I’m sorry, he thought.
It would take weeks, perhaps, to impose order on the chaos, weeks they didn't have. He’d been told that the enemy were in just as bad a state; he hoped - prayed - that that was actually true. His forces were in no condition to resist an offensive, even though they’d hastily re-manned the defences around Berlin and summoned reinforcements from further west. If the enemy did manage to mount an attack there would be a bloody slaughter.
He didn't want to spend any time in the tent, but he forced himself to move from bed to bed, saying a few words to each of the wounded men. It was a duty, he’d learned during his training, that senior officers had to assume ... but no one, not even in the worst stages of the South African War, had had to visit so many wounded. There hadn't been casualty figures so high since the Second World War, when battles had gone on for days or weeks on end. Now ... he didn't even know how many men were dead. The figure kept rising all the time, mocking his dreams of ending the war quickly and cleanly. God alone knew when - or ever - they would be able to resume the offensive.
A nurse gave him a nasty look as he promised a young man he’d get better, knowing it was a lie. Even the best medical treatment in the Reich wouldn't be able to repair his body or replace his missing legs. Gunter felt a stab of guilt as he took the hint and walked out of the tent, catching sight of a crying nurse being comforted by an older woman. He didn't really blame her for breaking down. No one had really expected so many casualties in one battle.
And what are we going to do, he asked himself, when the supplies run out?
He knew the answer, even though he didn't want to admit it. Supplies had to be reserved for the lightly wounded, the ones most likely to recover. It was logical, but it was cold and harsh and thoroughly unpleasant. And who knew if some of the wounded would have a chance, if they received proper care? But there was no time to give them proper care.
His fingers touched the pistol at his belt. It was tempting, so very tempting ...
... But he knew his duty. He couldn't give up, not now. But, in all honesty, he didn't know what else they could do.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Autobahn #34, Germany East
6 November 1985
“I think we have a problem,” Kurt muttered.
Horst nodded in agreement. The snowstorms had stopped for the last two days, much to his relief, but travel was no safer. They’d been warned, several times, that bandit attacks were on the rise; now, a large checkpoint was blocking the road, forcing all vehicles to slow down and wait to be inspected. And, with nearly forty armed stormtroopers within view, it was unlikely that anyone would try to drive straight through the checkpoint.
“Looks that way,” he said. There was no way to reverse course, even if it wouldn't have tipped off the stormtroopers that they had something to hide. “We’ll just have to go through it.”
Kurt frowned. “Is this normal here?”
“Sometimes,” Horst said.
He scowled. The radio broadcasts hadn't been very informative - the official story had changed several times - but it was clear that civilians were being ordered to stay in their homes and avoid travel. Normally, Germanica would have been obeyed without question; now, with the threat of nuclear war hanging over their heads, it was quite possible that people were voting with their feet and heading east. And anyone caught in a checkpoint would be in deep shit. They’d probably be marched off to the labour camps before anyone could protest.
“We’ll just have to hope our papers still pass inspection,” he said, as they inched closer to the checkpoint. “There’s no way out now.”
The stormtroopers were doing more than inspecting papers, he noted; they were searching cars and trucks thoroughly, while keeping a sharp eye on the uneasy passengers. It wasn't uncommon for people moving from Gau to Gau to carry items for the black market - he had a feeling that they weren't the only ones who had something to hide. A pair of young men were marched off under armed guard, their vehicle driven through the checkpoint and dumped on the far side of the barricade. Deserters? Smugglers? Or merely people trying to head east without a permit? There was no way to know.
“They’re depressingly professional,” Kurt said. “Is that a bad thing?”
“Probably,” Horst grunted.
He scowled at the thought. Someone more interested in groping young women than inspecting papers would be useful, but Kurt was right. The stormtroopers ahead of them were clearly professional. He glanced back, silently calculating the odds of making a dramatic escape, but it was still hopeless. Even if they weren't shot trying to escape, the entire country would be roused against them. They’d have to be abandon the car and make their way east on foot, which would be a death sentence when the snow started to fall again.
“Don’t do anything that might attract their attention,” he warned, as the car in front of them moved into the inspection zone. A small family - an old man, two middle-aged women and a trio of young children - clambered out as soon as their vehicle came to a halt. “Let them see us as completely harmless.”
He winced helplessly as he watched the family get searched, followed by their car. He’d often praised life in Germany East, yet the downside was right in front of him. Authority was arbitrary all over the Reich - and corruption a fact of life - but it was worst in Germany East, where bandit attacks were depressingly regular. Gudrun’s protest movement would never have gotten off the ground in Germany East, no matter how difficult it had been to gain traction in Germany Prime. She would have been lucky if she’d only been marched east and married to a farmer along the unsettled zone.
“Here we go,” he muttered. “Be careful.”
The stormtroopers looked alert as he climbed out of the car, but it didn't look as though they were suspicious. He passed his papers to the leader without comment, then waited patiently as the car was searched from end to end. There was no danger of them finding anything, he knew; there was nothing there to find, save for their picnic lunch and several flasks of hot coffee. Their uniforms were getting alarmingly rank by now, even though he’d had them washed and dried at one of the settlements.
He felt his heart sink as the leader took their papers into a small building. He’d check the seals and watermarks, of course, but would he call Germanica? The papers were genuine - he’d used the SS’s own equipment to produce them - yet there would be no records of their existence in Germanica. How could there be? And now, with Berlin no longer in the business of issuing SS papers ...
The stormtroopers still didn't look concerned. Horst kept his expression blank, silently cursing the SS’s mania for bureaucratic excess. Paperwork wasn't just duplicated and stored at two separate locations; it was copied and distributed around the Reich. One simply could not escape paperwork. Their papers, if they had been genuine, would have at least a dozen copies scattered around Germany East. And it was unlikely they’d just allow them to walk through if there was even a hint of suspicion.
He tensed, covertly studying the nearest stormtroopers. He was good - he knew - he was good - but even Otto Skorzeny would have had problems taking out twelve stormtroopers without being battered into a bloody pulp. And there were other stormtroopers who would come running when they heard the fight. No, they’d walked right into a trap. They’d just have to hope that the jaws weren't about to spring shut.
The leader strode back, his hands dancing in a pattern Horst knew all too well. He tensed as the stormtroopers lifted their weapons, silently praying desperately that Kurt wouldn't do anything stupid. Their papers hadn't passed ... and they were in deep shit ... but they might just be able to talk their way out of it. And if they couldn't ...
“There's some confusion over your papers,” the leader said. “Germanica is requesting additional details.”
“We have strict orders to report to the Fuhrer personally,” Horst said. He forced his tone to become as unbending as possible, as if he was the one holding the guns. “We do not have time to delay.”
>
“We need to take your fingerprints,” the leader said. He didn't seem inclined to budge. But then, he’d probably run into hundreds of local big-shots who’d tried to bluster their way through the checkpoints. “Once they’re checked against the records, you will be permitted to proceed.”
Horst cursed under his breath as the leader indicated that they should walk towards the nearest building. He had no idea what Kurt’s fingerprints would do, but his would set off red flags. It struck him, suddenly, that they’d outsmarted themselves. If they’d been real Reich Inspectors, it would have been their duty to report any failings to their superiors. The checkpoint guards had to give them the full treatment, even though they were badly outranked. They were definitely in deep shit.
Or perhaps they were already suspicious, he thought, as the stormtroopers fanned out behind them. If someone filed a report ...
He glanced at Kurt, desperately trying to think of a plan. But there was nothing. They were outnumbered and outgunned; they’d be shot down before they could get their pistols out of their holsters. Could they try to bribe their way out of trouble? He doubted it - even if the guards had been as venal as a French soldier in North Africa, there were just too many of them to bribe. And besides, they didn't have anything they could use to bribe the guards ...
Kurt looked ... concerned. Horst cursed mentally, again. Kurt was a good man, but he didn't have any real experience in practiced deception - certainly nothing more than the average German citizen. He might break at any moment, getting them both killed ...
The stormtroopers grabbed them as soon as they passed through the door. Horst kicked out automatically, but it was too late. His hands were yanked firmly behind his back and held in place while the guards removed his pistol, his dagger and anything else that could be used as a weapon. Beside him, Kurt was getting the same treatment. Horst gritted his teeth as he felt cold metal cuffs being snapped around his wrists and ankles, rendering him helpless. They were trapped.
We should have avoided the autobahns, he thought, numbly. But that would have led to questions we couldn't answer.
“On your feet,” the leader snarled. “Now!”
Horst tried, but standing upright while cuffed and shackled was impossible. The guards hauled him to his feet and slammed him against the stone fall, their hands poking and prodding at his clothes to ensure that he wasn’t hiding anything. Kurt tried to kick the guards as they lifted him up, which earned him a punch in the belly that left him choking as they pushed him up, next to Horst.
The leader glared at Horst, then at Kurt. “Who are you?”
“Inspectors Johann Peltzer and Fritz Hanstein,” Horst said. Could they still bluff their way through? It didn't seem likely, but he had to try. “This ...”
“We checked the numbers on your papers against the records in Germanica,” the leader snapped, angrily. “They don’t exist. So why do you exist?”
“We report directly to the Fuhrer,” Horst bluffed. “Our records are sealed.”
“There would be a number,” the leader said, dryly. “Even if it was attached to a classified file, there would be a number.”
He nodded to one of his men, who stepped forward and slammed a haymaker into Horst’s jaw. Horst moved backwards automatically, but it was too late. The blow cracked his head against the stone wall. Beside him, Kurt took another punch to the chest, leaving him retching helplessly. Absolute despair threatened to overcome him as the guards picked up their batons, clearly preparing to hand out a savage beating. They’d failed. There was no hope of reaching Germanica now, certainly not as prisoners. And if they’d found his real records, they’d be very careful not to give him even the slightest chance to escape.
“You have no records,” the leader mused. “And yet, your paperwork is nearly perfect.”
His voice hardened. “You’re from the rebels.”
Horst said nothing. His training had taught him not to tell his captors anything, even when it was clear that his captors already knew. Weakening once - even slightly - could open a crack in his armour, a crack that could eventually be used to break his resistance completely. But he knew, deep inside, that he had lost. They’d be taken to Germanica and executed, no matter what they said or did. Holliston would certainly want to make sure that Horst, a man who had betrayed the SS, would be brutally punished. The only consolation was that it probably wouldn't be public.
The guards closed in, bringing their batons down time and time again. Horst fought to keep from screaming, silently grateful that his training had taught him how to take punches and handle pain. Indeed, the beating wasn't anything like as bad as some of the hammerings he’d taken during unarmed combat training. The guards were trained in inflicting pain, but they shied away from anything that might cause permanent damage. And yet ...
“You’ll be shipped to Germanica,” the leader said. His voice sounded as though it was coming from a very far distance. “They’ll decide your fate there.”
Horst bit down a curse as he was hauled to his feet - he hadn't even realised he’d fallen to the ground - and half-carried out of the building. It was hard, so hard, to think clearly, but he had no choice. The guards pushed them into another building - a small prison - and chained them to the wall, then strode off, slamming the iron door behind them. Horst wasn't fool enough to assume that they were unwatched. There would be cameras hidden somewhere in the chamber.
He glanced at Kurt. There was a nasty scar on his face and blood was dripping from his nose, but most of the damage looked superficial. He hadn't broken either. Horst had always been taught that the SS’s training was far more intensive than anyone else’s - but Kurt had handled himself well. And yet, they were still prisoners. He tested the cuffs carefully, hoping - desperately - that their captors had made a mistake. But he found nothing.
Of course not, he thought, angrily. The one thing they’re good at is taking prisoners.
He met Kurt’s eyes, silently willing him to stay quiet. There would be microphones in the cell as well as cameras. Kurt looked worried, but said nothing. Horst was silently relieved, even though he doubted they could get in worse trouble. They’d already been pegged as infiltrators from Germany Prime. He supposed they should be grateful that they hadn't simply been marched outside and shot.
But they’ll want to know who we are and what we want, he told himself. We might wind up wishing that we'd been shot out of hand.
He sighed, looking down at the stone floor. They’d failed. There was no way they could find Gudrun now, let alone try something in Germanica. All of his plans had come to naught ... he knew, as he tasted utter despair, that he would never see Gudrun again, that she’d be broken by the SS and then, eventually, executed. And with nuclear weapons being used, it was possible that her dreams of a better world would also come to nothing.
Would it have been different, he asked himself, if I’d done my duty?
It was a bitter thought. He’d known, right from the start, that he was risking a truly awful death by siding with Gudrun and her group. He could have betrayed them, easily; Gudrun and the girls would have been exiled east, the boys would have been shipped to labour camps and worked to death. And he would have been feted as a hero, the brave little SS operator who’d revealed a plot against the entire Reich.
But he had never been able to hide from himself. Gudrun had been right. The SS had cruelly betrayed its own people. Horst had no doubt, now or ever, that if Konrad and he had swapped places, it would have been him who would have been crippled for life, if he’d survived at all. And it would have been his uncle who’d been lied to by the SS ...
And besides, he thought. I would never have known Gudrun.
He couldn't have turned away, he told himself. He'd accepted the risks when, in truth, they were far greater. He wouldn't have been caught - now - if he hadn't driven into Germany East with forged papers. And he was damned if he was giving up now, even though it looked hopeless. Who knew what the future would bring?
&
nbsp; It felt like hours before the guards returned, released them from the chains and unceremoniously marched them out of the cell. Darkness was falling over the autobahn, but there was still a long line of vehicles waiting to pass through the checkpoint. Horst wondered, absently, just how many delays the checkpoint had caused, although he knew they were unlikely to be fatal. The guards said nothing as they were pushed towards a large truck and carried up into the rear. Inside, it was decked out to carry prisoners.
“Remain silent,” the guard ordered, as they were cuffed to the railings. “And enjoy the ride.”
Horst glared at him. He’d ridden in prisoner transports before, although as a guard rather than a passenger. They seemed designed to give their riders as uncomfortable a journey as possible. He still shuddered at the memory of supervising a trio of slave girls as they washed out the transport after a bunch of prisoners were transported to the mines. The vehicle had been littered with vomit and piss. He took a breath and regretted it instantly. Their vehicle was surprisingly clean, but the smell still lingered.
Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3) Page 26
