“Very well,” Kurt said. “I want you to ask her about what happened after the winter fire.”
Horst blinked. “The winter fire?”
“She’ll understand,” Kurt said.
“As you wish,” Katherine said. She took a breath. “You have heard the news?”
“There have been mutinies on the front line,” Forster said, when Horst looked puzzled. “Bad mutinies, depending on who you ask.”
Horst frowned. Was there such a thing as a good mutiny? And yet, had there ever been a genuine mutiny in the Waffen-SS? He couldn't recall one ... but then, he had technically mutinied too. And now Katherine was joining him in treachery ...
Unless she’s conning us, he thought.
He shook his head. If Holliston had known about his presence, he would have had the residence surrounded and stormed. No one would have quibbled after Holliston displayed the body of Horst Albrecht, arch-traitor. Even the remaining Gauleiters would have kept their mouths firmly shut.
“We’ll discuss that later,” he said. How would Holliston react? He doubted it would be pleasant. “For the moment, get us the answer to the question. After that, we can discuss how to proceed.”
Katherine rose. “Understood,” she said, briskly.
She met his eyes. “I know that you have no reason to trust me,” she added. “But what I do now, I do for the Reich. This war must end.”
“Quickly,” Forster added. “Because if the front line is coming apart, Holliston is likely to do something desperate.”
“Or try to burn the world,” Horst said. He watched Katherine leave, wondering if they hadn't just signed their death warrants. “Kurt, what happened after the winter fire?”
Kurt looked rather shamefaced. “It's a long story,” he said. “But it’s not one she will ever forget.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Front Lines, Germany Prime
14 November 1985
Obergruppenfuehrer Felix Kortig was caught on the horns of a dilemma.
The mutiny hadn't spread as far as he’d feared, in the last two days, but he was uneasily aware that his men were wavering. Rumours were spreading like wildfire, ranging from grim stories of atrocities to suggestions that the entire army had been poisoned by the radioactive fallout. The more intact units, the ones that had been spared the brunt of the retreat, were largely free of mutineers, but he knew better than to take it for granted.
And I can't wait for reinforcements either, he thought. I have to move now.
It wasn't a pleasant thought. The brief encounters along the front lines had stopped, but that wouldn't last. If the enemy realised that his entire force was in disarray, they’d throw in a general attack that would shatter his remaining defences and open the road to Germanica. They probably wouldn't make it to Germanica - the roads were already becoming impassable because of the heavy snowfall - but they’d certainly be able to take up positions that would make it easier to reach the city when the snow melted.
He cursed, savagely, as he paced the tent. It had been a mistake, a bad mistake, to risk everything on one throw of the dice. And the mistake had been compounded by how poorly the wounded had been treated, after the nuclear blasts. It was hard to blame the mutineers for rising up against their superior officers, even though they’d signed their own death warrants - it wasn't as if they had much to lose. The ones who had been contaminated with radiation poisoning would probably be grateful if they were shot.
And now the Fuhrer commands that I put down the mutinies as quickly as possible, he reminded himself. But can it be done without weakening the forces I have left?
It was ... frustrating. No, worse than frustrating. He’d never doubted his men before, even during the bloodiest battles in South Africa. The Waffen-SS was always faithful, always loyal. But now that loyalty was a joke. He didn't dare show weakness in front of the stormtroopers, yet everything he did to safeguard his position and prevent another mutiny was a show of weakness. And if his men doubted him, who knew what they would do?
Jumped-up spymaster, he thought, in the privacy of his own head. It wasn't something he could say out loud. He had no doubt that someone would report him if he said something unpleasant about the Fuhrer. He has no understanding of the military realities.
But orders were orders. He couldn't delay any longer, not without being branded a mutineer himself. Holliston wouldn't listen to any excuses, no matter how firmly they were rooted in military realities. To him, obstacles like rivers and mountains and snowfalls were just lines on a map. And little things like morale meant nothing to him.
And the hell of it, Felix reluctantly conceded, was that Holliston had a point.
The mutineers were desperate. They had to be desperate. And if they were desperate, they might just take themselves - and their equipment, and everything they knew - across the lines and straight into the rebel’s welcoming arms. Felix didn't want to think about what would happen if the rebels started sweet-talking his men. The war had turned so sour that far too many of them would probably surrender, if they thought they wouldn’t be shot out of hand.
He turned as the flap opened. “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer,” Sturmbannfuehrer Friedemann Weineck said. “The infantry divisions have been readied for their task.”
“Good,” Felix said. It was hard to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Weineck sounded depressingly enthusiastic. Infantrymen shouldn't be given such a task, one more suitable for butchers like the Einsatzgruppen than stormtroopers. “Order them to proceed as planned.”
“Jawohl.”
Felix shrugged as he turned back to the map. Crushing the mutineers shouldn't take too long, assuming they didn't turn and flee. But it wouldn't stop the Fuhrer from sending reinforcements, men who would probably trigger off the next set of mutinies. And then ...
Briefly, very briefly, he considered just leaving and strolling across the front lines himself. It wasn't as if he couldn't do it - and he knew enough to convince the rebels that he should be left alive. But he’d sworn loyalty to the SS - and to the Reich - and he wasn't going to break his oath so easily. He was an officer in the Waffen-SS and he would remain an officer in the Waffen-SS until he died.
I hope you flee, he thought, as he studied the map. He didn't really hate the mutineers, even though they’d caused him a great deal of trouble. You don’t want to be there when the infantry arrive.
***
Hennecke honestly wasn't sure what to do.
The mutiny - and everything that had come afterwards - had blunted his thinking for a couple of days. Eating rations, drinking alcohol, having fun with the nurses ... he simply hadn’t had time to think about the future. But now, as the alcohol began to run out, he found himself irritatingly sober as the first light of dawn started to glimmer over the dark sky.
He still didn't feel well, although he wasn't sure if that was because of the radiation or the binge-eating. Rations were barely designed for human consumption in any case. His head hurt, although it was a vast improvement over the headache he’d had two days ago; his body throbbed, leaving him feeling as though he had a fever. And to think he was one of the healthiest people in the camp! Even after the guards had been shot or driven away, the wounded continued to die.
Of course they did, he thought, darkly. We are all going to die.
He’d sat one of the nurses down, midway through the second day, and interrogated her about radiation poisoning. Nothing she’d said, after he’d provided proper encouragement, had been reassuring. There was nothing that could be done, she’d explained; no magical cure that would save their lives. Even if they survived the first bout of radiation sickness - and that was unlikely - they’d be walking wounded for the rest of their lives.
He gripped his rifle as he rose, nodding towards the guards at the edge of the camp. Getting them out there had been one hell of a struggle, now that authority had broken down completely; he’d had to point out, as if he was talking to children, precisely what would happen if they were caugh
t by surprise. Some of his mutineers had deserted, heading west to the rebels or east back to their homes, but he knew it was going to end badly. The rebels would kill them for their conduct in Germany Prime, the loyalists would hang them for mutiny.
And yet, here we are, all exposed, he thought.
He peered into the distance, half-expecting to see an armoured force advancing towards him as the day grew brighter. But there was nothing. There hadn't even been any aircraft flying overhead. It was tempting to believe that they were completely alone, that they were completely cut off from both sides, but he knew better. By now, word had probably spread all the way to Germanica. He knew the Fuhrer would not let their mutiny pass without a harsh response.
A scream echoed on the air, coming from one of the smaller tents. Hennecke shrugged, unconcerned. The nurses had known they were going to die, known right from the start that there was nothing that could be done for any of the wounded. He found it hard to care about their treatment, even if they were decent German girls. Besides, it wasn't as if the mutineers could be executed more than once. The Fuhrer would have some problems trying to fit all the charges on a single execution warrant, assuming there was an execution warrant.
Stupid bitch, he thought, as the screaming abruptly stopped. No one cares about you.
He shrugged as he started to walk from tent to tent, checking on the wounded. Three more men had died in their sleep, relatively comfortably. He sighed as he called a couple of other men to help drag the bodies out, strip them of anything useful and then dump them away from the camp. They really should dig a grave, he told himself, but he didn’t have the energy to do anything more than leave the bodies in the snow. He and the rest of the mutineers would be dead long before decomposing bodies became a real problem.
His hands started to ache as he turned and strode back towards the command tent. The nurse hadn't been too clear on the why and how, but she’d been insistent that his aches and pains would only get worse. Unless he was very lucky ... and even then, the damage had still been done. He had nothing to look forward to, save for a life of increasing pain and eventual death.
A tent opened. A stormtrooper emerged, buttoning up his fly. Behind him, Hennecke could hear whimpering from inside the tent. It should bother him to pass the women around from mutineer to mutineer, allowing them to slake their lusts before they died, but he had long since lost the ability to care. Death was coming for them, no matter what they did. They might as well have some fun before they died.
“Get some food, then join the guards,” he ordered. “Hurry.”
He turned ... and then stopped as he heard a roar in the distance. Engines ... coming from the east. He barked a command, then pulled a whistle from his belt and blew it as loudly as he could. The tents opened, revealing all the men who were fit to fight. Hennecke felt his heart sink as he took in the sight - twenty-seven men, half of them barely strong enough to walk - and then he started to bark orders. Any objections were rapidly buried by the sound of approaching engines ...
“Get into position,” he snapped. He had no illusions about their ability to defend the camp against an armoured thrust, but at least they could hurt the stormtroopers before they were crushed. “Hurry!”
He groaned, inwardly, as the men stumbled into position. They’d never had a chance to plan out a defence before the mutiny; afterwards, they'd been too busy enjoying themselves to do anything about their defences. In hindsight, it had been a mistake ...
... But there was no point in worrying about it, not now. The radiation would kill them even if the bullets didn’t.
He sucked in his breath as the first vehicle - an armoured fighting vehicle - came into view, a squad of black-clad infantry surrounding it. Their paranoia was almost laughable. Bandits and insurgents might do everything in their power to slow the vehicles down - rigging bombs and mines - but his men hadn’t done anything of the sort. They hadn't even had the weapons and equipment to try. Two more armoured fighting vehicles appeared, grinding forward ...
“Take aim,” he ordered. The enemy could probably see them - and if they couldn't see them, they could certainly smell them. “Fire on my command.”
A scattered volley of shots rang out. Hennecke had barely a second to realise that some of his men had fired without orders before the approaching vehicles returned fire. Machine gun bullets tore through the air, slashing through tents as though they were made of paper; three of his men jumped to their feet, only to be torn apart by the hail of bullets. They’d wanted to die, Hennecke realised, as he started to shoot himself, picking off two stormtroopers before the others took cover. There wasn't anything to live for ...
He turned and crawled away as the shooting grew louder. The entire camp had been devastated in the blink of an eye. He snickered as he thought of the nurses, killed by their would-be saviours, then kept moving until he was right across the camp and heading into the woods. Behind him, the roar of engines grew louder as the enemy took possession of the camp. He smirked as he picked himself up and started to run, despite the throbbing pain in his head. Taking the camp wouldn't do them any good, unless they wanted to have a few hundred dead bodies.
There was no sign of pursuit, but he kept moving until he was sure he was lost in the cold forest. His body felt feverish as he stopped long enough to lean against a tree and catch his breath, despite the snow around him. Despite himself, he started to giggle helplessly. The stormtroopers had attacked, they’d killed everyone ... but him. He’d survived the war, he'd survived the radiation, he’d survived brutal labour that was meant to kill him ...
The skies were darkening rapidly. He looked up, sharply, as it started to snow. There was no way he could stay still, not if he wanted to remain alive. And yet, where could he go? He gritted his teeth as he started to stumble through the snow, his body starting to shiver despite the fever. And yet, the snowfall only grew worse. It was so intense that he could barely see ...
He stumbled, then fell to the ground. It was so cold that he could barely move, the cold seeping into his body as if it were a living thing. He tried to summon up some determination, the same determination that had kept him alive after the nuclear blasts and radiation poisoning, but it was gone. There was nowhere to go. Who would help him? Who would take him in ...?
Stupid bastards, he thought. He thought he understood the rebels a little better now, as he hovered on the brink of death. He’d thought the stories about betrayal were lies, enemy propaganda, until he’d been betrayed himself. We could have won the war if they’d just thought ...
The darkness reached up and swallowed him. And then there was nothing.
***
“Do you think they can be trusted?”
Herman shrugged. Seven enemy deserters sat in the tent, their hands tied behind their backs while the army tried to figure out what to do with them. Their story - that they had deserted from the Waffen-SS - didn't sound believable, but he’d been a policeman. People had tried to lie to him all the time and he’d gotten very good at spotting it.
But these goons came from the SS, he thought, darkly. They’re probably very good liars.
“Have them sent to a detention camp,” he suggested, finally. “And make sure they’re kept separate from the other prisoners.”
He scowled as the prisoners were marched out of the camp. The entire offensive had been called off, leaving him feeling rather exposed after most of the remaining panzers had been recalled and repositioned behind the front lines. He understood the logic, but he wasn't too pleased about it. His unit would take the brunt of any enemy blow, allowing the front-line units time to get ready to meet and repel the offensive.
But at least we’re not stuck guarding POWs, he thought. Or ...
He turned as he heard the sound of running footsteps behind him. A young man - barely old enough to shave - was running up to him, his face flushed with excitement. Herman couldn't help feeling a stab of guilt and shame at seeing the young soldier, a boy no older than his middle s
on, in the midst of a battlefield. There was no way he had enough training to do more than point and shoot, even if he had been in the Hitler Youth.
“Herr Leutnant,” the young man managed, as he came to a halt. “I ... you have been called back to Berlin, immediately.”
He turned and hurried off. Herman would have rebuked him, if he’d still been a paratrooper, but he doubted there was any point. He’d need to be very harsh - and it would probably kill the young man’s determination to do well. The thought made him scowl as he turned and headed towards the gate. Johan was already in training. If he thought there was someone his age fighting on the front line, he’d probably sneak out of the training centre and head east.
And that would get him killed, Herman thought, morbidly.
He’d been terrified when Kurt had headed off to the Berlin Guard, even though he’d hidden it behind a facade of enthusiasm and pride. The thought of losing his firstborn son had been horrific. And Johan was much younger. It was always the ones who had never been to war who spoke of glory. War was hell, no matter what the songs said; war was blood and suffering and death. War should never be the first choice.
Ragnarok (Twilight of the Gods Book 3) Page 34
