Chosen of the Valkyries

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Berlin, Germany Prime

25 October 1985

“Message from Berlin, Herr Generalmajor,” Hauptmann Franz Winckler reported. “We are to commence Operation Mausefalle at once.”

Generalmajor Gunter Gath nodded, curtly. He’d hoped for longer, but the orbital imagery he’d been sent had made it clear that time wasn’t on his side. His men had worked like demons, moving five panzer divisions and their supporting elements eastwards… it would just have to be enough. If it wasn’t…

One last roll of the dice, he thought. And pray the SS isn’t ready for us.

“Send the signal,” he ordered. “The aerial and commando attacks are to begin at once.”

“Jawohl, Herr Generalmajor,” Winckler said.

“And the main body of the advance is to begin in twenty minutes, regardless of the reports from the ground,” Gunter added. “We cannot stop for anything.”

“Jawohl, Herr Generalmajor,” Winckler said, again.

Gunter nodded, then turned his attention to the map. All had not been quiet on the western front. His panzers might have been held back, but his commandos and more experienced infantrymen had been skirmishing with the Waffen-SS for days. The bastards had been working to set up roadblocks, emplacing antitank weapons to delay his forces as they raced towards Berlin. They were doing precisely the same thing he’d done, back when the Waffen-SS rolled into Germany Prime. The irony was not lost on him.

We probably showed them how to do it better, he thought. A march that shouldn’t have lasted longer than a day was stretched out for nearly two weeks.

He scowled, remembering the reports from the scouts. Berlin was at the centre of the greatest autobahn network in the world, but the roads would have been mined or otherwise rigged to make using them difficult. And merely driving a few hundred panzers down the road would be enough to put them out of commission. His forces risked being drawn into urban combat, whether they liked it or not. But it couldn’t be helped. The chance to trap the Waffen-SS in a kessel – and save Berlin – could not be ignored. It would shorten the war.

And even if they retreat, we will have given them their first true battlefield defeat, he thought, darkly. That will teach them that they’re not invincible after all.

“The commandos have begun their assault, Herr Generalmajor,” Winckler reported. “And our aircraft are on the way.”

Gunter nodded. He’d held back every aircraft he could, conserving his strength as much as possible while the SS controlled the skies over Berlin. Now, his men would clear the SS out of the skies – winning air supremacy – or die trying. And even if they failed, the SS would no longer be able to call on its flying artillery. Their pilots would have to fight to defend themselves, rather than support the stormtroopers on the ground.

“Inform me when the main offensive encounters opposition,” he ordered. “And keep a close eye on our logistics. We don’t want to run out of ammunition midway through the battle.”

“Jawohl, Herr Generalmajor,” Winckler said.

Hauptmann Felix Malguth braced himself as the HE-477 roared eastwards, skimming the ground as he hunted for targets. Anything military outside Berlin, he’d been told, was fair game, even though the Heer was on the move for the first time in decades. The prospect of accidently strafing or bombing his own men nagged at him, even though he was fairly sure he’d outraced the panzers long ago. As long as he was careful not to cross the lines into Berlin, he could be reasonably sure he was attacking the right side.

And if I fly over Berlin, I might well be shot down, he thought, remembering the warning the pilots had been given, over and over again. Berlin’s air defences were good, but they had no way to tell the difference between friendly and unfriendly aircraft. I’ll be shot down by my own side.

He gritted his teeth as the city came into view, obscured by a growing haze of smoke. The battle was still underway, the SS fighting desperately to break into the city even though they had to know that relief forces were on the way. Felix had no idea why they thought they could still win the battle, but none of the SS stormtroopers he’d encountered had been the sort of people who just gave up. And yet, getting hundreds of thousands of soldiers – and civilians – killed for nothing was pointless. Surely they would be wiser to set up defence lines to the east?

Don’t go feeling sorry for the bastards, he told himself, sharply. You know what they’ve done to the Reich.

Cold hatred blazed through him as he caught sight of a convoy, a handful of armoured vehicles and trucks moving westwards. There was no way to know just what they had in mind – blocking the counterattack or escaping before the jaws slammed closed – but it hardly mattered. He twisted towards them, spraying cannon fire over the vehicles as he passed overhead. Five of the trucks exploded in quick succession, followed by two of the armoured cars. The remainder scattered hastily, a handful of soldiers drawing their sidearms and firing after him. It was futile, but he found it hard to care. The more bullets expended uselessly, the fewer there would be to shoot at the men on the ground.

He cursed under his breath as he stumbled across an air defence position, then yanked the HE-477 to the side, avoiding a missile that passed far too close to his aircraft. The SS gunners had to have been equally surprised, he noted; they’d have set the missile for proximity detonation if they’d had longer to prepare before opening fire. But they’d be on the alert now… if they hadn’t been on the alert already. The fast-jets had raced ahead of him, trying to sweep the SS fighters from the air. He would have been surprised if the SS stormtroopers on the ground didn’t know that they were under attack, even before he’d arrived.

You should be running now, he thought, as he caught sight of a line of soldiers scrambling for cover. You’re as naked as the day you were born.

He resisted the urge to spray cannon fire over their position – it was poor tactics – as he headed east. A helicopter – clearly marked as SS – flashed in front of him, settling down somewhere below. He blew the craft apart with a burst of fire, then caught sight of a line of panzers moving west. They had to be trying to take up position before it was too late, hoping to block the oncoming storm. He expended his handful of air-to-ground missiles on them, following up with a hail of cannon fire. The panzers exploded into fireballs, one by one.

Armour is useless when it doesn’t have air cover, he thought, as his cannon ran dry. And there’s nowhere to run.

Turning, he headed west, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction as he retreated from the battlefield. The makeshift airfield was just behind the lines, the ground crews already preparing ammunition and fuel for the planes as they returned home. He would land and take a quick piss while the crew hastily reloaded his aircraft. And then he would go back east and do it all over again.

Better make sure I know where the lines are, he reminded himself, as he overflew a pair of panzers heading east. There was no way to tell which side they were on. Or there will be accidents all along the lines.

“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck said. “The enemy is attacking to the west!”

“I have eyes,” Alfred snarled. He could see the map as it was hastily updated by the staff, red arrows slotted into place to represent the enemy advances. And even if he couldn’t he would have known what was going on. The sudden arrival of hundreds of enemy aircraft was more than enough warning that a major offensive was underway. “They’re trying to entrap us.”

“They’re hitting the blocking forces hard,” Weineck reported. “Commando and airstrikes have already weakened them badly.”

Alfred nodded, grimly. The traitors had had ample time to turn every last town and village to the east into a strongpoint, but his men had had only a few days before the storm broke over their positions. They would fight, he knew, and they would bleed the traitors, but it wouldn’t be enough to stop them. Despite everything, the traitors had succeeded in transferring a sizable force from west to east.

And while my men are tired, theirs are fresh, he thought. He had no idea who was in command of the enemy counteroffensive, but he had to admire his nerve. Instead of feeding the reinforcements into the battle piecemeal, he’d held them back – along with his aircraft – until committing them at the best possible moment. And while my men are running short of ammunition, theirs have access to the largest stockpiles in the Reich.

“Order the blocking forces to engage as best as they can,” he ordered, thinking hard. “Is there any update from Berlin?”

“They’re gaining ground,” Weineck said. “We can still win!”

Alfred swallowed the sarcastic response that came to mind. The plan had failed. Indeed, perhaps it had been doomed to fail from the start. Even if they did take Berlin – and it was clear that the defenders were fighting like mad bastards, bleeding his men heavily and counterattacking whenever they had a chance – it would be pointless. The jaws of the trap were rapidly closing around him… his men would, at best, wind up fighting to defend Berlin themselves. And at worst, they’d be trapped between three fires and doomed to destruction.

“Order the blocking forces to hold as long as they can,” he said. “I have to call the Fuhrer.”

“Jawohl,” Weineck said.

It was quiet in the secure room, Alfred noted, even though he could still hear the distant rumble from the battlefield. He sat down heavily, then braced himself as he picked up the red phone. It would connect, automatically, to the Fuhrer’s office in Germanica. And he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Karl Holliston would be sitting behind his desk, waiting for the news that his forces had won the battle. Alfred swallowed, hard, as he heard the Fuhrer pick up the phone. There was no way Holliston was going to take the truth lightly.

“Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “The enemy have launched their counterattack.”

Holliston snorted. “Block it.”

Alfred felt a flicker of anger. Holliston had worked his way up through the intelligence and counter-intelligence side of the SS, not the Waffen-SS. The Fuhrer was far from stupid, but he had no real idea of the military realities. Block a major panzer thrust? It was easier said than done.

“We can’t block the attacking forces while storming Berlin,” he said, carefully. “Mein Fuhrer, I request permission to abandon the siege and pull back to our defence lines.”

“Abandon the siege?” Holliston demanded. “That’s a cowardly…”

“We do not have the mobile firepower to continue the offensive while guarding our flanks,” Alfred snapped. “Mein Fuhrer, we must pull back now or they will pocket four divisions within the kessel. And that will be the end!”

He cursed under his breath, then went on. “There’s no shame in pulling back and allowing the enemy to expend themselves uselessly,” he added. “It’s a tactical withdrawal, not a surrender…”

“We can’t let them win,” Holliston insisted. “Everyone who’s currently sitting on the damned fence will join them! They cannot be allowed a victory!”

“They will have their victory, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said, throwing caution to the winds. “I cannot stop them. The only thing I can do is give them a pointless petty victory – driving us away from Berlin – instead of crushing four divisions! If we lose those men…”

He ground his teeth in range. The hell of it was that Holliston had a point. If the traitors and their provisional government scored a victory, everyone who had chosen to sit on the fence rather than join one side or the other would be forced to re-evaluate their position. The spy in the provisional government might change sides – again – while military officers and bureaucrats who had resigned might beg to be allowed back, while they still had something to bargain with. No, the traitors could not be allowed a victory…

…But they were going to get one anyway.

He took a long breath. “I can get the men out of the trap, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. He knew he was pleading, but he no longer cared. “And then we can launch a counterattack, once the enemy has exhausted itself…”

“Berlin is to be taken,” Holliston snapped. “Do not give the enemy a victory.”

There was a click as the Fuhrer put down the phone. Alfred stared at his handset for a long moment, then slowly put it down on the table. The Fuhrer was mad. He had to be mad – or too ignorant to be aware of his own ignorance. There was no way Alfred could take Berlin and, simultaneously, save his men from being pocketed and destroyed. After the atrocities, he had no reason to expect the traitors to show mercy. Why should they?

Do not give the enemy a victory, he thought, as he rose. And that is one order I can try to carry out.

He strode back into the main room and glanced at the map. The situation was growing worse by the minute, the enemy smashing their way through the blocking forces with almost contemptuous ease. They were paying for their haste, but it wouldn’t be enough to slow them down. And if he didn’t react now, he and his men were doomed.

Weineck looked at him. “Orders, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer?”

I could be shot for this, Alfred thought. Disobeying orders in the face of the enemy was a court martial offence, if anyone actually bothered with the court martial. The legendary Erwin Rommel had once summarily shot an SS officer who was trying to interfere with his command, during the final drive across the Suez and into Palestine. And my family could be killed too.

He kept his face impassive with an effort. His family’s lives were at stake, but so were those of tens of thousands of stormtroopers. Losing those men would make defending Germany East impossible, ensuring the end of the war. And he liked Germany East. The westerners were too soft to do what needed to be done to preserve the Reich. Life was far too easy…

And I have to save my men, he told himself. Everything else is secondary.

His family might be killed by the Fuhrer, he told himself, but they’d also be killed if the traitors won the war. Everyone with any connection to the SS would be purged. There would be no mercy…

“Orders from Germanica,” he lied smoothly. “We are to begin a withdrawal back to the Warsaw Line.”

He turned to look at the map. “Pull the assault forces back from Berlin, then order the gunners to slow up the inevitable counterattacks as much as possible,” he added. “Deploy the Category B units to slow down the enemy counterattack, then move the Category A units to the rear.”

Weineck frowned, doubtfully. Alfred didn’t blame him. The Category B units were unlikely to be able to do more than slow the enemy, but the Category A units had to be saved to fight again. Without them, integrating the steady flow of reservists into the ranks would be impossible. There was no choice.

“Do it,” he snarled. “And then prepare for departure. This place is to be purged as soon as we leave.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.

Alfred nodded and turned his attention back to the map, covertly glancing around the room and wondering which one of them was the spy. If someone thought to check with Germanica… all hell would break loose. He’d twisted Karl Holliston’s final order into a tangled mess – and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Fuhrer would not find it amusing. But there was no choice. A retreat under fire was one of the most dangerous manoeuvres a military force could attempt, but it was better than being caught in a trap and destroyed.

And if I can get the men out, he thought, I will die happy.

“We’re to do what?”

“Fall back,” the messenger said. “Orders from HQ.”

Hauptsturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk stared in disbelief. They were winning! The enemy line was crumbling in front of them! He could feel it. The enemy’s counterattacks were weakening and they’d practically stopped dropping mortar shells on the advancing stormtroopers. It was clear, to him at least, that the enemy was running short on everything from men to ammunition. One final push and they’d be in Berlin!

But he knew better than to disobey orders.

“Sound the retreat,” he ordered, as a new wave of shellfire crashed down on the enemy positions. Hopefully, the enemy would keep their heads down long enough to keep them from realising that their opponents were falling back. “Deploy two sections to act as a rearguard; we’ll leapfrog back to our lines.”

He took one last bitter glance towards Berlin, wondering just why they were pulling back now. They’d come so close! The thousands of dead stormtroopers would not have died in vain, if Berlin had been stormed, but instead their rotting bodies were being left for the enemy. Victory had been in their grasp, only to be snatched away by… by what? An order to retreat? What was going on?

His thoughts mocked him. Was it all pointless? Did all those men die for nothing?

Turning, keeping his expression under tight control, he led his men away from Berlin.