by John Ringo
"Good, very good," answered the Kanzler, though inside he felt utterly dirtied. His old gray head nodded in Günter's direction. "Please add this one to the bag."
* * *
Ouvrage du Hackenberg
Thierville, France
14 July 2007
And so now I finally understand what it means to languish in a prison.
It was Bastille Day in France, rather, in that tiny portion of France still in human hands. It had always been a big holiday for Isabelle, more for its progressive, revolutionary character than for its patriotic. This Bastille Day, however, she felt little urge to celebrate, this despite the double ration of the French staff of life, wine, ordered by the fortress commander.
The wine was bitter and poor, a modern day version of the Vinogel, concentrated wine, France had at some times in the past issued to her soldiers. Reconstituted with water, this modern Vinogel had little to commend it beyond that it tasted faintly of having something like grape in its ancestry . . . that, and that it had mind and sense-numbing alcohol.
And Isabelle wanted her senses numbed, wanted desperately for some escape from this new horror that jokingly went by the name, "life."
She had heard there were cities abuilding underground, cities safe and warm where a human might hope to live something like a real life. Hackenberg, despite the season, was anything but warm. Indeed, the walls of this underground prison exuded a steady flow of cold wet moisture and sucked away whatever warmth one's body might produce. No single person, nor all the fifty thousand packed in like sardines with Isabelle and her sons, could warm the place by so much as half a degree.
And though the place was, literally, a fortress, Isabelle knew that this did not add to the safety of herself and hers, but rather detracted from it. A fortress was also a target, thus so were she and her boys.
The boys' father too, had been a target, so she had to assume. For there had been no word, not since the brief phone call that had announced the invasion, the destruction of her country, and the impending slaughter of its people.
That knowledge, that her beloved husband had almost certainly fallen to the invaders, was like a knife twisted into her innards. That pain made Isabelle pour, more than drink, the wretched reconstituted wine down her throat.
* * *
Even as dissidents and derelicts poured into holding pens, so too did information, vital information, flow to every nook and cranny of Germany's multifaceted war effort.
Did information flow? It was as nothing compared to the flow of refugees. Did refugees flow? Then so too did power, as Germany acquired, unintentionally, a stranglehold over everything needed by the refugees, and by the remnants of their armed forces. Most of these forces were absorbed by the Bundeswehr. Still, Mühlenkampf and his men had done good service and deserved reward. The Kanzler therefore decreed the expansion of 47th Panzer Korps into what was called "Army Group Reserve." In addition to acquiring another two panzer and four good motorized infantry Korps, as well as the penal division composed of the remnants of the more than decimated 33rd Korps, Mühlenkampf also assumed control of a large number of newly created foreign formations. Division Charlemagne marched again, in lock step with divisions and brigades of Latvians, Estonians, Poles, Spaniards and others.
Of these, Division Charlemagne was an oddity. For it was the only Francophone formation under German control. Unlike the other, overrun, states of Europe, the French resolutely refused to subordinate their interests to anyone else's command. Their army guarding the much reoriented Maginot line, the four or five million remaining French men, women and children huddled either in camps between the Line and the Rhein, or shivered in dank misery in the bowels of the line itself.
(Magnanimously, the French had offered to integrate their forces, but only if a French commander was named, certain key French interests put in first place. Inexplicably, the Germans had failed to see the advantages to this approach.)
Charlemagne came to be recreated when the commanding general of a French armored division had simply mutinied against what he called the "institutionalized stupidities" of the French High Command, then gathered up his soldiers and their dependants, and reported to the German border seeking employment. Supplemented by numerous individual volunteers, some of those being veterans of the original division who had come to Germany to volunteer anew, Charlemagne was a large division even by the inflated standards of the Posleen War.
Losses, of course, had been staggering. By the time Germany was cleared of Posleen infestations, many divisions that had once boasted strengths as high as twenty-four thousand now contained barely half that. Yet there was a new ruthlessness in Germany, a ruthlessness that cared little for the "rights" of individuals, much for the survival of the Volk.
Student deferments? Gone. Alternative service? Gone. Refusal to serve? Conscientious Objector status claimed? The Penal Formation once known as the 33rd Korps grew to meet and then exceed its former strength. And the hangmen were often kept quite busy.
Nice, safe and comfortable billets in the rear? "No more, my son. You are going to the front. Women can do your job well enough."
Only workers vital to the war effort were spared the sweep of conscription. Many of these were agricultural. Many others were industrial. Some were scientific and industrial both.
* * *
Kraus-Maffei-Wegmann Plant
Munich, Germany
15 July 2007
"I could wish our antilander munitions had been even slightly less powerful," sighed Mueller.
Karl Prael raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"Simplicity," answered Mueller. "If we hadn't blasted all of the Posleen's C- and B-Decs to flinders, there might have been enough of their anti-shipping railguns to retrofit every Tiger in the inventory and the ones that will be rolling off the assembly floor in the near future, and to provide a great number of more or less fixed defense batteries. As it is, we have a few score serviceable guns, no more. Sixty or seventy where we might have had six or seven hundred . . . maybe even several thousand."
"You understate things," Prael observed. "We have recovered sixty or seventy so far, but we have hardly begun to scrap even half of the alien wrecks littering the countryside. It is almost certain that there will be enough railguns for the complete run of Tiger III, Ausführung B. Pessimist," he finished with a smile.
"Maybe," conceded Mueller. "Maybe . . . if we can scrap the wrecks while doing no further damage. If we can modify the railguns to fit our existing carriages . . . or our carriages to fit the guns. And if we can even get them here for modification and mounting."
"And if we have time," muttered Prael, head sinking. "When do you think, really think, we'll have the B model in hand?"
Mueller bit his lower lip, shaking his head, "We won't have a prototype for as much as four or five months. I think we have been too ambitious."
Prael understood, even agreed. The B model Tiger was a leap ahead of the original, mounting not just a railgun capable of striking the enemy even in space, but also nuclear propulsion, much thickened and enhanced armor, a new AI suite. And these were only the major differences. There were numerous minor ones as well.
"It is time," announced Prael, looking at his watch. Nodding, Mueller agreed and the two walked to a room containing the other members of the core design team.
It was supposed to be a party, a farewell party. The world had seen more joyful occasions. Most funerals were at least equally festive.
Certainly Schlüssel's face showed unhappiness. Equally so Henschel, the bearded Nielsen, and the usually ebullient Breitenbach wore long faces.
"Must you go, David? Really? Must you?" asked Breitenbach.
Benjamin quietly nodded his head. He had been this way—dour and quiet—ever since the news had come the previous December of the fall of Jerusalem; wife gone, family gone, friends gone. A few hundred thousand Jews had been evacuated, most of them being given shelter by Germany and the United Kingdom. Certainly anti-Semitic France
's strong and vocal Muslim minority had put up vigorous protests towards the notion of sheltering the religious and cultural enemy.
But Germany, long-guilty Germany—ever seeking forgiveness, had opened up. Her strong merchant fleet along with the Kriegsmarine and the Royal Navy had braved a gauntlet of Posleen fire (much of it only generally aimed, as the Posleen understood wet water vessels but poorly) to bring out the Jews.
Two hundred thousand of them came, mostly the very young. Yet there had been enough young men, and women, six or seven thousand, of an age to fight. And fight they most certainly wanted to. Yet how? With whom? There was only one group in the German military used to assimilating foreigners . . . yet that group?
Mühlenkampf had offered, promising them their own unit. He had asked quite humbly for this chance to make up, in however small part, for a sordid . . . nay, horrid . . . past. He had even sent Hans Brasche, the history of whom he knew, to talk to the refugees and to Benjamin.
"Yes, I must go," answered the Israeli. "My job is done here . . . but there is more I can do."
Understanding at his core, Breitenbach stepped back, looking Benjamin over from top to bottom. A small silver star of David graced the Israeli's right collar, the four pips of a major his left. Silver buttons held the tunic closed. A silver embroidered armband encircled his left sleeve, at the cuff.
The armband proclaimed, in silver letters, Hebrew and Roman, one above the other, "Judas Maccabeus."
The uniform was midnight black.
* * *
Headquarters, Army Group Reserve
Kapellendorf Castle, Thuringia
25 July 2007
The group headquarters had taken possession of an ancient castle as its headquarters. Inauspiciously, the castle had once served as the headquarters of the Prussian Army before its disastrous defeat by Napoleon in the twin battle of Jena-Auerstadt in 1806. Cool and damp it was, made worse by its surrounding moat. It was not convenient, and one had to go outside to use the latrine. Yet it is, for the nonce, home, thought Mühlenkampf. And it is centrally located.
"Time, gentlemen. It is of the very essence. Whether Germany lives or dies depends on time more than anything. And we think we have less than six months until the next wave lands on our heads."
"General?" asked Brasche of Mühlenkampf. "Do we have reason to believe they will come right down on us like last time?"
Mühlenkampf's eyes swept the room. Not one man lower than a lieutenant general . . . except for Hans, recently promoted to full colonel. And yet Hans, not the others, asked the good questions. "Ordinarily, Hansi, I would say they are stupid enough to use the same trick twice. This time I expect it because they just may be smart enough to do so."
"Why, sir?"
"Because it is unlikely we will be able to handle it. Within six months the numbers of the enemy to our east and west may have grown to as many a one billion each—yes, they mature that fast! That is the equivalent of perhaps ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FIVE THOUSAND infantry divisions on each front! Though they can move faster and with less train than any infantry division ever known, of course."
Mühlenkampf continued, "There is actually a fair chance we could defend against each of those assaults. With foreign troops, recent expansions, and the culling of the slackers, Germany actually can place three hundred or so divisions along the Rhein, about as many facing the Vistula, and a like number dispersed throughout the center of the country. And we are digging in and pouring concrete like mad. All that while still leaving a significant reserve in the center, mostly ourselves.
"North and south our flanks are secure, of course, against any ground assault. And our Tigers," he said, with an appreciative nod towards Brasche, "appear capable of dealing with many times their number."
Brasche answered truthfully, "We can if we get enough of them. The system has not brought me up even to my old, preattack, strength. I have no strong hope that they'll fill me to my new strength of forty-one Tigers." He paused briefly. "I am training the new recruits on the seven Tigers I currently have operational. And new and rebuilt Tigers are coming at a rate of about one every six days or so."
* * *
Free to recruit for themselves, the 47th Korps had set to that task with a will. Posters, radio, television and internet carried the message of the now black-clad, Sigrune-bearing "asphalt soldiers." Even the ranks of the Bundeswehr helped here, in two ways. More than a few men of the Bundeswehr opted to transfer. And from others came the message to younger brothers—and even to sons—that the 47th Korps, openly called "the SS Korps" now, was an altogether worthy group, vital to the Fatherland's defense.
That the girls seemed more interested in the men of the more glamorous and dashing "Schwarze Korps" only helped matters.
Recruits, high-quality recruits, were plentiful. The ranks swelled and over swelled. The 501st, recently redubbed the 501st Schwere Panzer Brigade (Michael Wittmann), drew enough to expand its three skeletonized line companies into full battalions, and its headquarters and support company into three more such plus another battalion for brigade headquarters and general support. The addition of a large artillery regiment—seventy-two guns and twenty-four multiple rocket launchers, engineer demibattalion, air defense demibattalion, plus a reinforced battalion each of panzer grenadiers and reconnaissance troops completed the package. In all, Hans would command close to forty-six hundred troops.
The cadre for these men and the formations they comprised was obtained from diverse sources. First of course were the survivors of the original 501st. This mix was somewhat enhanced by intensive training courses for those deemed most worthy. Additionally, Bad Tolz had been identifying potential junior officers and noncoms all along. These, leadership training once completed, helped fill up both the 501st and the 47th Korps. Some cadre was obtained also from the regular Bundeswehr, from those who wished to escape any residual trace of the, admittedly dying, political correctness that had infected that force, sending many a young soldier to premature death and leaving many a town, like Giessen, ripe for the slaughter.
* * *
Lambs to the slaughter, mused Krueger, lambs to the slaughter.
As had Dieter Schultz and his peers once stood in shivering fear before the terror inspiring Krueger, now the new men likewise quaked. The cold of the Bavarian Alps had added to Dieter's shivering. Now, in the mild Thuringian summer, Krueger needed nothing more than the black uniform with the silver insignia; that and his icy cold blue eyes and frosty mien.
The SS man stopped to slap the face of a new recruit whose face showed just a little too much fear. The boy was knocked to the ground by the blow, then kicked while he lay stunned by a high, polished jackboot. "An SS man recovers from any blow immediately," announced Krueger, adding another, fairly mild, kick for punctuation. "Up, boy!" Then, loud enough to carry, "You'll all learn to become tougher and more resilient than Krupp's steel.
"Why," he added, a trace of utter loathing in his voice, "you'll even become more resilient than the Jews, and they put Krupp's product to shame."
Krueger shivered himself at the thought of the new formation, this "Judas Maccabeus" brigade. Fucking untermensch. It is a disgrace, it is.
* * *
Walking, no strutting, down the ranks of the new men, Krueger reminded Brasche of nothing so much as a fighting game cock, proud and aggressive. Of course I loathe the son of a bitch, mused Brasche, loathe him for so many reasons. Nazi bastard!
Brasche stood too far off to hear what Krueger said to the new men. He had a good enough idea; he had seen and heard it all before, seen it in some rather strange places, too.
* * *
The Israelis hadn't wanted him at first; they'd made that painfully clear. They believed him when he'd said that he had never taken part in any crime against Jews. They believed he wanted to make amends. They knew he had skills they needed desperately and lacked almost totally. But ex-SS . . . ?
Hans had countered with the irrefutable argument, "You want me dead, most of
you. I cannot blame you for that. So send me where I can die."
The Israelis were not that generous, and so he found himself not leading—the Israelis had been very clear he was never to lead Jews in battle—but training the scraps of diverse and wretched humanity passing through a small camp for a brief course in battle before being shipped off for butchery somewhere along the frontier.
So too he found himself teaching by pointing, slowly and painfully learning Hebrew, eating Kosher food—unaccustomedly bland. He had never felt more alone. Uncomfortable, too, for while others could strip to the waist in the fierce Middle Eastern heat, he could never remove his T-shirt, the covering for the tattoo that marked him for what he had been. Even to shower Hans had to wait until all else were done, that, or arise at an obscene hour.
There were a couple of bright spots. One was Sol, an ex-Camp KAPO, one of the imprisoned Jews who actually had done, had been forced to do, most of the hands-on dirty work in the concentration camps. Sol, a Bavarian from Munich, spoke native German of course—despite that distressing south German accent. Better, he had his own sins in plenty and was disinclined to judge. They could speak sometimes, share a beer, remember better days . . . even hope for better days. They never talked about the war or the camps; each sensed in the other a horror not to be raised or erased.
The other bright spot was Anna, a dark blond Berliner girl who even spoke in a somewhat more upper crust version of Hans' own native dialect. Hans didn't know much of Anna's history, only that she had been in the camps at some time during the war.
Of her history he knew little; and he was loathe to conjecture about more. But in the here and now he also knew she was beautiful—breathtaking, really, with sculpted features and body coupled to bright and kind shining green eyes. Her mien and manner showed a spirit even the camps could not crush. Though most of the Israeli girls scorned makeup, Hans noted that Anna seemed to actively despise it. No matter, she was more than beautiful enough without artificial adornment.
