“Now,” he snapped.
Loeb fired the antitank missile. It lanced through the air and struck the lead tank, burning through its armour and exploding inside the hull. The second missile took out the second tank; the third missile struck its target, but glanced off and exploded harmlessly. One of the helicopters was hit at practically point-blank range and exploded into a fireball, the other jerked back so hard it nearly stood on its tail.
“Run,” Kurt snapped. The third panzer was already rolling forward, machine guns spitting fire. “Move it, now!”
He turned and ran for his life, hoping desperately that their escape route remained clear. The SS stormtroopers behind the panzers would be already jumping out of their transports and advancing forward - and there was nothing to stop them. Perhaps, in hindsight, they should have targeted the trucks instead ... but taking out the panzers would do more to blunt the advance than killing random stormtroopers. He heard shots behind him, but none of them came near to his men. The SS had definitely been caught by surprise.
And yet we’re still falling back to Berlin, he thought, as they slipped out of sight. And they’re still advancing.
“We hurt them,” Loeb said.
“Yeah,” Kurt said. He heard more aircraft high overhead, but they didn't seem interested in dropping bombs. Rumour had it that Berlin was being bombed savagely, yet rumour was known to lie. “But did we hurt them enough?”
***
Obersturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk cursed savagely as he rolled out of the transport, rifle at the ready, then ran forwards, past the ruined panzers. Two of them were nothing more than scrap metal now, he noted, while a third had a nasty scorch mark on the hull. His squad followed him as he charged the enemy firing position, then slowed as it became clear that the enemy had made their escape. They'd run into the undergrowth, skirting the town and then headed west. Chasing them down would be futile.
The panzers rumbled forward again, heading into the town. Hennecke and his men followed, keeping their heads down, but no one tried to bar their way as they drove through the puny barricade and down the road into the town square. It was a typical town; a town hall, a church, a few hundred homes and shops ... the sort of place that would be ideal, if one wanted a quiet life. But not now.
A shot cracked out. He ducked, instinctively, as a bullet pinged off the side of the nearest panzer, then looked towards the source. Someone was lurking in an upper bedroom, aiming a gun towards them. A panzer fired, a second later. The shell detonated inside the house, blowing it into rubble. Hennecke heard, just for a second, someone screaming before the sound cut off abruptly. Dead, injured or silenced? There was no way to know.
“Clear the houses,” he bellowed, as more stormtroopers flooded into the town. The town was in revolt and he knew how to deal with it. “Get the population into the damned church!”
He kicked open the nearest door and led the way into the house. An old man - probably old enough to remember the days before Hitler - stared at him in shock. Two younger women looked terrified; behind them, a handful of children lay on the floor. There were no boys older than fifteen, Hennecke realised, even though there was a photograph of two boys wearing military uniforms on the mantelpiece. They’d have joined the traitors, he thought, if they weren't serving in South Africa.
“Get out,” he snarled at them. “Now!”
The old man met his eyes with a kind of dignified resignation that had Hennecke’s blood boiling in rage. He lived in a town that had dared to stand against the SS, that had dared to allow one of its buildings to be used against them ... how dare he show anything other than complete and total submission? Growling, he caught the old man and thrust him towards the door, silently daring him to make a fuss. The women followed, both looking even more terrified. They were older than he’d thought, he realised. They’d be daughters or daughters-in-law, not teenagers. And perhaps they were mothers too ...
He bit off that thought as he glared at the children. The admiration he’d always received from children in the east was lacking; instead, they stared at him in fear. They hadn't deserved to be raised by traitors, he tried to tell himself, but he was too angry to care. It was his duty to ensure they were passed to the Lebensborn officers for transfer to a new family, where they would be raised properly ... he shrugged. They were at war. The normal rules could go to hell.
The children hurried out, following their mothers; he ordered his men to search the house and then hurried back outside. Hundreds of civilians - old men and women, younger women, children - were being marched out of their homes and ordered into the church. Behind them, their homes were ransacked and anything incriminating - weapons, stashes of money or treacherous propaganda - was removed. The panzers moved through the town and back onto the road as it became clear there would be no more resistance, leaving Hennecke and his men in charge of the town.
“They’re all in the church, Herr Obersturmfuehrer,” the Strumscharfuehrer said. “Orders?”
Hennecke glared. He knew precisely how to treat towns and villages that supported insurgents and terrorists. It was what he'd done, time and time again, in Germany East, where the Slavs took advantage of every hint of German weakness. Doing it here, in Germany Prime, bothered him more than he cared to admit, but the townspeople had supported the traitors. They didn't deserve to live.
“Lock the doors, then burn the church,” he ordered, shortly. “Kill them all.”
He watched, grimly, as his men carried out his orders. They’d done it before, in Germany East. The doors were sealed, then incendiary grenades were hurled through the windows, triggering a firestorm. Hennecke shuddered, despite himself, at the screams as the flames lashed out, the wooden church catching fire with terrifying speed. The trapped inhabitants battered on the door, but it was already too late. Moments later, the building started to collapse into burning debris. There were no survivors.
“We could have saved a few of the girls,” one of his men muttered. “And had some real fun.”
Hennecke frowned. Raping Slavic girls was strictly forbidden, even if the girls were killed afterwards. Quite apart from the simple fact it was bad for discipline - and it was - it ran the very real risk of introducing Germanic blood to the Slavs. But here ... he doubted there was a single girl in the town who had a trace of non-German ancestry in her blood. Most half-castes had been removed or killed a very long time ago. His superiors wouldn't be able to object on racial grounds.
But it was still a disciplinary issue.
“No,” he said, firmly. “If we have to kill them, we have to kill them. But we are not going to abuse good German girls.”
He turned and marched towards the edge of the town. As tired as they were, they would have to do it again and again until they reached Berlin, where things would get harder. His superiors had insisted that Berlin would fall without a fight, but Hennecke wasn't so sure.
Grandfather fought in Stalingrad, he reminded himself. And he had nightmares for the rest of his life.
It was a bitter thought. His father had often rebuked Hennecke’s grandfather - his father-in-law - for telling Hennecke stories of the war. And yet, he’d been a soldier too, fighting and eventually dying to protect Germany East. Hennecke had never really understood the man, or the odd admiration his grandfather had had for the Slavs. It wasn't as if he’d ever treated the servants any better than the rest of the family.
It probably made sense to him, he thought. And now we have to proceed onwards.
***
“This is confirmed?”
“Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck said. “It was reported through the network and confirmed by the MPs.”
Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler sucked in a breath. He’d known that anger and frustration was burning through the ranks - his men were hardly used to encountering foes that could slow them down, let alone stop them - but this was a nightmare. Slaughtering vast numbers of Untermenschen was one thing; killing over a hu
ndred men, women and children from Germany Prime was quite another. There would be no peace if this went on.
He looked up. “We know who did it?”
“Obersturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk,” Weineck said. “He’s actually in line for promotion to Hauptsturmfuehrer, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer; his former commanding officer was killed on the first day of the war and since then Schwerk has been holding down his responsibilities. Before then ... he had a honourable reputation as an infantryman in the east.”
“Where he picked up a few bad habits,” Alfred growled.
He looked at the map, thinking hard. There had been quite a few incidents as the advancing stormtroopers mingled with the civilians - a number of civilians killed for being on the roads, several more killed in the crossfire, a couple of young women raped - but this was by far the worst. And yet it wouldn't be the last. Alfred knew his men were getting frustrated, both with their slow progress and with the German civilians. Far from being welcomed as liberators, they were being ignored or defied when they weren't being attacked.
But the Fuhrer will approve, Alfred thought. He won’t give a damn about the dead civilians, will he?
He groaned, inwardly. It would be easy to send a pair of MPs to arrest Schwerk and transport him back to the CP for a quick court martial, followed by execution, but the Führer would not like it. He’d see Schwerk as a hero, as the man who taught a bunch of cowardly fence-sitters the cost of defying the SS. And he wouldn't give a damn about just how badly it would cost them, in the long run. Hell, killing more westerners - even ones of good blood - would make it easier for him to reshape the west in his own image.
And I can't even put a ban on future atrocities, he told himself. The Fuhrer wouldn't like that either.
Weineck leaned forward. “Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer, how do you wish to proceed?”
Alfred scowled. Punishing Schwerk was out of the question. The Fuhrer was already breathing down his neck, insisting that he relieve a number of officers for being inadequately aggressive. Karl Holliston simply didn't realise that charging forward, firing madly, was not a good tactic, not when it meant getting panzers impaled on antitank guns and blown into flaming debris. The logistics were already a nightmare; he dreaded to think what would happen if they started to run short on panzers too. And then there was the puzzle over just what the enemy was doing with their air force ...
“Promote him to Hauptsturmfuehrer,” he ordered, curtly. “And make sure he has a chance to practice his skills - put him at the tip of the spear.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.
And hope the bastard gets killed on the front lines, Alfred added, silently. It wasn't much, but it was all he had. There’s nothing else I can do to him.
He turned back to the map. “Are the enemy trying to stiffen their resistance at any point?”
“It looks as through their main units are still retreating towards Berlin,” Weineck said. He seemed relieved that the subject had changed. “They just won’t stand and fight.”
“Of course not,” Alfred said, tiredly. They’d been over it before, time and time again, as the frustration started to bite. “They know they will lose in a straight fight.”
He shrugged. The Fuhrer would want an update soon, he was sure. And if he didn’t, it was only because the Fuhrer was getting his updates from someone else ...
And if that happens, he thought grimly, I’m going to be the next officer to be relieved.
***
Generalmajor Gunter Gath cursed under his breath as he read the report. A pair of snipers near an insignificant town, waiting for a chance to put a bullet through an SS officer’s head, had watched helplessly as the population was herded into the church and burned to death. It would have been unbelievable, Gunter was sure, if there hadn't been so many other reports of SS atrocities as their advancing spearheads began to cross paths with innocent civilians.
And I believe it, he thought. He would have liked to deny it, but he’d seen too much to do anything of the sort. Now what?
He cursed under his breath. The laws of war, insofar as the Third Reich admitted they existed, allowed retaliation, an eye for an eye. But against what? Bombing a random town in Germany East wouldn't upset the SS, let alone deter them from carrying out more atrocities of their own. Shooting prisoners was likely to be more effective, but they just hadn't taken enough prisoners to make the effort worthwhile. And besides, if they did start shooting prisoners, the SS would probably do the same.
And they have far too many of my men prisoner, he thought.
He glared at the map, noting the arrows denoting the advancing spearheads. Hundreds of his men had died - or been captured - after being overrun by the panzers. They’d been marched off into captivity, transported eastwards across the river and out of his ken. Even the orbital photographs someone in Berlin had managed to coax out of the satellites hadn't shown him where the prisoners had been taken. Gunter hoped - desperately - that they hadn't simply been killed, but he had to admit it was possible. The SS had machine-gunned prisoners in South Africa, after all ...
But they were Untermenschen, he thought. They deserved to die.
His own thoughts mocked him. And what were the men, women and children who were burned to death in the church?
He shook his head, slowly. Dealing with SS atrocities would have to be a political decision, but he couldn't see many good options. Deploying anything from poison gas to tactical nuclear weapons would only encourage further retaliation, while slaughtering prisoners would only lead to the SS doing the same. Hell, they might even be relieved. The bastards had far more prisoners, all of whom needed to be fed, than he did. And they’d even have an excuse for mass slaughter.
We did it to them, he thought, so they can now do it to us.
Cursing, he reached for the phone. He’d never liked being micromanaged, but this was one hot potato he was happy to drop into someone else’s life. Let the provisional government decide what to do. They could have the responsibility ...
... And the blame, if it only made the bloodshed far worse.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Berlin, Germany Prime
22 September 1985
“I cannot believe they’d do this,” Gudrun protested, honestly shocked.
“Don’t be naive,” Horst said. He sounded irritated - and exhausted. She would have been annoyed at his tone if she hadn't known he’d been up for most of the night, working with her father and his handpicked team to try to track down the SS spy. “They wouldn't hesitate to kill whoever got in their way, if it suited them.”
Gudrun shook her head, slowly. She’d known - intellectually - that the SS had carried out thousands, perhaps millions, of atrocities. Grandpa Frank had even admitted to having served in the Einsatzgruppen. But to casually burn over a hundred men, women and children, all of good German blood, to death, just because a sniper had used a house in the town ... it was appalling.
She looked at the photographs, cursing under her breath. She’d never been particularly religious - religion was officially discouraged at school, although the Reich had never tried to stamp it out completely - but even she knew a church was supposed to be holy. And yet, the SS had herded up the townsfolk, crammed them into the building and set it on fire. Over a hundred people were dead ... and it was all her fault.
The guilt struck her like a physical blow. She’d started the ball rolling, but she hadn't realised - not really - just how high a price the Reich would pay for what she’d done. Overthrowing the Reich Council couldn't have brought matters to a conclusion, could it? This wasn't a neat little story where every single plot thread was tied up in the final chapter. The villain had escaped to the east and started a counterattack. God alone knew how many people had died in the fighting, the fighting she’d started ...
“My fault,” she muttered, bitterly.
She closed her eyes in pain. She’d thought she’d known the risks when she started, she thought she’d kn
own - and accepted - what would happen to her if she was caught. And she’d done her best to make sure that her friends knew too, even though they’d been compromised just by listening to her. They’d all known the risks ...
... But the townsfolk hadn't. They hadn't been involved in the protest movement, as it grew and diversified; she would have been surprised if they’d even heard of the protest movement before the Reich Council crumbled into dust. And yet, they’d paid a steep price for her decisions. The town was dead, save perhaps for a handful of young men who’d joined the military and left before the advancing SS stormtroopers captured the town. She knew, deep inside, that they would never forgive her for what she’d brought upon their families.
Horst wrapped an arm around her, gently. “It wasn't your fault.”
Gudrun pushed him away. She didn't feel like being cuddled, not now.
“It wasn't your fault,” Horst repeated. “You heard Kruger, didn't you? The Reich was heading for a fall long before you were born. You may have started the protest movement, Gudrun, but it would have happened with or without you.”
Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) Page 23