Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  “She’s going to be pushed right to the edge with the next one, Mein Fuhrer,” Muller said, breaking into Karl’s thoughts. “And then we’ll pull her out and start asking questions.”

  Karl gave him a sharp look. Muller enjoyed his job too much. Karl wouldn't have been too concerned if Muller wanted to play games with Untermensch prisoners, but Gudrun had to be left alive and reasonably unmarked. She needed to be mentally broken, not physically broken ...

  “Make sure she is physically unharmed,” he growled. “Or else you will be the next one in the drowning room.”

  Muller flinched. Karl wasn't too surprised. Like most interrogators, Muller was a coward at heart, fearful of the day he’d be put inside his own cells. And he knew precisely how Muller liked to entertain himself. How strange it was that a man would be so scared of his own entertainments ... if he was on the wrong side. But it was what made Muller so useful to the SS.

  And people like him have advanced our knowledge considerably, Karl thought, as Muller headed off to start the next step in his plan. Where would we be without the knowledge that has come out of the camps?

  He smiled at the thought. Adolf Hitler had wanted to exterminate the Untermenschen from the Third Reich, but it had been Himmler who had seen the value in doing more than simply killing them. Countless Untermenschen had been tested to destruction, their lives contributing to a growing archive of knowledge about the human body. Some of it had been futile - the search for a homosexual gene had turned up nothing - but much of the research had actually proven useful. There had even been talk of impregnating Untermenschen women with Aryan babies, using them as host mothers to bring the babies to term. Only fears about what might get into the babies had dissuaded the Reich from trying the experiment.

  Can’t have them weakened by their hosts, he thought, darkly. They might be useless to us.

  His lips thinned as he watched Gudrun being dragged out of the drowning room by her long blonde hair. Too many of the Gauleiters would definitely disapprove of such treatment, even for a treacherous bitch. Gudrun seemed too tired to fight back, even though she wasn't chained or otherwise bound. And yet, she was holding herself together remarkably well, even after being pushed right to the brink of her endurance. Karl had seen hardened insurgents break after spending a few hours in the drowning room, breaking down and begging for mercy, but Gudrun hadn't broken. She was badly shaken, clearly weakened, yet still holding herself together.

  Too weak to strike a blow, Karl told himself, as he watched them drag Gudrun into the next room and shove her into a hard metal chair. Or is she merely biding her time?

  He shrugged, dismissing the thought. No one short of Otto Skorzeny himself could possibly hope to escape from the cells, let alone break out onto the streets. The Reichstag was the single most heavily-defended building in Germanica; hell, the prison complex had only two exits, both sealed from the outside. Gudrun might be able to escape from Muller - Karl rather doubted Muller could handle someone who actually wanted to fight back - but where could she go?

  Nowhere, he thought.

  He glanced up as a nervous-looking guardsman entered the room. “Mein Fuhrer,” he said, snapping out a perfect salute. “Oberstgruppenfuehrer Ruengeler requests your presence in the War Room.”

  “Understood,” Karl said. “Dismissed.”

  The guardsman didn't quite flee, but it looked very much as though he wanted to. Karl knew, even as he started the long walk back to the War Room, that it was bad news. No one wanted to be remembered as the person who brought bad news ... Himmler, for all of his many virtues, had a terrible habit of shooting the messenger. Karl still winced at the thought of a promising young officer who’d been exiled to Germany Arabia for bringing the Reichsführer some very bad news. He wasn't like that ...

  ... Was he?

  “Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said, as Karl walked into the War Room. “The enemy have begun their offensive.”

  He sounded surprised. Karl allowed himself a tight smile, despite the situation. Ruengeler, a professional military man if ever there was one, had doubted that the rebels would attack so soon. But Karl, who was more used to politics than war, knew the rebels had little choice but to attack. Chewing up the remaining SS divisions before they could reform was their only hope of a quick victory.

  And so they fall right into my trap, he thought.

  “Very good,” he said, calmly. There was no hope of directing the battle from Germanica - no doubt Ruengeler was worried about him trying to do precisely that - but he could keep abreast of the situation. “Do we have an axis of advance yet?”

  “No, Mein Fuhrer,” Ruengeler said. “But it won’t be long now.”

  “Of course not,” Karl agreed. He put Gudrun out of his mind. If the battle were lost, breaking her would no longer matter. She could be killed - or exiled, if too many people made a fuss - and then forgotten. “Let’s wait and see what they do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Front Lines, Germany Prime

  3 November 1985

  “Incoming!”

  Hennecke Schwerk dived into the foxhole, praying silently that he would be one of the lucky ones as shells crashed down on the position. The rebels seemed to have an unlimited amount of ammunition and, judging where some of the shells were landing, an excellent idea of where the Waffen-SS had taken up position. Loud explosions shook the ground, sending pieces of dirt falling into the foxhole; he told himself, firmly, that unless a shell actually landed on top of him there was little chance of being killed. But as the bombardment grew louder, he couldn't help feeling that the earth would cave in on him at any moment.

  He risked a glance out of the foxhole as the bombardment lessened, the shells flying over their heads and striking targets further to the east. The town - he’d never learned the place’s name - was in ruins, every building that had survived the SS’s advance westwards smashed flat by the rebel bombardment as they prepared to move east. He had no idea what had happened to the population, but as their homes burned or collapsed into rubble he found himself hoping that they’d made it out of the danger zone in time.

  They’ll be coming soon, he thought, grimly. The enemy would be advancing already, relying on the bombardment to force the defenders to keep their heads down. And we’re out here to greet them.

  He scooped up the antitank rocket launcher and scowled as he took up position in the foxhole, peering west. The irony was going to kill him, perhaps literally. He’d battled his way through countless enemy positions where the enemy soldiers had fired a shot or two at him and then fled, only to be landed in the same position himself. But there was a difference; the rebels had had friends and comrades to cover their retreat, while the penal battalion had none. Chances were they’d be shot in the back if they didn't make it back to friendly lines under their own steam.

  “Hold position,” Kuhn bellowed. “Watch for the advance!”

  At least he’s not a coward, Hennecke conceded, ruefully. Two of the company’s newest members had been shot for attempted desertion, after they’d been caught trying to sneak out of the camp. But that means he’ll just keep us here until it’s too late.

  He shook his head in frustration. They’d been issued with antitank weapons, but no pistols or rifles. Kuhn was the only man in the squad with a personal weapon. Hennecke could see the logic - it wasn't as if the squad was particularly motivated to fight if they had a choice - but it was frustrating. Standard doctrine called for infantry to move up beside the panzers, covering them from enemy infantry who were doing ... well, precisely what Hennecke and his unwilling comrades were doing. And if they did see enemy infantry, they’d have no choice, but to retreat at once.

  Which wouldn't be bad, Hennecke thought, if it didn't run the risk of us being branded cowards.

  He’d been lucky, he knew. The deserters hadn't been the only men to be shot as the officers reasserted control. Being sent to the penal battalion was bad, but a number of other men had been shot - or hanged - just t
o make it clear that the officers were still in command. They’d pulled the different divisions back together at a very high cost. Hennecke wouldn't have been too surprised if they'd killed one in ten men just to make the point.

  They would, if they weren't so short of manpower, he thought. The shells were falling further and further eastwards, hammering the lines drawn up near Warsaw. They’re stuck with us for the moment.

  He flinched as a trio of aircraft roared overhead, heading east. It was hard to be sure, but they looked like jet fighters rather than ground-attack aircraft, probably trying to smash the remaining aircraft defending Warsaw. No bombs fell as they vanished into the distance; he saw a pair of missiles rise up from a position further east, only to fall back to the ground as they lost their targets. They simply weren't good enough to catch modern aircraft.

  “Here they come,” Kuhn snapped. “Choose your targets, but I’ll have the head of any man who fires without my permission.”

  Hennecke sucked in his breath. Panzers - five of them - were advancing up the road towards the town, their weapons sweeping from side to side as they looked for targets. A handful of mounted infantry followed them, riding in armoured vehicles that would have been safe enough, off a modern battlefield. But he knew from bitter experience that an antitank missile would make short work of them. He wondered, absently, if he should be shooting at the transports rather than the panzers, but Kuhn would strangle him - personally - if he disobeyed orders. The panzers were priority targets.

  Doesn't take an idiot to know we’re short on panzers, Hennecke thought, as he took careful aim. They probably want to waste as many enemy panzers as they can before they crash into our panzers.

  He gritted his teeth as he waited for the order to fire. Kuhn might think they had a good chance of landing a blow and getting out, but Hennecke wasn't so sure. They hadn't had time to set up escape trenches, let alone pre-position vehicles to allow them to make a rapid escape. Hell, their sole objective - as far as Hennecke could tell - was to bleed the enemy a little before they got brutally crushed. And there was no way they could kill everyone coming at them without more weapons ...

  “Fire,” Kuhn bellowed.

  Hennecke pulled the trigger. The missile leapt from its launcher - Hennecke rapidly discarded the remainder of the device - and slammed into the nearest panzer, which staggered to a halt. Two more went up in fireballs, a third taking the missile on its armour plating and continuing, apparently undamaged. Hennecke scrambled up out of the foxhole and crawled for his life as the enemy opened fire, bullets snapping through the air bare millimetres above his head. Kuhn was barking orders as they ran, but Hennecke couldn't make out any of the words. All he could do was crawl until he reached cover, no matter how puny it was, then run as hard as he could.

  He glanced behind him as the sound of shooting grew louder. The enemy panzers were smashing through the foxholes, crunching their way into the town. He couldn't tell if any of the squad had been killed or captured, although he wouldn't bet against it. They had just been far too exposed for comfort.

  Kuhn slapped his back as he ran past. “Run!”

  Hennecke nodded. Someone was dropping shells on the town ... it struck him, suddenly, that there had been a plan after all. The higher-ups had plotted out the town as a target, preparing their mortars to ensure they gave the enemy a hot reception. And his squad had been put in place to delay the enemy long enough to let the mortar crews open fire.

  And it worked, he thought, sourly. But how many of us did it kill?

  ***

  “We’re meeting resistance,” the dispatcher said.

  “Understood,” Field Marshal Gunter Voss growled. He hadn't expected an unopposed march to Warsaw, even if the Waffen-SS was smart enough to realise that they needed to play for time. “Heavy resistance?”

  “Just small ambushes,” the dispatched reported. “But they’re causing considerable delays.”

  “Of course,” Gunter said.

  He studied the map, wishing - just for a moment - that he had a tactical interface like his American counterparts. He’d mocked the concept when he’d first heard of it - both to his comrades and in print - yet he had to admit it might have its uses. American commanders might have less latitude than their Heer counterparts - and their superiors would be watching over their shoulders - but their superiors would have a far better idea of what was actually going on

  The enemy tactics made sense - indeed, he’d predicted precisely what the enemy would do while he’d been drawing up the plans. Standing and fighting would be ideal, from his point of view, but he knew better than to rely on the enemy doing what he wanted them to do. No commander worthy of the name would allow his forces to be pocketed in a caldron and crushed if he could avoid it. And slowing up his advance would be enough to give the enemy time to pull back and escape the pockets.

  “Order the advance units to keep pushing forward,” he ordered. “And move the secondary units up ahead of schedule. Warn them to keep sweeping the landscape for surprises.”

  “Jawohl, Herr Field Marshal.”

  Gunter nodded, leaving the dispatchers to issue the orders to the units in the field. The time-delay was a major headache; no matter how quickly he responded to any reports of trouble, events might well have moved on before his orders reached his subordinates. But he had faith in the junior officers leading the advance. They could cope with most matters without needing him to hold their hand.

  But they don’t see the overall battle either, he reminded himself.

  The map was updated, again. Blue arrows were lancing towards Warsaw, punching through the observed enemy defensive lines. It wouldn't be long before the enemy CO had to make a choice between pulling into Warsaw - and being trapped - or retreating further east. Either way, Gunter thought, his counterpart would lose. Unless he had something clever up his sleeve ...

  “More contacts,” a dispatcher called. “Enemy forces are holding the line at ...”

  “Dispatch aircraft to deal with them,” another dispatcher snapped.

  Gunter nodded to himself. The Waffen-SS was good, but he had enough mobile firepower to flatten them. If they chose to stand and fight, so much the better.

  And if they don’t, he thought, we still have enough firepower to give them one hell of a mauling.

  ***

  Hauptmann Felix Malguth kept a wary eye on his radar screen as the HE-477 flew over the battlefield. There were no SS aircraft in the air, according to the intelligence staff, but it would only take one jet fighter to ruin his day. And besides, the level of antiaircraft firepower the SS had drawn up to protect their lines was truly staggering. He’d seen two of his comrades blown out of the sky, one crashing before he’d had a chance to eject, simply for flying too close to one of their concentrations.

  But that didn't stop him playing a major role in the battle.

  He smiled, coldly, as he altered course, following the orders crackling through the radio. The SS was making a stand, holding back the panzers as they fought to punch through enemy lines and advance towards Warsaw. Felix allowed his smile to grow wider as he caught sight of the enemy positions, then tipped his aircraft down towards the ground as he released his bombs. A chain of explosions billowed up underneath him as he levelled out, spinning his aircraft through a whole series of evasive manoeuvres. The SS’s antiaircraft rockets were pitiful, compared to the American Stingers, but they might still score a lucky hit.

  Go get them, boys, he thought, as he saw the infantry run forward. Any survivors, he hoped, would be too badly battered to put up much of a fight. Don’t let them get away.

  A lone farmhouse sat in the midst of a field, looking suspiciously innocent. Felix had learned a great deal over the last month about ‘innocent’ buildings - it looked, very much, as though the SS had turned it into a fortress. He pointed the nose of his aircraft towards the farmhouse and strafed it, watching with satisfaction as a pair of black-clad men fled the burning ruin and ran for cover. There was n
o point in trying to pick them off individually, he knew; he turned and headed north, looking for further targets of opportunity as he returned to his base. Once he had a new load of bombs, he’d be heading back out to find more targets ...

  ... And hurting the SS, once again, for what they’d done to the Luftwaffe.

  ***

  Andrew had been warned, very firmly, to stay at the rear as Generalmajor Gunter Gath led his staff through what had been the outer edge of the enemy’s defence line. He did as he was told, keeping his head down as the sound of shooting grew louder and louder. The roads were lined with destroyed vehicles, pushed aside by follow-up units as they headed into the combat zone. He couldn't help wondering just how many of the destroyed panzers could be salvaged.

  Panzer armour definitely appears to be somewhat overrated, he thought, silently composing the report he intended to write. He wouldn't actually write it until he got back to the embassy, but it helped to plan it out in advance. German antitank rockets appear to be capable of stopping even their latest panzers, even when striking frontal armour rather than the sides or turret ...