But it wasn't important, not now.
“Gentlemen,” he said. There was no more time for brooding. “Let us begin.”
***
Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler held himself ramrod straight, even though he rather suspected that he was about to be arrested and marched straight to his own execution. The Fuhrer needed a scapegoat for the defeat and there was no better candidate, particularly as Alfred had defied the older man’s commands in ordering the retreat from Berlin. There had been no choice - the Waffen-SS had been on the verge of breaking - but he knew Holliston wouldn't see it that way. The man had been growing increasingly unstable as disaster followed disaster, a tidal wave of chaos breaking over the Reich.
He studied Holliston through impassive eyes. The Fuhrer wore a simple infantryman’s uniform with a single Iron Cross - Adolf Hitler had worn the same outfit - and he’d cut his hair to resemble the former Fuhrer in his prime. And yet, it was easy to see that Holliston was deeply worried. The Fuhrer was good at hiding his emotions, but there were enough signs for Alfred to be sure he was worried. Holliston would definitely need a scapegoat ...
... But my subordinates will be safe, Alfred thought. He certainly hoped that would be the case. The Reich had lost too many good men to go around executing people merely because they’d been too close to the designated scapegoat. And we are already pulling the formations back together.
He sighed, inwardly. Tactical defeats were one thing - and the Waffen-SS had suffered tactical defeats, no matter what the Ministry of Information said - but the Reich had never suffered such a catastrophic setback in its entire history. Even the first Battle of Moscow hadn't been so shocking. He’d had to look as far back as 1918 to see a comparable defeat - and that had resulted in the end of the Second Reich.
“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Holliston said. His voice was very cold. “Is it true that you ordered the retreat from Berlin.”
“Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said. There was no point in trying to lie. He knew the rules. His guilt had to be firmly established to make it clear that he was more than just a scapegoat for his superior. And if he played his role, his family would be safe. “I saw no choice.”
“Indeed,” Holliston said.
There was a long chilling pause. “You did the right thing, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Holliston added. “The Reich owes you a great debt.”
Alfred felt his expression crack, just for a second. He wasn't going to be turned into a scapegoat? Holliston approved of his decision? And yet ... cold ice ran down his spine as he realised it wasn't anything of the sort. The Waffen-SS wasn't led by incompetent fools. It wouldn't be hard for one of Alfred’s former subordinates to put two and two together and realise that the real blame lay with Holliston. The rivalry between the Waffen-SS and the rest of the SS would only make it worse. And who knew what would happen then?
“You will continue to hold your position, charged with organising the defence of Germany East in the short term and the reconquest of Germany Prime in the coming year,” Holliston continued. “In your opinion, what is the current situation?”
Alfred had to fight the urge to giggle. Reconquer Germany Prime? Right now, he honestly wasn't sure they could defend Germany East. Four entire divisions had been shattered in the Battle of Berlin, their panzers destroyed, their supplies expended ... Germany East had vast stockpiles of war material, but it didn't produce much for itself. Replacing everything that had been lost in the fighting would take years. Hell, merely reorganising the survivors into new units would take far too long.
He took a moment to organise his thoughts. “The last set of updates I saw, Mein Fuhrer, had lines being formed west of Warsaw,” he said. “Stragglers are being rounded up and funnelled into makeshift units” - thankfully, the Waffen-SS had a great deal of experience in throwing together scratch battlegroups at a moment’s notice - “while we are massing the remainder of our panzers and aircraft well behind the front lines. Small teams of dedicated commandos have been assigned to impede the enemy, directly and indirectly. As you are aware, experienced teams can cause considerable delay.”
As the enemy showed us during the march to Berlin, he thought, grimly. And blowing up bridges will make it harder for us to take the offensive too.
“Very good,” Holliston said. “And our chances of defending Germany East?”
Alfred knew the right answer. “Very good, Mein Fuhrer.”
Gauleiter Staff Innsbruck cleared his throat, loudly. “Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” he said, carefully. “Is it not true that we have lost vast quantities of materiel as well as men?”
“It is,” Alfred confirmed. He’d met Innsbruck before; indeed, he was mildly surprised Innsbruck had survived Holliston’s assumption of power. The man didn't owe his success to the new Fuhrer. “However, there are several factors working in our favour.”
Innsbruck lifted his eyebrows. “Indeed?”
“Yes, Herr Gauleiter,” Alfred said.
He ticked off points on his fingers as he spoke. “First, the enemy is likely just as disorganised as ourselves,” he said. “Their thrusts eastwards are already weakening as they outrun their logistics. They will need time to reorganise before taking the offensive.
“Second, the distance between Berlin and Germanica is quite considerable,” he added. “If they wish to crush us, they will have to thrust eastwards ... and do it at a time when winter is coming and the roads swiftly become impassable. Our contingency plans for the defence of Germany East will only make matters worse, for them. By the time they muster the force to launch an invasion of their own, perhaps in spring, we will have our forces solidly in place and ready to stop them.”
“But that would require a massive commitment,” Innsbruck said. “We would need to conscript more and more young men from the farms.”
Alfred nodded, unsure where Innsbruck was going.
Innsbruck turned back to Holliston. “Mein Fuhrer, we must discuss peace.”
Holliston’s face darkened. “Peace? There can be no compromise with traitors!”
“Two-thirds of the young men in my district have already been called up,” Innsbruck said, sharply. “Garrison levels have already fallen dangerously low in some places - and winter is coming, winter ... when bandit attacks are typically on the rise. My people have already faced a number of raids that came far too close to success. How long can we sustain this commitment without losing Germany East completely?”
Alfred winced. Forty years of occupation hadn't been enough to exterminate the bandits, not the ones stubborn enough to hold on and fight back whenever they saw an opportunity. Most towns and villages in Germany East were practically garrisons, military bases in a sea of Untermenschen insurgents and bandits. And he had no doubt that the Untermenschen slaves would revolt, if given the opportunity. They were worked to death by their owners. The only thing keeping them under control was the certain knowledge that resistance was futile.
And it might not be futile now, he thought. We don’t have the manpower to keep them in check any longer.
Holliston made a visible effort to control his anger. “The traitors believe they won the war,” he said, sharply. “Do you think they would agree to any terms we might accept?”
And if they did, Alfred asked himself, how long would it be before they crushed us anyway.
He sighed, inwardly. Germany Prime had nearly seventy percent of the Reich’s industrial base, even though it had been decaying for years. Given a couple of years of peace, the traitors could simply out-produce the loyalists and resume the war when it suited them. And ideas from the west would be slipping east all the time ... the ideals of the Reich would come under threat.
Because they seem easier, he thought. And very tempting.
It wasn’t a pleasant thought. Germany East was built on an ideal, the ideal of transforming a barren country into living space. It had built hard men and women, people who truly understood the harsh world around them. But Germany Prime ... they
’d had it easier for decades. They didn’t realise the truth, that one could either bend the world to one’s will ... or be bent in turn.
“There is no prospect for peace,” Holliston said. “Do you wish to see your lands returned to the Untermenschen?”
He tapped the table sharply. “Does anyone wish to surrender?”
No, Alfred thought. He doubted that any of the senior officers would like the thought of giving up their power, even if it didn't lead to their execution. But do they think the war can be won?
“As long as we have the power to preserve the ethos of Germany East,” Gauleiter Emil Forster said, “we must not surrender.”
Alfred frowned to himself. Gauleiter Emil Forster was an older man, one known to be stanchly conservative. He would have expected Forster to consider coming to terms with the rebels, if it was possible. Continuing the war might lead to defeat - or total annihilation. But then, who knew how long Germany East would survive if it still had contact with Germany Prime? Would the Easterners be seduced from their ideals?
“We will not surrender,” Holliston said. He looked at Alfred. “You will take command of the defence. You will ready the troops to resist the coming offensive. And you will hold the line.”
“Jawohl, Mein Führer,” Alfred said. He found himself torn between relief and fear. Relief that he hadn't been executed; fear that he’d been given an impossible job. But what else could he say? Defeatism was punishable by death. “Given enough time, we can make Germany East impregnable.”
“And you will have something very special to help you,” Holliston added. He smiled, unpleasantly. “But for now ... I believe we have other business.”
And there was something in the way he said it that chilled Alfred to the bone.
Chapter Three
Berlin, Germany Prime
29 October 1985
“That’s the latest set of reports, Herr Chancellor,” Field Marshal Gunter Voss said, as he tapped the updated map. “The SS lines are definitely beginning to solidify.”
Volker Schulze, Chancellor of the Greater German Reich - or at least the part of it that accepted the authority of the Berlin Government - nodded in irritation. He'd hoped, against experience, that the SS stormtroopers would have broken completely, but they were trained to rebound from defeat faster than any other military unit in the Reich. It had been years since he’d served alongside them, yet he still recalled how little difference losing the CO - or even the NCOs - had made. The SS, whatever its flaws, had been a meritocracy. A skilled stormtrooper - assuming he had good Aryan blood - had every prospect of rising in the ranks.
“I see,” he said, finally. Life had been a great deal less complicated last year, when he’d been nothing more than a factory foreman. “Can you keep thrusting forward?”
“Not until we get our logistics network up and running,” Voss said. “Herr Chancellor, we simply don’t have the logistics to push them further back.”
“Work on it,” Volker ordered. He knew Voss was right. No one had ever seriously contemplated having to fight a civil war, of all things. The Reich had countless contingency plans - everything from an invasion of Britain to a defence of Occupied France - but none of them had ever been put into practice. “I assume we are continuing to harass them?”
“Of course,” Voss said. “But we’re reaching the point of diminishing returns. Even our air supremacy is under threat.”
Volker scowled as he contemplated the map. The Luftwaffe had largely joined the provisional government, once the Reich Council had lost its grip on power, but the air force had paid a high price for its decision. A number of bases and aircraft had been destroyed, either by sleeper agents or cruise missiles, while the remaining pilots were exhausted and running out of supplies. They had planned for an intensive operational tempo, he’d been assured, but - once again - the Reich’s planning had not matched reality. He had a nasty feeling that he would have to order the air force to reduce its operations soon, before exhaustion and poor maintenance took an even greater toll on its pilots.
A shame we can't send the navy, he thought. The Kriegsmarine had been solidly behind the rebels from the start, save for a handful of warships that had fled harbour and escaped to the east. They’ve done very little so far.
He shook his head in annoyance. It was a foolish thought, unworthy of him. The navy couldn't come to grips with the SS, not when the SS was largely landlocked. Maintaining a blockade of the handful of ports in Germany East was largely pointless. The Americans weren't going to sell supplies to the SS. And if the Chinese decided to pour fuel on the fire by shipping weapons to Germany East, there was nothing the Kriegsmarine - or anyone else - could do about it.
“Order the Luftwaffe to do whatever it sees fit,” he said, finally. “If they feel they have to reduce their operational tempo, they can reduce their operational tempo.”
Voss didn't argue. That worried Volker more than he cared to admit. He’d been a stormtrooper, but he’d never reached high command. Voss, on the other hand, was a Field Marshal. He’d never hesitated to point out the limits of Volker’s experience before ...
... And if he wasn't arguing, it meant the situation was truly dire.
Volker looked down at the map, silently translating the pencil-drawn symbols into something understandable. Berlin was safe now, ringed by panzer divisions and infantrymen who’d force-marched from the coastal defences of France to the heart of the Reich. But the SS had utterly devastated the land between Berlin and Warsaw. The reports pulled no punches, none at all. Every last bridge had been destroyed, every last village and town had been devastated ... improvised mines had been scattered everywhere, covered by a handful of commando teams who’d fired a couple of shots at the advancing soldiers, then scattered into the undergrowth and vanished.
And the enemy defence lines are forming, Volker thought, coldly. They’ll be ready for us soon.
He sighed, then looked up at Voss. “If we leave them alone for six months,” he said, “they’ll be ready for us.”
“Yes, Herr Chancellor,” Voss said.
Volker rubbed his eyes. He’d often considered emigrating to Germany East; he’d planned to emigrate, once he reached retirement age and his children were married off. And he’d visited, during his career. He knew just how tough the easterners were. Given time to raise and deploy a new army, they could make the cost of winning the war intolerable. If it had been possible, he would have accepted sundering the Reich in two. But he knew, all too well, that Karl Holliston wouldn’t accept anything less than the reconquest of the entire Reich.
There can be no peace, he thought, morbidly.
“Field Marshal,” he said. “Could we win before the first snowfall?”
Voss looked unsurprised by the question. Volker rather suspected he’d been considering the issue himself.
“Perhaps,” he said, finally. “We don't know when the snow is going to fall.”
“But we could still chew them to ribbons,” Volker mused. “They’d either have to abandon vast tracts of land or fight us.”
He scowled at the thought. The SS - and the Heer - was good at slotting newcomers into units and relying on the old hands to teach them the ropes. There was no such thing as a unit completely composed of soldiers - or stormtroopers - fresh out of basic training. But if the SS’s combat veterans were killed, the SS would have fewer experienced soldiers to teach the newcomers how to fight. It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was one that had to be faced. A campaign - even a limited thrust eastwards - would make it harder for the enemy to regenerate their forces.
“Yes, Herr Chancellor,” Voss said. “But if we waited six months, we would also be far stronger.”
Volker had his doubts. Germany Prime might possess most of the Reich’s industry, but Hans Krueger had made it clear that their industrial base was on its last legs. The demands of the war hadn't helped, either. They needed to give the machinery a rest; instead, they’d upped the demands to support the military. Pus
hing the industry any harder might result in a general collapse. And even if they didn't have a wave of large-scale failures, they’d still pay a terrifying price for occupying Germany East.
And they might get their atomic bombs up and running, he thought. It was anyone’s guess just how long it would be before the SS unlocked their own bombs. A trained engineer, he’d been warned, might just be able to remove the PAL system and improvise a replacement detonator of his own. What will they do if they have working atomic bombs?
He cursed under his breath. The Siberian missile fields probably couldn't be turned on Germany Prime, but they could be pointed at America. And Karl Holliston was insane. Who knew what he’d do if he thought he was losing the war? Taking the United States down too might make perfect sense to him. Or perhaps he'd reason that the Americans would retaliate against Germany Prime, giving Germany East a chance to rebuild. Stopping him from using the damned things was worth almost any price.
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