Chosen of the Valkyries

Chapter Sixteen

Near Warsaw, Germany Prime

13 September 1985

“The enemy have managed a handful of successful air attacks,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck reported. “They didn’t manage to take out any of the main bridges, but a number of pontoons have been smashed.”

“Then get them repaired,” Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler snarled. “They’re designed to be repaired quickly.”

He scowled. The commandos had done good work, but they hadn’t taken out every aircraft and some of those pilots were good, damned good. He was reluctant to admit it, yet it could not be denied that a couple of the HE-477 pilots were very definitely just as good as some of their SS CAS counterparts. They’d taken losses, of course – four aircraft had been shot out of the sky, one managing to slam into a pontoon bridge as it crashed – but they’d definitely slowed up the advance.

Not that I expected any differently, he reminded himself. I planned on the assumption that there would be many more delays.

The traitors were playing it smart, he had to admit. They weren’t trying to stand and fight, even when they seemed to hold a local advantage; they were slipping into range, landing a couple of blows and then darting backwards to escape retaliation. It was costing him more time than anything else, but the more time he lost the longer it would be before he could reach Berlin. By now, the traitor government had to know the war had begun.

We dropped cruise missiles into Berlin, he thought, sardonically. They’d have to be very stupid not to know the war has begun.

“The gunners are reporting that enemy fire is continuing, but only on a sporadic level,” Weineck stated. “They’re trying hard to suppress enemy fire.”

“Good,” Alfred growled. He eyed the red telephone darkly, expecting it to ring at any moment. The Fuhrer would want an update soon, he was sure. “And the forward units?”

“Moving forward carefully,” Weineck informed him. “The coordinators are moving the second-line units forward now.”

“Remind them to move additional AA units to the bridges,” Alfred said. He’d earmarked those units for supporting the advance – he knew, all too well, that the Luftwaffe had several tactical advantages – but he’d underestimated their ability to threaten the bridges. “I don’t want a single aircraft to get through our fire.”

“Jawohl,” Weineck said.

Alfred sat back, trying to relax. His junior officers knew what they were doing, he told himself firmly. They were all experienced men, blooded in South Africa and the constant low-level war against the Slavs. They’d see whatever opportunities existed and take advantage of them, he knew. And yet, he wanted to watch through their eyes as they continued the advance. He needed to know what they were seeing.

And they don’t need you looking over their shoulder, he reminded himself. Micromanaging would only make their task harder. They’ll do the job. You can count on it.

The red phone rang. Alfred bit down a comment that would probably be reported, if he said it out loud, and reached for the phone. It was time to give his report. He just hoped the Führer was prepared to listen.

Obersturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk was tense, very tense, as he led his platoon down the road. The Hauptsturmfuehrer who had been in command had already been killed by a prowling aircraft, his vehicle targeted and blown into flaming ruins before he’d even known he was under attack. Hennecke had assumed command at once, as his training had dictated, but he couldn’t help feeling as though he was badly unprepared for the task. This was not Germany East or South Africa. This was Germany Prime…

Hatred seethed in his gut as he prowled forward, listening carefully for the first hint of an enemy presence. How dare the westerners turn on the Reich? Didn’t they know the fate that awaited the Volk, if the Volk grew weak? Hennecke had seen the aftermath of too many insurgent attacks – in both Germany East and South Africa – to have any delusions about what would happen if he fell into their hands. It was the kind of madness that could never be allowed to run free. Give an Untermensch a hint of freedom – as a handful of idiots had found out over the years – and he would stick a knife in your chest, castrate your sons and rape your daughters. He knew it, as surely as he knew his own name. The Volk could not allow itself to become weak or the Volk would be lost.

Sweat trickled down his back as he eyed the forest, wondering if the enemy were lurking within the shadows. He could hear explosions and gunfire in the distance, but there was no sign of anything hostile nearby. That proved nothing, he reminded himself, as they inched forwards. The insurgents in Germany East were masters at using the endless forests and mountains for camouflage, knowing that a single mistake would attract a prowling aircraft or a commando team. Those that weren’t experts had been exterminated long ago. He tensed, again, as he heard something fluttering within the darkness, then sighed in relief as he saw a bird flying through the trees. But what had disturbed the bird…

He hit the ground, instinctively, as a shot cracked out. A soldier behind him wasn’t so lucky; he crumpled to the ground, gasping in pain. Hennecke ignored him as he used hand-signals to deploy his men, ordering one section to lay down covering fire while a second section crawled off to the right, trying to outflank the enemy position. He took command of the third section and led it towards the enemy personally, even though he knew he should probably stay in the rear. The Hauptsturmfuehrer might have been able to lead from the rear, but Hennecke knew he didn’t have that sort of authority.

The sound of shooting grew louder as the first section opened fire, bullets snapping through the trees and sending branches crashing to the ground. Hennecke would have been surprised if they actually hit anything – the enemy had had plenty of time to prepare their ambush – but it would certainly make it harder for the bastards to retreat. Unless, of course, they’d prepared their fallback position too. Hennecke disliked the idea of running from the enemy as much as the next Waffen-SS Stormtrooper, but there was nothing to be gained by sacrificing their lives for nothing. Their enemies had to know they wouldn’t slow down the advance with a handful of shots…

He paused as he saw the enemy position come into view, a firing point that had clearly been prepared some time in advance. But then, securing one of the roads that led off the autobahn was clearly a priority for any attacking force. He paused long enough to signal his men, then unhooked a grenade from his belt and threw it towards the enemy. The enemy turned, too late, as the grenade exploded. Hennecke barked orders for the first section to stop firing as it detonated, then led the charge forward. A man turned, trying to bring his rife up into firing position; Hennecke shot him in the chest and watched him crumple backwards, feeling nothing. The traitor had gotten away lightly. A second man hurled his rifle to the ground and held his hands in the air. Hennecke kicked him down, searched him roughly and then kept a foot on his neck as the second section caught up with them.

“Two prisoners,” he noted. “And four dead men.”

He glared down at the prisoners, quietly accessing them. Very few of the stormtroopers had any respect for the Wehrmacht, but even they doubted that the Wehrmacht was composed of overweight soldiers. The basic training routines were largely identical, after all. No, the men who had barred their way were reservists, men called back to the colours to fight after a long spell in civilian life. He felt a sudden surge of hatred as he took in their condition. The prisoners had been living the easy life in Germany Prime, while he and his comrades had been fighting and dying to cleanse Germany East of its Untermenschen infestation. And now they had had the nerve to try to bar their way into Germany Prime…

Orders made it clear; prisoners were to be taken, if possible. But he would have to spare a couple of men to guard the prisoners, at least until an MP unit arrived to take them into custody and transport them to a detention camp on the other side of the river. He couldn’t spare the men, he told himself; he was damned if he was risking the offensive for the sake of two traitors. Besides, he was sure no one would really care if the prisoners survived or not. They would never be released, not after taking up arms against the Waffen-SS; they’d spend the rest of their life in a concentration camp.

He cocked his pistol and pointed it at the first prisoner’s head. The man’s eyes went wide with fear and shock, even though he’d known that stormtroopers were rarely in the habit of taking prisoners. Hennecke smelt the tell-tale scent of urine as he took aim, then pulled the trigger. The prisoner jerked; his comrade opened his mouth to scream, but Hennecke shot him before he could make a sound. None of his men objected. They all knew what happened to prisoners, particularly insurgents. Indeed, Hennecke had given them an easier fate than they deserved.

Bastards, Hennecke thought.

“Leave the bodies,” he ordered, as they scooped up the weapons. “Let’s move.”

“The advance is proceeding as well as can be expected, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said. “We are advancing along the planned routes, slowly clearing out the enemy pockets as we encounter them.”

“Good,” Holliston said. “And the air defence of the bridges?”

Alfred kept his voice steady with an effort. Someone had clearly been telling tales to Germanica. He wasn’t really surprised to know there was an agent or two within his command staff – although he supposed it could have been an officer attached to the bridges – but it was still annoying. Holliston was a born intriguer, with political skills that Alfred knew outmatched his own, yet he was no military officer. He might well demand something his men couldn’t offer.

“The defences have been reinforced,” he said, fighting down the urge to point out that he’d been assured that most of the enemy aircraft would be put out of service. “There will not be a second successful attack on the bridges.”

“Good,” Holliston said, after a long chilling pause. “And the enemy pockets?”

“They’re behaving as we anticipated,” Alfred said. If the traitors had managed to move hundreds of panzers from west to east, they might well have taken the risk of thrusting forwards and catching his forces as they tried to cross the river. “They’re engaging us briefly, then falling back. I believe they are very definitely conserving their resources.”

“Then continue the advance,” Holliston ordered. “They are to have no time to prepare a tougher defence.”

Alfred scowled. Holliston didn’t see it, but the traitors were mounting a tough defence. Instead of lining up to be destroyed – that sort of idiotic behaviour was only seen in bad movies about French soldiers – they were slowing his panzers down, putting the offensive behind schedule while gathering their own forces. He’d assumed, right from the start, that there would be slippage, that matters would not proceed as fast as Holliston hoped. He had seen enough exercises to prove, to his own satisfaction, that timetables were nothing more than rough estimates.

But the Führer might think differently. It was less than two hundred miles from Warsaw to Berlin, as the crow flew. And a panzer could cover that distance in a few hours, if nothing happened to get in its way…

“I understand, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “The offensive will proceed as fast as possible.”

“Very good,” Holliston said. “Keep me updated.”

Alfred sighed, inwardly, as the line disconnected. One of the operators was updating the ammunition consumption chart, warning him that stockpiles of ammunition were being used up faster than his worst-case estimates. There weren’t any major shortages – yet – but it was only a matter of time before they faced serious problems. Germany East could produce millions of rifle rounds, if necessary… producing panzer shells and bombs was far harder.

But they will be in the same boat, he thought. They’ll have the same problem too.

He sucked in his breath. The Reich had built up colossal stockpiles, after nearly running out of bombs and bullets during the last major war. But logistics had always been a secondary concern. Hitler had believed that Germans could muddle through, whatever happened, and had chosen to ignore how logistics constrained their operations. But it was growing alarmingly clear that all of the pre-war estimates had been badly inaccurate.

And we have been at war for less than a day, he thought. What will happen if we keep expending ammunition at the same rate for the next two weeks?

From his vantage point, Eduard Selinger could see the SS panzers as they advanced, one by one, down the autobahn. They’d clearly learned a few lessons, he noted to himself; the panzers were spread out, just to ensure that an air attack couldn’t catch more than one or two of the vehicles before the aircraft had to beat a retreat. A pair of helicopters hung overhead, swinging from side to side as they watched for potential threats; high overhead, a pair of fast-jet fighters were clearly visible. In the distance, he could see a number of mechanized infantrymen, hanging back to allow the panzers to take the brunt of any ambush.

Makes sense, he told himself, as he peered through the scope. But there isn’t an antitank team waiting in ambush.

He smiled, rather coldly, as he caught sight of the panzer commanders. They were perched on top of their panzers, their eyes scanning the horizon for significant threats rather than staying firmly buttoned down in their vehicles. Eduard didn’t blame them – it was harder to keep track of what was going on inside a panzer – but it made them vulnerable. They’d be ready to duck down the moment something happened, yet… he’d still have the first shot.

I stalked insurgents in South Africa, he thought. Carefully, he took aim at the lead commander and squeezed the trigger. This is easy…

The rifle fired. He moved rapidly to the next target and pulled the trigger again, trusting that he had hit the first target. The third target was already ducking down, moving with commendable speed; Eduard fired a shot anyway, in hopes of winging him. It didn’t look as though he’d succeeded, but at least he was sure his target knew he’d come very close to death. The panzers would be rather more careful about advancing now.

He rolled over, set the booby trap and headed for his escape route as the sound of approaching helicopters grew louder. They wouldn’t know precisely where he was, but the pilots would be experienced enough to shoot at any hint of movement and ask questions later. He dived down the gully and held himself still, hoping that his camouflage was enough to keep him hidden from prying eyes. The rattle of gunfire sounded, moments later, but it didn’t seem to be aimed anywhere near him. But as the helicopters passed overhead, he heard the sound of advancing infantry behind them. It was time to move.

Gritting his teeth, he crawled down the gully, reminding himself that he didn’t dare be taken alive. The SS wasn’t known for honouring the rules of war, but snipers rarely survived encounters with the Heer, let alone the Waffen-SS. He’d be lucky if they merely shot him in the head. Behind him, he heard a loud explosion as someone triggered the IED he’d placed near his hiding place. If he were lucky, the stormtroopers would slow down and advance carefully, suspecting that there were dozens of other IEDs in place. It was a common insurgent trick…

But not one I used, he reminded himself. There hadn’t been time to lay a network of traps, even if he’d had the explosives. And the moment they realise they’ve been tricked, they’ll pick up speed.

He glanced upwards as the helicopters started to return, willing himself to stay as still as possible. Someone on the other side had thought quickly, he admitted silently; the advancing infantrymen were the beaters, trying to force him to break cover, while the helicopters were ready to snipe him when he showed himself. He was tempted to remain still in the hopes the infantrymen would miss him, but it was too risky. The stormtroopers had been chasing insurgents for decades. They knew all the tricks.

Another burst of gunfire rattled out overhead, followed by an explosion. Eduard frowned, puzzled. He doubted the SS were firing missiles at random, not when each missile cost more Reichmarks than the average soldier earned in a year. And the explosion hadn’t been anywhere near him… he glanced up, again, as a streak of light flashed across the sky, followed by a jet aircraft. He smiled openly as he realised what had happened. One of the patrolling ME-356s had seen the convoy and decided to attack.

A stroke of luck, he thought, as more gunfire echoed behind him. It was probably futile – jet fighters were faster than speeding bullets – but it worked in his favour. The advancing stormtroopers would be more interested in seeking cover than giving chase. Hell, the panzers would be in real trouble. A jet fighter’s cannon could inflict significant damage. Time to leave.

Picking up speed, he crawled faster. Behind him, the sound of pursuit faded away.