cross the Havel River, then through the densely forested Grunewald.
After that, however, they’d be in the thick of it. Heavily populated areas. Would those infected still be there, or would they have migrated away from the city in search of fresh meat? Would areas they assumed were less populated, such as farms and forests, be relatively free of the beasts?
They were dealing with an enemy about which little was known. The ghouls fought with tooth and nail, though some carried weapons their diseased brains remembered how to use. They could see, and they were attracted to sound. They didn’t sleep and didn’t suffer from the cold. They could only be killed by destroying the brain. They had vast numbers that were increasing by the day.
Heilman swatted the map. “A battalion from the British 2nd Parachute Brigade will drop on Tempelhof Airport and secure it. The American joint 101st and 82nd Airborne battalion will seize the Berlin-Schönefeld Airport.
“We will penetrate the research facility, secure everything we can find on the project, and transport it to Tempelhof. If Tempelhof is not secure, the planes will transfer to Berlin-Schönefeld. A much longer march for us.”
The colonel explained that the Americans would provide insurance in case the British were unsuccessful. Otherwise, they would play a combat support role to the other elements and, if necessary, divert the infected to them.
“That is the plan.” Heilman checked his watch. “Prepare to synchronize. The time is 1931. We will board the planes at 0200. We expect to drop around 0500, just before dawn. Any questions?”
Wolff and several other men stood at attention. Heilman called on him.
“Oberfeldwebel Jurgen Wolff, Second Platoon, Eagle Company, Herr Oberst,” he said. “What kind of resistance are we expecting, either infected or living?”
“Reconnaissance photography shows heavy concentrations of infected in the city, Oberfeldwebel. These concentrations are constantly moving.”
Hunting, Wolff clarified in his mind.
The commander continued, “As for any Reserve Army elements still operational, that is also unknown. Anybody alive in the city is no doubt hiding. Darkness will conceal the drop from both infected and any local military elements who might interpret our actions as hostile. Otherwise, we expect hard fighting to the objective and then to the extraction point. This is why we are going in force, 1,500 men in total. A small team would be quickly destroyed.”
Satisfied, Wolff returned to his seat.
The colonel called on another man to ask his question. The sergeant only half-listened. He knew everything he needed now. Schedule, objective, expected resistance.
Operation Valhalla was what the troops called a himmelfahrtskommando, a trip to Heaven. A Knight’s Cross job. A suicide mission.
“Fallschirmjäger,” Heilman said. “Fallschirmjäger! For years, we fought for our nation and our families. The war is over now but a new war has begun. Now we must fight again. Again for our families, who need us now more than ever. Again for our nation, but not the old Germany. No—a new Germany!”
The men pounded their chairs in approval. The colonel whistled. Several paratroopers from his headquarters staff marched onto the stage. They seized Wolfensohn’s arms.
“What are you doing?” the SS officer cried.
“Obergruppenführer, we are taking you into protective custody for crimes against the German people and all humanity,” Heilman shouted over the paratroopers’ cheering. “For your role in creating these monsters that are destroying our country.”
“Traitor!” Wolfensohn screamed. “When the Führer hears—”
“The Führer is dead. Lock this bastard up!”
Schulte muttered, “It’s about damn time.�
�
CHAPTER TEN
INSURANCE
Sergeant Robert Wilkins knocked on Colonel Adams’ office door.
“Enter,” the colonel barked.
Wilkins marched into the room, came to attention, and saluted. “Reporting as directed, sir.”
“At ease, Sergeant.” Adams stood at the side of the office, where he kept a decanter of brandy. “Care to join me in a snort?”
“I wouldn’t say no to it, sir.”
Music softly played on a record player. “The White Cliffs of Dover” by Vera Lynn. The colonel poured two fingers and handed him the glass. “Have a seat.”
The sergeant dropped into a chair. “God save the King.”
The men drank.
“Are the Jerries ready for this?” Adams said.
“As ready as they can be, sir.”
“They just arrested that loathsome SS man. Wolfensohn.”
“They hold him responsible for the biological weapon, sir. If I may ask, do you intend to intervene on his behalf? Wolfensohn has been very useful to you.”
“I don’t intend to do anything at the moment,” the colonel said coldly. “The Jerries needed a sacrificial goat to clean their conscience before the operation. We need the Jerries.”
“Right, sir. That’s good thinking.”
“After the operation, I shall take another hard look.” Adams swirled his brandy. “So they’re as ready as they can be on short notice. What about our lads?”
Wilkins shrugged. “Same answer, I reckon.”
“These are perilous times, Sergeant. The whole world has gone arse over kettle. This party may be our only chance to save Europe from utter ruin. It will succeed. It must succeed.”
The sergeant took another sip, relishing the burn. “Yes, sir.”
“That being said, what odds do you give success?”
He inspected his glass. “I’d give it fairly low odds, sir.”
“Right.” The colonel sighed.
“The Germans will have the hardest go of it. They must make the drop, get over the Havel, secure the facility, and then cross the city to the airport.”
The Front (Book 3): Berlin or Bust Page 5