Watch On The Rhine

by John Ringo

  But, useful or not, well treated and respected or not, he simply lacked the sense of "Kameradschaft"41 these humans felt for each other. Perhaps it was that he could not imbibe these things the Germans called "Schnapps" or "Bier." Kameradschaft certainly seemed to grow by bounds when the humans had a few each of those.

  Though singing seemed a big part of it too.

  Rinteel had a hopeless singing voice, where human song was concerned. He started contemplating where aboard Brünnhilde he might build a synthesizer to create the sole Indowy intoxicant, med.

  * * *

  47th Field Hospital

  Potsdam, Germany

  2 January 2008

  Drugged unconscious, in the Korps field hospital, a dark place and soundless except for the plaintive, unconscious cry of some lonely, wounded soldier, Hans dreamt.

  * * *

  Though she had never turned to fat, Anna's hair had grayed, her skin had browned and wrinkled under the harsh sun of Israel.

  Still, after more than forty years, Hans found her lovely beyond measure. Only the obscenity growing in her body, wracking her with agony the drugs could never quite overcome, detracted from the beauty of her body, mind and soul; that obscene cancer, and the horrid mechanical sounds of the machines keeping her alive.

  By her bedside Hans sat, as he sat every moment he was allowed. Often enough, tears poured from his face. At those moments, Anna often turned her face away. That was not how she wished to remember him, in the hereafter.

  It was near the end; they both knew it. She was calm and content. He was desolated. Hans had only the thought, It won't be so long that I will have to be apart from her, to console himself.

  "We have had a good life, Hansi, isn't that so?" Anna asked.

  Wiping his eyes, he answered, "Where you were was paradise for me, Anna. Where you were not was hell . . . even before we met."

  She gave him a soft smile, and answered, as softly, "It was the same for me, Hansi. But Hansi, what will you do?" she fretted.

  "I do not know, Anna. There will be nothing left here for me, once . . ." And he fell into a fresh wave of tears.

  "Hush, hush," she said, reaching out a weak, skeletal hand to pat his arm. "It will only be for a while . . . only for a while."

  She pressed, "What will you do?"

  Hans forced the tears away, forced calm to his voice. "Perhaps I will return to Berlin. I have no more friends here, since Sol passed away, no relatives either. I still have some there, though I do not know them."

  She digested that thought for a while, came upon another. "Hansi, I never asked. Neither of us wanted to talk about it. But, talked about or not, I always knew. Why did you never forgive yourself? I forgave you long ago, that first night in your hut. But you never did. Why?"

  This was not something Hans really wanted to talk about . . . and yet . . . and yet it was time. Slowly, deliberately, he answered, "There were three kinds of Germans, Anna, in those days. There were those who didn't know . . . about what was done to the Jews and the others in the camps, I mean. A majority, that was, I think, though many more might have suspected. They have no sin, except perhaps one of omission.

  "And then there were the other Germans, the ones who did know, reveled in the knowing, and thought it all to be proper and right. They can answer to God or the Devil—and I have strong suspicions who it will be that they finally talk to, with a straight face and a clear eye . . . at least until the fire reaches them." Hans sniffed with disdain.

  The last part came harder; a mirror is often the most difficult kind of glass to look into.

  Yet Hans was a brave man, had faced fire bravely in more places than he cared to think about. He could be brave this once more, for his wife. "The last group were the worst and I was in that group. We were the ones who knew, knew that it was wrong, evil, and even knowing this, turned our faces from it, instead of fighting it; turned our faces and ran.

  "This kind of German, my kind of German, will face God or the Devil, too. What we will be able to say in our defense before the fire reaches us?"

  Anna nodded, understanding, though even that little effort was a strain. She was growing weaker by the minute. In a breathless voice she said, "I understand, my Hansi. You are afraid, perhaps, that we will not be together in the future. Well, let me tell you, speaking as a Jew to a German . . . you are a good man, Hansi. You have done no wrong . . . and you always did your best." She reached up to stroke his cheek, as old as hers and even more weathered, and finished, the sound fading even as she spoke, "God does not expect perfection in his creations, and we will be together again, I promise you. . . ."

  * * *

  Alone in his bed, a sleeping old man in a twenty-year-old body wept for an old woman remembered as a young woman. In his heart and his mind she was remembered as fresh . . . and as freshly remembered as the last spring. Though his hospital robe had no breast pocket still, unconsciously, his hand stroked for a little packet usually found there.

  * * *

  47th Field Hospital

  Potsdam, Germany

  2 January 2008

  On the street outside the hospital a column of gray-clad, determined-looking Schwabian infantry marched past on their way to the front, their boots ringing on the cobblestones below. The Schwabians sang as they marched:

  Mein eigen soll sie sein, Kein'm andern mehr als mein. So leben wir in Freud und Leid, Bis der Gott in Zeit uns auseinanderscheid'. leb'wohl, leb'wohl, leb'wohl mein Schatz, leb' wohl.42

  Ignoring the music, Mühlenkampf reached out an arm to shake awake Hans Brasche, ignoring the latter's splinted arm and well-wrapped head. "Get up, Hansi, I need you."

  Slowly and groggily, Hans did awaken. And immediately reached for the bucket near his bed.

  Mühlenkampf turned his head away. "Never mind that," he insisted. "We've both been concussed before. Puking afterwards is just another part of it."

  Hans ignored his commander, finishing his business with the bucket before looking upwards. "And how may I assist you, Herr General?" he asked, with polite disinterest, after emptying his stomach.

  "You can get back on your feet! You can take over command again of that fucking, falling-apart rabble we call the 501st Schwere Panzer. You can get back to the fucking war."

  Mühlenkampf relented. "I am sorry, Hansi, I truly am. The eastern front has collapsed. Oh, many of the troops will get away but they are a mess. I am throwing the 47th Korps, including the 501st, and two infantry Korps to try to hold it while we reorganize the survivors.

  "And, Hansi, I can't even put you in 'the tank' for a Galactic tech repair. The only one near here was taken out by an alien kinetic energy strike from space."

  "Where is the rest of Army Group Reserve going?" Brasche asked.

  "There is a spot of trouble in the west. The defenses are still holding but the enemy is acting . . . funny. Almost clever. Clever aliens worry me, Hans."

  Hans nodded solemnly, then immediately had to reach for his bucket again. Even such a little movement was . . . difficult.

  "Hans, I would not ask if I didn't need you."

  "I understand," Brasche said. Rising, unsteadily, he continued, "I will leave tonight."

  "That's my Hansi," said Mühlenkampf. "After the east is stabilized, and a certain bridge in the west retaken, we will assemble, likely around Hanau. In the interim, I am heading west."

  * * *

  Mainz, Germany

  4 January 2008

  In this ancient city just west of the Rhein, Isabelle and her two children had finally settled into something resembling normalcy.

  There was a tremendous housing shortage of course, so much so that the French civilians who had escaped to Germany were forced to live in, in Isabelle's case, a large indoor gymnasium. But blankets had been hung near the walls, separate living spaces arranged, a modicum of privacy granted.

  Isabelle had never been fond of German food. Now, though, she wished she could have twice as much of it, more especially for her boys
than for herself. But food, like living space, was in short supply.

  There was a bustle of murmuring coming from the mess, the central common area of the gymnasium. This low bee-like hum grew until it was loud enough to attract Isabelle's interest. Leaving the boys behind, she twisted her way through other cloth cubicles and the long benches at which many of the French refugees sat, dawdling over the meager and bland lunch repast.

  A man, in gray uniform, was addressing the people while standing atop one of the benches. Isabelle took a second look to confirm that it was the same Captain Hennessey who had earlier led her and the boys to safety. It took two looks because the captain had turned from tall and robust to the very essence of exhaustion, with deep, dust-filled lines engraved on his face, sunken eyes and the slouch of bone-weariness.

  She could not hear what Hennessey was saying from this distance. She approached closer, using her imposing height and personal vigor to force her way through the throng.

  She was soon close enough to hear the captain's words. "We need more men," he said, as loudly as able. "Division Charlemagne started this fight with over twenty-eight thousand men before we covered your retreat. One in twenty combat soldiers crossed to safety. We are the last French formation in this war and, if we are to have any bargaining power with the Boche, we must grow again." The captain then said something too softly to be heard, but Isabelle thought she could make out the words on his lips, "We need to grow again if any of our people are to deserve to live."

  An adolescent voice rang out from just behind her, and Isabelle cringed. "How old must a man be to volunteer?" asked her son, Thomas, in a clear, ringing voice.

  "Fifteen," answered Hennessey, perhaps slightly less wearily than he had spoken before.

  "I am fifteen. I will go."

  But, NO! Isabelle wished to scream. Not my baby! He is only fourteen, she wanted to lie. She turned pleading eyes to the boy, Oh, please do not, my son. You will be killed and what will your poor mother do then?

  Mother, I am old enough to be eaten. I am old enough to fight. And I am French, too, the boy answered, soundlessly.

  Hanging her head to let her hair hide her tears, Isabelle gave a shuddering nod. Then go, damn you, and take your mother's heart with you.

  Behind Hennessey a little pool of willing humanity, and not all of it of the male persuasion, began to grow.

  * * *

  Tiger Anna, Niesse River

  South of Frankfurt an der Oder

  Germany

  8 January 2008

  On the eastern bank, now the enemy bank, of the river, the Posleen horde had been growing all day. Hans had counted each day they had not crossed previously as a special blessing since he and his brigade had arrived here.

  His return had been a joyous one, despite his injuries. The men of his own Tiger had clustered around, overjoyed to see their commander again. They had feared the worst.

  They had all been overjoyed except for Krueger, the unrepentant Nazi, that is. He made a polite showing of face, but retired immediately to his driving station, thinking all the while dark thoughts about pseudo-Nazis and Jew lovers.

  Hans' lighter panzers and panzer grenadiers, plus three other Tigers and Anna, he had placed into the line after using them as a field gendarmerie to round up stragglers. The twenty-five remaining Tigers—yes one had been recovered—he had stretched along the river to lend their fire to the defense and cover the recongealing defenders from any of the alien ships that might lift to join the attack.

  The winter had been relatively mild so far. Thus, the enemy was presented not with seemingly crossable ice, but apparently impassable water. The Posleen were nonswimmers to a being, heavier than water, and if they were immune to any known poisons they still needed oxygen to survive.

  In short, they drowned easily, and fear of being drowned had kept them to their side of the river . . . for a while.

  Hans didn't know how they had discovered that this part of the Niesse was easily fordable. Perhaps it was nothing more than a normal who had gotten lost and returned to gesture and point. On such chances hung the fates of peoples and empires, at times.

  There was no doubt they knew now, however. The horde, literally tens of millions of ravenous, hexapodal aliens, massing opposite told that surely, they knew their way was not barred by water.

  But the precious time gained by alien ignorance had been put to good use. Other liquids besides water could choke off oxygen from alien lungs.

  There was a communal snarl from the other side. To Hans it sounded not too different from a Russian mass infantry assault from the early days of World War Two. Not that the languages bore any similarity, indeed the Posleen normals didn't really have a language. But eloquent language, in a charge like this, was irrelevant anyway. Russian, Posleen . . . German for all that, the message was the same. "We are here and we're coming to kill you."

  "Not just yet, you won't, you bastards; not just yet," Hans muttered, under his breath.

  "Sir?" asked Schultz.

  "Never mind, Dieter. Just prepare to use canister at the preselected targets. It's beginning."

  * * *

  Not as one, that was not the People's way, but in fits and starts at first, the number of normals entering the icy water grew. Soon it was a solid mass of yellow flesh crawling to gain the other side and rend the hated threshkreen.

  Oolt'ondai Borominskar urged his People forward with words exalting ancient days and heroes. The God King wondered, absently, at the lack of enemy resistance. Here and there a junior Kessentai, living the tales of his ancestors, danced his tenar ahead of the horde, baiting the threshkreen. The problem was that the threshkreen often enough took the bait and sent the tenar into a sphere of actinic light. That, or simply blasted the daring God King's chest or head to ruin.

  Onward, onward, the tide of the People surged against the foul-smelling stream of the river. Soon they were more than halfway across and the threshkreen began to play their machine guns against the host. At least, the oolt'ondai thought they were machine guns. The absence of the burning lines from what the thresh called "tracers" puzzled him slightly.

  No matter. The People were in full attack mode, pressing on heedless of loss. But damn the threshkreen for hiding behind thick earthen berms, seeking safety in their cowardly way from the railguns of the People.

  * * *

  Hans peered out from Anna's turret hatch past the berm that had been hastily thrown up for added defense against the enemy's HVMs and Plasma cannon. Anna could take a few hits. But it was better if she could take a few dozen.

  In Hans' earpiece the 1c said, "Projections say it is time, sir."

  "Very well, release the gasoline."

  The few days' respite had been very well spent. Pumps on the western bank began to spill gasoline onto the river's surface at a furious rate.

  * * *

  Borominskar's olfactory organs barely sensed the new smell over the river's, thresh-made, pollution. In a few minutes, though, as the flowing waters spread some new fluid out across the stream's surface, the odor became too strong to ignore. The artificial intelligence on the oolt'ondai's tenar beeped once, twice, then issued a warning.

  "That fluid is highly volatile, highly flammable, Kessentai. I believe it to be a trick of the threshkreen."

  Though not a genius among the People, Borominskar was also no ninny. He saw immediately what his AI meant, saw in his mind's eye the People burning and gasping for something breathable before succumbing in a horrible, shameful death.

  He began to shout, "Turn around, go back," then realized that there was no retreat, that the shortest way to safety was ahead. So instead of ordering a retreat he ordered the charge to speed up.

  Alas, too late, he thought as he saw the beginnings of flames appear on the far side.

  * * *

  The sound now coming from the alien mass was anything but the confident cry of expectant victory and resulting massacre and feast. Instead, the panicked aliens cried out in obvi
ous pain and even more obvious fear.

  Somewhere in your ancestry, you have some forebears who knew and feared fire, didn't you, boys? thought Hans.

  Alien arms waved frantically, desperately within the hellish flames. The sound was that of an infinity of kittens being burned and suffocated. Hans noted with interest that few of those mewing aliens' arms retained weapons. The God Kings' tenar fluttered above the conflagration, seemingly helpless to stop or end the suffering of their "wives" and children below. Shots rang out from the western bank, emptying the occasional tenar. In time, shots rang down too, as Kessentai did what they could to end the agony of their roasting and suffocating people.

  So you are capable of pity, too, are you? How very interesting. So are we; but not for you. For you, this memory will keep you from crossing for several more days, I suspect.

  * * *

  Borominskar retreated to the eastern bank, shocked to his being at such wanton, cruel and vicious destruction. There were none of the People still in the flame-covered water. All trapped had succumbed and only a few had escaped the trap. Some of these had made it to the far side, only to be cut down by the threshkreen. A few of the late crosses had likewise managed to reach dry land before being encoiled in the thresh's demon-spawned trick.

  Settling his tenar to the ground, Borominskar saw that the People, Normals and God Kings both, had pulled as far from the flaming wall as possible. Bunching up, shocked and terrorized, they presented an enviable target for the threshkreen's artillery and heavy fighting machines.

  The oolt'ondai's tenar beeped again. "Emanations from four enemy major fighting machines, Lord. Incoming artillery; uncountable rounds but not less than three thousand."

  Interlude

  "We are ready, at last, lord," said Ro'moloristen. "I have promised edas beyond counting to get cooperation, but I think we have it. Tomorrow, three hundred twenty-two C- and B-Decs will begin to bombard the Siegfried line. In the first assault wave alone over three thousand tenar-mounted Kessentai will ride ahead with over one million normals in their wake. All aimed like an arrow at this narrow section of the line that leads directly to the bridge. Other, fixing attacks, will be made, but not pressed too hard, all along the front."