Watch on the Rhine lota-7

by John Ringo

  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.”

  “Good, very good,” answered the Kanzler, though inside he felt utterly dirtied. His old gray head nodded in Günter’s direction. “Please add this one to the bag.”

  Ouvrage du Hackenberg, Thierville, France, 14 July 2007

  And so now I finally understand what it means to languish in a prison.

  It was Bastille Day in France, rather, in that tiny portion of France still in human hands. It had always been a big holiday for Isabelle, more for its progressive, revolutionary character than for its patriotic. This Bastille Day, however, she felt little urge to celebrate, this despite the double ration of the French staff of life, wine, ordered by the fortress commander.

  The wine was bitter and poor, a modern day version of the Vinogel, concentrated wine, France had at some times in the past issued to her soldiers. Reconstituted with water, this modern Vinogel had little to commend it beyond that it tasted faintly of having something like grape in its ancestry… that, and that it had mind and sense-numbing alcohol.

  And Isabelle wanted her senses numbed, wanted desperately for some escape from this new horror that jokingly went by the name, “life.”

  She had heard there were cities abuilding underground, cities safe and warm where a human might hope to live something like a real life. Hackenberg, despite the season, was anything but warm. Indeed, the walls of this underground prison exuded a steady flow of cold wet moisture and sucked away whatever warmth one’s body might produce. No single person, nor all the fifty thousand packed in like sardines with Isabelle and her sons, could warm the place by so much as half a degree.

  And though the place was, literally, a fortress, Isabelle knew that this did not add to the safety of herself and hers, but rather detracted from it. A fortress was also a target, thus so were she and her boys.

  The boys’ father too, had been a target, so she had to assume. For there had been no word, not since the brief phone call that had announced the invasion, the destruction of her country, and the impending slaughter of its people.

  That knowledge, that her beloved husband had almost certainly fallen to the invaders, was like a knife twisted into her innards. That pain made Isabelle pour, more than drink, the wretched reconstituted wine down her throat.

  * * *

  Even as dissidents and derelicts poured into holding pens, so too did information, vital information, flow to every nook and cranny of Germany’s multifaceted war effort.

  Did information flow? It was as nothing compared to the flow of refuge
es. Did refugees flow? Then so too did power, as Germany acquired, unintentionally, a stranglehold over everything needed by the refugees, and by the remnants of their armed forces. Most of these forces were absorbed by the Bundeswehr. Still, Mühlenkampf and his men had done good service and deserved reward. The Kanzler therefore decreed the expansion of 47th Panzer Korps into what was called “Army Group Reserve.” In addition to acquiring another two panzer and four good motorized infantry Korps, as well as the penal division composed of the remnants of the more than decimated 33rd Korps, Mühlenkampf also assumed control of a large number of newly created foreign formations. Division Charlemagne marched again, in lock step with divisions and brigades of Latvians, Estonians, Poles, Spaniards and others.

  Of these, Division Charlemagne was an oddity. For it was the only Francophone formation under German control. Unlike the other, overrun, states of Europe, the French resolutely refused to subordinate their interests to anyone else’s command. Their army guarding the much reoriented Maginot line, the four or five million remaining French men, women and children huddled either in camps between the Line and the Rhein, or shivered in dank misery in the bowels of the line itself.

  (Magnanimously, the French had offered to integrate their forces, but only if a French commander was named, certain key French interests put in first place. Inexplicably, the Germans had failed to see the advantages to this approach.)

  Charlemagne came to be recreated when the commanding general of a French armored division had simply mutinied against what he called the “institutionalized stupidities” of the French High Command, then gathered up his soldiers and their dependants, and reported to the German border seeking employment. Supplemented by numerous individual volunteers, some of those being veterans of the original division who had come to Germany to volunteer anew, Charlemagne was a large division even by the inflated standards of the Posleen War.

  Losses, of course, had been staggering. By the time Germany was cleared of Posleen infestations, many divisions that had once boasted strengths as high as twenty-four thousand now contained barely half that. Yet there was a new ruthlessness in Germany, a ruthlessness that cared little for the “rights” of individuals, much for the survival of the Volk.

  Student deferments? Gone. Alternative service? Gone. Refusal to serve? Conscientious Objector status claimed? The Penal Formation once known as the 33rd Korps grew to meet and then exceed its former strength. And the hangmen were often kept quite busy.

  Nice, safe and comfortable billets in the rear? “No more, my son. You are going to the front. Women can do your job well enough.”

  Only workers vital to the war effort were spared the sweep of conscription. Many of these were agricultural. Many others were industrial. Some were scientific and industrial both.

  Kraus-Maffei-Wegmann Plant,

  Munich, Germany, 15 July 2007

  “I could wish our antilander munitions had been even slightly less powerful,” sighed Mueller.

  Karl Prael raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “Simplicity,” answered Mueller. “If we hadn’t blasted all of the Posleen’s C- and B-Decs to flinders, there might have been enough of their anti-shipping railguns to retrofit every Tiger in the inventory and the ones that will be rolling off the assembly floor in the near future, and to provide a great number of more or less fixed defense batteries. As it is, we have a few score serviceable guns, no more. Sixty or seventy where we might have had six or seven hundred… maybe even several thousand.”

  “You understate things,” Prael observed. “We have recovered sixty or seventy so far, but we have hardly begun to scrap even half of the alien wrecks littering the countryside. It is almost certain that there will be enough railguns for the complete run of Tiger III, Ausführung B. Pessimist,” he finished with a smile.

  “Maybe,” conceded Mueller. “Maybe… if we can scrap the wrecks while doing no further damage. If we can modify the railguns to fit our existing carriages… or our carriages to fit the guns. And if we can even get them here for modification and mounting.”

  “And if we have time,” muttered Prael, head sinking. “When do you think, really think, we’ll have the B model in hand?”

  Mueller bit his lower lip, shaking his head, “We won’t have a prototype for as much as four or five months. I think we have been too ambitious.”

  Prael understood, even agreed. The B model Tiger was a leap ahead of the original, mounting not just a railgun capable of striking the enemy even in space, but also nuclear propulsion, much thickened and enhanced armor, a new AI suite. And these were only the major differences. There were numerous minor ones as well.

  “It is time,” announced Prael, looking at his watch. Nodding, Mueller agreed and the two walked to a room containing the other members of the core design team.

  It was supposed to be a party, a farewell party. The world had seen more joyful occasions. Most funerals were at least equally festive.

  Certainly Schlüssel’s face showed unhappiness. Equally so Henschel, the bearded Nielsen, and the usually ebullient Breitenbach wore long faces.

  “Must you go, David? Really? Must you?” asked Breitenbach.

  Benjamin quietly nodded his head. He had been this way — dour and quiet — ever since the news had come the previous December of the fall of Jerusalem; wife gone, family gone, friends gone. A few hundred thousand Jews had been evacuated, most of them being given shelter by Germany and the United Kingdom. Certainly anti-Semitic France’s strong and vocal Muslim minority had put up vigorous protests towards the notion of sheltering the religious and cultural enemy.

  But Germany, long-guilty Germany — ever seeking forgiveness, had opened up. Her strong merchant fleet along with the Kriegsmarine and the Royal Navy had braved a gauntlet of Posleen fire (much of it only generally aimed, as the Posleen understood wet water vessels but poorly) to bring out the Jews.

  Two hundred thousand of them came, mostly the very young. Yet there had been enough young men, and women, six or seven thousand, of an age to fight. And fight they most certainly wanted to. Yet how? With whom? There was only one group in the German military used to assimilating foreigners… yet that group?

  Mühlenkampf had offered, promising them their own unit. He had asked quite humbly for this chance to make up, in however small part, for a sordid… nay, horrid… past. He had even sent Hans Brasche, the history of whom he knew, to talk to the refugees and to Benjamin.

  “Yes, I must go,” answered the Israeli. “My job is done here… but there is more I can do.”

  Understanding at his core, Breitenbach stepped back, looking Benjamin over from top to bottom. A small silver star of David graced the Israeli’s right collar, the four pips of a major his left. Silver buttons held the tunic closed. A silver embroidered armband encircled his left sleeve, at the cuff.

  The armband proclaimed, in silver letters, Hebrew and Roman, one above the other, “Judas Maccabeus.”

  The uniform was midnight black.

  Headquarters, Army Group Reserve,

  Kapellendorf Castle, Thuringia, 25 July 2007

  The group headquarters had taken possession of an ancient castle as its headquarters. Inauspiciously, the castle had once served as the headquarters of the Prussian Army before its disastrous defeat by Napoleon in the twin battle of Jena-Auerstadt in 1806. Cool and damp it was, made worse by its surrounding moat. It was not convenient, and one had to go outside to use the latrine. Yet it is, for the nonce, home, thought Mühlenkampf. And it is centrally located.

  “Time, gentlemen. It is of the very essence. Whether Germany lives or dies depends on time more than anything. And we think we have less than six months until the next wave lands on our heads.”

  “General?” asked Brasche of Mühlenkampf. “Do we have reason to believe they will come right down on us like last time?”

  Mühlenkampf’s eyes swept the room. Not one man lower than a lieutenant general… except for Hans, recently promoted to full colonel. And yet Hans, not
the others, asked the good questions. “Ordinarily, Hansi, I would say they are stupid enough to use the same trick twice. This time I expect it because they just may be smart enough to do so.”

  “Why, sir?”

  “Because it is unlikely we will be able to handle it. Within six months the numbers of the enemy to our east and west may have grown to as many a one billion each — yes, they mature that fast! That is the equivalent of perhaps ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FIVE THOUSAND infantry divisions on each front! Though they can move faster and with less train than any infantry division ever known, of course.”

  Mühlenkampf continued, “There is actually a fair chance we could defend against each of those assaults. With foreign troops, recent expansions, and the culling of the slackers, Germany actually can place three hundred or so divisions along the Rhein, about as many facing the Vistula, and a like number dispersed throughout the center of the country. And we are digging in and pouring concrete like mad. All that while still leaving a significant reserve in the center, mostly ourselves.

  “North and south our flanks are secure, of course, against any ground assault. And our Tigers,” he said, with an appreciative nod towards Brasche, “appear capable of dealing with many times their number.”

  Brasche answered truthfully, “We can if we get enough of them. The system has not brought me up even to my old, preattack, strength. I have no strong hope that they’ll fill me to my new strength of forty-one Tigers.” He paused briefly. “I am training the new recruits on the seven Tigers I currently have operational. And new and rebuilt Tigers are coming at a rate of about one every six days or so. ”