by John Ringo
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 am 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 know, 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 send 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.” He began to, 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 obvious 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 easter
n 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.”
“Lord…” the Kessentai hesitated. “’Lord, the edas I had to promise to Arlingas is frightful, to get him to hang onto that bridge. He says his host is on the verge of utter destruction and he wishes to fight his way out.”
“But we can make it to him? Make it in time.”
Ro’moloristen’s crest fluttered with pride, pride in self and in the plan he had created. “So I believe, lord. Let me answer with my head if I am wrong.”
“So it shall be puppy,” Athenalras agreed. “But I fear if you are wrong we shall all answer with our heads, if not with our reproductive organs. The host to the east?”
“They march, lord, but not until they see our success in the west is drawing the enemy away from their front.” Ro’moloristen shivered with knowledge of the blunting of the last attack over the Niesse River. What an obscenity; to burn perfectly good thresh.
Chapter 15
Mainz, Germany, 10 Jnuary 2008
Isabelle’s head ached and her inner body rippled with the shock of masses of incoming alien kinetic energy weapons. Within and around the city and to the southwest, these landed, raising clouds of dirt and dust into the sullen sky. Artillery lent its own measure to the frightful din.
There were few streaks of silver lighting coming from the ground to answer the invader’s fire, however. The news was clear that the enemy had hurt the Planetary Defense Batteries badly.
Somehow, she suspected that that artillery — and luck in avoiding the incoming KE weapons — might be all that stood between her boy, Thomas, and death.
She had seen her elder boy, once, briefly, since he had joined what she insisted on thinking of as “The Army.” She could not even bring herself to say that he was a member of the Boche army. As to the branch? The insignia glittering on his collar had been almost impossible to ignore. She had put on the best face she could, even so.
Now, he was in danger. And she knew the boy was hardly trained for war. She could only hope for the best as she, her remaining boy, and millions of people, German and French both, prepared for the long trudge to safety, could it but be found, far to the north.
Reports from the front were uniformly bad. The Siegfried line was going to fall and soon. Only this knowledge gave serious impetus to those previously fleeing and about-to-become refugees’ preparations for their flight.
Placing her pack upon her back, taking her remaining son by the hand, Isabelle took a glance backwards in the direction of where she presumed her Thomas was. Then, forcing herself to an unnatural strength, she joined the column of refugees heading to the north.
Siegfried Line, Southwest of Mainz, 11 January 2008
Of formal training there had been precious little. The week Thomas had spent in Charlemagne had proven just enough to teach him what little need be known to fire a military rifle from a concrete bunker, that, and to issue him a minimum of uniforms and equipment.
And minimum, when a young slender boy had to make a home in an icy concrete bunker, was little indeed. Thomas found himself shivering more or less constantly. Though some of this shivering was caused by reasons other than cold.
He had previously been spared personal sight of the enemy, except for what the television had shown of them. The reality was frightful beyond words; a mindless horde that charged forward heedless of loss so long as they might take one human down with them.
The boy’s leader, Sergeant Gribeauval, seemed to have taken an interest in his survival. At least, the good sergeant spent a fair amount of time on his training, whenever the enemy didn’t press the attack too closely. This absence of pressure was so rare, however, that the sergeant’s help consisted mostly of little pointers and tips, and an occasional fatherly pat on the shoulder. Perhaps this was so because Thomas was the youngest member of the platoon by at least a year.
He had lost count of the number of attacks that Charlemagne had repelled so far. The pile of dead enemy to the front grew and grew. Even the wire was, by now, covered with their bodies.
This was, Thomas knew, a very bad sign. Though behind the wire, between him and the aliens, a thin minefield gave some additional protection. He had helped reinforce the minefield, one day, with Sergeant Gribeauval and two others. The sergeant had often muttered about the scarcity of mines; that, and incomprehensible words about “silly royal English adulteresses.”
There was a rustle of fallen leaves from behind the boy; booted feet entering the bunker.
“Young De Gaullejac?”
“Oui, mon sergeant,” the boy answered. His breath formed a misty frost over the plastic rifle stock to which he kept his beardless cheek pressed.
“Pack your things, son, while keeping as good a watch to your front as you can. We have orders to pull back to the next position. Soon. It isn’t as good as this one but the enemy hasn’t penetrated it yet. The artillery is going to plaster the hell out of this place to cover our retreat.”
Army Group Reserve Headquarter, Wiesbaden, Germany, 13 January 2008
Retreat was the only option Mühlenkampf could see. The Siegfried line and the Rheinland were lost, that much was clear. The enemy had finally gotten their act together and found the answer to the previously formidable defenses. It seemed the Germans had managed to do what they had done before, even with the Russians: teach an enemy to fight as a combined arms team.
“Scheisse,” he cursed, without enthusiasm. “Scheisse to have to go through this a third time in one lifetime.”
The rear area was a scene of terror and misery. Masses of people were evacuating to the north and west. Some of these, it was hoped, would make it to the underground cities constructed in Scandinavia. Others could seek shelter in the Alps; the Swiss had made that clear enough.
But they had to retreat, now, to shelter behind the Rhein. Even with the threatening breach presented by the enemy presence on their captured bridge, it was the last defensible obstacle the Fatherland owned, excepting only the easily turned Elbe.
Mühlenkampf knew that the Elbe was a place for enemy armies to meet, not for friendly ones to defend from.
If only he had a prayer of retaking the bridgehead. But without the 47th Korps, and Brasche’s 501st Brigade, he knew he hadn’t any chance of doing so any more. He had tried.
It wasn’t that the Bundeswehr were bad troops, anymore. The last two campaigns for the defense of Germany had seen them make vast strides. The real swine in the army, officer or enlisted, were in penal battalions. Executing or, minimally, defanging those civilians who had interfered with the army’s training and morale had also helped. But the 47th Korps had started with a bigger cadre, of generally rougher, tougher, more combat-experienced men. A
nd that made all the difference.
He thought he had a prayer of containing the bridgehead, if only the armies in the Rheinland could be withdrawn to the safety of the Rhine’s eastern bank. Reluctantly, fearfully, by no means certain he was right, Mühlenkampf ordered his operations officer, “Call off the attack to the bridge. Leave the infantry and penal korps behind to contain the enemy, along with one panzer and one panzer grenadier division detached from the army heavy Korps. Take the rest of the Army Group — Bah! Army Group? We have about a single army left under our control — north to the other bridges. Cross them over and have them help the troops in the Rheinland to disengage and withdraw.
“And get me the Kanzler. I need to ask for permission to use a few of the neutron weapons.”
Tiger Brünnhilde, Grosslanghaim,
Franconia, Germany, 13 January 2008
The crew of the tank, not least Prael, were sweating profusely, though the carefully controlled internal climate was not the cause of the sweat. Instead, it was the repeated near misses from Posleen space-borne weapons that had the crew in sweat-soaked clothing.
Brünnhilde had more elevation that the earlier model Tigers. These latter were used in mass, and so could generally count on the dead space above the turret being covered by another tank, standing off at a distance. Brünnhilde, however, fought alone and so had to be able to cover more of her own dead space. Moreover, while Anna’s more or less conventional, albeit highly souped up, twelve-inch gun had a mighty recoil, and could not be elevated too much without having made the model too high for more usual engagements, Brunhilde’s railgun had comparatively little recoil. Thus, she could elevate to eighty degrees above the horizontal.
