Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  They picked the wrong side, he told himself.

  But it wasn't convincing. No one had expected a civil war, not even Gudrun. Very few soldiers had voted with their feet, even when military bases had turned into battlegrounds; they’d stayed with their comrades rather than following their own inclination. And most of the Waffen-SS would be fanatically loyal. They knew what sort of chaos would be unleashed by the revolution. The Untermenschen would rise up in revolt all over the Reich.

  He sucked in his breath as he saw a tall man, wearing a Standartenfuehrer uniform, standing in front of one of the tents. A Standartenfuehrer would not be so easily bullied, Horst knew; he’d want to make it clear that he was in charge, despite the wide-ranging authority granted to the Inspectorate.

  “Heil Holliston,” the Standartenfuehrer said.

  “Heil Holliston,” Horst returned. He held out his papers. “We require immediate transport back to Germanica.”

  The Standartenfuehrer looked back at him evenly, then carefully went through Horst’s papers, one by one. They should pass muster, Horst knew, but if the Standartenfuehrer insisted on checking with Germanica ... they’d be caught, before the mission had even fairly begun. And then ... they’d be lucky if they were only marched out of the camp and shot. It was quite possible that Holliston had marked Horst - and any member of Gudrun’s family - down for special attention.

  “Very well, Herr Inspector,” the Standartenfuehrer said. “We are sending a convoy of the wounded up to Warsaw in the morning. You may accompany them.”

  “We need a vehicle that can take us all the way to Germanica,” Horst said, firmly. It would be perfectly in character for an Inspector to demand the very best, regardless of the practicalities. “Herr Standartenfuehrer ...”

  “We don’t have anything that can be spared,” the Standartenfuehrer said. He sounded too tired to care that he had just interrupted an Inspector. “You’ll have to go with the convoy.”

  “Very well,” Horst said, trying to sound irritated. “We’ll inspect the camp while we’re waiting.”

  The Standartenfuehrer gave him a ghastly smile. “Make sure you tell Germanica that we need more supplies out here, Herr Inspector,” he said. “This camp is not going to hold against a determined offensive.”

  “Of course,” Horst said.

  He saluted the Standartenfuehrer, then led Kurt out of the tent. Dawn was just beginning to glimmer in the distance, a wavering line of light heralding the approach of the day. He resisted the urge to yawn as he nodded to the sentries, then strode over to the medical tent and glanced inside. There were hundreds of wounded, including dozens who were too badly injured to be saved. The others ... he shuddered as he recalled some of the horrors they’d uncovered in the files. He had never known - never even considered - that the Nazi Regime would kill its own wounded soldiers ...

  But they did, he thought.

  He looked away, unwilling to meet the eyes of men he knew would probably be killed if they didn't die soon. The files had made it clear, written in glowing tones by people who didn't even have the decency to be ashamed of what they’d done. Hundreds of thousands of Germans - good Germans, men with the proper bloodlines - had simply been exterminated, murdered by their own government. And that had been the least of it. Children born with birth defects - even minor birth defects - had been murdered too ...

  And we never knew, he told himself. None of us ever realised what had happened.

  It made him wonder - again - what had happened to his father. Uncle Emil had told Horst that his father had been killed in one of the wars - and Uncle Emil should have known - but he hadn't gone into detail. Did he know what had happened? Or had something been covered up? There was no way to independently verify anything they'd been told. For all Horst knew, his father had been so badly wounded that he’d been murdered by his own government.

  And I might never know, he thought.

  He wandered through the camp, doing his best to memorise the details. He’d probably be called upon to give a report when they reached Warsaw, even if they were given a vehicle and told to make their own way to Germanica. And there might be a chance to slip a report back to Berlin, even though he knew it was unlikely ...

  Two hours later, they were called over to join a small collection of trucks heading east. The wounded didn't look very comfortable - the trucks had clearly been designed to transport goods, rather than people - but none of them were in any fit state to complain. Horst bit down the urge to make sarcastic remarks - he couldn't help noticing that none of the badly-wounded men were being shipped to Warsaw - as he clambered into the front seat. Kurt followed him as the lorry roared to life. Thankfully, the enlisted man in the driver’s seat didn't seem inclined to make conversation.

  “Get some sleep,” he urged Kurt. “It’s a long drive to Warsaw.”

  He kept a wary eye on the sky as the convoy lurched down the road to the autobahn. It was unlikely that the Luftwaffe would deliberately target wounded men, but any prowling pilot wouldn't know what the trucks were carrying until it was far too late. Besides, wrecking the SS’s logistics network would suit the Provisional Government perfectly. But there seemed to be no aircraft in the sky.

  They’re digging in, he thought, as they passed a line of stormtroopers working on a trench network. And getting ready to make us bleed.

  He scowled, inwardly, as they passed more and more signs of enemy activity. Trenches, weapons positions, a handful of panzers dug into the undergrowth so they’d be almost completely invisible, except at very short range. A number of trenches were being dug by men and women in civilian clothes, people he assumed had been conscripted by the SS during the march towards Berlin. He couldn't help noticing that most of the civilians were middle-aged, with no children, teenagers or elderly. It struck him as an ominous sign.

  They could have shipped the children east, if they weren't already evacuated, he told himself, slowly. He wanted to believe it. Hell, if there had been teenage boys in the towns and villages, they would probably have been conscripted into the army. If the children were still there ...

  He shook his head, sourly. There were just too many secrets buried in the Reich’s past. A few hundred children, torn from their parents and raised as Germans in Germany East, would hardly be the worst of them. He glanced at Kurt, then closed his eyes himself. They’d need to be alert when they reached Warsaw.

  It felt like he hadn't slept at all when the truck finally lurched to a stop. Horst elbowed Kurt - he’d managed to sleep through the entire drive - then clambered out of the vehicle, just in time to see a small army of medics carting the wounded into the city. A number had died in transit; their bodies were dumped to the side, waiting to be placed in a mass grave. It wasn't common for bodies to be returned to their families, not in Germany East. Horst ... had simply never wondered just how sinister the procedure was until now.

  Makes it easier to hide something, he thought.

  “Herr Inspector,” an Obersturmbannfuehrer said. “We have readied a car for you to drive east.”

  Horst allowed himself a moment of relief. He’d feared they would have to take the railway, which would have gotten them there quicker ... but forced them to pass through a whole series of checkpoints. Transit within Germany East was heavily restricted. He thanked the officer coldly - as if it was the very least he could do - and then allowed himself to be led outside. The car - a Volkswagen painted black - was already waiting for them. A small flag fluttered from the radio aerial on the roof, identifying the vehicle as an official car; a packet of maps lay on the front seat, just to make it easy for them to find their way to Germanica.

  “Try not to drive at night, Herr Inspector,” the Obersturmbannfuehrer warned. “I suggest you stop at settlements along the way.”

  Kurt frowned. “Might I ask why, Herr Obersturmbannfuehrer?”

  “There have been a number of reported attacks along the roadside,” the Obersturmbannfuehrer told him. “It’s safer to sleep in a settlem
ent.”

  Horst nodded, slowly. He’d thought the bandits had been cleared out of the western sections of Germany East, but it was clear they were having a resurgence. And why not? Most of the defenders had been marched west to fight the civil war. Germany East was huge. Forty years of occupation hadn't been enough to exterminate every last trace of Slavic resistance.

  “We will find a place to sleep in the settlements,” he said, frankly. It would be another risk - the settlements might also check their credentials - but it had to be done. “I thank you.”

  “Just make sure they know we need reinforcements, Herr Inspector,” the Obersturmbannfuehrer said. “We stripped the city bare to support the offensive ...”

  He stopped talking, suddenly. His words were far too close to defeatist. And defeatism was punishable by death.

  Horst winced at the thought. What wasn’t?

  “I’ll make sure they know,” Horst assured him. “We have orders to give our report to the Fuhrer in person.”

  He climbed into the car and checked it, carefully. It wasn't that different from the cars he'd learned to drive when he was younger; indeed, the only real difference was a military radio installed beside the steering wheel. Civilians weren't allowed radio transmitters without a special licence. Who knew what they might put on the airwaves?

  But we will need to summon help if we run into trouble, Horst thought. If an Obersturmbannfuehrer was prepared to admit the existence of bandits to a pair of inspectors, the situation had to be worse than it seemed. And if we do, we might attract far too much attention.

  He turned the key. The engine roared to life,

  “Let’s go,” he said. They’d stop, once they were well outside the city, to inspect the car for hidden surprises. “We’ll get as far as we can before it gets dark.”

  Chapter Nine

  Berlin, Germany Prime

  30 October 1985

  “I wish you weren't going,” Adelinde Wieland said. “Herman, you have absolutely nothing to prove.”

  “I’m an experienced soldier as well as a policeman,” Herman said. “They need me.”

  “The war will not be won or lost because a slightly-overweight policeman picked up a rifle or not,” Adelinde said, curtly. “I may be a mere woman, but even I know that!”

  Herman winced, inwardly. Nothing was the same any more. His daughter had turned the Reich upside down, his wife had turned into a politician ... he honestly didn't know where to stand. A year ago, he could have forbidden Adelinde - or Gudrun - from leaving the house, secure in the knowledge the law would back him up. Now ... Adelinde would laugh at him if he tried. And he had never raised a hand to her before ...

  He took a sip of his coffee instead, wincing at the taste. They might be living in the Reichstag now, but they still couldn't get good coffee. And breakfast had been nothing more than bacon, cheese and bread.

  “I have to go,” he said, finally. “There’s no place for me here.”

  “Foolish man,” Adelinde said. He would have snapped at her, perhaps broken his private rule about never striking her, if he hadn't seen the tears in her eyes. “I don’t want to lose you just because you think you have something to prove.”

  Herman sighed, heavily. “Where else can I go?”

  He met her eyes. “I won’t be a policeman much longer, even with our ... connections,” he said. He’d never taken advantage of his daughter’s position before and he was damned if he was starting now. “The provisional government will disband most of us after the fighting is over - if we survive long enough to be disbanded. And what can I do then? Stay in bed like Frank?”

  “My father died to save our lives,” Adelinde pointed out, stiffly.

  “He died to save Gudrun’s life,” Herman said. It was irritating. He’d cordially disliked his father-in-law almost from the very moment Frank had moved in with them, but Frank had died a hero. “And I don’t want to be useless.”

  Adelinde shook her head. “Please,” she said. “Don’t go.”

  “I’ve already given them my word,” Herman said. “And you’ll find it easier to ... to work if I’m not around.”

  He sighed heavily, feeling an odd surge of bitter hopelessness. Nothing was the same any longer. And he was really too old to learn new tricks. He’d thought everything was predictable, a year ago; his sons would serve in the military, marry good women and sire children, while his daughter would become a housewife, bearing and raising the children of a good man. But now his daughter was a revolutionary, the country was gripped by civil war, and his wife wanted a career outside the home. And his entire family had been marked for death.

  If I’d stopped Gudrun from going to university, he thought, would she be free now?

  It was a bitter thought. He’d known how much the university meant to her, even though she couldn't really do anything with a degree. What sort of man would be comfortable taking orders from a woman? Or hiring one, when there were plenty of male candidates for any given job? He’d honestly thought she was wasting her time. Hell, she could have gotten married at seventeen and had two or three children by now. No one would have thought any worse of her if she’d dropped out of school to marry and have kids. But instead ...

  “I can't stay here and worry,” he admitted. “I have to keep myself occupied.”

  Adelinde lowered her eyes. “Then take care of yourself,” she said. She looked up at him, her eyes wet with tears. “And come back to me.”

  Herman gave her a tight hug. He loved his wife. He’d loved her ever since he’d married her; he’d loved her, even when money had gotten tight and they’d had arguments that could probably be heard down the street. They’d lived together for twenty-five years; they’d raised their children together. And even now, even when he didn't feel as though he understood the world any longer, he still loved her.

  “I’ll come back,” he promised.

  He kissed her once, tenderly, then picked up his jacket and walked out the door, heading down to the gates. The soldiers on duty saluted him as he passed; he saluted them back, then kept walking. He’d never really felt comfortable being feted, particularly as he hadn’t earned it in his own right. It was why he’d stayed a policeman after Gudrun had become a politician, even though he could have traded on her connections to rise in the ranks. He wouldn't have felt comfortable boosting his own position.

  And I don’t know what’s happened to her, he thought, numbly. Where is she?

  He pushed the thought aside, somehow, as he made his way through the streets. Berlin felt different these days, now the siege was at an end. The massive street parties had faded, replaced by deserted houses as the older members of the city’s population were evacuated west and the younger members were pushed into the army. Even the young women had been given jobs, helping to clear the streets of rubble and keeping the city running. Herman couldn't help wondering just what would happen in the future, now that Gudrun had shown that it was possible for a woman - a woman who was practically still a girl - to overthrow the government. Women wouldn't remain subservient any longer.

  The camp had been erected on the far side of the city, one of many providing refresher training to young men who had either left the military or had never served past the Hitler Youth. Herman joined the line of younger and middle-aged men and waited patiently until the guard checked his papers, then followed the pointing finger into the nearest set of barracks. A doctor gave him a quick check-up - he couldn't help noticing that he was assisted by a pair of BDM maidens, something that would have been unthinkable in his day - before ordering him into the next room. Herman stepped through the door and joined another line of prospective soldiers, almost all of whom seemed to be middle-aged. He recognised a couple from the police and walked over to join them. The others seemed to be workers from all over the city.

  They’ll have gotten their release from their employers, he thought, as a trio of NCOs ordered the men through another set of doors and onto the training field. They wouldn't have been al
lowed to sign up without it.

  He pushed the thought aside as the NCOs started to bark orders, putting the men through their paces. It was ... kinder than he recalled, back when he’d been a paratrooper; he wondered, absently, if it was a subtle blessing or an unsubtle insult. He wasn't the young man he’d been in those days, he knew; he was more mature, more controlled, but also less fit. He dreaded to think what the Hitler Youth would have done, if he’d turned up in such a state. Public humiliation would have been the least of it.

  The memory made him shiver. There had been a boy in his class, a smart boy who’d been unfortunate enough to be a little pudgy. The Hitler Youth had put him through hell, mocking his weight, forcing him to humiliate himself time and time again ... in the end, the boy had committed suicide and the instructors had just laughed, pointing to him as a prime example of a weak failure of a man. His parents had done nothing ... Herman had no idea if they’d tried and failed, or if they’d hoped the Hitler Youth would make a man of their son. And now ...