Ragnarok

Chapter Ten

Near Warsaw, Germany East

30 October 1985

“Get out of bed, swinehund,” a voice barked. “Now!”

Hennecke Schwerk — who was no longer a Hauptsturmführer, even in the privacy of his own head — jerked awake and stood up hastily. The ‘bed’ was nothing more than the cold hard ground, but he knew better than to try to sneak a few extra minutes of sleep. The Scharführers who ran the penal battalions were no better than the men they supervised, handing out kicks and beatings to anyone who dared disagree with them. They snapped and snarled as the soldiers formed a ragged line, waving clubs around as if they were swords. It didn’t take much to get hit.

Trusties, Hennecke thought. It was pretty evident to him that the penal battalions were where bad NCOs were sent to die. And if they get killed out here, no one is going to give a damn.

“We have some special work for you today, ladies,” Scharführer Kuhn bellowed. Hennecke had only known Kuhn for a couple of days, but he’d already begun to detest Kuhn intensely. “We’re going to be digging trenches!”

He waved a hand at a pile of shovels. “Grab a shovel and follow me!”

Hennecke obeyed, hastily. There was no point in trying to resist, not when no one would bat an eyelid if a soldier from a penal unit was beaten to death. And there was no point in trying to desert, either. Making it across the front lines would be difficult — and if he made it, he’d just be shot by the rebels instead. All he could really do was follow orders, keep his head down and hope that he survived a month in the unit. And then he could go back to the regular Waffen-SS…

But I won’t keep my rank, he thought. Kuhn had made it clear that Hennecke’s former rank counted for nothing, not now. God alone knows where I’ll go.

They stumbled out of the camp and headed up the road, the stragglers yelping and cursing as the Scharführers helped them along the way with kicks and swipes from their clubs. A handful of passing stormtroopers stopped to jeer, hissing and cursing at the penal battalion as they marched past. The Scharführers ignored them, of course. They probably thought the reminder of just how the rest of the Waffen-SS thought about the men in orange uniforms would help discourage desertion. Hennecke would have bet good money that Kuhn and his cronies would have landed in some trouble if half the battalion deserted. If nothing else, a group of deserters with nothing to lose would pose a security risk.

“We want a trench here,” Kuhn bellowed, as they reached the edge of the front lines. A handful of soldiers were clearly visible, scanning the horizon with binoculars, but there was nothing else in sight. “Follow the lines drawn on the ground and start digging.”

Useless makework, Hennecke thought, as he shoved his spade into the ground and started to dig. He’d been taught how to dig foxholes and trenches in basic training, but both of them were useless without armed men to hold the line. And besides, without antitank weapons, the poor bastards in the trench will just get crushed.

There was no point in arguing, he knew. Kuhn was marching up and down the line, barking orders and swiping anyone who didn’t meet his high standards. Hennecke didn’t dare glare at him as he strode past Hennecke’s position; he merely kept working, silently promising himself that he’d have a chance to deal with the bastard later. Perhaps, if he returned to the Waffen-SS, he could accidentally put a bullet in Kuhn’s back. Or maybe there’d be an opportunity to behead him with a shovel…

“Keep working,” Kuhn snapped, as he walked past Hennecke again. “These trenches have to be completed soon!”

Hennecke barely heard him. It was cold, but sweat was still dripping down his back as he dug into the ground. He couldn’t help thinking of the false spring, the warm weather that was so common in Russia before the snowstorms finally materialised out of nowhere to bury the settlements in snow and ice. He’d had enough experience in the winter to know it was going to be hellish…

He yelped as the club connected with his back. “Keep working,” Kuhn ordered. “Think on your own time!”

Bastard, Hennecke thought. He wasn’t doing any better or worse than anyone else. Kuhn just wanted an excuse to hit someone, like the tutors in the Hitler Youth. Kuhn — a violent bigoted mindless fool — was overqualified for the job. No wonder he was stuck baby-sitting the penal units, rather than doing something useful with his time. He probably won’t get out of here in a month, whatever he does.

The sun was high in the sky when Kuhn finally pronounced himself satisfied. Hennecke had hoped for food and drink — or at least some rations — but Kuhn had other ideas. He marched them past the front line and down a road until they reached the shattered remains of a military convoy. A passing aircraft had caught them in the open and strafed them viciously, tearing the vehicles apart as if they had been made of paper. And dozens of bodies, some clearly wounded even before the convoy had been destroyed, lay everywhere.

“Half of you dig a grave,” Kuhn bellowed. “The rest of you clear the bodies out of the convoy, then mark down anything that might be salvageable.”

Hennecke hurried to join the latter group. He’d done enough digging for one day, as far as he was concerned. The first set of bodies were already spilling out of the vehicle; they were easy to carry out, their tags and ID papers removed before they were put by the side of the road with as much respect as the penal battalion could muster. Inside, other bodies had been badly damaged by the enemy aircraft. Hennecke hesitated over a pistol one of them had carried before deciding that taking the weapon would be pointless. Kuhn would see him concealing it and demand answers — or worse.

“You’re not allowed to touch a weapon without permission,” he’d said, when Hennecke had been dumped into the penal unit. “If you do, you will be shot!”

He finished removing the bodies, then glanced around for anything else that could be salvaged. The vehicle itself was probably beyond repair, but there were some components that could probably be reused, if they could be recovered in time. He wasn’t surprised when Kuhn ordered his men to remove anything that might be useful, then carry them back to the camp once the funeral had been completed.

And if I die out here, Hennecke thought as they carefully lowered the bodies into the mass grave, I’ll be lucky if I get any sort of burial.

The movies he’d watched about the glorious wars of conquest had made it clear that the dead were buried with all honours. But Kuhn didn’t bother to say a word over the corpses, merely spit on them before he ordered his men to start covering the bodies with earth. The men were too tired to be shocked, too tired to argue as they buried their former comrades. Hennecke couldn’t help wondering if it was worth it. The men had been wounded even before they’d been killed.

“Back to the camp,” Kuhn ordered. “Pick up your supplies and go.”

Hennecke groaned, but he knew better than to argue. Instead, he looked at the man next to him. He didn’t recognise him, although his youth suggested he’d only been in the Waffen-SS for a year, if that. His head was completely shaved, his body scarred…

God alone knows why he’s here, Hennecke thought, sourly. It was a taboo subject, when the penal soldiers had a few minutes to themselves. No one ever asked why their comrades had been dumped into the unit. Rape, murder, defying orders, kicking the CO’s cat… who knows?

“Grab a cup of water,” Kuhn ordered, as they marched back into camp. “And then you’ll have a short break before you go back to work.”

Hennecke was far too tired to care. The trenches were already manned; a handful of men, their rifles at the ready, watching for the rebels to advance east from Berlin. He knew — deep inside — that none of those men would survive, when the rebels finally came at them. The trenches might provide protection against infantry, but they wouldn’t stop panzers…

Kuhn was as good as his word, somewhat to Hennecke’s surprise. There was water waiting for them, along with some food rations. But even a man as foolish as Kuhn had to realise that not watering his men would kill them, eventually. And besides, they’d be working hard in the afternoon, unless the camp came under attack. Hennecke had no idea what they were meant to do if the enemy attacked. They had no weapons, nor did they know how to escape east…

No one gives a damn about us, he thought, morbidly. We’re just here to work until we die.

He drank his water rapidly, wishing he had the time to savour every last drop. But he’d seen, on his first day, just how easy it was for some of the men to steal water and food from their weaker comrades. Kuhn and his Scharführers didn’t seem to care, even though it meant losing manpower to thirst and dehydration. Bastards. Even he had been more careful of his men during the advance on Berlin…

The thought chilled him. He knew what he’d done, back when they’d crashed into the village; he’d heard rumours, whispered down the line, about far worse atrocities committed by other units. Perhaps he was being punished for what he’d done, even though his victims had been rebels who could — who should — have sided with the legitimate government. He tried to tell himself that he hadn’t done wrong, but somehow it felt hard to believe…

We’re not meant to survive long enough to go back to our units, he thought, as he watched two men get into a fistfight. He had no idea what they were fighting over, but he didn’t particularly care. We’re just meant to work until we die.

He shook his head, slowly. He’d been promised a month…

…But even if they’d been telling the truth, how was he meant to survive so long?

SS-Obergruppenführer Felix Kortig jumped out of the helicopter as soon as it came to a halt, bare inches above the ground, and ran towards the camouflaged building as through his life depended on it. Behind him, he heard the helicopter rev up its engines and claw its way back into the sky, flying eastwards as low as the pilot dared. He knew, all too well, that the Luftwaffe was on the prowl. A lone helicopter would seem an easy target.

“Herr Obergruppenführer,” Sturmbannführer Friedemann Weineck said. “Welcome back.”

Felix nodded, curtly. Weineck had been Oberstgruppenführer Alfred Ruengeler’s aide before he’d been recalled to Germanica, a weak-chinned young man who might easily have been charged with keeping a covert eye on his boss. And yet, Ruengeler had apparently not only survived the retreat from Berlin, he’d been promoted and put in overall command of the defence of Germany East, leaving Felix himself in command of the front lines. Felix honestly had no idea what to make of it.

“Thank you,” he said, as they walked into the map room. The building had once been a farmhouse, but now it was his HQ. He had no idea — he didn’t want to know — what had happened to the original owners. “Has there been any update from the pickets?”

“The enemy has been sniping and shelling at us along the front lines, but there has been no major offensive, nor are there any signs that one is imminent,” Weineck reported. “A number of our patrols have reported taking fire as they rounded up stragglers and dispatched them eastwards.”

Felix nodded in irritation. It had been nearly six days since the SS had fallen back from Berlin, but the divisions had been shattered so badly that stragglers and survivors were still making their way back to the lines. Entire units had been obliterated, their handful of survivors hastily reassigned to other units… it would take weeks, perhaps months, to sort the problem out, under normal circumstances. But the times were very far from normal. He’d been warned, in no uncertain terms, that the rebels intended to mount a major offensive as soon as possible.

“At least they’re still making it back to our lines,” he said. “Do we have an updated casualty count yet?”

“Nothing precise, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Weineck confessed. “We’re looking at around seven thousand men unaccounted for, as of now, but…”

“Anything could have happened to them,” Felix said. He undid his jacket and dumped it on a chair, then strode over to the map table. “They could have been killed, or captured, or they could have deserted…”

“Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Weineck said.

Felix looked down at the map for a long moment. It looked like an endless series of trenches, running north to south along the border between Germany Prime and Germany East, but he knew it was an illusion. The trench warfare of the first Great War — a war his father and grandfather had both recalled with horror — was an impossibility in the age of modern war, certainly when the territory that had to be covered was truly immense. Mobile warfare had come of age, during Operation Barbarossa; now, he couldn’t help feeling as though he was about to learn how the Russians had felt, back when the Germans had crossed the border and thrust deep into their territory.

They’ll probe our lines until they find a weak place, then ram their panzers through it, he thought, grimly. And they will find a weak place.

He looked up. “Have the panzer divisions reorganised themselves?”

“Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Weineck said. “We have two divisions positioned here and here” — he tapped two locations on the map — “and a third still working up, but held in reserve here.”

“Good,” Felix said. “They’ll know we’re there, of course.”

“We have them camouflaged,” Weineck protested, shocked.

Felix snorted. He’d seen the sort of orbital imagery the Reich’s space program had produced — and it was probably fair to say the Americans could do better. No matter how hard the panzer divisions had tried to remain unseen, he had no doubt they’d already been localised by the Americans. And the Americans would have quietly tipped off the rebels…

“But they still have to take Warsaw before pushing further into Germany East,” he mused, ignoring the protest. “They don’t have a choice. Warsaw is the linchpin of the Polish Gau.”

“Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Weineck said.

“Which means they need to drive at the city, which will force us to defend it,” Felix mused. “And yet, if we pull back, they will have to storm the city themselves…”

He shook his head. Storming Berlin — trying to storm Berlin — hadn’t accomplished anything, beyond breaking a number of irreplaceable divisions. He’d met Field Marshal Voss — he knew how the older man thought. There was no way he would risk his divisions storming Warsaw. He’d seen precisely what had happened to the SS.

“Check with the Warsaw CO,” he ordered. “Has the city been readied for a siege?”

“The last report said it was ready,” Weineck reported. “But that was before… before Berlin.”

Felix nodded, sourly. Warsaw had never been fortified as extensively as Germanica. No one had envisaged the city coming under attack, not when the Americans would have to fight their way through Germany Prime and the Chinese through Germany East if they wanted to reach Warsaw. But even so, taking a city was no easy task. A determined defence could tie up a hostile force for weeks, perhaps months. Stalingrad had been a nightmare; Leningrad had literally starved to death before surrendering.

“They’ll want to chew up our forces instead of taking the city,” he said. “Or, at least, they’ll want to take the city after they crush our forces.”

He nodded to himself. Ruengeler had said as much, during their last conversation; Felix saw nothing wrong with his superior’s logic. The target wasn’t Warsaw — Warsaw itself was worthless, even if it didn’t bleed the rebels white trying to take it. No, they’d want to crush the SS divisions before they could get reinforcements…

“Inform the unit commanders that we will be going with Option Seven,” he said, after a long moment. It had been Ruengeler who had drawn up the operational plan, but Felix saw no reason to change it. “We do not want to give them a chance to pocket our units.”

“Jawohl, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Weineck said.

“Very good,” Felix said. “Now, about logistics…?”

“We’ve emptied a number of supply dumps in the Gau,” Weineck informed him. “However, we have started shipping supplies west from Germany East. Our logistical situation is poor, but should improve rapidly.”

Which is what we get, Felix thought bitterly, for drawing up a plan counting on victory in a single decisive battle.

It had been a mistake. It had been a terrible mistake. Hitler wouldn’t have made such a mistake, Felix was sure; Himmler, colder and more calculating, would have avoided it altogether. But Holliston had gambled the entire Reich on one throw of the dice and lost badly. Deep inside, Felix knew they were going to pay a terrible price for his mistake.

But he knew his duty. The Reich had to be preserved, whatever the cost.

Or everything they’d built over the last forty years would be swept away in fire.