by John Ringo
The chancellor thought, but did not say, And anything else I must bring back to prevent this from happening to our cities, our people.
Paris, France, 13 November 2004
The crowd was immense; its intensity, palpable. One among half a million protest marchers, Isabelle De Gaullejac felt as she had not since her happy and carefree days as a Socialist Youth.
Though past forty, Isabelle was yet a fine looking specimen of womanhood. Typically French, she had retained her slender shape. Her shoulder-length brown hair was untouched by gray. And if her face had a few more wrinkles than it had had as a young college student, the sidelong glances of men old and young told her she had not lost her appeal.
Then it had been the Americans she had protested; them, and the war they had inherited from France. Now it was France she protested against, France and the war it had seemingly inherited from the Americans.
She was sure, certain, that it was all the Americans’ fault. Had the aliens, these Posleen, attacked Earth first? No. Foolishly, at American behest, the French Army had gone to the stars, looking for trouble and becoming involved in a fruitless war, against a previously unknown alien civilization.
And for what? To save a crumbling federation of galactics?
France’s business was here, on Earth, looking after French people.
And now they were talking about increased taxes? To help the common people here? Again, no. It was to grease the wheels of the war machine that the money was needed. Isabelle shuddered with revulsion.
More revolting than higher taxes for lesser purposes, the talk was that universal conscription was about to be expanded. She looked at her two young sons, one held with each hand, and vowed she would never permit them to be dragged from her home to be turned into cannon fodder in a stupid and needless war.
Isabelle’s voice joined that of the thronging masses. “Peace, now… peace, now… PEACE, NOW!”
Berlin, Germany, 14 November 2004
Word had spread; Günter had ensured it would spread.
As the chancellor entered the Bundestag, Germany’s upper legislative body, he saw a sea of mostly neutral faces, sprinkled with those more hostile or, in a very few cases, even eager. He wasn’t sure which group he feared more — the left that was going to raise a cry for his ouster, or the new right that might raise a cry for him to assume a title he loathed, “Führer.”
No matter. He could only persevere in his course and hope that the great mass of legislators would see things as he did. To help them see he knew he must show them.
As he took his seat the chancellor made a hand motion. Immediately the lights dimmed. Almost immediately thereafter a movie screen unrolled from the high ceiling.
For the past four days a specially selected team of newsmen and women had been assembling a documentary using mostly American but also some few other sources. It had been America, however, which sensed a need for Germany to continue as an ally, that had been most willing and able to provide the team of German journalists with everything needed to complete their mission.
Nothing had been censored, no holds had been barred. The German legislature was about to be kicked full in their collective teeth with the horror about to descend upon their country.
* * *
Annemarie Mai, Green and Socialist representative from Wiesbaden, had been among those unutterably hostile to the Kanzler’s idea. As the film began to roll she was by no means displeased to see Washington, DC, in ruins. American policies, from their cowboyish adventures in imperialism to their wasteful and destructive energy and environmental policies to — most damning — their insistence on an outdated economic system that had the infuriating habit of making her own preferred statist system seem inefficient; all these made Washington a loathsome symbol of all she despised about America.
Like many in the world, however, Annemarie liked Americans, as people, just as much as she hated their country.
And so her reaction to much of the rest of the film was quite different. Little children gone catatonic with fright at having seen their parents butchered and eaten before their eyes made Annemarie weep. More horrid still were the children not gone into oblivion, the ones shown who screamed and cried continuously. These made the legislator quiver with terror.
And then there were the soldiers, with their sick, dirty and weary faces. They were white enough to seem no different from the boys and girls of Germany. The shrieks of the wounded, especially, tore at Annemarie’s heart.
And then came the piles of meat-stripped bones, human bones, along with separate piles of neatly split skulls, some of them very small indeed. These sent Annemarie running for the ladies’ room, unable even for a moment longer to keep down her gorge.
* * *
“You must think very little of the strength of the democratic spirit in German hearts to be so concerned about the dangers of rejuvenating twenty or twenty-five thousand old men,” the chancellor told a group of hecklers, shouting slogans from the gallery.
If his words had any effect on the hecklers it was something less than obvious. Their chants of “No more Nazis. No more Nazis,” even seemed to grow a bit in volume and ferocity.
“They were not always old men,” answered one of the legislators. “When young, as you propose to make them again, and when armed and organized, as you propose to make them again, they were a menace, fiends, thugs, criminals… murderers.”
“Not all of them,” the chancellor insisted. “Perhaps not even most. Some were drafted into the war. Others found no place in the Reichswehr and went, as soldiers will, to whichever military organization they could find that would accept them. And I intend that no one, not even one, who has been convicted, or even reliably accused, of a war crime or a crime against humanity shall be permitted to join.”
“They were all guilty of crimes against humanity,” the legislator returned. “Every one of them who fought in the unjust war this country waged against an innocent world were guilty.”
“Were this true,” said the chancellor, mildly, “then equally guilty would be Heinz Guderian, Erich Manstein, Erwin Rommel, or Gerd von Rundstedt. They actually did the higher level planning for that war. The people I propose to bring back were low-level players indeed compared to those famous and admired German soldiers.”
“They murdered prisoners!” shrieked another legislator.
“In that war everyone murdered prisoners.”
And so it went, seemingly endlessly. Opponents spoke up; the chancellor answered mildly. Proponents spoke up, usually mildly, and opponents shrieked with fury. In the end it came to a vote… and that vote was very close.
* * *
All eyes turned to the ashen-faced Annemarie Mai as she mounted the speaker’s rostrum. The tie was hers to break, one way or the other. With the images of split children’s skulls echoing in her brain she announced, “I have conditions.”
“Conditions?” asked the chancellor.
“Several,” she nodded. “First, these people are the bearers of a disease, a political disease. They must be quarantined to ensure they do not spread their disease.”
“To get any use out of them, I have to use them as a cadre for others.”
“I understand that,” Annemarie answered. “But that group, once filled up to the military body you desire, must be kept as isolated as possible lest the disease spread beyond our ability to control.”
“Then we are agreed,” the chancellor said.
“Second, they must be watched.”
“They will be,” the chancellor agreed.
“Third, they must not be allowed to preach their political creed, even in secret.”
“The laws against the spread of Nazi propaganda remain in effect and have served us well for decades.”
“Fourth, you must use them, burn them up, including, I am sorry to say, the young ones we condemn to their ‘care.’ ”
“That much I can guarantee.”
“Then, I vote yes. Raise your formation, Cha
ncellor.”
The peace of the assembly immediately erupted into bitter shouts and curses.
Babenhausen, Germany, 15 November 2004
There is peace in senility, for some. For others, the weakening of the mind with old age brings back harsher memories.
Few or none in the nursing home knew just how old the old man was, though, had anyone cared to check, the information was there in his file. Among some of the staff it was rumored he was past one hundred, yet few or none of them cared enough to check that either. Though he was almost utterly bald, shriveled and shrunken and sometimes demented, none of the staff cared about that. The old man spoke but rarely and even more rarely did he seem to speak with understanding. Sometimes, at night, the watch nurse would hear him cry from his room with words like, “Vorwärts, Manfred… Hold them, meine Brüdern…” or “Steisse, die Panzer.”
Sometimes, too, the old man would cry a name softly, whisper with regret, hum a few bars of some long-forgotten, perhaps even forbidden, tune.
It was whispered, by those who washed him and those who spoke with the washers, that he had a tattooed number on his torso. They whispered too of the scars, the burns, the puckermarks.
Everyday, rain or shine, bundled up or not as the weather dictated, the staff wheeled the old man out onto the nursing home’s porch for a bit of fresh air. This day, the fresh air was cold and heavy, laden with the moisture of falling snow. What dreams or nightmares the cold snow brought, none ever knew — the old man never said.
At the front door to the home, a matron pointed towards the old man. “There he is.”
Another man, one of a pair, clad in the leather trench coat that marked him as a member of the Bundesnachrichtendiest — the Federal Information Service, Germany’s CIA — answered, “We shall take care of him from here on out. You and your home need trouble yourselves no further.”
Unseen, the matron nodded. Alles war in ordnung. All was in order. Already the two men had turned their backs on her and focused their attention fully on the old man. They walked up to him, one crouching before the wheelchair, the other standing at the side.
The croucher, he in the trenchcoat, spoke softly. “Herr Gruppenführer? Gruppenführer Mühlenkampf? I do not know if you can understand me. But if you can, you are coming with us.”
Some faint trace of recognition seemed to dawn in the old man’s watery, faded blue eyes.
“Aha,” said trench coat. “You can understand me, can’t you? Understand your name and your old rank anyway. Very good. Can you understand this, old man? Your country is calling for you again. We have need of you, urgent need.”
Berlin, Germany, 17 November 2004
And my, my don’t those two seem urgent, mused the patron of the gasthaus nestled in an alley not far from where that patron lived. As was his normal practice, the patron sat in a dim corner, nursing a beer. And when will the Gestapo, under whatever name they chose to go by, realize that those coats mark them for what they are as clearly as my Sigrunen — the twin lightning bolts — used to mark me.
The objects of the patron’s attention walked from table to table, from customer to customer. The Wirt, the owner and manager of the establishment, looked discreetly at the elderly man, dimly lit in a corner. Shall I tell them?
The patron shrugged. Machts nichts. “Matters not”. You know what they are as well as I do. If they want me they will find me.
Nodding his understanding the Wirt called to the two. “If you are looking for Herr Brasche, that’s him over there in the corner.”
The patron, Brasche, watched with interest as the two men approached. When they had reached his table, he raised his beer in salute. “And what can I do for the BND today, gentlemen?”
“Hans Brasche?” one of them asked, flashing an identification.
“That would be me,” Hans answered.
“You must come with us.”
Brasche smiled. If he was afraid, neither of the men who had accosted him, nor any of the other patrons, would have known it. He had never been a man, or a boy, to show much fear.
* * *
Times were hard and getting worse. The calendar on the wall said 1930. As the boy entered the bare cupboarded kitchen, the expression on the mother’s face fairly shrieked “fear.”
“Your father wants you, Hansi.”
The boy, he could not have been more than ten, suppressed a shudder. This was always bad news. He steeled his soul, raised his ten-year-old head, and walked bravely to where his one-armed father — more importantly, the father’s belt — awaited him. He knew he could not cry out, could not show fear; else the beating would be worse, much worse.
Afterwards, when the long beating was over, the boy, Hans, walked dry-eyed past his mother, his walk stiff from the bruises, the welts, and the cuts.
The woman reached out to her son, seeking desperately to comfort him in his pain. All she felt was his shudder as her hands stroked his bruises and wounds. “Why, Hansi? What did you do wrong?”
The boy, he was tall for ten but not so tall as his mother, hung his head, buried his face in a maternal bosom and whispered, “I do not know, Mutti. He didn’t say. He never says.”
“He was never like this before the Great War, Hansi, before he lost the arm.”
The boy could not cry, that had long since been beaten out of him. He shrugged. The mother could cry… and did.
* * *
Later, in a Mercedes, one of the pair said, “I must say, you are a cool one, Herr Brasche.”
“I am old. I have seen much. I have never seen where being afraid, or showing I was if I was, ever did me or anyone else any good. Would it now?”
The other, the driver, answered, “In this case you have no cause to fear, Herr Brasche. We are here to do you a favor.”
Hans shrugged. “I have been done favors before. Little good I had of them.”
* * *
The times had changed. Plenty and hope had replaced hunger and despair. From the windows, from the street lamps, on the arms of men and women all over Germany fluttered a new symbol. On the radios crackled the harsh, gas-damaged voice of a new hero.
Hans felt his thirteen-year-old heart leap at the sound of his Führer’s voice speaking via the radio, to the nation.
“Meine alte Kameraden,” began the distant Hitler, and Hans felt his one-armed father, standing beside, stiffen with filial love. “Die grosse zeit ist jetzt angebrochen… Deutschland ist nun erwacht…” (My old comrades… the great time is now brought to pass… Germany is now awake.”)
“You see, little Hansi? You see what a favor I have done bringing you here?”
To that Hans had no honest answer; nothing from his father came without price.
It was a public radio, one with loudspeakers, intended for the address of a crowd. Uniformed HitlerJugend patrolled, keeping order mainly by disciplined example. Not that much example was needed for Germans of the year of our Lord, 1933; they remained the people who had fought half a world to a standstill from 1914 to 1918. Discipline they had, in plenty.
The father observed Hans’ eyes glancing over the uniformly short-trousered, dagger-wielding, hard-faced and brightly beribboned youths.
“Ah, you are interested in the Youth Movement, I see, my son. Never fear. I have arranged for you to be accepted a bit early. They’ll make a man of you.”
Why, how so, father? thought the boy. Do they have stiffer belts? What new favors will you show me, I wonder.
Bad Tolz, Germany, 20 November 2004
“Don’t do me any fucking favors,” snarled Mühlenkampf.
The Kanzler — the Chancellor of the German Federal Republic — ceased perusing the picture of the worn and shriveled shell of a wheelchair-bound man in the file on his desk. He looked up sharply at the brand-new, tall, dark-haired, ramrod-backed and broad-shouldered man before him. To the observer, Mühlenkampf, wearing the insignia of a Bundeswehr major general, appeared no more than twenty. Despite this, there was a harshness about the man
’s eyes that spoke of stresses and strains no mere stripling of twenty could ever have undergone.
The chancellor observed, “Amazing, isn’t it, Günter, what taking eighty-four years off of someone’s life will do for his disposition?”
Mühlenkampf snorted in derision. Quickly and determinedly he lashed out. “Fuck you, Herr Kanzler. Fuck all of you civilian bastards. Fuck anybody who had anything to do with dragging me out of that nursing home. Fuck you for giving me a mind back to remember and miss my wife and children with; a mind with which to remember the friends I have lost. Fuck you for sending me back to a war. I’ve had better than thirteen years of war in my life, Herr Kanzler. And never a moment’s peace since 1916. I had thought I was finally past that. So fuck you, again.”
Halfway through Mühlenkampf’s tirade Günter arose from his chair as if to shut this new-old man up. Mühlenkampf’s glare, and the chancellor’s restraining hand, sent the bureaucrat reeling back to his seat.
The chancellor smiled with indulgence. “You are so full of shit it’s coming out of your ears, Mühlenkampf. What is more, you know you are. A ‘moment’s peace’? Nonsense. The only peace you’ve ever known was from 1916, when you were first called to the colors, to 1918, when the Great War ended. Then you had some more ‘peace’ from 1918 to 1923 in the Freikorps… Oh, yes, I know all about you, Mühlenkampf. And then you found the greatest peace from 1939 to 1945, didn’t you? Get off your high horse, SS man. War is your peace. And peace is your hell.”
Mühlenkampf cocked his head to one side. He tried and failed to keep a small, darting smile from his lips. “You missed one, Herr Kanzler. Spain, 1936 to 1939. Unofficially, of course. That was a fun time.”