by John Ringo
“That will be fine,” said Mühlenkampf. “Meet me back here in… say… two hours. The guards have a radio for me to communicate with Headquarters. They and I are going to have a little tour of the front lines.”
* * *
Wounded were still pouring in from the front. Many were fixed, to the extent they could be fixed, on the spot, before being sent back to the slaughter. Others were marked for evacuation or for being left behind.
To these, as to the others she had previously helped, Isabelle brought syringes filled with a powerful morphiate, a guaranteed overdose. For those who were awake she simply left a syringe. For the unconscious ones with an awake comrade nearby she asked if the comrade would assist.
And then she came to a ward tent holding one lone soldier with no comrades… and no arms. The soldier was conscious though faint, pale from shock and pain and loss of blood. Even so, he understood instinctively what the woman was offering and understood he could not accept it as offered.
“Can you help me?” he asked, weakly.
Her first instinct was to turn around, pretend she was there on some other business. But that would have been cowardly and she knew it. She walked and stood next to the armless soldier’s cot.
He was awake enough, if only just, to read her face and the moral confusion drawn upon it. It was a grave and terrible responsibility she had taken upon herself, a responsibility the soldier did not envy her. He tried to help her as best he could. “Madame, I am in great pain. Could you give me something… ?”
She knew as well as did he the game he was playing, but, since it made her task easier, she played along. “Certainly, young man. I have something for pain right here.”
Her finger flicked the needle as the thumb of the opposite hand forced out any air that the syringe might have contained. Then she stopped as she realized she had never given anyone an injection anywhere but in the arm.
He twisted his head slightly in the opposite direction. “They have been using my neck,” he advised.
Isabelle searched for a vein, found it, and forced the hair-thin needle into it. A slight withdrawal of the plunger confirmed she had pierced the vein well, as blood from the vein was drawn into the syringe. She pushed some of the syringe’s content into the vein.
And then she stopped pressing. You cannot do this, Isabelle. This is murder.
The soldier helped her again. “That feels a little better, madame, but I am still in great pain. Could I have some more?”
Again, Isabelle pressed another quarter of the syringe’s drug into the vein. But again, she stopped before reaching a fatal dosage.
“I think, madame, that I will still be in unbearable pain until you give me all of it.”
Isabelle looked deeply into the soldier’s eyes. She was not sure if she were looking for confirmation that the soldier wished to die then and there, or confirmation that he did not. The eyes gave no answer; between his injuries and the amount of drug she had already given him, they were simply too dull and blank.
“… all of it, madame, please? The pain…”
Shutting her own eyes then, Isabelle slowly forced the rest of the syringe’s contents into the young man’s neck. She waited there, eyes closed and unmoving, for several minutes as the horror of what she had done washed over her. When she opened them again and withdrew the needle, she saw that the soldier’s eyes had closed, that his breathing had gone shallow. In a few minutes, under Isabelle’s gaze, the breathing stopped entirely.
Then, eyes full of tears and heart full of sorrow, she fled, leaving behind the now empty ward tent.
* * *
Thomas was not alone in the reception tent of the field hospital, but he was ignored by the people bustling to and fro.
That was fine by him; he wanted to be ignored. He did not want to answer any questions, and he did not want any of the people here or in the city to know it was his fault that they had to leave their homes and stations and flee for their lives.
Finally an old noncom stood before him, asking, “Grenadier Thomas De Gaullejac?” Seeing the boy’s distant nod, the NCO continued, “We are admitting you on the advice of Field Marshal Mühlenkampf’s aide. But we cannot treat you here. The psychiatric section has already displaced to the rear. So, for that matter, has the chaplain. You are to go find yourself space on one of the trucks waiting outside and go with them. Do you understand?”
Wearily Thomas nodded again. Then he stood and walked out of the tent to where the trucks awaited.
* * *
Isabelle never even noticed the slump-shouldered, filthy soldier leaving the reception tent as she hurried across it on her way to her own ward. She likely would not have even had her eyes not been tear-filled and swollen with weeping. She had to focus on returning to her own place of work to pick up her youngest boy.
Upon her eldest, Thomas, she refused to think. He was almost certainly lost. The same innocent and sweet son she had raised would never have survived alone in the nightmare their world had become.
* * *
Mühlenkampf, his party down to himself, a radio bearer, and a single guard, waited at the same place from which he had dispatched Rolf with the young French boy.
Bad, so bad this situation is. Worse than anything I have ever seen, to include the Russian Front. They are chewing through us even faster than the Russians might have. And I need time.
Mentally, he consulted his order of battle and the placement of every unit down to division level. Hmmm. Goetz von Berlichingen is close. Jugend is close, too, but Frundsberg is closer. Frundsberg is Panzer… almost useless in these quarters… while Jugend is panzer grenadier. And we have two infantry corps within range.
Then again, Jugend has an average age of under seventeen, excluding old SS leadership.
Reluctantly, Mühlenkampf took the radio from its bearer and called his headquarters. “Give me the 1A,” he demanded.
After a wait of a few minutes the radio came back, “Generalmajor Steinmetz, here, Herr Feldmarschall.”
“Steinmetz? Mühlenkampf. Pass the warning and prepare the orders. Ternty-first and Fortieth Korps, reinforced by SS Divisions Goetz von Berlichingen and Jugend respectively, are to attack, without regard to losses, to drive the enemy back from the city of Wiesbaden.”
“I can do this, sir, but are you…”
“Just do it, Steinmetz.”
“As you wish, sir.”
Tiger Brünnhilde, Hanau, Germany, 3 February 2008
The Indowy Rinteel wished desperately to be somewhere, anywhere, but here in this tank, shuddering under repeated hammerings of the Posleen landers that pressed in their attack like nothing Rinteel had ever imagined.
There had been no powerful direct hits of course; Mueller’s deliberately spastic driving made a kinetic projectile strike a matter of, so far happy, chance. The near misses rocked the tank viciously, however. The Indowy’s body had been bruised, bruises over bruises, with every jolt.
There had been plasma hits, more than a few. Yet Brünnhilde’s ablative armor had been able, so far, to shrug those off. A quick glance at his damage control screen showed Rinteel, distressingly, that that armor was wearing thin in places.
Thin too, the Indowy thought, was wearing the courage of the crew. In continuous action for more than twenty-four hours — for the enemy had come looking for the tank from space a bit before their successful assaults across the river lines, the crew had begun to exhibit signs of something very like the Indowy equivalent of the Darhel’s lintatai.
Though with the Indowy it was a cultural and physical issue, not a genetic one.
He looked around the tank’s combat cocoon at the crew, trying to analyze those almost inscrutable un-Indowy faces. All glistened of sweat, sweat pulled forth by fear.
Prael, living and fighting under the desperate pressure of a command he had never trained for, but for which he had so far proved more than suitable, had developed a twitch in his cheek. Even to an alien to whom German was worse than a mer
ely foreign tongue, Prael’s vocal commands to the crew had acquired a nervous, half-mad tone.
Schlüssel’s hands, gripped tight on his gunner’s spade-grip, trembled, Rinteel saw. He had not been able to so much as pull his face from the gun’s sight for over six hours. The previous break in his concentration? Well, the Indowy couldn’t recall it.
Breitenbach, whom the Indowy suspected to be the youngest of the crew, sat shaking. Yet the young man’s eyes never left his engagement screen, his hand still stayed fixed to his cannon’s control handle.
Henschel, running the loader’s station, seemed to retain an old being’s calm, as did Nielsen of the humongous feet. The others of the crew did as best they might.
And the Indowy was, wonder of wonders, terrified and disgusted and admiring all at once. He wished himself to be like the humans, too; able to be terrified and brave all at once, to quake at the heart with fear and still to make the hand and eye steady when it counted. What an amazing species, marveled the little bat-faced, furry, Indowy. If we must have an overlord species — and unless we ever learn to fight, and we can’t, we must — then we could do worse than to serve these humans.
Tiger Anna, Southeast of Berlin, 4 February 2008
In twenty-four hours the crumbling line had been driven back more than twenty-five kilometers. Three times in the last day Hans had ordered his brigade to turn about and lunge back at the enemy. Three times they had driven the Posleen eastward, fleeing in terror. Three times they had carpeted the frozen earth with a blanket of dismembered and crushed enemy bodies.
Yet, each such lunge had also seen the enemy return, in numbers uncountable, pressing at the front and oozing around the flanks. Each such lunge had left a Tiger or two smoking on the East Prussian plain.
The enemy had chosen, so far, not to risk its ships. Hans Brasche smiled grimly for a moment at this mute testimony to the fear in which the Posleen held his much-weakened brigade of Tigers and their lighter comrades.
Out in their vehicles, the lighter troops — Leopard tankers and panzer grenadiers in their Marders — smiled, too. They smiled at being alive, which they would certainly not have been, most of them, had not their brigade commander’s tank ignored the Posleen’s human shields and blasted both humans and aliens to kingdom come.
On other sectors of the front, so the word had been passed, some units had completely disappeared under the alien wave because no one had been able to bring themselves to fire on women and children until it was too late. Great gaps had been torn in the front, gaps that the Germans and their Polish and Czech allies were struggling to repair.
Each attempt at repair seemed to find the front ever more westward.
Hans was facing eastward when Anna’s voice called to him, “Emanations from thirty-eight enemy ships heading this way, flying low, Herr Oberst.”
Hans maintained his smile after hearing that news. Action, something to take his mind from his recent crimes, was a welcome relief.
* * *
Borominskar cursed futilely at his misguided and insubordinate underling. “You foolish abat! You incarnate insult to your forebears! You never sufficiently to be cursed, thrice-damned idiot! Turn back.”
“Up yours, old one,” answered the younger God King, Siliuren of Sub-clan Rif. “The enemy is broken and my people are hungry after the long fast you inflicted upon them. I am going to grab my own place in the sun of this world and to the shit-demons with you!”
* * *
Not bad odds, thought Hans. Not bad odds at all. We have faced worse in any case, much worse.
Losses had forced Hans to consolidate his three battalions of Tigers into two. Even those two mustered only ten tanks apiece. Curiously, his Leopard and panzer grenadier units were much nearer full strength. It was the drawing of the enemy fire away from the lighter units and towards us that spared so many of them, I think.
The twenty-one remaining Tigers, including Anna, waited patiently under their camouflage foam for the Posleen to enter engagement range.
Hans spoke into his microphone to the entire brigade. “The important thing here, boys, is that there is no ground for us to hide behind. If we engage too soon then the enemy will pull back and just pelt us from out beyond our effective range. So we have to let them come in close. Dial down your antimatter and wait until the bastards are within five thousand meters. Then, when I give the command, fire for all you are worth. There are thirty-eight of the swine coming. I don’t want more than two or three to get away to spread the word among the others: ‘Don’t fuck with ’Brigade Michael Wittmann!’ ”
* * *
Siliuren of the Rif chortled at his defiance of his nominal overlord. What, after all, meant it to be a God King of the People of the Ships if one couldn’t exercise the freedom inherent in that status? If he chose to load his oolt in their ships to a new land on his own, by what right could Borominskar object? It certainly had not been because of the care with which he had fed the people; Siliuren’s oolt’os were thin to emaciation by their enforced short rations.
The God King viewed the snow-covered land passing beneath his ship with a certain measure of disgust. It is a bare place, and inhospitable. Why ever did I leave the world of my birth?
An honest answer to that question would have been something on the order of, “You left your world because it was about to be blown to flinders, radioactive flinders at that.” An answer more honest still, though Siliuren was not among either the brightest or the most devout of the People and so unlikely to have read or listened with understanding to the Book of the Knowers, would have been, You left your world because it was about to be destroyed, but it was about to be destroyed because in eons past beyond clear memory, some people called Aldenat’ decided that the universe ought to be a certain way and, for a while, were able to make it look that way.
* * *
God, if there is a God, please, if the aliens look, do not let them see. So Brasche prayed and so, if perhaps using different words, prayed every man of the brigade.
Whether a distant God, scarcely in evidence on the Earth as it was, was paying attention, or the Posleen ships’ masters were not paying attention, the swarm of alien ships flew closer and closer to the irregular waiting line of Tigers, Hans never knew. He only knew that the time eventually came when he was able to order, “All Tigers, Fire. Fire at will.”
* * *
Siliuren of the Rif barely noticed the voice of his ship’s AI. Indeed, the ships never put into their artificial voices any intonation that might have been characterized as attention grabbing.
It wasn’t until the third time the ship said, “There appear to be twenty-one enemy fighting machines ahead,” that the God King asked, “WHAT?”
It was the last question he ever asked.
* * *
“First and Third Battalions, bend in your flanks,” ordered Hans. “Let’s trap as many of the bastards as we can. Little brothers,” — the brigade’s panzers and panzer grenadiers — “cover our flanks until we are done.”
The Brigade Michael Wittmann, much reduced in strength but not one whit in fighting heart, not one whit in their hate, rolled forward to its last victory.
Interlude
Frankfurt bowed down, weighed to the ground under its own ruins. In its way, the gray, ugly city was more to Posleen architectural tastes than were the brighter, homier of the thresh’s dwelling places.
But “more” was a far cry from “entirely.” Athenalras was not sorry to see his people tearing the place down and rebuilding it in Posleen style. Especially was he not sorry to see the places which armed the threshkreen stripped to bare earth. His clan had suffered greatly, wounds without precedent and without imagining, from their battles with the humans.
“God how I hate the vile abat,” muttered the God King lord.
“My lord?” questioned Ro’moloristen.
“I came here, young one, with a bright and shining host. What have I left? Between the threshkreen’s radiation weapons, thei
r fighting machines, and their damned artillery and their infantry which refuses to run unless they see an advantage in it, I lead but a pale, bled-out shadow of a clan. The long body of water the thresh call the ‘Rhein’ is choked to within a few measures of its surface with the bodies of our people. In the east, their rivers Oder and Niesse overflow their banks for all the bodies of the People deposited in them. Their mountains are ringed with our dead. Their fields are carpeted with the remains of the host, sacrilegiously ungathered.”
“But my lord… we have destroyed them. The Germans reel north and south to barren wastes.”
“We have destroyed ourselves. Do not count the humans down, my eson’sora, until the last breeding pair are digested. And that, I fear, we shall never do.
“I wish we had never come to this world,” finished Athenalras, lord of the clan.
Chapter 19
Lübeck, Germany, 1 March 2008
Seven Tigers, along with a half a battalion each of panzers and panzer grenadiers, reinforced with all that remained of the Brigade’s artillery — a couple of undersupplied batteries, stood lonely guard south of the town. To the north and the west, the shattered Kampfgruppen[48] of nine Korps — perhaps the equivalent of a dozen or fifteen divisions, preinvasion — dug in furiously. A further four Korps, or the scraps that remained of them, were turning Hamburg into a fortress to grind the alien enemy. From Hamburg, stretched thin along the Elbe River’s broad, deep estuary, what remained of the Bundeswehr and a few SS, all bridges before them blown, awaited the final enemy onslaught.