by John Ringo
* * *
Free to recruit for themselves, the 47th Korps had set to that task with a will. Posters, radio, television and internet carried the message of the now black-clad, Sigrune-bearing “asphalt soldiers.” Even the ranks of the Bundeswehr helped here, in two ways. More than a few men of the Bundeswehr opted to transfer. And from others came the message to younger brothers — and even to sons — that the 47th Korps, openly called “the SS Korps” now, was an altogether worthy group, vital to the Fatherland’s defense.
That the girls seemed more interested in the men of the more glamorous and dashing “Schwarze Korps” only helped matters.
Recruits, high-quality recruits, were plentiful. The ranks swelled and over swelled. The 501st, recently redubbed the 501st Schwere Panzer Brigade (Michael Wittmann), drew enough to expand its three skeletonized line companies into full battalions, and its headquarters and support company into three more such plus another battalion for brigade headquarters and general support. The addition of a large artillery regiment — seventy-two guns and twenty-four multiple rocket launchers, engineer demibattalion, air defense demibattalion, plus a reinforced battalion each of panzer grenadiers and reconnaissance troops completed the package. In all, Hans would command close to forty-six hundred troops.
The cadre for these men and the formations they comprised was obtained from diverse sources. First of course were the survivors of the original 501st. This mix was somewhat enhanced by intensive training courses for those deemed most worthy. Additionally, Bad Tolz had been identifying potential junior officers and noncoms all along. These, leadership training once completed, helped fill up both the 501st and the 47th Korps. Some cadre was obtained also from the regular Bundeswehr, from those who wished to escape any residual trace of the, admittedly dying, political correctness that had infected that force, sending many a young soldier to premature death and leaving many a town, like Giessen, ripe for the slaughter.
* * *
Lambs to the slaughter, mused Krueger, lambs to the slaughter.
As had Dieter Schultz and his peers once stood in shivering fear before the terror inspiring Krueger, now the new men likewise quaked. The cold of the Bavarian Alps had added to Dieter’s shivering. Now, in the mild Thuringian summer, Krueger needed nothing more than the black uniform with the silver insignia; that and his icy cold blue eyes and frosty mien.
The SS man stopped to slap the face of a new recruit whose face showed just a little too much fear. The boy was knocked to the ground by the blow, then kicked while he lay stunned by a high, polished jackboot. “An SS man recovers from any blow immediately,” announced Krueger, adding another, fairly mild, kick for punctuation. “Up, boy!” Then, loud enough to carry, “You’ll all learn to become tougher and more resilient than Krupp’s steel.
“Why,” he added, a trace of utter loathing in his voice, “you’ll even become more resilient than the Jews, and they put Krupp’s product to shame.”
Krueger shivered himself at the thought of the new formation, this “Judas Maccabeus” brigade. Fucking untermensch. It is a disgrace, it is.
* * *
Walking, no strutting, down the ranks of the new men, Krueger reminded Brasche of nothing so much as a fighting game cock, proud and aggressive. Of course I loathe the son of a bitch, mused Brasche, loathe him for so many reasons. Nazi bastard!
Brasche stood too far off to hear what Krueger said to the new men. He had a good enough idea; he had seen and heard it all before, seen it in some rather strange places, too.
* * *
The Israelis hadn’t wanted him at first; they’d made that painfully clear. They believed him when he’d said that he had never taken part in any crime against Jews. They believed he wanted to make amends. They knew he had skills they needed desperately and lacked almost totally. But ex-SS… ?
Hans had countered with the irrefutable argument, “You want me dead, most of you. I cannot blame you for that. So send me where I can die.”
The Israelis were not that generous, and so he found himself not leading — the Israelis had been very clear he was never to lead Jews in battle — but training the scraps of diverse and wretched humanity passing through a small camp for a brief course in battle before being shipped off for butchery somewhere along the frontier.
So too he found himself teaching by pointing, slowly and painfully learning Hebrew, eating Kosher food — unaccustomedly bland. He had never felt more alone. Uncomfortable, too, for while others could strip to the waist in the fierce Middle Eastern heat, he could never remove his T-shirt, the covering for the tattoo that marked him for what he had been. Even to shower Hans had to wait until all else were done, that, or arise at an obscene hour.
There were a couple of bright spots. One was Sol, an ex Camp KAPO, one of the imprisoned Jews who actually had done, had been forced to do, most of the hands-on dirty work in the concentration camps. Sol, a Bavarian from Munich, spoke native German of course — despite that distressing south German accent. Better, he had his own sins in plenty and was disinclined to judge. They could speak sometimes, share a beer, remember better days… even hope for better days. They never talked about the war or the camps; each sensed in the other a horror not to be raised or erased.
The other bright spot was Anna, a dark blond Berliner girl who even spoke in a somewhat more upper crust version of Hans’ own native dialect. Hans didn’t know much of Anna’s history, only that she had been in the camps at some time during the war.
Of her history he knew little; and he was loathe to conjecture about more. But in the here and now he also knew she was beautiful — breathtaking, really, with sculpted features and body coupled to bright and kind shining green eyes. Her mien and manner showed a spirit even the camps could not crush. Though most of the Israeli girls scorned makeup, Hans noted that Anna seemed to actively despise it. No matter, she was more than beautiful enough without artificial adornment.
Lastly he knew he was unworthy… so that whenever Anna made to get closer he withdrew. Withdrew? Rather it was more like he fled in barely concealed terror whenever the girl approached on any but professional matters. Hans could not bring himself, ever, to look into those green eyes. He avoided the north side of the camp, the women’s area, like the very plague.
“You are a fool, Hans,” said Sol one day as the two sat on barracks steps over an evening’s friendly beer.
At Hans’ quizzical look the Israeli laughed. “The girl follows you like a puppy. Why do you always run the other way?”
Heaving a deep sigh was Hans’ only answer.
“Don’t lie to me, old son,” said Sol, taking a quick sip of warm and insipid beer, “not even by refusing to answer. I see your face when you look in her direction. I can practically hear your heart race when she walks by upwind.”
“I know,” Hans whispered, softly. “But I just can’t.”
“In the name of God, why not?”
“Because I am unworthy,” Hans answered, simply.
* * *
“You little shits think you are worthy to become SS?” demanded Krueger, still strutting. “I’ve ass-fucked quivering little Yid whores at Ravensbrück who were more worthy than you, you filth.
“They, at least, had staying power. It remains to be seen if you turds do.”
At which, much self-satisfied, statement Krueger commanded, “Right, face… Forward, march… Double-time…”
Interlude
Ro’moloristen hesitated, doubting whether it was his place to criticize his lord of that lord’s own hesitation. With all eyes upon him, feeling his own weak position in the fiber of his being, he summoned his courage and said, “My lord, we might be losing the race.”
“Race? What race, puppy?” Athenalras demanded, crest rising.
“The race to finish the conquest of this peninsula, this Europe.”
“How so? We sit on everything useful to us except the central area, Deutschland it is called, yes?… that, and the mountains to the south of it. T
hey will fall soon enough… except perhaps for the mountains.”
“I am thinking of orna’adar, my lord, and our clan’s position when this world finally descends into it. The longer we take here, now, the worse our position then. Also…” The young God King hesitated.
“Also, what?”
“My lord, the gray thresh are preparing for us with everything they have. We had advantages earlier that are fast disappearing. Information made available to us through the Net, dissension and confusion in the gray thresh’s ruling bodies, unwillingness or inability to really martial their strength, lack of fortification… all these are no longer true, no longer there to work for us.
“Their forces are expanding radically. New fortifications are being built and old ones restored. Every fiber of their society is being twisted and knitted for the needs of defense it seems. Perhaps worst of all, my lord, they have scrapped hundreds upon hundreds of landers for their on-board weapons. My lord… it is no longer safe to travel over this ‘Germany’ except in orbit so far out as to be useless.”
Athenalras allowed his crest to go flaccid as he contemplated. “You think then the original plan must be scrapped, that those of our clan coming in the next wave should not be landed directly into the central area, that we should attack overland?”
Ro’moloristen shook his head in negation. “No lord, we must continue to follow the original plan… but the cost makes me shudder.”
Chapter 11
Headquarters, Army Group Reserve,
Kapellendorf Castle, Thuringia, 17 December 2007
Hans shuddered with the cold. Though snow lay all around, covering castle, land and ice in the moat, the sky was, for the nonce, clear. Christmas carols — sung by a local group of schoolchildren for the benefit of the headquarters staff — carried far in the dense, icy air, ringing off castle stone and leafless tree.
Standing on an arched stone bridge over the moat, leaning on its stone wall guardrail, Hans stared into the sky at the twinkling stars. He willed his mind to blankness, seeking rest in temporary oblivion.
In this Hans was successful, so much so that he never noticed the tapping of boots on the stones of the bridge.
It was only when Mühlenkampf laid a hand on his shoulder and announced, “The next wave is here, Hansi,” that Hans awoke from his reverie.
“So soon? I had hoped we would have more time. Maybe even get half equipped with the new-model Tigers. Get a few of them, at least.”
“They only just finished putting the prototype through its tests, Hans. The only way we will ever see them is if we can hang on for at least a year.”
Hans nodded then looked skyward. “Up to the navy for now, though,” he said.
Already new stars began to appear and quickly die as the two fleets met in a dance of destruction.
* * *
Battle cruiser Lütjens, Sol-ward from Pluto’s orbit, 17 December 2007
The ship’s commander, Kapitän Mölders, could not help but be amused at his ship’s station. Being a part of Task Fleet 7.1 was unremarkable. But, along with another battle cruiser, the Almirante Guillermo Brown, and half a dozen of the ad hoc frigates converted out of Galactic courier vessels, being an escort for Supermonitor Moscow certainly was worth a minor chuckle. What would Lindemann or Lütjens have said? he wondered, thinking of those two brave and worthy German seamen who had gone down with the original Bismarck early in World War Two. Mölders would have chuckled too, except that he, Moscow, those half dozen frigates and two more task fleets were racing at breakneck pace into a death absolutely certain.
There was no chance of victory in any sense except that of taking a few with them. The Posleen wave, sixty-five globes, each composed of hundreds of smaller ships connected for interstellar travel, was simply too great, unimaginably great. And Earth’s defending fleet was simply too small.
Victory, if it came, depended on the ground forces. Victory, for the fleet, would be giving those ground forces the greatest possible chance. Final victory was something not one man or woman aboard the ships had any hope of ever seeing. No more so did Mölders.
On Lütjens’ view-screen Mölders saw a brilliant new sun appear for a long moment. A message from Moscow poured into his ear through an earpiece kept there. Mölders’ eyes widened, then turned suddenly soft.
“Gentlemen,” he announced in a breaking voice to the bridge crew, “that sun was the Japanese battle cruiser Genjiro Shirakami.[38] It has rammed an enemy globe and detonated itself. Supermonitor Honshu believes that that globe was completely destroyed.”
“So we only have another sixty-four or so to go, eh, sir?” whispered Mölder’s exec.
* * *
Headquarters, Army Group Reserve, Kapellendorf Castle, Thuringia, 17 December 2007
Lightning flashed and new-born suns flared in space over head. Hans wondered idly at the details, but knew deep down that the details could not matter. He had seen the estimates; Mühlenkampf had shared them with his senior officers. The human fleet was doomed and was not going to do all that much good, either. Still anything was better than nothing and the blooming suns of destroyed ships, coupled with the silvery streaks of hypervelocity anti-ship missiles, made for quite a show.
But he had seen similar shows before, ones that had kept his attention even more raptly…
* * *
The attack seemed to come from nowhere and from everywhere. One moment found Hans fast asleep in his barracks. The next thunder-crashing moment found him leaping from his bunk, fully alert as only a very combat experienced veteran could come alert. He reached instinctively for the Schmeisser he had acquired on his own ticket as well as the combat harness that held an extra half dozen magazines for the sub-machine gun. Carrying both in his hands and shouting in his wretched Hebrew for the dozen men who shared the small hut with him to take their positions along the camp’s perimeter, Hans stumbled to the shelter’s door. Jacking the Schmeisser’s bolt once, Hans left the hut with Sol’s shouts ringing behind him, directing the others.
Outside was bedlam. Mortar rounds splashed down to briefly light the area with sudden lightning and lingering thunder. Tracers arced through the camp, seemingly from all around. Though this was the first attack it was not the first time Hans had cursed the sloppiness of the amateur, ad hoc, wretchedly trained Israeli army. No wonder the Arabs had gotten through somewhere along the none-too-distant front and come here for easy pickings.
Fierce cries of “Allahu akbar” resounded from a shallow streambed to the north as the volume of fire began to pick up from that direction Not quite sure why, Hans began moving in that direction. Half dressed, more importantly perhaps half undressed, shrieking women began to streak by in their flight. He called out repeatedly, “Anna? Anna?”
One Israeli girl shouted to him, “Anna stayed behind to fight and cover us!” Hans moved out, alone, into the night.
He found her spitting and cursing defiance at the three Arabs who had her pinned and spread-eagled for a fourth crouching between her legs, tugging at whatever covered the lower half of her body. His experienced finger caressed the trigger four times, then a fifth to make sure of one still-twitching, towel-headed form.
Hans reached down and grabbed the girl’s shirt. As he did so he noticed that she was trouserless and that her rifle, bolt jammed open, was empty. Standing erect again, Hans began to half trot backwards, dragging the girl and firing backwards to discourage pursuit.
Mortar fire was still falling, making life on the surface unsafe for man or girl. Coming to a narrow slit trench, Hans jumped in and dragged Anna down with him, pushing her gently to the trench’s dusty floor.
“You’ll be safe here, Anna. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
It was only then that she began to cry, small half-stifled whimpers at first, growing with time to great wracking sobs. Hans tried his poor best to comfort her with little soft pats while keeping a watch topside for approaching dangers. The raid seemed to be ending, the Arab’s fire slack
ing off. The camp was better lit now, what with half a dozen buildings burning brightly. Perhaps that was what had driven the Arabs off. Natural raiders and almost hopeless as soldiers, they would rarely press an attack without every conceivable advantage.
In time, under Hans’ gentle care, Anna’s sobs subsided. “They were going to rape me,” she announced, needlessly. “You should not have risked yourself. It would not have killed me.”
Hans shrugged. “Perhaps it would not have, girl. They very well might have though, their fun once done.”
Anna echoed Hans’ shrug. With an unaccountable angry tone she said, “I have a name, you know? Anyway, little matter if they had.”
“Don’t say that!” he shouted with unusual ferocity, then, more gently, almost a whisper, “I know you have a name, Anna.”
“Why?” she asked. “You’ve never shown you care. Not until tonight anyway.”
“I care, Anna. I always have.”
“You never showed,” she accused.
“I couldn’t.”
“Why not? Because I was a camp whore? Because I have a tattoo?”
Hans felt a wave of sickness wash over him. “I knew about the tattoo. I never knew about the… other.”
“I was though, for years. For the guards at Ravensbrück.”
Hans remembered some disgusted words from another SS man during a very brief sojourn at Birkenau. His sense of sickness grew greater still, great enough to show.
Misinterpreting, Anna turned her face away to hide forming tears. “It was not by my choice, never by my choice. But I understand why you won’t want anything to do with me…”