Chosen of the Valkyries

Chapter Thirty-Four

Berlin, Germany Prime

20 October 1985

“The reports are clear, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said. “I just heard back from the scouts.”

He paused. Bad news was rarely welcomed by his superiors. “The traitors are massing to the west,” he added. “They should be ready to move within the week, perhaps ten days at the most.”

“So it would seem,” Karl Holliston said. The Fuhrer sounded oddly calm, something that worried Alfred more than he cared to admit. “What are they trying to do?”

Alfred turned to look at the map his staff had pinned to the wall. “Depending on the timing, Mein Fuhrer, they either intend to punch open a relief corridor to Berlin or trap our forces against the city,” he said. “It was what the Russians intended to do in Stalingrad.”

“The Untermenschen failed,” Holliston snapped.

“Yes, Mein Führer, but we are not facing Untermenschen,” Alfred said. “The traitors have successfully rallied a large percentage of fighting men to their banner.”

He took a breath. “I would like permission to lift the siege and withdraw from the city,” he added, carefully. Holliston was not going to take this calmly. “I do not believe we can break into the city without taking hideous losses.”

“Out of the question,” Holliston snapped. “To lose Berlin – again – would be disastrous.”

Alfred braced himself. “The situation is grim,” he said. “We have lost thousands of men in the battle and we will lose thousands more if we push onwards. I believe we can take Berlin, but then we will lose it again when the traitor relief formations arrive. Our logistics network is shot to hell and far too many of our units have been chewed up. We need time to put our forces back on a secure footing.”

He cursed under his breath. No one had ever anticipated a civil war. Even the disagreements in 1950, after Hitler’s death, hadn’t threatened all-out war. Naturally, very few precautions had been taken to prepare for such a war. The Waffen-SS was in the odd position of being an elite force that didn’t have as much of the latest equipment as it would have preferred. Many of the vehicles it deployed in Germany East wouldn’t have lasted more than a minute on a modern battlefield, not against the massed power of the Heer. They needed to trade space for time, time to get production started, time to learn from the battles they’d already fought…

“Time is the one thing we do not have,” Holliston said. “If they force us away from Berlin, we risk losing everything.”

“We may lose everything if we stay in position,” Alfred said. “Mein Fuhrer, our ability to handle the coming storm is very limited. And staying in one place will only pin us down…”

“There are plans afoot to strike at the very heart of their power,” Holliston said. “That will distract them, will it not?”

Alfred took a moment to calm himself. The Reichstag should never have been left untouched. His gunners could have pulverised the building and the surrounding area, destroying – or at least crippling – the traitor government. It would have proved, beyond all doubt, that the government couldn’t even protect itself. And yet, Karl Holliston had flatly refused to allow the gunners to shell the Reichstag. He’d made it clear, very clear, that the entire region was to be left strictly alone. Even his spiteful destruction of the Ministry of Economics had been made after some soul-searching.

But we could rebuild, Alfred thought, bitterly. Rebuilding the Reichstag would hardly be a major problem.

“It might,” Alfred said. “But their fighting men have nowhere to run.”

He sighed as he glared at the secure phone. He’d studied the great campaigns in Poland, France and Russia and all three of them had one thing in common. There had been room for both sides to manoeuvre, room for the defenders to break and run… when they hadn’t had that room, they’d tended to fight harder. The Russians at Leningrad, Stalingrad, and Moscow hadn’t been able to run and they’d fought like mad bastards. He’d read the campaign records, including diaries that had been deemed too inflammatory to release to their families; if anything, he’d come to realise, those long-dead German soldiers had understated the nightmare of fighting in a city. Berlin was being held so strongly that he doubted his ability to take the city…

And if we do take the city, he thought morbidly, we may lose the war.

“It will not matter, if we can retake the Reichstag,” Holliston said. “Prepare your men for a final savage push.”

Alfred winced. “Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “Can your forces within the city take the Reichstag?”

“Yes,” Holliston said. “And they can do much else besides.”

There was a pause. “Prepare your men. There is one final battle that must be fought.”

Alfred closed his eyes in pain. Resistance – further resistance – would be worse than futile. A single word from Germanica would be enough to ensure his death, either at the hands of an SS security force or a covert operative hidden within his staff. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was someone keeping an eye on him. If he resisted Holliston, if he ordered a retreat or even a redeployment to face the oncoming storm, his life and those of his family would be forfeit.

And if I retire, he asked himself, who will take my place?

He shuddered at the thought. The SS commanders ranged from enthusiastic to outright fanatical, the kind of fire-breathers who should never be in command of anything larger than a company. There was something to be said for aggression on the battlefield, he had to admit, but it needed to be tempered with due care and long-term thinking. An SS panzer division wasn’t an assault troop and couldn’t be treated as one. And those who did couldn’t be allowed to take command of the entire army.

“It shall be done, Mein Fuhrer,” he said, finally. “When do you want the offensive to begin?”

“Four days,” Holliston said. “Do whatever you have to do to make it work.”

“Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said.

The line disconnected. Alfred stared at the phone for a long moment, then returned the handset to its cradle, thinking hard. The Fuhrer had told him to do whatever he had to do to make the offensive work, an order that gave him a great deal of latitude. Karl Holliston probably wouldn’t approve of just how far he intended to take the order and run with it, but Alfred found it hard to care. If taking Berlin was the only thing keeping him – and his family – from ending their lives hanging from meathooks in a cellar under Germanica, he would do everything in his power to make sure the final offensive was actually final.

Rising, he strode into the next room and nodded to Weineck, who made his way over to stand beside his superior as Alfred studied the map. The endless fighting might have overrun parts of Berlin, but none of them were particularly important. A couple of suburbs had been completely worthless, save for the opportunity to wear down the defenders by forcing them to fight for the territory.

And expend their ammunition, he thought. If his ammunition consumption calculations had been so badly off-base, surely theirs had been too. They can’t have much left, can they?

Weineck glanced at him. “Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer?”

Alfred frowned, without taking his eyes off the map. Was Weineck receiving secret orders from Germanica? Or would it be one or more of the communications techs, the men whose names he barely knew? Or some of the guards? Or perhaps his orderly, who had been with him for the last decade? There was no way to know, no way even to guess.

“The Fuhrer wishes us to make one final push towards the Reichstag,” he said, flatly. There was no point in worrying about it, not now. “We need to make some preparations.”

“Of course, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said. “This time we will be victorious.”

And are you saying that for my benefit, Alfred asked himself, or for the edification of any listening ears?

He pushed the thought aside as he looked up at his aide. “Pull all of the Category A units out of the front lines,” he ordered. “Give them a day or two of rest, then prepare them for a final thrust. We’ll mass our forces and advance under heavy shelling.”

Weineck frowned. “Our stockpiles of shells are quite low…”

“Then we need to bring in more,” Alfred said. “And I want you to inform the gunners, when the offensive begins, that they are not to hold back.”

He ignored Weineck’s shock. Standard procedure might have been to hold a number of shells in reserve, just in case there was an urgent call for fire support, but standard procedures would have to be abandoned. As long as there was a hope, however faint, of breaking through the defence lines and punching their way towards the Reichstag, the gunners would have to do their utmost.

“The same goes for our remaining air power,” he added. “Once the offensive begins, they are to strike at targets within Berlin, doing everything in their power to weaken the defenders.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said. He still looked shocked. “But… but that will cost us badly.”

“Yes, it will,” Alfred said. “But the Fuhrer has ordered us to take Berlin.”

He scowled as he turned to the overall map. The traitors were gathering their forces under the protection of their remaining air force – and those damned American missiles. Ideally, he would have preferred to deploy his air power to slow their advance, but that would drain the remainder of his aircraft for very little return. He had to admire the traitors for choosing to leave Berlin uncovered, despite the American missiles; the decision might have cost them quite badly, but it had definitely worked out for them.

“I also want you to redeploy a number of commando teams,” he added. “Once it becomes clear that we are storming the city, the traitors will attempt to send their own forces forward to engage us. The commandos are to slow them down as much as possible.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.

Alfred nodded, curtly. His redeployments were the best hope the Waffen-SS had of breaking through the defence line and storming Berlin, but there was no way to avoid the sense that there was nothing he could do to prevent disaster. A retreat now would look bad, yet it would preserve his forces and give him time to bleed the enemy… doing unto them as they’d done unto the SS. And yet, the Fuhrer would not listen. He’d gambled everything on taking Berlin.

“And then I have a number of other redeployments that need to be handled,” Alfred added, slowly. Maybe they could win the battle… but if they didn’t, he’d have to do what he could to avoid losing the overall war. “But we will handle those later.”

“Jawohl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said. He paused. “Pulling back the Category A units will weaken the ongoing fighting.”

“It can’t be helped,” Alfred said, bluntly. “Let them retake a few metres of territory, if they feel they are not being lured into a trap. We will take the entire city soon enough.”

Being a barmaid, Katharine Milch had decided shortly after she had started her new job, wasn’t something she would have inflicted on anyone, particularly working in a distinctly low-end bar in the poorer parts of Berlin. Her figure, in a uniform that was practically indecent, had been complimented so many times she’d lost count, while she’d had to slap seven men for groping her breasts or pinching her bottom. Indeed, if the bartender hadn’t been a brutish lout of a man, she suspected she would have had to fight to save her virtue from the mob.

But it did have its advantages, she had to admit. The men who clustered into the bar at the end of each day were workers, workers in occupations deemed too important to let them go join the army. They were a mass of bitter resentment, caught between the demands of their work and taunts that implied that they were cowards. Katharine poured them endless mugs of cheap beer and listened to their comments, occasionally adding a comment of her own. It was odd, she conceded, but the provisional government might have outsmarted itself when it had legalised unions. There were unions popping up everywhere now.

Idiots, she thought, after hearing one man complaining about having to work overtime in an ammunition factory. It was hard to keep the scorn off her face. The wolf is at the door and you’re whining about not being able to see your wives and children.

She shook her head at the thought as her shift finally came to an end, then handed her apron over to the next barmaid with an inescapable sense of relief. Her skin stank of beer – she’d had a mug thrown over her by a half-drunk lout – yet at least she hadn’t had to use any of her training to fight them off. She wanted a shower, even though she’d endured worse during her training, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen. Water rationing was growing tighter and tighter by the day, leaving ordinary Berliners increasingly short of drinking water, let alone washing water. She’d just have to wipe herself down when she reached the apartment and hope it was enough.

The streets were dark when she walked home, forcing her to keep a sharp eye out for footpads and rapists. Berlin really had gone to the dogs, she thought, her lips twisting in disgust. Once, the crime rate had been minimal; now, there were thousands of horror stories running through the city, everything from thieves and pickpockets roaming freely in broad daylight to Untermenschen rapists running wild. Most of the stories were exaggerated – she’d planted a few herself – but there was a hard core of truth to them. Berlin was dying and the signs of death were all around her. Even if the siege was lifted tomorrow, the once-great city would never be the same again.

She reached the apartment without trouble and strode up the stairs, trying hard to keep from doing anything that might attract attention. There was little so blatantly obvious as someone trying not to sneak around, her instructors had taught her. The trick was to remain calm, composed and pretend – if only to one’s self – that one had every right to be there. Police questioned the people who seemed out of place, not the ones who looked normal.

At least they won’t ask questions if I stay in the flat, she thought. There are fewer and fewer girls on the streets these days.

“Message from Odin,” Hans said, once the door was closed. “We’re to move as planned in four days, unless it gets put back.”

Katherine gave him a long look. “Are you sure?”

“The message was repeated four times,” Hans said. He’d served with her long enough not to have any great objection to her femininity. She trusted him, just as she trusted the other men on her squad. “Four days… unless it gets put back.”

“An all-out offensive on the city,” Katherine mused. Their operations had always been planned to take place under cover of an assault; indeed, she was surprised they hadn’t been called into action sooner. “And a kidnapping operation.”

She scowled. In her experience, trying to be clever – trying to do too many things at once – was asking for trouble. She would have preferred to concentrate on one or the other, not both. But she understood, from innumerable briefings, just how important it was that both parts of the operation were pulled off successfully.

“Check with Loki,” she ordered, reluctantly. “See how many men he has in the city.”

“Understood,” Hans said. “The others have yet to report back.”

Katherine scowled. There was nothing so dangerous, she knew from bitter experience, as something that stuck out like a sore thumb… and a handful of military-age men lurking in an apartment definitely stuck out, particularly when they should be on the front lines. She’d had no choice, but to send them out, allowing them to pose as soldiers, policemen or workers… even though it ran the risk of disaster.

“When they do, inform them that we will be making the final preparations for Strike One,” she said. Thankfully, the traitors had long since lost control of large parts of Berlin. She had no idea how the Reich Council had managed to miss the growing protest mobs, but their successors hadn’t learned from their mistakes. “I’ll need to speak to Loki about Strike Two.”

She closed her eyes in irritation. Loki might have faith in his people, but she didn’t. Too many of them had slipped up in the months prior to the uprising, before the traitors had taken control of the city. Indeed, she’d been careful to ensure that Loki knew nothing about the other cells… although he would have to know, if he was going to assist her with Strike Two.

And if I put it completely in his hands, it might just be screwed up anyway, she thought, darkly. She opened her eyes. Too many bastards have already messed up – and there’s no way to know if they screwed up legitimately… or if they’re on the other side.

“The plan seems too good to be true,” Hans pointed out, carefully. “There are just too many ways it could go wrong.”

“I know,” Katherine said. Anything that looked too good to be true probably was. “And that is why we are not going to be using his plan.”