Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2)

by Christopher Nuttall

  He might win the battle, Volker thought, but he might lose the war.

  “I’ve relieved Gath and dispatched him to take command of the counteroffensive forces,” Voss said, into the silence. “I’m not going to abandon Berlin as long as you’re here.”

  Volker gave him a brief smile. He’d never liked Voss - the Field Marshal was too much of a Junker for his tastes, heir to a tradition that had endured fifty years of Nazi rule - but he had to admit the man had nerve. He could have taken command of one of the counteroffensive forces - either in person or from the field HQ - and no one would have said a word against him. Staying in Berlin as the noose tightened was the mark of a good man.

  “Thank you,” he said, quietly.

  “You're not leaving either,” Voss pointed out. “Have you made preparations for the future if ... if the worst happens?”

  Volker nodded, although he hoped none of them would be necessary. The provisional government couldn’t hope to survive for long if it lost Berlin. Germany, already starting to fragment, would shatter. The bonds holding the Reich together would come apart. Towns and cities would start operating independently, while each and every military officer with substantial firepower under his command would become a warlord. Holliston couldn't hope to hold the Reich together through anything, but force. After what he’d done ...

  No one trusts the SS any longer, Volker thought. But then, no one in the west trusted them anyway.

  He sighed. He’d made no attempt to conceal what the SS had done, either the handful of significant atrocities or the hundreds of tiny crimes, each one representing a blow at the German people. The refugees shot down for being in the way, the men dragged out and executed for not being in the military, the women and young girls who had been brutally raped ... And yet, making them public might have been a mistake. It had fired up anger and hatred, true, but it had also made people fearful. It was impossible to tell just how many of them would remain willing to fight, after Berlin fell.

  “We will have to do our best to stop them here,” he said, sternly. “I hope - I pray - that the soldiers are catching their breath.”

  “They are,” Voss said. “Do you wish to address them?”

  Volker concealed his amusement with an effort. He’d been a Waffen-SS paratrooper, after all, and he’d always hated it when a headquarters officer, someone who wore a clean uniform that had clearly never seen war, took time out to address the tired and grimy soldiers as they returned from their last operation. They’d all wanted nothing more than a bite to eat and a place to rest, but the uniformed politicians had never seemed to realise it. Volker was damned if he was making the same mistake.

  “I’ll press the flesh once they’ve had a chance to recuperate,” he said, firmly. “I trust you made sufficient preparations for their accommodations?”

  “Yes, Herr Chancellor,” Voss said. He paused. “There’s also the issue of medals and awards for the soldiers. And a handful of battlefield promotions that need to be confirmed.”

  Volker sighed. Medals came with financial rewards - or they had, before the economic crisis started to bite. Give a man the Knight’s Cross and he’d expect a boosted pension, if he didn't take the money and spend it on drink and whores. It had been one of the many - many - problems facing the Reich.

  “Confirm the promotions, unless you feel there's something that should be looked at more carefully,” he ordered. “But don’t grant any medals. We’re going to have to make sure that there aren’t any additional costs involved.”

  Voss looked disappointed. “The men try to earn medals for the rewards,” he said. “They need them.”

  “And we don’t have the money,” Volker reminded him. “Paying the troops is going to be a nightmare.”

  ***

  “Kurt,” a voice called. “Herr Hauptman!”

  “I haven't had the promotion confirmed yet,” Kurt said, as he turned to face his old friend. “And I see you’ve been promoted too.”

  Hauptman Bernhard Schrupp puffed out his chest. “They finally had to give me a promotion,” he said, catching Kurt by the arm. “My natural beauty eventually overcame them.”

  “I think it was the scraping noise as you tried to get your head through the door,” Kurt said, deadpan. “Who did you have to kill to get promoted?”

  “They were asking for volunteers to block a couple of roads and I didn't jump backwards in time,” Schrupp said. “And we did the job, so we were rewarded.”

  He elbowed Kurt, non-too-gently. “Did you get a day of leave?”

  “Technically,” Kurt said. He’d been given strict orders to stay within a kilometre of the makeshift barracks, which meant that going home to see his parents or siblings was out of the question. “But only technically.”

  “You mean you are tied to the barracks with a piece of string,” Schrupp said. “Honestly! You’d think we were dogs!”

  “Of course not,” Kurt said. “Dogs are fed better.”

  “You got that right,” Schrupp said. He caught Kurt’s arm and pulled him forward. “Come with me.”

  Kurt pulled back. “Where are we going?”

  “To a place we can now go,” Schrupp said, with a wink. “You’ll love it.”

  Kurt frowned, torn between curiosity and the urge to disagree. Schrupp might have found something interesting - a bar perhaps - or it might be something he’d be forced to disapprove of on principle. But he was technically on leave ... he glanced up at the dark sky, then followed Schrupp down the road and past a pair of armed guards, standing outside a mid-sized building that was completely blacked out. The guards glanced at the rank insignias and let them through without comment. Inside, a middle-aged woman wearing a long sleeveless dress smiled cheerfully at the two young men.

  “Hah,” Schrupp said. “Who’s available tonight?”

  Kurt stopped, dead. “Is this a brothel?”

  “Better than that, Kurt,” Schrupp said. “This is an officers brothel. None of your two-mark tarts here! The girls actually know how to do interesting things with their mouths.”

  He elbowed Kurt, then tugged him towards the peepholes. “We can't eat or drink, but at least we can be merry,” he added. “For tomorrow we may die.”

  Kurt felt his cheeks reddening as he peered through the peepholes. A dozen girls were on the far side, wearing nothing more than their underwear. The youngest looked to be a year or two younger than him, although it was hard to be sure. They had covered themselves with cosmetics to hide any imperfections. He found himself staring at them, despite his embarrassment. He’d known the brothels existed, but he’d never dared go. The stories he'd heard had put him off.

  “Choose a number,” the woman said, cheerfully. “Or two numbers, if you wish.”

  “Two in bed,” Schrupp hissed. “Doesn't that sound fun?”

  Kurt found himself unable to speak. He'd always assumed that he wouldn't lose his virginity until he got serious with a girl, although his father had promised to beat him black and blue if he got someone pregnant before he married her. Kurt had wondered, despite himself, if his parents had had to marry in a hurry, even though it was hardly unusual in the Reich. But that wouldn't be a risk in a brothel. The girls would have been treated to make it impossible.

  “Pick one,” Schrupp urged. “Or I’ll pick one for you.”

  Kurt glared at him, then looked back through the peephole. There were blonde girls, brown-haired girls, dark-haired girls ... all Germanic. It made him wonder how they’d managed to wind up in the brothel, although he supposed the pay would actually be quite high. The officers wouldn't want a Gastarbeiter woman who’d been thrown out by her masters and sold to a brothel. And one of the dark-haired girls was quite pretty ...

  “Number twelve,” he said.

  “Right this way, Mein Herr,” the woman said. She glanced at Schrupp. “I’ll be back in a moment for your choice, my dear.”

  Kurt could feel his heart racing in his chest as the woman opened a door and showed him into
a room. It was larger than his bedroom at home, dominated by a giant four-poster bed that looked as though it had been dragged out of a museum. The sheets looked clean - he hoped, desperately, that they were changed between visitors. A side door opened into a small bathroom, with a shower, a toilet and a notice warning him to be careful how much water he used. It was so out of place that it made him smile. But then, water supplies to the city were in danger of being cut off.

  The door opened. He turned, just in time to see the girl step into the room. She’d donned a silk dressing gown that clung to her curves in all the right places, hinting at the shape of her body rather than revealing bare skin. She carried a tray in one hand, holding a small bottle and a pair of glasses. Kurt found himself staring helplessly as she placed the tray on the mantelpiece and then turned to smile at him. It made him feel as though he wanted to melt.

  “Well,” she said. “Is this your first time?”

  “Yeah,” Kurt stammered. He wasn't ashamed of being a virgin, even though he had had girlfriends in school. His father had been right. He had been in no position to marry until after he’d completed his education. “Here and ... and everywhere.”

  She smiled. “I understand,” she said. She patted the bed with one hand. “Please, sit. We have all the time in the world.”

  Kurt sat, feeling conflicted. She - he didn't even know her name - was beautiful, the most beautiful girl he’d seen. He hadn't been close enough to any of his girlfriends to do more than kiss them; he’d certainly not been allowed to touch their breasts or slip his hand into their panties. The recruits at the barracks had bragged, when the lights were out, of their exploits, but he’d just remained silent. His father had also told him that most men lied through their teeth about sex.

  The girl leaned forward and kissed his lips, her dressing gown coming undone and falling open to reveal her bare breasts. Kurt stared, his hands jerking forward to touch them. He’d never seen bare breasts, not outside a handful of magazines his father had beaten him for possessing. They certainly hadn't been real. But now ... they felt soft and warm against his hand, welcoming ...

  “You have all night,” the girl whispered, as she started to undo his shirt. “Lie back and enjoy it.”

  ***

  “Start setting up the defence lines,” Hauptsturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk ordered, as they slowly took up position outside Berlin. “And keep a close watch on our approaches.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer.”

  Schwerk smirked as his subordinates scurried to do his bidding. The company under his command might have been thrown together in a hurry - the remains of his former unit combined with two others - but he found it hard to care. He’d been promoted! None of his family had ever been promoted in combat, let alone been given command of a scratch unit in the middle of a war. The company might be far from perfect - very few of the men had trained together - but they’d learned fast as they continued the march towards Berlin.

  They’re pleased with me, he thought, as he touched his new rank insignia. And I won’t let them down.

  He peered through the darkness towards Berlin. Even in the darkness - the city had blacked out most of its lights - it was clear that Berlin was far larger than any city he’d seen, far larger than Germanica itself. A sprawling nightmare, according to the map; a maze of government buildings, residential areas, factories, transit barracks and everything else a modern city needed to remain alive. Berlin had never been rebuilt, unlike Moscow; there was no order to the city at all. And yet, the defenders had already started to dig into the city. Fighting their way into Berlin was going to be a nightmare.

  We can do it, he thought, coldly. He was damned if he was conceding anything to the enemy, not now. And they won’t be able to stop us.

  A gunshot cracked out, far too close to him for comfort. He ducked down, drawing his pistol with one hand as he searched frantically for targets. The westerners weren’t good at sneaking around, not like the men and women who had grown up in a war zone, but a number of them had taken the risk of engaging the stormtroopers at night. Schwerk had rapidly come to learn that nowhere could be trusted completely, not even a seemingly-deserted campsite that looked perfect for a night. The sniping and IEDs were taking their toll on his men. And they, in turn, had taken it out on the civilians. Schwerk had watched, dispassionately, as prospective insurgents were hung; he’d turned a blind eye when a couple of his men had marched a female prisoner away from the camp for some fun. The insurgents and those who sheltered them deserved no less.

  He stayed low as he peered into the darkness, but no more shots echoed through the air. The bastards were just trying to keep his men awake, rather than catching some desperately needed sleep. Chances were that whoever fired the shot was already well away from the camp, but no one would know for sure. Unless, of course, they stumbled across his body ...

  Bastard, he thought, as he rejoined his men. Tomorrow, the enemy would have nowhere to run. The stormtroopers were already surrounding Berlin, cutting off all routes in and out of the city. And you’ll soon be dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Berlin, Germany Prime

  28 September 1985

  “You really should not be up here,” Horst said, as Gudrun scrambled to the top of the ladder and peered into the distance. “There are snipers out there.”

  “I owe it to my conscience to take some risks,” Gudrun snapped. They’d made up after their last argument, but even repeated lovemaking hadn't been able to hide the fact that their first disagreement had never been fully resolved. “And I’m not in the front line.”

  She ignored his snort as she peered towards the enemy lines. The SS had crept close to Berlin under cover of darkness, laying out their positions and digging trenches with a thoroughness she could only admire. Voss, from what she’d heard before they’d left the Reichstag, had admitted that the defenders didn't have a hope of making a successful sally without being torn to ribbons. The SS lines were too strong. And the handful of shells they’d hurled into Berlin - already - was merely a taste of what they could do, if the city refused to surrender.

  “Get down,” Horst ordered, sharply. “If they see you, they’ll take a shot at you.”

  “They couldn't hit anything at this distance,” Gudrun said. “And ...”

  She yelped as Horst grabbed her foot and pulled. Her fingers lost their grip on the ladder and she fell, straight into his arms. She struggled, pulled herself free and found her footing, then whirled around to glare at him. She’d never been so tempted to slap a man since one of her distant relatives had visited and spent the whole time staring at her chest. And the little bastard had had the nerve to ask her out afterwards ...

  “They are already sniping into the city,” Horst snapped. “I don’t want to lose you too.”

  “They couldn't hit me ...”

  “They can and they will, if they think it’s worth taking the shot,” Horst snarled. “What happens if you die?”

  Gudrun glared. “You think I'm that important?”

  “I think you’re very important,” Horst snapped back. “Who is going to stand up and tell the Chancellor that he’s in the wrong? And who is going to make damn sure that the Reichstag actually lives up to its title?”

  “I don’t think I'm the only idealist out there,” Gudrun said. She wanted to yell and scream, but she knew it would be pointless. The hell of it was that he had a point. Germany had no real tradition of political debate, of the give and take that characterised democracy. And it would be easy to slip back into fascism. “And do you care more about me than about the Reichstag?”

  “You,” Horst said. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, very lightly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Gudrun shook her head in silent frustration. She loved Horst, but his over-protectiveness got on her nerves. And yet, he was better than many other boyfriends or husbands ... who knew what would happen when they got married? Perhaps he’d change, or she’d change, or everyon
e else would change. And if they didn't get married ...

  Father would go mad, she thought, as they slipped away from the ladder. He’d expect me to marry someone sooner or later.

  She smiled, despite herself, as she heard aircraft buzzing over the city. A missile - an American missile - lanced up towards one of them, blowing the aircraft out of the sky. Its comrades scattered, dropping bombs at random as they fled. The bombing didn't seem to be very effective, but it would definitely add to the fear and panic threatening the city. All of a sudden, getting married - or living in sin - no longer seemed a real problem.