Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3)

by Christopher Nuttall

  He could have kicked his past self for laughing. They’d laughed and joked about taking everything that was dumped on them, from endless exercises and forced marches to savage - often sadistic - corporal punishment. His own father had told him that pain was weakness leaving the body. But Herman had never been singled out, never been mocked in front of the entire class. Who knew what would have become of him if he had?

  The Hitler Youth will not survive the coming years, he told himself, as the exercise routine finally came to an end. And the BDM has already been disbanded. Gudrun saw to it personally.

  “Those of you who survived are being assigned to a rifle company,” the lead NCO bellowed, his voice shaking the parade ground. Herman looked around and discovered, to his shock, that a third of the volunteers had dropped out. He hoped, grimly, that it meant they’d merely discovered they couldn't continue. “You’ll be issued weapons, then marched to the shooting range.”

  And hope to hell we have enough bullets to sight our rifles properly, Herman thought, as they were marched to the next set of barracks. If we are short of ammunition, we may be in some trouble.

  He gritted his teeth, feeling his body ache as he marched. Once, he’d marched over forty miles in a single day; now, he felt old and drained from a handful of exercises. Being a policeman in Berlin had seemed hard, but he should have known it was far - far - easier than being a soldier. Old age had crept up on him without him ever realising it. He winced as they walked past a group of younger men, the youngest barely old enough to shave. They looked far more energetic than the older men.

  But we have to do what we can, Herman told himself, firmly. There’s nothing else we can do.

  ***

  “You don’t look American,” a voice said, as Andrew stepped into the office. “That’s probably a good thing.”

  “Thank you, Herr Oberleutnant,” Andrew said. “Can I pass for a Heer officer?”

  Oberleutnant Sebastian Riemer looked Andrew up and down thoughtfully. “Probably not,” he said, after a moment. “Your German is perfect, but your pose is subtly wrong - you’d probably alarm anyone if you tried to take command.”

  Andrew nodded, shortly. Riemer was unusual for a German soldier, in that he had close family connections in America. It was probably why he’d been detailed to escort Andrew, even though he was a potential security risk. He’d actually been in America, unlike almost every other officer Andrew had met. And, compared to the humourless SS officers who’d escorted him around before the civil war, he was a decent man.

  Which doesn't mean he won’t be loyal to the Reich, Andrew reminded himself firmly. The younger man was blond enough to have stepped off a recruiting poster, his eyes so blue as to be almost unreal. You cannot take the risk of trying to recruit him as a source.

  “We’ve prepared papers for you,” Riemer added, picking up a wallet from the table and holding it out. “Make sure you stick to the cover story if you get caught.”

  “Understood,” Andrew said. Posing as a German officer was risky, but being identified as American after being taken prisoner by the SS would be worse. Karl Holliston was unlikely to give much of a damn about American opinion after the United States had already intervened in the conflict. “I take it I don’t have any actual authority?”

  Riemer shot him a wry smile. “What do you think?”

  Andrew smiled back as Riemer escorted him through the door and down to the underground car park. A small vehicle - it looked so much like a jeep that Andrew was sure someone had stolen the plans from America - was waiting for them, a young soldier in the front seat. He climbed into the back and forced himself to relax as the jeep headed up the ramp and out onto the streets. Berlin seemed almost deserted.

  Shortages of fuel, Andrew thought, grimly. Everything they have has been earmarked for the military.

  He considered it for a long moment. The Reich had access to the vast oil fields of the Middle East, but the SS was in a good position to block all shipments to Germany Prime. That left the oil fields in Ploesti, yet they were supposed to be on the verge of running dry. It made him wonder just how bad the shortages were, in Germany Prime. The Reich was supposed to have put together a strategic oil reserve that made America’s look small, but he had no idea what had happened to it. By now, the demands of war might be making it run dry.

  “You’ll be attached to a forward command post,” Riemer informed him, as they drove past the barricades surrounding Berlin and out into the countryside. “If you want to go further into the field, you may do so - but we cannot guarantee your safety.”

  Andrew nodded. He’d seen too much of the fighting before the Waffen-SS had been driven away from the city, but he’d never realised just how much of the outskirts had been reduced to bloody rubble. Men and women - a surprising number of women - were poking their way through the debris, dragging out bodies and dumping them in the nearest mass grave; military engineers were working over the burned-out panzers, looking for pieces that could be salvaged and put back into service. It looked as though hundreds of panzers had been destroyed in the fighting, although Andrew had no way to know for sure.

  A dull explosion echoed in the distance. Andrew glanced east and saw a plume of smoke rising into the air. A pair of aircraft headed eastward at terrifying speed, but evidently saw nothing worth attacking. Riemer didn't even bother to look.

  “They’ve been scattering mines and improvised bombs around as they make their way eastward,” he commented. “We’ve got teams out there scouring for booby traps, but they’re very good at hiding them.”

  “They probably learned from the insurgents,” Andrew commented. American troops had had problems with IEDs too, in Mexico. “Don't you have any locals who can help find them?”

  Riemer gave him a sharp look. “Most of the locals were evacuated,” he said, crossly. “I wouldn't give two rusty Reichmarks for the fate of the remainder.”

  Andrew frowned. The Provisional Government had been filling the airwaves with tales of SS atrocities, although he had a feeling that most of their claims were being taken with a pinch of salt. German civilians were so used to being lied to - so used to being told lies that made it clear that their lords and masters didn't have any respect for their intelligence - that they rarely believed anything they heard on the radio. But Andrew had heard enough - from his contacts and sources - to know that there had been atrocities. The Easterners had forgotten that the Westerners were also German.

  He kept his thoughts to himself as they passed a line of men, wearing military uniforms and marching east. Andrew couldn't help thinking that they looked surprisingly old for soldiers, although he knew there were some very long-serving soldiers in the National Guard back home. But then, the Reich was short on experienced manpower. They’d probably started press-ganging men who were too old to be front-line soldiers, but could teach the younger men what they needed to know before they went back to the war.

  “They’ve been exchanging bursts of shellfire every so often,” Riemer said, as the sound of falling shells echoed in the air. “They just seem to be firing at random.”

  Andrew scowled. German shooting wasn't as accurate as he’d been led to believe - or so his observations suggested - but he had to admit that the SS could disrupt the Provisional Government’s preparations for war simply by firing shells at random. They might not hit anything important - it was unlikely they would hit anything important - yet they would cause confusion and damage morale. And they might consider anything that slowed down the coming offensive to be worth doing.

  If winter comes before the Provisional Government can make it to Moscow, Andrew thought, the front line will literally freeze for five months.

  He gritted his teeth as the jeep pulled into a military camp. Ambassador Turtledove had gone over the problem, again and again, with Washington. There was something to be said for prolonging the war - the Reich would be badly weakened - but it still heightened the risk of a nuclear release. Or something else that would upset the
balance of power. There were plenty of rumours about other secret weapons ...

  But most of those rumours are nonsense, he thought. And they certainly haven't shown any workable hardware.

  He smiled at the thought as he clambered out of the car and submitted to a pat-down from the guards. There were plenty of stories about flying wings - and flying saucers - but the Reich had never managed to put them into practice. They’d certainly never managed to duplicate the B2 stealth bomber, even though they’d known it was designed to sneak through the vast air defences of the Atlantic Wall ...

  The irony chilled Andrew more than he cared to admit. It had taken decades - literally - for the panic over German super-science to die down. And why not? Germany had been first to launch a missile, first to put a man in orbit, first to put a man on the moon ...

  ... But they’d never been able to match the United States. Countless billions of dollars had been spent, first in catching up with the Germans and then getting ahead of them ...

  And now the Germans are tearing themselves apart, Andrew told himself, as he walked into the tent. And we may have won the cold war without firing a shot.

  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 Hauptsturmfuehrer, 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 Scharfuehrers 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,” Scharfuehrer 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 Scharfuehrers 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 Scharfuehrers 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 ...