Keitel caught his arm. “We have to move!”
Hans nodded and followed him into the connecting trench, feeling sweat trickling down his back as the enemy tanks started to crush their way into the forward trenches. The noise was too loud, his ears hurt as shells crashed down in the distance. He could barely hear himself barking orders at what remained of his men, trying to dissuade one man from snatching up a knapsack full of grenades and hurling himself on a tank. Whether in zeal or deafness, the soldier ignore Hans’ command.
You fool, Hans thought, ducking away from the blast. The British tank blew up nicely, the screams of its crew dimly audible in the flames. Of course, there were hundreds more behind it. That man just wasted his life…
“Fall back,” Hans shouted. The retreat was rapidly turning into a rout. He saw one tank get stuck in a trench and felt a moment’s hope, only to lose it when three more tanks crunched their way through the trench and fired on the retreating men. “Hurry!”
With that, Hans put his head down and forced himself to run. They had orders to rendezvous at a village a mile or two behind the lines if all hell broke loose, but that seemed pointless. Hans tried not to think about what he’d seen as he collected the remainder of his men and marched them east, towards the next line.
As they moved, the attack seemed to have slacked. Some of the men even remarked on this, but Hans knew better. The Tommies were merely catching their breath and rushing reinforcements forward, before resuming the offensive. They wouldn’t give their enemies time to dig more trenches and make a stand, not now. They’d learnt better over the last few years.
A flight of aircraft buzzed over them, a couple dropping low to strafe the retreating soldiers. Hans hit the ground, cursing as Adolf fired on the aircraft…he understood, all too well, but it was just a waste of bullets. There was no real prospect of hitting anything, unless Adolf got very lucky. Hans bit down the reprimand that came to mind. Firing back would give his men a sense they were hitting back, even though they were vastly outnumbered and outgunned. And besides, who knew? Perhaps Adolf would hit something.
He heard a rumbling behind him as they finally staggered into what remained of the village. It had been a farming town, only a few short hours ago. Now…enemy shelling and aircraft had worked it over thoroughly, smashing every last building into a pile of rubble. The HQ was burning, flames licking merrily towards the skies. He glanced at Keitel, then looked around. A handful of men were still straggling into the village, but the officers who should have commanded the front were gone. He felt a flash of pure hatred. It was possible they were under the rubble, dead or wishing they were, but he didn’t believe it. The cowards had probably taken their drinks cabinets and their mistresses and hotfooted it back to Berlin. He knew it. The brave men were dead. Only the cowards survived.
A young man, so young that Hans thought he should still be in school, saluted. “Herr Hauptman. What should we do?”
Hans bit down the urge to tell the boy to throw down his weapon, change into something a little more civilian and swear blind he’d never had anything to do with the army. If the child had even a month of training, it evidently hadn’t taken. He was so wet behind the ears that he was addressing a senior officer with almost casual informality…Hans shook his head. Right now, there was no point in crying over spilt milk. The rumbling was growing louder, and they weren’t being shelled. It could only mean one thing. Enemy troops were on their way.
“We retreat, back towards Frankfurt,” he ordered, harshly. The city hadn’t—yet—been declared a free city. “And we don’t look back.”
He glanced westwards, cursing as he saw the plumes of smoke rising into the sky. The enemy were pushing forward along a very wide front, taking the time—no doubt—to smash as much of the army as possible before they pushed further into Germany itself. Perhaps they’d waste time dividing the spoils once they crossed the Rhine…he shook his head. They had to get back in touch with higher authority, if they wanted to do anything more than take pot-shots at enemy troops before they got wiped out. And if they had to make a stand…well, then they’d die in place.
The march east rapidly turned into a nightmare. A handful of men from other units joined them, along with a number of civilians who hadn’t been evacuated before the enemy offensive began. Hans had expected them to have food, but…they were as deprived as his men. A couple of women begged for food, offering their bodies to anyone who had something they could eat, but…no one took them up on it. There was no food and little water. Hans gave the last of his canteen to a little girl, even though he knew the poor child was probably doomed. Perhaps it was for the best. She’d grow up starving and hungry when the war finally came to an end.
He’d hoped to see a couple of friendly aircraft in the skies, but there were none. Enemy aircraft roamed freely, shooting up railway lines and the handful of tanks and lorries on the roads. They walked past a burnt-out column of motor lorries that had been apparently heading east. A dead body—a man in a general’s uniform—lay beside the convoy. Hans guessed he’d fled when the shelling started, along with his staff. It hadn’t bought him safety.
“Traitor,” Adolf hissed.
Hans couldn’t disagree. The general, whoever he’d been, hadn’t stuck around to lead the defence. And it had killed him…Hans smiled, even though he knew it was a bad sign. The betrayer had been killed before he could do more damage.
Night was falling as they stumbled into Frankfurt and passed their civilians to the local government before reporting to the army HQ. The officers on duty didn’t seem to know what to do. One of them was chattering on the phone, giving ludicrously optimistic reports about enemy tanks being destroyed and thousands of enemy soldiers being killed; another was moving imaginary units around an equally imaginary map. Hans had no idea what country’s defences were displayed on the map, but it sure as hell wasn’t Germany in 1919. The newspaper on the desk, weeks out of date, babbled about the Free Corps in what had once been Russia. Hans snorted, despite himself.
What does the Free Corps matter when the Reich itself was doomed?
The officer in command was fat, wearing a uniform that had clearly never seen action. Hans disliked him on sight. He’d bet whatever remained of his life savings—if the government hadn’t already seized them to fund the war—that the officer hadn’t seen action either. A strong man in his position could have accomplished much, but instead he appeared to be dithering, his eyes flickering between the imaginary maps and the handful of more realistic reports someone had pinned on the noticeboard. Hans tried not to wince when he read them. If they were accurate, Frankfurt would come under attack in less than a day.
“They’ll be coming to our rescue,” the officer said, stiffly. “The masses of manoeuvre are on their way.”
Hans would have been more impressed if he’d known who they were. There were no masses of manoeuvre left in Germany, save for distantly unfriendly ones. The idea of the British turning on the French now…the officer babbled on, claiming that the Allies would fall out and start fighting amongst themselves now they had real spoils of war. The Reich merely had to hold out long enough for them to fall out…Hans shook his head, not bothering to hide his disbelief. The Reich had almost nothing left. Even if the British and French did start fighting, the Reich couldn’t take advantage of it.
He stole a packet of cigarettes—French, according to the label—and walked back outside. Frankfurt looked like a hive of activity, even to him, but most of the activity looked distantly unfocused. Soldiers gathered around fires, sharing what little heat they could as they scrabbled over food and drink. Someone had started to loot civilian homes, dragging out hoarded food and opening wine cellars.
Goddammit, this won’t end well, Hans thought as he saw soldiers passing out bottles of alcohol, while beating civilians who tried to object. There wasn’t a single military policeman in sight. Order was on the verge of breaking down completely. He wanted to try to take control, but he knew it would be f
utile. The men had been pushed too far, betrayed once too many times. He tried not to look at a body swinging from a lamppost. He didn’t want to know.
Keitel and the rest of the unit were waiting for him. Hans shared out the cigarettes, then sat down, too despondent to do anything. He could still hear the sound of guns in the distance, as the Allies continued their advance. There were any number of things the Germans could do to slow them, but it looked as though no one was bothering to try. Even Adolf had fallen quiet, lost in his own thoughts. Hans watched the younger man for a long moment, then shrugged and unpacked his blanket. Sleeping in the open would be rough, but he’d slept in worse places.
At least we’re be relatively safe…he thought as sleep claimed him.
Hans was jarred awake, what felt like seconds later, by shells falling within the city. He glanced around, half-convinced that he was having a nightmare. He’d slept so poorly that it was hard to believe that it was really dawn, that the enemy were bombarding the city itself. Dazed, he staggered to his feet, looking around for water. There was none. A series of rumbles ran through the city as more and more shells crashed down, a handful coming alarmingly close. He saw a building topple and fall, pieces of rubble smashing to the ground. He hoped—desperately—that no one had been inside. The civilians should have had the sense to stay underground.
A messenger ran up to him, looking utterly terrified. “They’re attacking from the west!”
“Well, of course,” Hans snarled. Where else would the Allies be attacking from? “Do you know anything useful?”
Another volley of shells slammed into the city before the messenger could answer. Hans ducked, cursing as more shrapnel flew through the air. He was too tired and sore to panic, but the messenger turned and fled. Hans opened his mouth to call him back and demand some real orders, but it was too late. Far too late. The messenger was in the middle of the streets when the shells fell again. He was knocked to the cobblestones. He didn’t get up again.
“Get everyone into position, ready to fall back,” Hans snarled to his men. Frankfurt was practically undefended. There were certainly no modern defences. The stone walls wouldn’t last a minute when the Allies brought tanks and guns to bear on them. “We have to start moving…”
He watched, grimly, as the shellfire began creeping east. The Tommies were definitely coming, the British and French and Americans and God alone knew who else. He could practically smell them, well-fed and well-armed men inching towards a defence line that was pathetically weak. Hans wondered, with a savagery that surprised him, just what had happened to the fat bastard in command. Frederick the Great would have done a much better job. Even Hindenburg and Ludendorff would have done something to make the city difficult to take. But the provisional government had dismissed them. That had been a mistake.
A handful of enemy infantrymen appeared, probing through the city. Hans muttered orders, instructing his troops to hold fire until the enemy got closer. There weren’t any tanks, as far as he could tell. Tanks wouldn’t be so useful in crowded streets. If they just waited…
The sound of aircraft passing overhead caused him to jump. To Hans’ pleasant surprise, they aircraft simply roared overhead.
They’re not going to drop this close to their troops in a city, he realized. The fight will be even. Hans waited, silently counting down the seconds, until dozens of enemy soldiers were within range.
That’s the best we’re going to do, he thought.
“Fire!”
His men fired as one. A dozen enemy soldiers fell, the remainder scattering and taking cover. Hans snapped more orders, telling his men to run. They didn’t have the ammunition or the positions to make a fight of it, not now. Moments later, shells fell on where they’d been. Hans gritted his teeth. One of the bastards who’d survived had a radio, clearly, and enough nerve to risk shelling himself—and his troops—in order to kill the Germans. Hans forced himself to run harder as the defence line shattered.
“Get to the river,” someone shouted. “Flee!”
“Stand and fight,” Adolf shouted, as they reached another makeshift defence line. “Stand and fight…”
“Don’t be a fool,” Hans snapped at him. “Run!”
He saw flashes and flickers of moments in the fall of the city as he ran for his life, heading towards a fallback point no one had expected to have to use. Buildings collapsing into rubble, hundreds of civilians running in all directions. A uniformed officer gunned down by his own men, half-drunk on the alcohol they’d liberated the previous night. A woman lying dead on the cobblestones, her head missing; another frau screaming her life away as she stared at her missing arms. Hans wanted to help her, but there was nothing he could do. Her arms were gone. Even if someone stanched the bleeding, what sort of life could she expect? The thought was sickening.
A building towered up beside him. He leaned against the stone to catch his breath, feeling everything start to catch up with him. He hadn’t eaten properly in days…he hadn’t even had anything to drink. Despair was yammering at the back of his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. Perhaps life in a POW camp wouldn’t be too bad. He’d be fed, at least. The war—his war—would be over.
He heard someone—a woman—whimper and froze, then inched along the side street and peered around a corner. A woman was bent over a metal bin, tears streaming down her face as a half-dressed soldier fucked her from behind. He held her down, even as he ploughed his way in and out of her. Hans knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was raping her. His stomach churned as he reached for his pistol, trying not to look at the girl’s blonde hair. She reminded him of his sister.
The rapist smiled at him. “You want a go?”
Hans levelled the pistol at him. “Get away from her!”
“Oh, come on,” the rapist said. “Does it matter any longer? You can have her after I’m done.”
Hans gritted his teeth. Part of him was tempted, even though he knew it would be wrong. It had been too long since he’d lain with a woman, too long…he swallowed hard, angrily dismissing the thought. It would be wrong. He pulled the trigger before he could think better of it, putting a bullet though the rapist’s head. His body fell backwards and hit the ground. The woman straightened, took one terrified look at Hans and ran for her life. Hans didn’t blame her. He just hoped she managed to pull herself together before someone decided to blame her for being raped. Or she ran into someone else who’d thrown civilised behaviour out the window.
He checked the rapist’s body, then stood and hurried towards the edge of the city. The sound of firing was getting closer, but…if he was lucky, he might just be able to get out of the city and hurry to the fallback position before the noose closed. He hoped…he joined hundreds of soldiers and thousands of civilians as they headed east, searching for a safety he knew probably didn’t exist. Would they eventually retreat all the way to Moscow or Siberia? He wouldn’t have ruled it out.
His legs hurt dreadfully by the time he finally stumbled into the fallback position, a mid-sized town that had already been bombed by enemy aircraft. Keitel met him at the HQ, looking surprisingly relieved to see him. Adolf was the only other familiar face, standing in front of a crowd of soldiers and civilians and urging them to fight to the last. Hans looked at his audience and knew the message was falling on deaf ears. The men, soldiers and civilians alike, looked as if they were ready to give up. It was clear that hundreds of men had already deserted.
“We have orders to dig trenches and hold the line,” Keitel informed him. “They say they’re already talking about a truce.”
Hans snorted. He might be an officer, but he hadn’t had his brain removed during his promotion ceremony. One couldn’t bargain if there was nothing to bargain with. The Allies had made enormous gains in two days…and they’d know it. Of course they’d know it. Four years of trench warfare, where neither side had managed to gain very much no matter how much blood and treasure they’d thrown into the fire, had taught them how hard it was to push th
rough a determined defence. Now…the only thing slowing them down was their logistics problems. He glanced at the half-ruined town and shook his head as his stomach growled angrily. There were no guns, no tanks, no nothing…not even food. They were thoroughly fucked. He checked his pistol and frowned. Only a handful of rounds left.
He laughed, despite himself.
I should have beaten that rapist to death, not shot him, Hans thought. I didn’t even get any ammunition out of the incident.
Keitel gave him an odd look. “Herr Hauptman?”
“Never mind,” Hans said. “We’d better get to work.”
He pulled his men back into the trenches, working hard to set a good example. Four years ago, an officer would never have dug trenches with the men. Now…he had to convince his men that he was sharing their sufferings. Adolf might want to continue the fight, but the rest of his men—most of whom didn’t even know him—had other ideas. Hans knew he couldn’t stop them if they chose to desert. Order and discipline had broken down everywhere.
A snarl ran through the line as a farmer drove his horse and cart into the town. No one said anything, as far as Hans could tell, but the men ran forward as one and snatched the horse. The farmer tried to object and they knocked him down, cutting the beast’s throat and butchering it inexpertly before cooking the meat over the fire. Hans knew he couldn’t object. The men were starving…they were all starving. They’d done their best, but their trench network was pitiful and they knew it. They honestly didn’t have the strength to do a proper job. He promised the farmer compensation, a promise he knew he wasn’t going to be able to keep, as the meat was shared out. Hans was careful to take only his fair share. He really didn’t want the men turning on him.
“We’ll stop them,” Adolf said. He ate his meat like a dog, holding it in his bare fingers and snapping at it until the bone had been picked clean. “They won’t get past us.”
Keitel found a radio and turned it on. Hans listened, half-expecting to hear Radio Berlin announcing an armistice—or a surrender. They were whipped. They knew they were whipped. But, instead, there was patriotic music and exhortations to hold the line, exhortations his men roundly jeered. Hans groaned, inwardly, as the music played on, without even a single shred of real news. Who was in charge now? Who was running the government? And what were they thinking?
Trouble in the Wind Page 25