“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck said, as Alfred strode into the command room. “I trust you had a pleasant tour?”
“Things are as well as can be expected,” Alfred said, bluntly. “The Panzers are finally ready to march.”
He kept his face impassive as he gazed down at the map, ignoring the handful of operators in the chamber. He trusted Weineck as far as he trusted anyone, which wasn't very far in the Waffen-SS. True, the Waffen-SS wasn't the Gestapo or the Einsatzgruppen, but no one could be considered truly reliable these days. The merest hint of disloyalty would have him hanging from a meat hook in the heart of Germanica, like countless others who had been purged in the aftermath of the uprising. It bothered him - there was a difference between reasonable doubt and open disloyalty - but there was nothing he could do about it.
“I received a message from SS-Viking,” Weineck said. “They’re finally ready to move.”
“Glad to hear it,” Alfred said. There were four SS Panzer divisions on the border, but it had taken longer than he’d expected to whip them into shape. None of the troops had seriously expected a full-scale deployment, certainly not one that had to be put together in less than a fortnight. As it was, Alfred was surprised it hadn’t taken longer to get everything in place before the offensive began. “I trust that the officer commanding has been read the riot act?”
“He has, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said. “I warned him that he would be relieved for cause if he didn't shape up in future.”
Alfred sighed. There was always someone who had been promoted above their level of competence, either through political connections or sheer bad luck. He’d been tempted to relieve SS-Viking’s commanding officer the moment his problems had first shown themselves, but he had no idea what would happen if the asshole made a fuss or complained to the Führer. There was no way to know what Karl Holliston would do.
“Good,” he said.
He studied the map for a long moment. A handful of commando teams had already crossed the border - there had been a number of shooting engagements between them and the defenders when they encountered armed patrols - but the remainder of the invasion force was hanging back, making the final preparations to advance. Four Panzer divisions, backed up by thirty infantry divisions - ranging from light armoured units to footsoldiers and mountain troops - and well over two thousand aircraft. The enemy might have an advantage in jet fighters, Alfred reluctantly conceded, but they didn't have anything like as many CAS aircraft as the Waffen-SS could bring to bear. It would be a different story if they brought back the forces in South Africa, but the Fuhrer had been confident that those forces would remain out of play until the war was over, one way or the other. Alfred hoped he was right. There was no way to know which way those forces would jump either.
“The offensive is scheduled for 0600,” he mused. “Have the security precautions been maintained?”
“Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck assured him. “Our men have been very careful.”
Alfred snorted, rudely. He’d been one of the few officers allowed to review the vast collection of documents recovered from the Kremlin, after Moscow had fallen. It had been clear that there had been hundreds of leaks, in the run-up to Operation Barbarossa, ranging from men deserting their units and crossing the border to spies in high places within the Reich. If Stalin hadn't been so intent on refusing to believe that Hitler intended to attack, the invasion of Russia might just have ended badly. No, someone would have leaked, whatever his officers said.
And even if they didn't, the traitors know we’re coming, he thought. We’re running out of time to launch an offensive before winter.
“Then contact Germanica,” he ordered. “I want to speak to the Fuhrer.”
“Jawohl,” Weineck said.
Alfred watched him head to the secure telephone, then turned his attention back to the map. There had been no time to carry out a detailed study of the invasion plan, no time to run the troops through a whole series of exercises designed to identify weaknesses and deal with them before the fighting actually started. His men were a curious mixture of experienced - and tough - counterinsurgency fighters and reservists with varying levels of experience. Very few of them, outside exercises, had ever fought on a modern battlefield.
And some of them will treat the civilians as the enemy, he thought, morbidly. He’d already reprimanded two of his senior subordinates for encouraging hatred and contempt for the westerners. They'd been talking about giving the westerners a beating they would never forget, as if the westerners were nothing more than Slavic Untermenschen. And that will make it easier for the traitors to rally the rest of their population against us.
He shook his head, bitterly. Avoiding atrocities made good tactical sense, but very few units in the Waffen-SS gave a damn about civilian casualties. Indeed, they’d been trained to machine gun Untermensch women and children, just to keep them from breeding the next generation of insurgents. But what worked in the depths of Germany East would be a public relations disaster, if the outside media got hold of it. No one in Germanica gave a damn about American public opinion - not about massacres in South Africa - but they had encouraged the Americans to flatly refuse to sell anything to either the South Africans or the Reich. He couldn't help wondering just how badly American sanctions had hurt the Reich.
“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said. “The Fuhrer is on the line.”
Alfred nodded, strode over to the table and took the handset. “Mein Fuhrer.”
“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Karl Holliston said. “Is everything in order?”
“Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said. “We are still working to integrate Category B and Category C reservists, but the main body of the invasion force is ready to go.”
“Excellent,” Holliston said. “And the troops have been briefed? They have a complete list of traitors to arrest?”
“Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said.
He kept his face expressionless. Personally, he thought it would be better to win the war before starting the mass purge of traitors, but Holliston had had years to build up a very detailed enemies list. The traitors, their families and their friends were already marked down for death, if they were caught. Alfred rather suspected that most of them wouldn't be stupid enough to let themselves be taken alive. They had nothing to look forward to, if they were caught, apart from humiliation, torture, public confession and death. And then their bodies would be left hanging from meat hooks too, just to remind the Volk that public dissent would not be tolerated.
“Very good,” Holliston said. “I shall expect your forces to be entering Berlin within the week.”
“We will proceed with as much speed as possible,” Alfred assured him. “But we have to be prepared for the worst.”
He sighed, inwardly, at the explosion of irritation on the other end of the line. There was no way it would be anything like as easy as Holliston seemed to believe. The traitors had a number of good officers working for them, as well as much of the Luftwaffe and almost all of the Kriegsmarine. Getting to Berlin within a week would be difficult, if the traitors played it smart. They’d attended the same tactical schools, after all. They knew what to expect; an armoured thrust, mechanized infantry bringing up the rear and consolidating the gains as the armour prepared itself for another thrust ...
And they have space to trade for time, he thought. And the more time they have at their disposal, the more force they can bring to bear against us.
“Very well,” Holliston said. “I shall leave the conduct of the war to you.”
“Thank you, Mein Führer,” Alfred said. He knew better than to take Holliston’s assurances at face value. The man was a hopeless micromanager. Indeed, he’d even volunteered to take command of the South African War personally. “Do I have your permission to launch the offensive as planned?”
“You do,” Holliston said.
“Heil Holliston,” Alfred said. He did his b
est to inject a note of confidence into the discussion. “I will see you in Berlin.”
There was a click on the other end of the line. Alfred returned the phone to its cradle, then looked at Weineck. “Send the signal,” he ordered. “We move as planned.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.
Alfred nodded, then sat down at the table as the operators started to work, picking up their phones and issuing the orders that would set one of the most powerful military machines in the world into action. The Panzers would start warming up their engines, the aircraft would start preparing for takeoff, additional supplies of live ammunition would be issued ... he hoped, desperately, that their logistics held out for the duration of the war. Their contingency planning had been focused around relieving firebases and settlements within Germany East, not supplying a military advance towards Berlin. He’d rounded up every truck within the region, ignoring all objections, but he had no idea if they would be enough. No one had launched such a powerful offensive since 1947.
“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said. “The commandos are receiving their orders now.”
“Good,” Alfred said.
He cursed under his breath. The steady barrage of patriotic music, interspersed with exhortations to join the legitimate heirs of Adolf Hitler rather than a rabble of traitors in Berlin, had been going out over the airwaves since it had become clear that the provisional government had survived the decapitation strike. Alfred rather doubted that anyone was paying attention to it - none of the people who’d crossed from west to east had mentioned the broadcasts during their debriefings - but it served a useful purpose. Now, specific songs would be played, informing the commandoes that the time had come to go to war. There was no stopping the war now.
Sighing, he rose to his feet and headed for the door. There was nothing for him to do now; nothing but wait for the first reports from the front. He pushed the door open and stared into the darkness, looking up at the stars overhead. The towns and settlements to the east had been ordered to go dark, for fear of attracting bombers. There was almost no light pollution at all. He leaned against the wall and removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lighting one up and puffing on it gratefully. Far too many Germans were about to die.
And whatever happens, the Reich will never be the same, he thought. He’d been a very junior officer when Adolf Hitler had died, but he’d been aware - far too aware - that the different factions in Berlin had nearly come to blows. A civil war will tear us apart.
He cursed, again, wishing he could talk openly to his subordinates. He was loyal - of course he was loyal! And yet, he knew all too well just what would happen when the war started in earnest. A military machine that had dominated the entire continent would be badly weakened, even if the war lasted no longer than Holliston expected. Rebuilding the economy would be very difficult, ensuring that the panzers and aircraft lost in the war could not be replaced quickly. The Americans would move ahead - far ahead - and the Reich would no longer be able to keep up.
But the merest whiff of disloyalty will get me killed, he thought grimly, as he looked up at the stars. And who will take command then?
The stars offered no answer. But then, he hadn’t expected one. He gazed at the twinkling lights, reminding himself that not all of them were natural. Some of them would be orbiting satellites: German and American. The battle for control of the satellites had been savage, with both sides trying to lock the other out. In the end, neither side had really won.
He dropped the cigarette on the ground and trod it into the dirt with his toe. There was nothing to be gained from worrying himself, not now. The offensive was due to kick off in less than seven hours, once the troops had moved up to their final jump-off positions. And then ... who knew? Maybe the war could be ended quickly.
Sure, he told himself, as he walked back into the complex. And maybe Untermenschen will learn to fly.
***
Leutnant Kurt Wieland couldn't help feeling a shiver running down his spine as he toured the darkened town, even though he knew he should be catching some sleep before he had to go back on duty. The sentries were awake - they would have regretted it for the rest of their careers if he’d caught them sleeping - but the entire town was so silent it was almost eerie, as if he was walking through one of the monster-infested villages of legend. He’d read all of the Beowulf stories when he'd been a child and the memories lingered, even after he’d learned that the worst monsters in the world walked on two legs.
He stopped at the edge of town, peering into the distance. There was a minefield there, along with a handful of traps that probably wouldn't slow down a panzer for very long but give an infantry force a very nasty surprise. Several of his men had competed to produce the nastiest trap; digging trenches, filling them with broken glass and then camouflaging them with artistically-placed trees and bushes. A couple had even been filled with flammable material, harvested from a couple of the houses. Kurt didn't feel right about stealing items from the former inhabitants - he’d already put four of his men on punishment duties for stealing ladies underwear - but there was no choice. He rather doubted the town would still be standing when the Waffen-SS had finished with it.
“Herr Leutnant,” Loeb said. “Can’t sleep?”
Kurt shook his head. He'd worked all day - he should have been able to sleep - but he hadn't been able to keep his eyes closed. It was frustrating, after mastering the old trick of sleeping whenever he had a chance, yet perhaps it was understandable. He’d never had so much responsibility in his career. The men under his command were going to war, a war none of them wanted. And very few of them were truly ready for the war. Kurt was hardly the only combat virgin in the platoon.
You did fire on the SS in Berlin, he reminded himself. But they weren’t expecting you to open fire.
“The waiting is never easy, Herr Leutnant,” Loeb said. “But you really should sleep.”
Kurt gave him a ghostly smile. He knew he should sleep. But lying in his cot wouldn't make him feel better, not when time was slowly running out. Everyone knew the big offensive couldn't be far off, not when it was already growing colder. No one in their right mind would want to fight in the eastern winter, after all. The SS would want to get as much of the fighting over with as possible before winter started to hamper their operations.
“We should get some warning of their advance, Herr Leutnant,” Loeb reassured him. “They can’t just drop in on us.”
“They did drop in on Berlin,” Kurt pointed out.
“And it cost them a number of highly-trained commandos, for nothing,” Loeb said. “I don’t think we’re important enough to risk another commando unit.”
“I hope you’re right,” Kurt said.
He sighed, inwardly, as he peered into the darkness. They were only twenty kilometres from the border, which was hardly a solid line. There had been enough outbursts of firing between patrol groups to keep everyone on their toes. A Panzer division could cross the border and reach the town within an hour, perhaps less, if nothing slowed them down. It was quite possible the war would end, for him, on the day it started.
“We’re only a handful of soldiers,” Loeb pointed out. “Their commandos are worth far more than any of us.”
Kurt shot him a sharp look. “Thanks.”
But it was true, he knew. SS Commandos went through absolute hell to qualify. Indeed, if the more striking rumours were true, a third of each class of volunteers didn't survive the training program. The survivors were tough, willing to do anything for the Reich, but they couldn't be expended lightly. There were nowhere near enough commandos for them to be treated like ordinary soldiers.
“Get some rest, Herr Leutnant,” Loeb advised. “It won’t be long now.”
Kurt nodded and took one last look into the darkness. It was unbroken; there wasn't a single light for miles, not after the military had declared martial law and threatened to arrest anyone who showed a light. He couldn't help wond
ering if they’d gone back in time, to the days before electric light and other modern conveniences. Fredrick the Great would have told him he was being an idiot, if they’d spoken. His men had campaigned under far more disagreeable conditions.
“I know,” he said. “They’ll be on their way soon.”
Chapter Twelve
Near Warsaw, Germany Prime
13 September 1985
Obergefreiter Hugo Stellmann hated to admit it, but he was bored. He'd hoped for an exciting assignment when he’d joined the Heer, yet so far the only real excitement had come from marching up and down in front of Hamburg’s Town Hall. Even the uprising hadn't brought him any excitement, save for an assignment to the border and orders to guard one of the autobahn bridges over a river. He’d found himself checking refugees as they headed west, ordering them to wait until they could be processed and entered into the system, but it hadn't been particularly exciting. And even the trickle of refugees had dried up, over the last four days.
Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) Page 12