Chosen of the Valkyries

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Berlin, Germany Prime

3 October 1985

“The advance forces are in position,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck reported, briskly. “Aircraft and gunners are standing by.”

“Order them to open fire in ten minutes,” Alfred ordered. “The advance forces can move forward five minutes after that.”

“Jawohl,” Weineck said.

Alfred nodded, never taking his eyes off the looming city. There were no cracks in the city’s defences, no hidden tunnels that would take the stormtroopers directly into the Reichstag. A handful of tunnels had existed, he knew, but a cursory examination had told him that they’d all been collapsed. The provisional government wouldn’t have missed that trick, not after underground tunnels had been used to move commandoes into Moscow during the war. It was impossible to avoid the simple fact that the only way to break into Berlin was through naked force.

This is going to cost us, he thought. He’d used all of the five days Holliston had allowed him to muster his men and resources, but he still felt as if he needed more time. And yet, Holliston had a point. Germany East had to win the war quickly or she would never win at all. Far too many of my men are going to be killed.

He cursed under his breath. The scouts had reported back, but none of their messages had been very reassuring. There were row after row of defences, ranging from basic trenches to fortified houses. Breaking through one defence line would only expose his men to fire from the next defence line. There was little hope of ramming a spearhead through the defence and then pushing reinforcements into the gap before the enemy could rally and counterattack. It would be disastrous if he tried. There just wasn’t the room to manoeuvre his forces. No, he would have to clear the defence lines one by one in a full-frontal assault. And it was going to cost him dearly.

A nuke would clear the way, he thought. But that would open up Pandora’s Box.

Berlin was just too large, he noted, as he finally turned his attention to the map. The reports from inside the city hadn’t been very detailed, but between them, the aircraft and the recon reports he knew more than he wanted to know about the defences. Even trying to break through to the Reichstag would be a nightmare, particularly if the rest of the city was used as a base for the enemy to recuperate before launching a counterattack. About the only advantage he had was that the Fuhrer had told him that it didn’t matter if Berlin was reduced to rubble. The capital would be rebuilt after the war.

“The aircraft are taking off now,” Weineck reported. “They’ll be over their targets in five minutes.”

Alfred nodded, not trusting himself to speak. They’d moved every aircraft they could westwards, ranging from single-propeller hunters that had served in the counterinsurgency to fast-jet fighters that were normally charged with guarding the seas between Kamchatka and Alaska. Drawing down their airpower across Germany East was a calculated risk, one that could easily backfire if all hell broke loose. No matter who won the war, the Reich would be badly weakened for years to come. It was on the tip of his tongue to cancel the airstrike, but he knew it would be a waste of breath. The odds of winning the battle quickly were in no way improved by withholding the aircraft.

“Order the gunners to watch their targeting,” he said, instead. “We don’t want to accidentally hit the Reichstag.”

He scowled as Weineck turned away. He’d argued to leave the Reichstag alone until the battle actually began – there was no point in hoping for a surrender that was never going to come – and then shelling it into a pile of rubble, but the Fuhrer had overruled him. Karl Holliston wanted to sit in the Reichstag once again, as her lord and master – her Fuhrer – and he didn’t give a damn how many stormtroopers died to return him to Berlin. Or how many civilians… Berlin had had over three million citizens before the uprising. Now, with hundreds of thousands of refugees streaming into the city, the population could be a great deal higher. And far too many of them were about to die.

Shaking his head, he looked back towards Berlin as the flight of aircraft roared overhead, blocking out the sun. The Berliners were about to be exposed to the first full-scale airstrike since the Arab Rebellions had been brutally crushed…

…And, somehow, he knew it wasn’t going to be enough.

Too many men are going to die, he thought. And I can do nothing.

“Radar reports that hundreds of aircraft are inbound,” the young messenger gasped. “They’re coming!”

“You don’t say,” Kurt snapped. The aircraft were already in view, advancing towards the defence lines with stately malice. His ears were starting to hurt from the racket. He raised his voice, knowing the NCOs would pass on the warning. “Get down!”

He scowled at the messenger, who was staring around like a gormless idiot, then pulled him into the trench as the bombs started to fall. Darkness fell over him as the aircraft passed overhead, the droning rising and falling as a handful of aircraft were picked off by guided missiles and blown out of the air. The bombs started to detonate seconds later; he covered his ears, praying desperately that none of the bombs would find targets. If they didn’t land on the trench directly, he told himself, there was a good chance of survival…

The sound of explosions faded away as the aircraft banked, trying to avoid flying over the city. Several aircraft had been shot down over the last few days, their pilots bailing out only to drop down to a welcoming committee composed of angry civilians. They’d been lynched, the police idly standing by as the civilians tore the pilots asunder. After reading some of the horror stories from the east, as the SS brutally trampled its way westwards, Kurt found it hard to care.

“Shit,” the messenger breathed. “They destroyed the line.”

“Shut up,” Kurt ordered. A number of buildings had been knocked down, but the defence line was still largely intact. Hell, the rubble would make better barricades than flimsy warehouses that had been put together by the cheapest possible contractor. “Get back to the CP and tell them we’re still alive.”

He shoved the messenger towards the edge of the trench, then peered eastwards as the shells started to rain down on the city. This time, the shells were crashing down with terrifying force, rather than a handful of shells hurled into Berlin at random. The ground shook, time and time again, as the barrage crawled over their position and headed west. He heard someone scream, so loud he could hear it over the constant rumble of exploding shells, and knew one of his men had been hit. But there was no way to get him to a field hospital until the shellfire had finally come to an end.

“Mines,” someone shouted. “They’re dropping mines!”

Kurt swore under his breath. “Careful where you put your feet,” he bawled. The SS might not be planning to attack his position, then… unless they just didn’t give a damn about their own people. “Don’t go near one of the damned things!”

He swallowed, hard. Shell-dropped mines were absolute nightmares, although they didn’t tend to bury themselves automatically. The ground would have to be swept carefully before it could be declared safe. They rarely carried enough explosive to kill, but a soldier who lost a leg in combat would be rendered useless, even if he did get rushed hastily to the field hospital. Surely, if the SS was reduced to dropping the tiny weapons on his position, they weren’t actually planning to attack…

“Incoming,” Loeb shouted. “We have incoming!”

Kurt turned, hefting his rifle; he swore out loud as he saw the grey-clad figures moving slowly towards him. They were good, he noted; one section moved forward while two more covered them, using every last chunk of debris to keep themselves hidden from watching eyes. And they didn’t seem to be firing too… hell, the bombardment had tailed off completely, as if the enemy had run out of shells.

Or as if they don’t want to kill their own people, he thought, darkly. That would be very bad for their morale.

He felt a surge of hatred as the stormtroopers advanced closer. Konrad had been alright – for a young man who was courting Kurt’s sister – but far too many other SS stormtroopers were bastards. Kurt wouldn’t forget any of the atrocities in a hurry, or what it meant for the civilians caught in the city. Half the population was female… they’d be raped and then murdered by the SS, if they were lucky. The remainder, if rumour was to be believed, were being taken east. He didn’t want to think about what would happen to them there.

“Take aim,” he ordered, choosing a target. The SS man was sneaking closer, using his helmet to hide his face. A rapist, perhaps? Or merely one of the monsters who’d slaughtered the population of dozens of towns and villages. “Fire on my command.”

He forced himself to remain calm, thinking hard. None of his superiors had expected the line to last indefinitely, not when the SS would bring overwhelming force to bear against any prospective weak point. Their orders were to give the enemy a bloody nose and then fall back, something that reminded him far too much of their earlier orders. But Berlin was huge and they had plenty of space to trade for time. Let the SS have the outer edge of the defence lines, if they wished. The mortars already had the area firmly targeted.

Gritting his teeth, he took aim at his target. “Fire!”

There was a ragged burst of firing. Four stormtroopers fell; the remainder, their skills sharpened by constant combat, dropped to the ground and started to crawl for cover. A handful fired back, but their shots went wide. Loeb tapped his radio, calling in a mortar strike, as the soldiers kept firing, trying to hit the stormtroopers as they hid. For a second, the advance seemed to come to an end…

…And then the stormtroopers resumed their crawl, pushing forward with icy determination.

Assholes, Kurt thought. He picked off another stormtrooper, then ducked hurriedly as a bullet cracked through the air alarmingly close to him. Two of his men were dead, a third badly wounded. You’ll just keep coming until we stop you.

The mortar shells crashed down, shaking the ground and stopping the advance for a few brief seconds. Kurt rose, blew the whistle as hard as he could and then followed his men down the path they’d planned for their retreat. Another explosion, a smaller one, told him that one of his men had stumbled over a mine; he glanced left and swallowed, feeling his stomach heave, as he saw the victim lying on the ground, his legs completely missing. Blood was pouring from his thighs… Kurt didn’t want to think about what had happened to his manhood. Even if he could be saved – and Nazi Germany led the way in transplants – there was no way he’d ever be complete again.

Loeb scooped the man up, blood pouring down and staining his uniform. “Run,” he snapped, loudly. Behind them, shots echoed in the distance. “Move it!”

Kurt nodded and ran. More mortar shells crashed down, concealing their escape until they reached the next set of trenches. A machine gun opened fire, riddling a pair of stormtroopers who had pushed too close to the defences. Kurt jumped down into the trench, then turned to help Loeb. But the Oberfeldwebel was staring down at his charge with a bitter expression.

“He’s dead, Herr Hauptmann,” he said. “There’s nothing we can do.”

“We can keep fighting,” Kurt snarled. He’d never hated anyone quite as much as he’d hated the SS, not now. A man had died in screaming agony because he’d put his foot on a tiny little mine, then been carried to a nearby trench. He hadn’t deserved to die. And the hell of it was that Kurt couldn’t even remember the man’s name. “That’s all we can do.”

He thought bitterly of Marie, the girl he’d met at the brothel. She’d been sweet, warm and loving… and though part of him knew it was an act, he would have preferred to be with her than on the battlefield. He watched grimly as Loeb placed the body to one side, his expression making it very clear that the poor bastard would probably never have a proper burial. It was unlikely they’d be able to hold the trench long enough to get the body to the nearest graveyard.

Poor bastard, he thought. But at least he’s at peace.

Turning, he took up position and watched as the enemy readied themselves for another thrust.

Hauptsturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk kept his head down as he crawled slowly towards the enemy position, the position he knew had to be directly ahead of his squad. The shellfire had made a mess of the ground – they’d already overrun one trench that looked to have been dug in a hurry – but that actually worked in their favour. They’d assumed that their enemies would have an intimate knowledge of their own territory, yet the shellfire had torn it up so badly that their knowledge was almost worthless.

Bastards, he thought, as he heard the crash of incoming mortar fire. They have all the trenches zeroed in.

He clung to the ground as the shells exploded, one by one, then took the risk of lifting his head and peering ahead of him. The enemy had converted a large blockhouse-like building into a strongpoint, ringing it with barbed fire and placing a number of machine guns in position to cover all the approaches. It looked tough enough to shrug off shellfire, but he could see a problem with the design. There were no protective grills over the murder holes.

“Get one of the antitank rockets up here,” he ordered, as he deployed his men to snipe at the enemy and keep them from mounting a counterattack. “I want to put a rocket right into that blockhouse.”

“Jawohl,” the Strumscharfuehrer said.

Hennecke smirked, then fired a handful of shots towards the enemy. If they were smart, they’d already be calling in more mortar fire to catch his squad on the hop, but it was just possible they didn’t have the ammunition to open fire. Or that their mortars were being redeployed to provide fire support to another strongpoint. Either way, no shells crashed down on them as the Strumscharfuehrer reappeared, carrying a basic antitank missile launcher in one hand. Hennecke had used them before, in Germany East, to clear strongpoints. The Berlin Guard, lacking real experience, might not have anticipated such an attack.

It’s in the manuals, he reminded himself, sharply. Even if they never took part in counterinsurgency operations, they will have read the damned manuals.

The Strumscharfuehrer fired. The wire-guided missile roared forward and crashed right through the murder hole, detonating inside the strongpoint. There was an entire series of secondary explosions, the final one shattering the building beyond repair as it crashed down into a pile of rubble. Hennecke shouted a command to his men, then rose and led the charge towards the debris. A handful of shocked defenders had no time to run before they were shot down, one by one. Moments later – far too late – mortar shells slammed down on where Hennecke had been, leaving his men unscathed.

“Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer,” one of his men shouted. “Two of them are alive!”

Hennecke blinked in shock, then turned to walk over to where the two prisoners were standing. One of them was an older man, probably a reservist who had been called back to the colours, while the other was young enough to be barely out of basic training. He was shaking with fear, blood pouring down from a cut on his forehead and staining his uniform, while his older comrade was merely staring at the stormtroopers with a cold expression that sent shivers down Hennecke’s spine. The man didn’t expect to survive the coming hours.

His orders were clear, but contradictory. On one hand, he was to continue advancing forward until he found something that forced him to stop; on the other, he was to send all prisoners back to the intelligence staff to be interrogated. And yet, he didn’t have the manpower to do both. If he detached a couple of men to escort the prisoners, he wouldn’t be able to push so far into the defences…

He shrugged as he drew his pistol and pointed it at the younger man’s head. It wasn’t as if either of the prisoners was going to survive the winter in any case. He’d heard rumours about what lay in wait for the prisoners – and he knew that medical treatment wasn’t going to be provided. Really, he was doing them a favour.

The older man glared at him, but said nothing as Hennecke pulled the trigger. Hennecke felt an odd chill running down the back of his neck at such silent hatred, even though it was useless. The man wouldn’t survive more than a handful of seconds. And yet, he’d seen such hatred before, on the faces of Russians forced to dig a mass grave before the firing squads put them in it. He’d seen their faces in his nightmares until he’d finally reminded himself – and believed it – that they were Untermenschen. Their opinions and feeling didn’t matter.

But the man in front of him was no Untermensch…

Gritting his teeth, he pointed the pistol at the second prisoner and pulled the trigger. The man made no sound as his body tumbled to the ground.

“Come on,” Hennecke ordered, savagely. He was damned if he would show weakness in front of the men. “Let’s move!”