Watch On The Rhine

by John Ringo

  "Schultz? Post!" Krueger ordered. Feeling awash in emotions he could but dimly understand, Dieter complied. They both ignored the Unteroffizier's wheezing, throat already constricted, "I have a family!"

  Laying a, for once, comradely arm across young Schultz's shoulder, Krueger began speaking in a most calm and reasonable tone.

  "See this little weeping bastard shaking atop this drum, Stabsunteroffizier Schultz?" The question was plainly rhetorical and so Krueger continued without pause, without waiting for an answer. "He's worried for himself, worried for his own family and circle of loved ones. He never gave a thought, not a single thought, to anyone outside that circle. You know that is true, don't you, Schultz? That this piece of shit knows nothing of duty, of comradeship?"

  That too, was rhetorical. Krueger plowed on, his every word a sneer made manifest. "He never cared for her . . . for a million others like her. He only cared for himself and his own. He neither cared nor imagined how your little honey might have shaken in fear before the aliens butchered and ate her." Krueger emitted an evil laugh. "More than you ever got to do with her, isn't it, boy? And it's all the fault of this cowardly, trembling bastard and the others like him."

  Dieter himself trembled. Whether it was disgust at Krueger's unwelcome touch, hate for the barrel-mounted piece of human filth in front of him, or the knowledge of his permanent loss, Schultz could not have said. But when Krueger removed his unwelcome arm and said, "Kick the barrel, Schultz," Dieter didn't hesitate.

  The condemned gave a short, and quickly stifled, moan as Dieter's leg came up, his foot resting on the barrel's rim. It only took a little nudge before the barrel began to tip over on its own. Frantically—but futilely—the man's feet scrambled to keep the barrel upright. It tipped over and rolled several feet, leaving the feet of the condemned to dance on air.

  Dieter watched the man die from beginning to end. At first, before the rope had tightened much, one could hear labored, raspy breathing, interrupted by frequent pleas for mercy. The feet kicked continuously as the dying man sought salvation automatically. Dieter observed that each kick, each twist of the body, actually caused the rope to tighten. Soon the noose itself had moved far enough with the tightening loop to begin to cause great pain to the neck. For a brief time the feet kicked even more frantically, causing the rope to tighten further.

  And then the air supply was fully cut off. Some quirk of physiology or of rope placement must have allowed blood, some portion of it anyway, to continue to flow to the brain. Dieter could see in the man's bulging hideous eyes that he was conscious nearly to the last, conscious and in agony both physical and mental. The tongue swelled, turned color and thrust outward past the lips. The face turned blue . . . then black.

  At length, the kicks grew fainter . . . and then ceased altogether. The dead man swayed in the light spring breeze, eyes focused on infinity. Dieter watched until the last spark of life had gone out. He felt. . . .well, he couldn't really say how he felt. But he also could not deny that he had no regret and no pity for the lifeless meat hanging before him.

  He turned to Krueger and said, "Let's finish the job then, shall we, Sergeant Major?"

  And an SS man is born, thought Krueger.

  * * *

  Not far away, riding atop Anna's turret, Hans Brasche watched the dispatching of the cowards with a certain detachment. He had seen it all before . . . so many times: a veritable orchard of hanged men, and not a few women—Russian, German, Czech, Baltic . . . Vietnamese. He was quite desensitized, really.

  And had the Legion caught me, I too would have had my neck stretched, he mused.

  * * *

  As jungle wounds often will, so had Hans' battle wounds festered. For many weeks after his evacuation his doctors at the French army hospital at Haiphong would not have given very good odds on his survival.

  But the man had heart, had been young and in good health prior, and had a strong will to live. Gradually his body, aided by that marvel penicillin, had begun to triumph over the alien organisms infesting it. Health returned, and with it color. Soon he was nearly whole.

  Nearly, however, is a far cry from being quite ready to return to the fetid jungle. The doctors insisted upon a longer period of recuperation than the French Army, less still the Legion Etrangere, would have really liked.

  Hans didn't mind though. He managed to enjoy quite a romp through Haiphong and Hanoi's best brothels and bars. He was actually beginning to grow tired of the frolic when one day he stopped to read a French language newspaper at a quaint sidewalk café not far from Haiphong's wharfs. It seemed that Israel, a Jewish state, had recently come into existence and was currently fighting for that very existence.

  I wonder, thought the former SS officer, I wonder if there might be some expiation there. . . .

  Paying his tab, leaving a small tip and folding the newspaper, Hans headed for the wharf to enquire into departures.

  * * *

  There were other infestations, course. Yet the enemy was plainly on the defensive over a swath running from the old Maginot line (where the remnants of the French Army had used the hastily restored fortifications to stop the enemy cold, in the process saving several million French civilians who huddled within it and behind its "walls") to the River Vistula (where German and Pole had fought like brothers together, as few would argue they should have fought together—almost seventy years earlier against the menace to the east).

  And then one day a break was announced—a break and a day of thanksgiving, by no lesser personage than the Bundeskanzler himself. Germany was on the way to being saved, so he said, along with significant parts of France, Poland and the Sudetenland. That this was so, noted the chancellor, was due to the diligence of German workers, the intelligence of German scientists . . . and—first and foremost—the courage of German soldiers.

  Of these, the Kanzler singled out two groups. The first of these was the research and development team now laboring on the Tiger III, Ausführung B project. The second was the group which had, at one time or another, fought on every front. This group had been the rock against which Posleen assault had dashed in vain. This was the group that had shown fortitude amidst every defeat, courage despite every loss, determination over the worst odds.

  This group was the Forty-seventh Panzer Korps. And to them, the Kanzler both gave and promised some signal honors.

  The chancellor also had some interesting words to say concerning treason.

  * * *

  Berlin, Germany

  7 May 2007

  I suppose it is for the best, thought the Tir. And I have never liked this cold, gray, ugly city, anyway. Less still their nasty language—an excuse for them to spit at each other under the guise of polite conversation.

  But, he mentally sighed, I was so looking forward to the rewards of the job.

  The message had come by special courier directly from the Ghin. The Berlin operation was to be shut down and all Darhel personnel withdrawn before the humans drew all the logical conclusions and came for them with implements of pain.

  A week the Tir had, a mere seven cycles of this planet about its axis, to shut down his operations. Being a good businessman, in Darhel mode—which is to say honest in all that could be seen, dishonest in all else, the Tir had to evacuate his underlings and a select list of those that were important to them. That, as much as anything, would ensure the ruin of his plans for this miserable "Deutschland" place.

  He was so sure that downloading the humans' plans and dispositions to the Net would make the difference, would see these humans thrashed and . . . well . . . threshed. But it was all for naught. The plans had changed too quickly, even as he was having the information downloaded it had been becoming obsolete. Damn these quick-thinking omnivores. Damn especially those vile SS humans whom even their own side could not control or predict.

  Why, WHY, WHY hadn't these damned Germans been like the French? A logical people, in so many ways, the French. And their politicians were so vain and easy to man
ipulate through flattery and feeding their paranoia. Damn the Germans to the Hell of their superstitions.

  Demotion, disgrace, reduction in salary, loss of bonuses and options . . . the Tir would have wept like a human if only he could have. He would be lucky not to be reduced to an entry level position.

  Absently, his mind seething dangerously, the Tir used his inappropriate carnivore's teeth to rend sticks of vegetable matter placed on a tray before him. The food never really satisfied, but he, like all Darhel, was forbidden the animal protein he, and they, craved. Lintatai was the result of eating the forbidden foods.

  Boredom and disgust was the result of feeding on the permissible.

  Interlude

  It was time for a feast, for an honoring of the fallen and celebration of the victories won. A people of somewhat primitive instincts, amidst great roaring bonfires the Posleen God Kings gathered on an island in the middle of a river flowing through what once had been the capitol of the former inhabitants of this realm. The fires cast an eerie, shifting glow upon God Kings and waters both.

  Around the celebrants, where once had stood a mighty city, it was as though the hand of some rampaging giant on a scale beyond imagining had scraped the Earth raw. Thresh architecture had, generally speaking, no value except as a source of raw materials. All buildings must be erased to make room for Posleen settlers, Posleen civilization.

  One major exception existed. By and large, elements of a thresh transportation net were left intact wherever Posleen conquered. A road was a road, after all.

  Especially noteworthy was the Posleen penchant for leaving bridges extant. Generally speaking, the Posleen didn't handle water well and were glad to make use of such bridges as could be taken intact.

  Upon the cobblestones of one such bridge clattered the claws of Athenalras and such of his staff as he wished to personally honor, including Ro'moloristen. Torches glowing to either side cast their light on Posleen . . . and on a herd of thresh meant to serve as the evening's provender.

  For this celebration, nothing but the best would do. The thresh for the feast had been selected for youth and tenderness. The replicators aboard the ships of the People had poured forth the mild intoxicants that only God Kings partook of, and they—as a rule—but sparingly.

  Glistening with the sweat of fear in the torchlight, the young thresh wept and bewailed their impending fate. The flickering torches shone on the tears of terror.

  PART III

  Chapter 10

  Berlin, Germany

  6 June 2007

  "Herr Bundeskanzler," Mühlenkampf bowed his head slightly while clicking his heels. "You wished to see me?"

  "I have another mission for you, Herr General."

  "How can that be," Mühlenkampf asked duplicitously, "beyond preparing my Korps for the next onslaught?" The general was very sure indeed as to what mission the leader of Germany had in mind.

  The Kanzler rarely enjoyed games. Especially did he not now, now that his people's future hung in the balance. He said as much, adding, "Germany has enemies, enemies she has nurtured at her own breast. They cannot be allowed to sabotage us any longer.

  "No, damn them!" fumed the Kanzler. "Nor will they until about five percent of them are removed from office!"

  "Well, Herr Kanzler, surely your precious democratic constitution has provisions . . ."

  "Not for this, General. Not for what must be done now."

  "Ohhh, I see. You want my Korps to break the law, do you?"

  The chancellor glared. "Desperate times, General . . ."

  Mühlenkampf smiled broadly and happily. "There will be a price for this, Herr Kanzler."

  The chancellor had been prepared for this. He opened a drawer, causing the general to stiffen momentarily. From the drawer he withdrew a small rectangle of black cloth, embroidered with silver thread. "I have had two hundred thousand of these made. The Treasury will pay for as many more as you need. Is this a fair enough price?"

  Mühlenkampf's smile disappeared for a moment, his face growing as serious as the snows of Russia, as the falling naval gun shells of Normandy. "To give my people back their pride and their dignity, Herr Kanzler? To let them be publicly proud of what they once were, soldiers, and among the best? Yes, sir. The price is fair."

  * * *

  Berlin, Germany

  12 July 2007

  Under a different torchlight from that under which the Posleen had feasted upon French cuisine, under a moving river of fire, gleamed eyes bright and clear. New uniforms, black and forbidding though graced here and there with silver, paraded under the torchlight. No swastikas were to be seen. But other symbols, once forbidden, were there in plenty.

  I wish that I had had the foresight to have Leni Rieffenstahl rejuvenated before she passed away in 2003. What a propaganda scene she could have made from this,

  The Kanzler's eyes could not make out the black uniforms through the glowing haze. Never mind, he knew they were there. He had placed them there.

  I knew . . . way back when I saw the ruin of that American city, I knew that this day must come. It was so obvious . . . desperate times call for desperate measures and no one has ever seen more desperate times.

  Now I have my corps d'elite. Grateful they are too, especially their leaders, for being given back their little symbols. And now, with them, I do what I hate to do . . . but must.

  "Desperate times . . ."

  * * *

  Günter was livid, absolutely livid. These SS bastards must pay, there must be an expiation! It was nothing less than criminal for them to be singled out for praise, to be given back their symbols. He said as much, forcefully, to the Bundeskanzler.

  "Fine," answered the Kanzler, calmly, from behind his desk. His fingers rapped out their impatience as he asked, "Why don't you go arrest them? Strip the Sigrunen from their collars with your own hands."

  Günter sputtered with outrage. "Don't take that line with me, old man. The Greens who put me on you as a watchdog made you and they can unmake you as well." Günter never mentioned his close connections to the Darhel, of course—those were secret.

  "No," answered the Kanzler. "No. That was once true, but no longer. I used to need your Green Korps. But now? Now I have the Black Korps, my green-hued friend."

  The Kanzler touched a button on his desk. Instantly his door sprang open and two uniformed men entered, accompanied by one other man in the usual BND trench coat. With wide-eyed horror, Günter saw that the uniforms were midnight black . . . and that they were adorned with certain silver insignia long since forbidden.

  "Herr Greiber," the Kanzler enquired of the trench-coated man, "do you have a report to make on my former 'assistant'?"

  With an East Prussian heel click the BND agent answered, "Indeed I do, Herr Bundeskanzler. Indeed I do. Treason most foul."

  At the Kanzler's hand gesture, the agent proceeded to lay out Günter's many crimes, his many collaborations with the Darhel that had redounded to Germany's detriment. The case was clear and the evidence overwhelming. When the agent was finished the Kanzler asked, "Günter, have you anything to say for yourself?"

  Still not quite believing this unfortunate twist of fate, the Kanzler's former aide shook his head. "You planned this," he accused. "From the beginning you planned it. You wanted to resurrect the SS, the whole Nazi apparatus. Admit it!"

  "The 'whole Nazi apparatus'? No. I admit only that I wanted to save our people . . . that, and that I would accept no limits on what was permissible to ensure this."

  "But don't you see? Can't you see?" Günter insisted, his eyes shining with all the self-righteousness of the true believer. "There were too many of us . . . and we were too greedy. We have a chance, once the Posleen have finished culling us and commenced to fighting among themselves, to build an Ideal Germany. Under the guidance of those who understand we could have saved our planet, eventually, and with fewer humans—and those less greedy and wasteful—we could have maintained our holy mother Earth inviolate forever."


  The Kanzler picked up on a few key concepts in Günter's diatribe. "And you, my friend? You would have been one of those knowing guides, would you not? How were you to live while our people served as feedlots? An off-planet trip? Along with your wife and children? Yes, I am sure that was part of your holy vision too, was it not? Because you were special and the rest of the Volk were not?"

  Günter began to defend himself, to object. Then he recalled that the chancellor was half right. He had demanded that his own family be moved to safety. He thought that maybe, just maybe, deep down inside he had expected to join them.

  He could not defend himself on that charge. He attacked from a different angle. "You were returning Germany to the Nazis!" he accused.

  The chancellor did not answer directly. Instead, he asked one of the black-uniformed men, "What is your name, son?

  "Schüler, Herr Kanzler," the young one answered instantly, springing to a stiffer attention.

  "Schüler, are you a Nazi?"

  "No, mein Herr. I am just a soldier, like other soldiers."

  "Do you know any Nazis in the 47th Korps?"

  "One, mein Herr," Schüler answered, simply and directly. "He is a bad man and we all hate him. He is, however, a very good tank driver so we put up even with him, for the Fatherland."

  Turning back to Günter and snorting with derision, the Kanzler said, "Never mind. It matters not. You will believe what you will believe." Turning to the other black-uniformed man he asked, "Has General Mühlenkampf reported on progress?"

  The shorter but more senior of the two answered, "The general reports that most suspect members of the Federal Legislature are under arrest, along with the A list of suspects within the Bundeswehr higher command echelons. In addition, leaders of the more radically antihuman of the political parties are almost entirely in the bag . . . Though some have already been executed . . . er, shot while escaping. Several dozen appear to have disappeared from Germany entirely, along with their families. The Darhel are not to be found either. Still, isolation of whatever Darhel may remain moves forward apace."