Chosen of the Valkyries

Chapter Twenty-Five

Berlin, Germany Prime

28 September 1985

“You really should not be up here,” Horst said, as Gudrun scrambled to the top of the ladder and peered into the distance. “There are snipers out there.”

“I owe it to my conscience to take some risks,” Gudrun snapped. They’d made up after their last argument, but even repeated lovemaking hadn’t been able to hide the fact that their first disagreement had never been fully resolved. “And I’m not in the front line.”

She ignored his snort as she peered towards the enemy lines. The SS had crept close to Berlin under cover of darkness, laying out their positions and digging trenches with a thoroughness she could only admire. Voss, from what she’d heard before they’d left the Reichstag, had admitted that the defenders didn’t have a hope of making a successful sally without being torn to ribbons. The SS lines were too strong. And the handful of shells they’d hurled into Berlin – already – was merely a taste of what they could do, if the city refused to surrender.

“Get down,” Horst ordered, sharply. “If they see you, they’ll take a shot at you.”

“They couldn’t hit anything at this distance,” Gudrun said. “And…”

She yelped as Horst grabbed her foot and pulled. Her fingers lost their grip on the ladder and she fell, straight into his arms. She struggled, pulled herself free and found her footing, then whirled around to glare at him. She’d never been so tempted to slap a man since one of her distant relatives had visited and spent the whole time staring at her chest. And the little bastard had had the nerve to ask her out afterwards…

“They are already sniping into the city,” Horst snapped. “I don’t want to lose you too.”

“They couldn’t hit me…”

“They can and they will, if they think it’s worth taking the shot,” Horst snarled. “What happens if you die?”

Gudrun glared. “You think I’m that important?”

“I think you’re very important,” Horst snapped back. “Who is going to stand up and tell the Chancellor that he’s in the wrong? And who is going to make damn sure that the Reichstag actually lives up to its title?”

“I don’t think I’m the only idealist out there,” Gudrun said. She wanted to yell and scream, but she knew it would be pointless. The hell of it was that he had a point. Germany had no real tradition of political debate, of the give and take that characterised democracy. And it would be easy to slip back into fascism. “And do you care more about me than about the Reichstag?”

“You,” Horst said. He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, very lightly. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Gudrun shook her head in silent frustration. She loved Horst, but his over-protectiveness got on her nerves. And yet, he was better than many other boyfriends or husbands… who knew what would happen when they got married? Perhaps he’d change, or she’d change, or everyone else would change. And if they didn’t get married…

Father would go mad, she thought, as they slipped away from the ladder. He’d expect me to marry someone sooner or later.

She smiled, despite herself, as she heard aircraft buzzing over the city. A missile – an American missile – lanced up towards one of them, blowing the aircraft out of the sky. Its comrades scattered, dropping bombs at random as they fled. The bombing didn’t seem to be very effective, but it would definitely add to the fear and panic threatening the city. All of a sudden, getting married – or living in sin – no longer seemed a real problem.

Horst caught her arm. “Gudrun, I want you to stay inside from this moment on,” he said, firmly. “You’re in great danger.”

“No more than anyone else,” Gudrun said. They reached the car; the driver opened the door for them, then carefully ignored their argument as he started the engine. “We’re all in danger, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Horst said. The reports of refugees being raped and murdered had continued to flow into the city, as if the SS had decided to simply take off the gloves. “And yet you’re definitely one of the people the SS really wants. Everyone else… has at least a reasonable chance of survival.”

Gudrun snorted. She’d read the reports from Stalingrad, the reports that had been deemed too sensitive to be published. The Russians had come very close to fighting the Wehrmacht to a standstill. If the stormtroopers chose to press into Berlin, the bloody slaughter would catch thousands of civilians as well as soldiers. The provisional government had even asked the SS to allow the refugees and civilians to leave, but the SS hadn’t even bothered to reply. Voss had noted that the refugees actually weakened the defenders. Either the defenders refused to feed the refugees – which would cause riots – or they fed the refugees and ran out of food quicker, ensuring that the SS could take the city without a fight.

“No one has a reasonable chance of survival,” she said.

“You certainly don’t,” Horst said, flatly. “And nor does anyone else on the purge list.”

“I know,” Gudrun said. “How many names do they know?”

“They’ll be settling old scores as well as merely purging the provisional government,” Horst said. “I expect they’ll kill just about every high-ranking military and civil official in the west.”

Gudrun couldn’t disagree. The SS had carried out a number of random atrocities, but they’d also rounded up and arrested – or killed – hundreds of government bureaucrats in captured towns. They’d even arrested mayors, policemen and a number of soldiers who’d resigned, rather than fight their fellow Germans. Gudrun had no idea why the SS had considered them suitable targets for a purge, but she couldn’t deny the results. Hundreds of other officials, caught in the path of the SS’s advance, had deserted their posts, making the evacuation efforts – already badly strained – completely impossible. And, from what little she’d heard, the SS’s replacements were more concerned with political reliability than getting the occupied territory running again.

“The country will fall apart,” she protested, weakly.

Karl Holliston had to be mad. Gudrun knew – whatever Horst might say – that she wasn’t particularly important. She had no true power base of her own. But Hans Kruger and Field Marshal Voss did have power bases, power bases that were part of the system that held the Reich together. Murdering every last senior bureaucrat in the Reich might make the SS popular again – Gudrun had heard her mother grumbling about filling in form after form just to get a driving licence – but without them the system would simply collapse.

“I don’t think Holliston cares,” Horst said. “He just believes that purging the rot from the Reich will be enough to purify it.”

“And he thinks I’m the rot,” Gudrun said.

“Yes,” Horst insisted. “Which is why you need to take very good care of yourself.”

He paused. “If nothing else,” he added, “don’t give him the satisfaction of dancing a jig on your grave.”

Gudrun nodded. “I…”

“Shellfire,” the driver snapped. He yanked the car to one side as shells crashed down on the city. “Get ready to jump if necessary.”

The ground shook. Gudrun braced herself, but the shells hadn’t landed that close to their position. She breathed a sigh of relief, then looked backwards to see flames and smoke rising from the impact point. God alone knew who had been caught by the shells, if anyone had been caught by the shells. The SS seemed to like hurling bursts of shellfire into the city at random.

“That was alarmingly close,” Horst said. He slapped the partition. “Get us back to the Reichstag as quickly as possible.”

“Jawohl,” the driver snapped.

Gudrun caught Horst’s arm. “We’re going to the hospital!”

“Not this time,” Horst said. “Those shells could have been aimed at you.”

“I doubt it,” Gudrun said. “If they knew where I was, surely they would have sent a commando team after me.”

“We’re not taking the risk,” Horst said. “I’m taking you home.”

Gudrun saw the grim look in his eyes and decided that further argument would probably be futile. Horst was determined to keep her safe, even from herself. At least he wasn’t trying to tell her she couldn’t stay on the council… she scowled at him, then sat back in her seat and crossed her arms. Was it normal to feel so mad at someone who was actually trying to help, she asked herself, or was it just the strain getting to her? There was no way to know.

She rose as soon as the car slipped into the underground garage and came to a halt. “I need to talk to my mother,” she said. “I’ll see you in the bunker?”

Horst gave her a concerned look. “I’ll walk you to her apartment,” he said. “And then I’ll wait outside.”

Gudrun opened her mouth to argue, then nodded reluctantly. There was at least one spy in the Reichstag itself, perhaps two. And if there was a spy on the council itself… that spy wouldn’t be connected to any other spies. He’d be too valuable to go sneaking into Horst’s bedroom to leave notes and instructions.

“Very well,” she said.

Her mother had moved into the Reichstag almost as soon as she’d been asked, after a brief show of reluctance. Gudrun had been relieved, even though it meant she’d be living far too close to yet another pair of prying eyes. It ensured her mother’s safety even in such trying times. But, at the same time, her mother couldn’t be protected completely. She’d become far too involved with the various female protest groups.

“Gudrun,” her mother called, when she entered. “How are you?”

Gudrun swallowed as Horst checked the room, then left, closing the door behind him. Her mother had been just as inflexible as her father, although in a very different way. Gudrun had never been the ideal daughter; indeed, they had never really understood one another. And yet, being the only two women in the house had brought them together more than either of them might have wished.

Her mother eyed her for a long moment. “Problems with him?”

“A few,” Gudrun said. Hadn’t her life been so much simpler last year? “Is that normal?”

“Yes,” her mother said. She waved Gudrun to a chair. “Why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk about it.”

Oberstgruppenfuehrer Alfred Ruengeler had been to Berlin more times than he cared to recall, although he’d never really liked the city. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on, a sense – perhaps – that there were just too many different attitudes clashing together in close proximity. Germanica was cleaner and simpler, the work of an architect who’d built on the ashes of a dead city. Berlin… was a dark city.

And it would be hell to take, he thought, as he surveyed the growing defences through his binoculars. The last contingency plans to defend Berlin had been drawn up in the 1960s, back when there had been a major disagreement between the Reich and America that could have easily led to war, but that had been before the sprawling had just exploded out into the countryside. Now, Berlin was huge, far larger than any city the Reich had had to take by force… and most of his men would be utterly unprepared for the role.

“They don’t seem to have any panzers,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck pointed out, thoughtfully. “Just… antitank weapons.”

Alfred snorted, rudely. If there was one thing he’d learned during the war, it was that the Panzer XI – the finest tank in the world, according to the designers – had a number of nasty little flaws. Someone had sold the Reich a bill of goods, he’d concluded, after reading the umpteenth report of missiles punching through the panzer’s forward armour plating; someone was going to die, when he got his hands on them. But it was something that would have to wait until the end of the war.

“The panzers will be torn apart if they get into Berlin,” he said. Panzers were rarely useful in close confines, as the Waffen-SS had found out more than once. “It will be primarily an infantry operation.”

He closed his eyes in pain. His stormtroopers did have advantages, they’d discovered, but the Wehrmacht soldiers were hardly weaklings. They’d managed a successful series of engagements, followed by quick retreats, that had bloodied his forces while denying him a shot at a quick victory. He’d hoped to crush one or more of their forces as they attempted to retreat, thrusting armoured spearheads forward, but the enemy had managed to escape the noose before the infantry caught up to finish the job.

And our logistics have been pushed to the limit, he thought. The bastards have stripped everywhere bare.

He turned and walked slowly back towards the new CP, established in what had once been a farm before it had been captured. The farmer and his two teenage sons had put up a brief fight, but hadn’t managed to do more than wound one of the attackers before they were captured, beaten and hung. Thankfully, at least for Alfred’s conscience, the farmer’s wife and three daughters – their existence clearly indicated by the photos on the wall – had made themselves scarce before the stormtroopers arrived. He hoped, as he stepped into the living room, that they’d made it safely to the west. A farmwife would have no trouble finding work on another farm.

“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” an aide said. “The Fuhrer is on Line One.”

Alfred nodded. “I’ll take it in the secure room,” he said, walking towards the door. “Get me a complete report from SS-Volk and remind her CO that I don’t want any more of his games.”

“Jawohl,” the aide said.

The secure room was anything but, certainly when compared to the facilities in Germanica or Berlin itself. His communication staff had moved a pair of telephones into the room and installed guards outside, but there was no way to render it anything like as secure as he wanted. The enemy might well already know where they were and, if they did, they might take advantage of the situation to intercept his calls.

But there was no choice. He picked up the phone and put it to his ear. “Mein Fuhrer.”

“Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Karl Holliston said. He sounded pleased, something that worried Alfred more than he cared to admit. He’d dared to make a mild protest about the increasing number of atrocities as his forces advanced, but the Führer had ignored him. “I trust that all is in readiness to attack Berlin?”

“Not as yet,” Alfred said. “I need to bring up more supplies and get the men rested before launching an invasion of the city itself.”

“Time is not on our side,” Holliston said. The Fuhrer’s voice hardened. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said. “I understand the problem facing us.”

He scowled. He’d stared at the map so much it was burned into his brain. The traitors were playing it smart, shipping panzers eastwards from Occupied France – despite dropped bridges and ruined railway lines – and massing them somewhere to the west of Berlin. It was hard to be sure where because the remainder of the Luftwaffe – and those never-to-be-sufficiently-damned American-made missiles were defending the area with savage intensity. The last four recon aircraft that had been sent in that direction had never come back, which told him things he didn’t want to know about its defences. And no one would expend so much effort on defending areas of no tactical or strategic value.

No, he told himself. The traitors were massing their forces, preparing a counterattack. He had every faith in his men, but they were already tired, their faith in their panzers shaken and their logistics operating on a shoestring. The traitors, if they could throw an offensive into the field at the right time, would smash his men and send them reeling all the way back to Germany East. It would be disastrous.

This is what the Russians wanted to do to us at Stalingrad, he thought. The records had been quite clear, although the Russian ambitions had far outstripped their capabilities. Even the emergency aid the Americans had sent after it became clear that Moscow was at risk of falling hadn’t been enough to save them from the consequences of their own stupidity. I wonder if Field Marshal Voss read the same reports.

“We have to take Berlin,” Holliston said. “How soon can you launch the attack?”

Alfred took a moment to think, but in truth he already knew the answer. “Four days, perhaps five,” he said. “We can weaken them through shelling and air attacks while building up our forces. Right now, we just don’t have the reserves to take advantage of any chink in their defences.”

“Understood,” Holliston said. “But no more than five days.”

“Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said. That was surprisingly accommodating. He’d expected to have to launch the offensive in two days, despite the risks. “It shall be done.”

He heard the click on the other end of the line, then sighed. They could weaken the enemy, but nothing short of a nuke – perhaps more – would be enough to allow them to walk into Berlin without a fight. And that was off the table. He had no idea if any nukes were usable – yet – but destroying Berlin would shock the entire Reich. Holliston might be on the verge of going mad, yet he wasn’t insane.

Yet, his own thoughts pointed out. What will you do if he does nuke Berlin?

But there was no answer. What could he do?