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

by Christopher Nuttall

  And that meant ...

  He shook his head. They were committed, now. The SS would either fight or die; the war would be won or lost. But there was no way to back off, to live together. West and east could not coexist. Only one could be supreme.

  Bracing himself, he hefted his rifle. There were more buildings to clear before night fell.

  ***

  Andrew kept his face impassive as he strolled through Berlin, even though he knew it was quite possible that he would be mistaken for an easterner, rather than an American. Quite a few pilots had been brutally torn apart by angry mobs, he’d been told. He was rather tempted to believe that, if anything, the stories were underrated. Berlin hadn't been bombed since 1944, when the British had launched a handful of air raids before the end of the war. And the Berliners were angry.

  “The SS are pushing hard,” his escort said. “But we are holding them.”

  “You’re doing well,” Andrew said. “But how much of a city will you have left when time finally runs out?”

  His escort - a young military officer - didn't bother to answer. Andrew shrugged and turned his attention to the buildings as they walked past. Berlin was a huge city, but more and more buildings were badly damaged, even knocked down, by the fires of war. Broken windows were everywhere, despite advice from the provisional government warning homeowners to board up their windows or cover them with plastic. Makeshift tents were scattered everywhere, offering very limited comfort to the refugees and Berliners who had been driven out of their homes. Andrew had even heard that thousands of Berliners were even flocking into the city’s underground stations, just as the British had done during the Blitz. It provided more protection than they were likely to get elsewhere.

  His lips thinned as they passed a soup kitchen. A dozen German women, all wearing trousers rather than the party-approved long skirts and blouses, were handing out soup, bread and something that smelt faintly unappealing. Andrew’s nose wrinkled as he took in the desperate refugees and, behind them, Berliners who were starting to look pale and wan as hunger took its toll. It was a sight he’d never seen in America or Britain; it was a sight that wouldn't be out of place in the refugee camps in South Africa, the townships where black civilians were clustered as the military fought to exterminate the insurgents.

  This is the beginning of the end, he thought. And the start of hell itself.

  He looked past the refugees to the poster on the wall, feeling a flicker of concern that no one had bothered to take it down. A signal, perhaps, to anyone who might be watching that they weren't totally opposed to the SS? Or a simple sign of apathy? There was no way to know, but it concerned him that none of the passing policemen or soldiers had cared enough to rip it from the walls. Perhaps, just perhaps, there were more rats within the provisional government’s walls than it wanted to admit.

  “We could stop for soup,” he said, just to see what his escort would say. “I could pay, you know.”

  “We’re expected at the front,” the escort said. He wasn't quite experienced enough to hide the anger - and the shame. “They will be upset if we’re late.”

  Andrew nodded, wondering just how he would have felt if Washington, D.C. had become a battlefield. There had been countless attempts by the Reich to resurrect the Confederate States, attempts so pitiful that the FBI had wondered if they’d been a joke, an attempt to distract the Americans while the Germans got on with the real plan. But Andrew, who had spent more time than he’d wanted to in the Reich, suspected that the Reich had genuinely believed that the Confederate States of America was just waiting to be reborn, just as they believed that a non-Nazi government would surrender Germany to chaos and madness. It seemed hard to grasp, but they had very little understanding of the outside world. They judged all others as treacherous because they were treacherous themselves.

  Don’t pity the bastards, he told himself, as they walked past a gaggle of teenage girls wearing knee-length skirts and giggling loudly. They would probably have been marched home by the police, before the uprising; their parents would have beaten them for acting in such a lewd manner, if they weren't too relieved that their daughters had returned at all. Pity instead their victims.

  The sound of shooting grew louder as they approached the front lines, passing a handful of men in police uniforms manning a barricade. His escort took him through the lines, then nodded towards a man standing in a CP. Andrew recognised him instantly, even though he'd exchanged his normal uniform for a field tunic and cap. But then, the SS had hundreds of snipers prowling the battlefield. A man wearing the grand uniforms the Wehrmacht designed for its senior officers would make a very tempting target. Andrew had attended exercises, conducted at Fort Hood, where a couple of snipers had snarled up a military advance for days, just by taking out a handful of officers. The Wehrmacht would be foolish if it didn't realise the danger too.

  “Field Marshal,” he said, as Voss dismissed the escort with a wave of his hand. “Thank you for allowing me to come.”

  “It’s nothing,” Voss said. Andrew didn't know him as well as he knew his predecessor, but it was easy enough to see the irritation under the affable exterior. And yet, was it real? Voss had learned his trade in a political snake pit. He might well know how to conceal his innermost feelings, then project a false front. “The Chancellor wanted you to see what was happening.”

  Andrew nodded, looking past Voss to the map mounted on the wall. A pair of operators, their ears permanently pressed to phones, were constantly updating it, adding red arrows as the Waffen-SS pushed further and further into Berlin. Andrew was no expert, but General Knox had told him that the Battle of Berlin was turning into an absolute nightmare. A building could be declared secure, only to become very insecure indeed as the defenders sneaked back into it and opened fire on the SS from the rear. And, as the SS kept moving, they were smashing more and more buildings. Andrew couldn't help wondering if they were doing their best to make sure that no one could survive in the wreckage.

  We had to destroy the village in order to save it, he thought. An American officer had said that, back during the Mexican War. The communists had been too deeply entrenched, he'd argued, for the limited American forces on hand to clear the village. And so he’d ordered it firebombed to ashes. And now the SS is doing the same to an entire city.

  He looked at Voss, sensing - for the first time - the growing concern beneath the facade. The German was a Junker, heir to an established military tradition that long predated the United States of America, a tradition that even Hitler and Himmler hadn't been able to destroy completely. And yet, the man was on the brink of despair. He had more than enough firepower to halt the offensive, if only he had the time to bring it to bear on his foes ...

  And he might not have the time, Andrew thought. Whoever takes Berlin takes the Reich.

  “It’s bad,” he said, finally. “But it’s always darkest before the dawn.”

  Voss snorted, rudely. “You Americans,” he said, as he turned to walk towards the door. “So sentimental.”

  ***

  Hauptsturmfuehrer Katharine Milch kept her expression carefully blank as she listened to the dozy cows manning the soup kitchen, silently grateful for the intensive training she was forced to undertake before she was cleared for duty. The SS might have a role for female agents, but it was no more inclined to take the average woman and turn her into an operative than the Wehrmacht. A seductress was one thing, a woman willing and able to use her natural charms to seduce someone into saying something incriminating; an operative was quite another. Katharine had had to work hard from the day she’d determined what she wanted to do with her life, while the women surrounding her had been given their freedom on a platter.

  And not much of that, she thought, as a woman in fine clothing started ladling out the pork and leek soup. They may be upper-class bitches, but their husbands are the ones with real power. There’s no true freedom here and they know it.

  She watched the refugees carefully as they tr
udged in and out of the kitchen, each one taking a bowl of soup, a piece of bread and a glass of pure water. They looked broken, perhaps pushed beyond endurance by having to leave their homes ... Katharine snorted at the sheer foolishness of believing that was the worst that could happen. She’d endured worse, even before joining the SS. The refugees still had their lives, they still had their beauty ... they could rebuild, if they wished. But instead they were moaning about how unfair it was that they only got a small portion of food.

  “I heard that the policemen and their families get more food,” she said, when an opportunity arose. The silly women were twittering away, repeating and embellishing rumours as though they were facts. Such foolishness would never be tolerated in Germany East. Stupid women - or men - didn't last long out there. “And that some of them are selling ration cards to their friends.”

  “Of course not,” one of the older woman said, indignantly. “My husband is a policeman and he would never do such a thing!”

  Katharine concealed her amusement as two of the other woman started wittering, questioning the first woman closely. They were fools, but such foolishness had its uses. No matter how much the first woman might deny it, the seeds of doubt were planted and would grow rapidly into more and more rumours. By the time they reached the ears of someone in authority, the entire city would have heard the rumours ...

  ... And a certain percentage would believe them.

  She shrugged and returned to her work, content to allow the women to carry on the conversation alone. She’d leave as planned, knowing that the rumours would spread - and, like all rumours, grow in the telling. And no one would be able to trace them back to her.

  It isn't quite the same as direct action, she thought, as she finished up. But it may be just as effective in the long run.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Berlin, Germany Prime

  14 October 1985

  Kurt leaned against the stone wall, feeling tired and worn.

  The fighting had lasted for eleven days, he knew, but it felt as though it had been longer, much longer. Endless attacks and counterattacks, losing and recapturing buildings, only to lose them again when the enemy launched yet another thrust against the weakening defences and punched through. Berlin, the city of his birth, was being steadily destroyed and he could do nothing. His unit had been so badly weakened that his superiors were slotting in troops from other units that had come off even worse.

  He struggled to catch his breath, half-tempted just to put a gun to his temple and pull the trigger. Several soldiers had already done just that, unable to endure the constant fighting combined with the near-complete lack of sleep. Others had wounded themselves, either unaware or uncaring that there was no hope of medical evacuation. The system that had prided itself on airlifting wounded soldiers to a field hospital had broken down, if it had ever worked at all, in the flames consuming Berlin. None of the men could expect anything more than a mattress, if they were lucky. Rumour had it that every last hospital in Berlin was running short of just about everything, to the point that the doctors had to use alcohol to disinfect wounds. He honestly had no idea just how long the city could continue to hold out.

  “Hauptmann Wieland,” a voice called.

  Kurt looked up, suppressing a flicker of irritation when he saw the speaker. The boy - Kurt would have been astonished if he was actually old enough to enlist, in a more rational age - looked as tired as Kurt felt, although it didn't look as though he was doing anything more dangerous than taking messages forwards and backwards across the battlefield. But then, Kurt had to admit, that could be very dangerous. The SS snipers were advancing forward, ready to put a bullet in anyone foolish enough to show themselves too openly. He would have bet half his salary, if he thought he had a hope of collecting it, that a number of other messengers had died running through the lines.

  He scowled, inwardly, as he waved the boy over. Johan - Kurt’s younger brother - definitely looked older than the messenger. Kurt had no idea where Johan was - he’d volunteered to join the military shortly after the uprising - but he hoped his brother was safe. And yet, safety was increasingly an illusion in Berlin. SS shellfire had knocked down hundreds of buildings, trying to disrupt the defenders as the stormtroopers pushed forward.

  “Herr Hauptmann,” the boy said. His eyes were alight with something. It took Kurt a moment to recognise that it was hero-worship. “I have a message for you.”

  Kurt sighed, inwardly. Hardly anyone used paper messages these days, not when a messenger’s body might be retrieved by the wrong side. It was a shame that the field telephones were unreliable, too. The damned SS had known precisely where to aim their guns to do maximum damage. He met the young boy’s eyes and nodded impatiently, silently urging him to get on with it. His body was just too tired to curse the youngster for not giving him the message at once.

  “You are to report to the Reichstag,” the young boy said. “Your CO has already approved the transfer.”

  Kurt felt his eyes narrow. There was nothing for him in the Reichstag, certainly not as far as he knew. Gudrun wouldn't have called him out of the front lines, would she? She certainly hadn't arranged his promotion when she’d had the political power to do almost anything, although he knew that abusing the power would have been a good way to lose it. And yet, why would anyone else call him to the Reichstag. He was a mere Hauptmann, not a Field Marshal! Orders would normally pass through several higher ranks before they reached him.

  “I understand,” he said, taking a look at his men. Two-thirds of them were trying to catch some sleep, too used to the endless bombardment to allow it to keep them from resting; the remainder were trying, hard, to entertain themselves before they went back to the war. “I’ll be on my way in two minutes.”

  He sighed inwardly, then waved to Loeb. If he was lucky, this - whatever it was - could be resolved quickly, allowing him to return to the front. The men under his command were his men. He shared their trials and tribulations and, in exchange, they respected him. He’d worked hard to build up that rapport, damn it! He didn't want to lose his connection to his men, simply because he’d been called to the Reichstag. Unless he was in deep trouble, of course.

  Not likely, he thought. They’d have sent the MPs to arrest me if I was in trouble.

  “I’ve been called out of the line,” he said, bluntly. Loeb nodded, his face showing no visible reaction. “I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

  “We’re due to rotate back into the front lines in two hours, Herr Hauptmann,” Loeb reminded him. “Do you think you’ll be back by then?”

  “If I’m not, take command yourself,” Kurt ordered. Loeb had more experience than his entire graduating class put together. He was damned if he was allowing a green officer to take command of his unit, not when they were fighting for their lives and freedom. “Don’t let the bastards get any closer.”

  Loeb nodded - they both knew it was a tall order - then saluted as Kurt turned and walked away, following the messenger towards the rear of the lines. He kept his head down, trying to ignore the handful of bodies on the ground. No one had yet had time to draw them to one of the mass graves, let alone give them a decent burial. Standard procedures were to dispose of bodies as quickly as possible, just to keep disease from spreading, but procedures were steadily breaking down under the onslaught. The bodies might have to wait until nightfall before they were finally recovered and buried.

  He shuddered as they reached the edge of the lines and hurried into the city itself. The streets were almost deserted, save for emergency vehicles; the windows were boarded up or covered over to minimise the danger of flying glass. He saw a handful of civilians on the streets; he winced, inwardly, as he saw a pair of young girls, no older than Gudrun. Once, he might have tried to strike up a conversation, but he didn't have the energy. And they barely even noticed him as they staggered home. They looked alarmingly thin for girls who should have had more than enough to eat before the uprising.

  The fear
on the streets was almost palpable. Berlin had always been a city of fear - he didn't understand how Gudrun had found the nerve to challenge the government on its own territory - but this was different. The fear of the police, of ever-listening ears, of schoolmasters who watched for the slightest hint of independent thought was gone, replaced by the fear of incoming shells and the coming holocaust when the SS finally breached the defences and stormed the city. Hundreds of buildings were damaged, dozens more lay in ruins, struck by shells and collapsed into rubble. He hated to think of just how many people had died in the fighting so far. It was possible that no one would ever know for sure.

  “The guards will see you though the checkpoints,” the messenger said, as they finally approached the Reichstag. Kurt didn't know if he should be relieved or angry that most of the buildings around them were intact, save for one that had been struck by a cruise missile in the early days of the war. “And they’ll tell you where to go.”