Axis of Evil

Chapter Six: Those Who Stand

Free Germany Army Base

Nr Algiers, Algeria

28^th March 1941

The room was air conditioned, with all the computers and equipment that a techno-geek could possibly want. It was an oasis of modern technology in the desert of primitive – formerly French-occupied – Algeria; it served as a duplicate command centre for the Free German Army. General Rommel, the commander of the army, hated it on sight.

Shaking his head softly, he picked up the printouts – he’d never learned to read off the screens – and skimmed though Somerville’s reports on the recent battle. He scowled; contemplating fighting other Germans was… unpleasant, even though he knew that it had to be done. Ever since the SAS had rescued him from the SS, after he’d been arrested for a crime he hadn’t yet committed, he’d seen too much of the true face of the Third Reich. Hiding wasn’t possible; the only option was to fight.

He glared down at the reports. Grand strategy wasn’t his best subject – he’d always been more of a tactical commander – but he was certain that there wasn’t much worth the effort of defending on Crete. What was there? Some sheep and the inhabitants, most of whom were now in secured villages. Why would the Nazis put some of their main guns – and at least one of their bits of modern technology – into Crete? If Somerville had decided to try to take the island, it would have been lost forever.

Oh Lu, he thought sadly. His wife and son, and his illegitimate daughter, had vanished beyond the ken of British Intelligence. The British Intelligence was a puzzle; in some ways, such as decryption and reconnaissance, it was a soldiers dream. In other ways, such as human intelligence, it was very weak. He had supposed that they could have picked up their former web of spies that the Gestapo had hunted, but apparently most of them had been wiped out by the SS, following the Transition.

He scowled and stared down at the reports again. Whoever was commanding the forces in the Middle East had done a good job; not only was Turkey properly subservient, but their supply lines were reasonably capable. He’d expected that the Turks would have fought, after the nuclear warhead had gone off, and instead they’d submitted to the dread of a joint German-Soviet invasion.

And if Hitler isn’t beaten soon, Germany might end up being destroyed, he thought, and sighed. The use of one nuclear warhead had prompted calls for using more; on Germany, on Russia, on the troops massing in the Middle East… and to use them to win. Ambassador Ernst Schulze, the former Ambassador to the United Kingdom from the 2015 Germany and now the effective political head of the Government-In-Exile, worried constantly about that; the Free German Army was perhaps the only reason why Germany hadn’t been already destroyed.

Or at least Ernst thinks so, Rommel thought, and smiled bleakly. The British seemed to be scared of their weapons, a fear he couldn’t imagine Hitler or Mussolini or Stalin showing. If Hitler ever developed a nuclear warhead, it would be used on Britain… and the world would be set ablaze.

“Good afternoon, Herr General,” a strange voice said. Six months after meeting the German colonel who’d served as the military attaché to Britain, Rommel wasn’t certain that he liked his accent. It wasn’t… German; it was strange, softer, and yet harsh. Colonel Muhlenkampf was a former officer in the 7^th Panzer; it had given them something in common once they’d gotten over the hero-worshiping phase.

“Guten tag,” Rommel said. Colonel Muhlenkampf clicked his heels. “How goes the training?”

Colonel Muhlenkampf bowed slightly. “The 1^st Panzer should be ready to see action in a month,” he said. “The Fireflies are junk compared to the Leopards, but they’re good and simple vehicles. We’re currently practising moving both tanks and infantry together; that’s an important part of military skill.”

“As the Soviets have proved for us,” Rommel said. The Soviet invasion of Iran had outrun its logistical lines – and its infantry units – more than once; the tanks had taken an object, and then milled about waiting for the infantry. “What about the other two divisions?”

“The 2^nd and 3^rd should be ready in two more months,” Colonel Muhlenkampf said. “We streamlined the recruits who did have military experience into the 1^st; everyone else is starting from the same point. As for the armoured infantry, they’re making good progress – and should be ready in a month or so.”

“Good,” Rommel said, wishing once again that he had a proper secretary. “Any major weaknesses?”

“Logistics,” Colonel Muhlenkampf said, who’d been brought up on lessons on logistics. “We don’t have a proper logistics train and…”

“I know,” Rommel said. “Under the circumstances, its quite understandable.”

He sensed Colonel Muhlenkampf’s quiet indignation on his behalf. After finding a couple of SS spies among the ‘deserters’ from Germany, the British had been reluctant to turn the Free German Army into a fully-mobile combat group; it was one of the reasons why they were training up in Algeria instead of in Britain itself.

He tapped the table sharply, passing over a PDA. Colonel Muhlenkampf, at least, could use the advanced computers. “Those are the intelligence reports,” Rommel said. “Read them… and tell me what you think.”

Muhlenkampf read quickly and efficiently. It didn’t take him long to notice the same discrepancy that had interested Rommel; there weren’t enough tanks being moved though Turkey.

“They should be capable of deploying more tanks,” Muhlenkampf said finally. “They have the logistics, even as bad as they are, to deploy more of the newer tanks… and more of the older ones.”

“Exactly,” Rommel said. “So… where are the tanks that should be in Turkey, or Iraq or Syria?”

Muhlenkampf considered. “I suppose that they could have been missed,” he said, and sounded as if he didn’t believe himself. “It’s quite easy to hide tanks if you know what you’re doing.”

“I suppose,” Rommel said. He didn’t believe it. “No German general ever born – and who served in Poland and France – would have less Panzers than he could have, and unless the bombing campaign has done more damage than we thought, then they should have more of them.”

“Perhaps they just want more supplies,” Muhlenkampf said doubtfully. “The RAF has done well at shooting up some of their supply dumps.”

Rommel nodded, even though he felt it in his bones that the Nazis still had enough supplies for what they wanted to do.

“Or perhaps they want the tanks for something else,” Muhlenkampf said thoughtfully. “Do you think that they might be planning an invasion of England?”

Rommel shook his head. Not only were the best units in the British Army tied down near Dover, but if their homeland was invaded, and perhaps falling, the British would cut loose with their nuclear weapons. Still… where else could they go? America? The concept was even more laughable than England. Iceland? Perhaps… but they would hardly need more than a Mountain Division to take the Ireland, if the British let them land. Oh no, he thought suddenly. The thought refused to go away; it had the ring of truth.

“Russia,” he breathed. “They’re going to try for Russia.”

Muhlenkampf gaped at him. “They’re out of their heads,” he said. “Look, how could they maintain their logistics…?”

“No one thought that they could maintain an offensive down here as well,” Rommel pointed out. “I know Hitler, I know how he thinks; this is his one chance to jump on Stalin… before the Americans can join the war properly.”

“It’s madness,” Muhlenkampf objected.

“Hitler is mad,” Rommel said grimly. He paused, considering. “The other option, of course, is that he thinks that Stalin is going to try something… and is getting ready for it.”

“Perhaps,” Muhlenkampf said. “He must be mad to even consider the possibility, with the Americans in the war… and us preparing to take back our government.”

“True,” Rommel said. He gazed down at the paperwork. “I have a new task for you,” he said. “I expect that the British won’t want us hanging around here for much longer.”

“Indeed, and some of the men are getting restless as well,” Muhlenkampf agreed.

Rommel nodded. It had amazed him how eager many of the recruits from America had been to kill Germans. He supposed that many of them had fled Germany as young men, or had been born in America and didn’t entirely think of themselves as German.

“I suspect that we’ll be sent east, to oppose the invasion of the Middle East,” Rommel said. “Draw up a movement plan; I want 1^st Panzer and 1^st and 2^nd Armoured Infantry to be prepared for a move to the Middle East at a day’s notice. The Bundeswehr needs to be ready for war.”

“Jawohl,” Muhlenkampf said. He saluted, and left the room. Behind him, Rommel looked down again at the map… and knew that he would have to kill some of his former comrades before the year was out.

Gunter Jagar stared down at the camp as the aircraft dropped neatly out of the sky and landed at the small airstrip. A handful of the helicopters, armed and dangerous, were parked on the tarmac, but there were no other aircraft. The small airplane taxied to a halt and the pilot opened the hatch.

“This is your stop, kid,” the burly Sergeant Kettle said cheerfully. “Time to meet your destiny.”

Jagar hesitated nervously. The man he was going to meet was a legend; one that had been proclaimed dead before he’d begun regular broadcasts to Germany. Erwin Rommel, famous tank commander, favourite of the Fuhrer and arch-traitor.

“You’re not coming?” He asked finally. He’d hoped that Sergeant Kettle would come with him. “You don’t want to see him again?”

Sergeant Kettle laughed at him. “Oh, you’re a special case kid,” he said cheerfully. “You’re the first SS officer who have who wants to join Rommel; the other two we captured refused to have anything to do with him. He wants to see you in person, you see.”

Jagar gulped. “Don’t worry, I’ll walk you to the door,” Sergeant Kettle assured him,

Jagar flushed red. “That building over there, right?” He asked, waving a hand at a building flying a striped flag. “I’ll walk, thank you.”

The tarmac felt hard against his feet, the air was hot and dry. It was a relief to pass though the main door into the air-conditioned room; the cold air slapped into his face and he sighed with relief.

“Papers, please,” the guard said. Jagar looked around; it was like a bunker or blockhouse. He had the odd feeling that if a bomb went off in the room, it wouldn’t damage it at all.

“Here, sir,” he said, passing over the folder. “I’m here to see General Rommel?”

“But does he want to see you?” The guard asked, laughing at his own wit. Jagar bit down any number of comments as the guard made him press his fingers to a warm pad, and then checked the results on the computer. “Well, you’re you, Günter,” he said.

“I could have told you that,” Jagar said, the part of his mind that had once been an engineering student wondering how the device worked. It had clearly scanned his fingerprints, but how?

“Ah, but could I have trusted you?” The guard asked. The sealed door unlocked itself slowly; nuts, bolts, strange instruments that Jagar couldn’t recognise, and the guard waved him in. “Walk up to the last door on the left,” he ordered.

“Thank you,” Jagar said, and walked though the door. It was amazingly complex; far more complex than a safe, and he stared at it until the guard coughed meaningfully. He passed along a lighted corridor until he finally reached a door marked GENERAL ROMMEL. He tapped once.

“Come in,” a voice said. Jagar opened the door and peered inside; there was a man sitting at a desk. The man was older than he had expected, but there was no mistaking the famous profile that had been publicised across the Reich… until it turned out that he was alive after all.

“General Rommel?” He asked, in German. “I’m Günter Jagar.”

“Ah, the SS man,” Rommel said. Jagar started to salute, and then stopped himself; what sort of salute would Rommel want? “Have a seat.”

Jagar sat, wonderingly. “I confess that you are the first SS man to show a genuine willingness to join us,” Rommel said. “You held to this story even under the truth drugs, and Sergeant Kettle vouches for you. Tell me, why did you join the SS?”

Jagar was certain that Rommel would notice a lie. “My father insisted that I take up a military career,” he said. “This was during the Battle of France, and I wasn’t too keen on it, but he talked to a friend of his in the SS and they accepted me. And then I was assigned to one of the long-range groups and…”

He broke off, taking a moment to compose himself. “They were awful,” he said, feeling his helpless rage boiling to the front. “They took villages and towns and slaughtered them, putting the men to work and the women to…”

“I know,” Rommel said. “We were blind to them until it was too late.”

“And then the British attacked and slaughtered all of the men, except me,” Jagar concluded. He refused to discuss his own forced participation; it was too painful. “They took me prisoner and brought me here.”

“There was only one survivor from that Arab village, apart from you,” Rommel said. “A woman; she testified that you hadn’t raped her.”

“They made me take one,” Jagar confessed, feeling it burst out of him. “The leader made me do it, and they laughed and laughed and…”

“You will have to work hard here,” Rommel said, as if Jagar hadn’t spoken. “For the moment, you will be considered on probation. Tell me, what did you do in Germany?”

“I was an engineering student and part-time teacher,” Jagar said. “It was the only way to earn money with the call-up taking many of the older male teachers.”

“The veterans,” Rommel said. “Tell me, can you handle clerical work?”

“Yes, sir,” Jagar said. Rommel deserved a ‘sir,’ he was certain. “I used to keep my father’s books until…”

Rommel nodded thoughtfully. “I think that we’ll give you a quick course on this junk” – he waved a hand at the equipment on the table – “and start you off as a secretary and general assistant for me.”

Jagar felt his mouth fall open. He was speechless; he had expected to be assigned to a fighting unit, or something, not as a glorified assistant. “Sir, I…”

“Will not be trusted by the rank and file,” Rommel said. “I’m sorry, Günter, but your… history as part of the SS will not inspire confidence. As my assistant, you will have time to build up confidence and your understanding of the future technology. Eventually, we’ll find you a fighting billet, if you still want it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Jagar said.

“Sergeant,” Rommel called. A second passed, and then a man stepped into the room. Jagar studied his uniform with interest; it was neither Wehrmacht nor SS, but something different entirely. “This is Sergeant Brasche,” Rommel introduced him. “He will make all of the arrangements.”

He looked into Jagar’s eyes. “This is your last chance to back out and go into a POW camp,” he said. “If you stay here, you will go into danger and you will be expected to honour the commitment you’ll make to us.”

Jagar took a breath. “I’m staying,” he said.

“Right this way then,” Sergeant Brasche said. “Follow me.”

“Was that wise?” Ambassador Ernst Schulze asked. He smiled grimly at Rommel, who was pacing the room. The five other members of the Free German Government, two businessmen who had been in Britain and three intellectuals who had been in America, nodded in unison. They all had different ideas for Germany’s post-Nazi future, and Schulze found it hard to keep them all going on the same course.

“The kinder is not a Nazi,” Rommel said. “For the moment, I am convinced of his story.”

“You’re giving him very close access to you,” one of the businessmen interrupted. He’d set up in Britain to avoid the crippling taxes in Germany; his plan for Germany involved only the barest minimum of taxation. “He could poison you, or shoot you, or do anything to you.”

“You exaggerate,” Rommel said placidly. “He was passed, I might note, by one of the foremost interrogators in the British Army, who used truth drugs unmercifully.” He coughed meaningfully. “Now, at the risk of sounding impatient, have our backers worked out what they are going to do with us?”

There was a brief exchange of glances. Few of the 1940-born wanted to admit that they were dependent upon the British; few of the 2015-born wanted to risk the army before it was ready.

“The British want you in Palestine,” Schulze said finally. “All the evidence suggests that the Germans – the Nazis – are going to attempt to head west and cut the Suez Canal, before heading south and plunging a dagger into the Republic of Arabia. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to prevent them from do so.”

He watched as Rommel studied the map. It made sense, he’d been assured; the British needed the Free German Army in action as soon as possible, even though his mind rebelled at the thought of becoming involved in Palestine. The Germans, ironically, were the smaller threat in the region; it was the Soviets who were the real problem.

Rommel finished studying the map. “How does this benefit us?” He asked. “I don’t think that the Nazis will get anywhere near the canal; the RAF can shoot up their supply lines with ease.”

“We have to do something to relieve the suffering in Palestine,” Schulze said reluctantly. He suspected that politics would not impress Rommel. “We could give Germany a better name in regions that produce a lot of oil…”

“Stuff and nonsense,” the businessman said. The other businessman nodded agreement. “With hydrogen-powered cars…”

“Which will take years to start, even with the technology well understood,” Schulze said, with some irritation. “We need the oil, and we need commercial interests of our own.”

“All of which is secondary to having Hitler defeated,” Rommel said, ending the discussion. “Our priority is to end the war as soon as possible, not to worry about the future. I’ll issue the orders to prepare for the move.”