Trouble in the Wind

by Chris Kennedy

  He looked up as he heard a motorcycle approaching from the east. The rider waved to the men as he drove through the town and came to a halt by the HQ. Hans stood and hurried to him, desperate for news. But the rider merely shrugged and hurried into the building. Hans groaned, then waited. It was nearly an hour before the rider and an officer hurried back out into the cold air.

  “You have command,” the officer said. “I have to go back to HQ.”

  Hans watched him go, feeling his last shred of hope evaporate. The hordes of enemy tanks were steadily grinding towards him, smashing the Fatherland under their treads. And, above, he could hear hundreds of aircraft flying through the sky. He knew it was only a matter of time before they started to bomb his position. There was no point in trying to hide. The town was an obvious chokepoint. He’d have been more impressed if he’d thought someone higher up the chain of command was knocking down bridges and tearing up roads and doing hundreds of other things to slow the enemy down and buy time.

  He looked at his men, gathered in front of the radio and felt an insane urge to cry. He didn’t know any of them, apart from Keitel and Adolf. A number seemed to have vanished over the last few hours, abandoning their comrades and heading east. The radio claimed that deserters were being shot, but Hans didn’t believe it. The remnants of the once-great army were nowhere near that organised. A man could throw away his uniform and claim to be a civilian in a protected category and…who could say otherwise? The days when a deserter couldn’t hope to hide were long gone.

  A thunderclap echoed across the town, followed rapidly by another. The enemy had started shelling again, firing ranging shots to check their targets before they fired a full barrage. He heard the sound of tanks advancing in the distance, their crews readying themselves for yet another brief and utterly one-sided encounter. They’d smash his defences with ease…they might not even notice they had encountered defences. And the infantry behind them would mop up his men and move on.

  “The defenders of the Fatherland are strong,” the radio proclaimed. Hans had no idea who was speaking, but the voice was starting to grate. Some pompous ass with good connections, probably some aristocratic brat important enough to be granted a pass from the trenches of the war. “They will not falter.”

  “Shut up!” Hans shot the radio, then glared at his men. “Take your positions.”

  He forced himself to wait as the sound of advancing tanks grew louder. The enemy had to come through them, unless they wanted to take their tanks cross-country. Perhaps they did. Rumour claimed the French wanted to starve the Germans into submission, even though they’d already won the war. Destroying acres of farmland would make it difficult, if not impossible, to feed the civilian population. Hans believed they’d do if, if they were given a chance. And why not? The Germans had done worse when they’d occupied parts of France, back when they’d been sure they’d win the war.

  And now the French will be chasing the ladies of Berlin, he thought, morbidly. And laughing at us as we starve to death.

  Hans’ despair grew as the first enemy tank came into view. It was a monstrous beast, blowing smoke as it ground forward. Others followed, the ground shaking as they advanced on his position. Hans closed his eyes for a long moment, clutching his pistol in one hand. He didn’t have a hope in hell of stopping them and he knew it. They knew it too, if they had the slightest idea he was even there. They’d crush his men and move onwards, advancing right into the heart of the Fatherland until they reached Berlin itself.

  Surely, he told himself, the provisional government will see sense long before Berlin itself is taken.

  “Order the men to fire one round and then retreat,” Hans told Keitel. There was no point in trying to make a stand. It would just get them all killed. “We can’t stop them.”

  “We can,” Adolf insisted. His dark eyes gleamed. “We can hold them…”

  The tanks opened fire. Hans crouched in the trench, feeling uncomfortably like he was lying in a grave. Bullets flew over his head, so close he was certain they were tearing through his clothes and scratching his bare skin. He knew it was his imagination, he knew it couldn’t possibly be real, but the sense of being utterly naked was irresistible. There was no point in returning fire, not with his pistol. He crawled through the trench, back into the town. A couple of the houses had been turned into strongpoints. They’d probably slow the tanks down for a handful of seconds. Who knew? It might just be long enough for him to get the rest of his men out.

  “Johan is dead,” someone shouted. “They killed him!”

  “Move,” Keitel snarled. The sergeant caught the younger man and shook him, violently. “Or you’ll join him.”

  The ground shook, time and time again, as shells landed in the rear of the town. It had been a nice place to live, once. Now…Hans shook his head as he took cover behind a house, knowing it might draw fire at any moment. Half the buildings were already on fire, the remainder falling to pieces or sheltering soldiers who’d die the moment their homes were targeted for destruction. He felt his heart turn cold as he saw an enemy tank run over a mine and explode, feeling a flicker of glee a second before it was quenched by another tank rumbling past the burning wreckage and pressing onwards. There was nothing glorious in war, not now. There were no heroic cavalry charges, no infantry making brave stands against eastern barbarians and tribesmen. There wasn’t even any honour or glory or shared brotherhood between men who fought together during the day and drank together at night. There was just an endless row of machines, crushing men beneath their treads even as they stripped the glory from war.

  Hans remembered his father’s stories and shuddered. The old man had fought in the last war. He’d glossed over a lot, Hans realised now. He’d…lied, perhaps. War wasn’t glorious…it had never been glorious. And the men in Berlin, whoever they were, knew they were sending thousands of men to their deaths, for nothing. It was only a matter of time before Berlin fell, if they didn’t surrender first. There would be nothing left to fight for. The Reich was doomed. It had died when the Kaiser had fled for neutral territory.

  “We lost all, but seventeen,” Keitel said, as they gathered at the edge of town. The sergeant sounded as though he was at the end of his endurance. The men didn’t look any better. A couple looked shell-shocked, as if they’d snapped under the weight of enemy fire; the remainder looked tired, worn and beaten. “I think…”

  “Put down your guns,” Hans ordered, harshly. He suspected they were effectively out of ammunition. It didn’t matter. Even if they had full loads, they didn’t have anything that could stop the tanks. “It’s time to surrender.”

  “But we can still win!” Adolf brandished his rifle. “We can stop them.”

  “We can’t.” Hans allowed his gaze to move from face to face, silently noting how many agreed with him. All, but two seemed to understand. “Anyone who wants to go can go. Now. The rest of us will walk into a POW camp.”

  “Treason,” Adolf said. He sounded stunned, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I…”

  Hans shot him straight through the chest. Adolf’s body hit the ground. The men looked on in shock.

  “If anyone wants to leave,” Hans repeated, “they can go now. The rest of us will surrender.”

  He put the pistol down, heedless of the danger. One of his men could put a bullet in his back, if he wished. In truth, Hans no longer cared. He was tired and cold and hungry and he knew he’d been put out on a limb to die. He wanted to march back to Berlin and drag the rats out of their lair, but…he knew it would never happen. He couldn’t endure any more. He turned and raised his hands, walking in the open and hoping the tanks realised that he was trying to surrender. If they didn’t…at least it would be quick.

  Behind him, the body of Adolf Hitler lay in the mud.

  * * * * *

  Author’s Note

  If Germany had tried to continue the fight in 1919, she would have encountered a number of serious difficulties. The army knew it had
been beaten—the ‘stab in the back’ myth didn’t start until after the war was over—and just about everything was in short supply. They had a handful of tanks and aircraft, but the Allies had more of everything, including food. Worse, perhaps, the government was not in complete control of the country, let alone the ‘independent’ forces fighting in the east. An attempt to continue the war, for whatever reason, would have ended very badly. The population would have starved if they hadn’t been conquered by the end of 1919.

  And yet, it might have worked out better in the long run. If the Germans knew they had been beaten in 1919, would they have been so quick to rally behind Hitler in 1939?

  Hitler himself served as a dispatch rider in the trenches, until he was wounded in a gas attack and sent to hospital. In this timeline, he leaves hospital in time to join the final defence of the Reich—whimsy on my part, I admit, but a world without Adolf Hitler would probably be an objectively better place. But then, no one in that world would know it.

  * * *

  Christopher G. Nuttall Bio

  Christopher Nuttall has been planning sci-fi books since he learned to read. Born and raised in Edinburgh, Chris created an alternate history website and eventually graduated to writing full-sized novels. Studying history independently allowed him to develop worlds that hung together and provided a base for storytelling. After graduating from university, Chris started writing full-time. As an indie author, he has published fifty novels and one novella (so far) through Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing.

  Professionally, he has published The Royal Sorceress, Bookworm, A Life Less Ordinary, Sufficiently Advanced Technology, The Royal Sorceress II: The Great Game and Bookworm II: The Very Ugly Duckling with Elsewhen Press, and Schooled in Magic through Twilight Times Books.

  As a matter of principle, all of Chris’s self-published Kindle books are DRM-free.

  Chris has a blog where he published updates, snippets and world-building notes at http://chrishanger.wordpress.com/ and a website at http://www.chrishanger.net.

  Chris is currently living in Edinburgh with his partner, muse, and critic, Aisha.

  # # # # #

  Fighting Spirit by Philip S. Bolger

  Supreme Allied Command

  Sharm El-Sheikh, Egypt

  April 3, 1944

  Commander Seth Bailey walked through the door to the planning room, carrying a briefcase full of the Navy’s latest plans. The room was converted from some British colonial outpost—the whole place felt vaguely Victorian-meets-Arab. Numerous boards had been set up to track everything from casualties to fuel expenditure rates. Busy men and a few women in American uniforms—Army, Navy, and Marines—hustled by, and the steady click of typewriters generated the background hum of a theater command. He noticed there were a lot of Japanese staff planners, though all of them were wearing Imperial Japanese Navy uniforms—only one was clad in the uniform of the Imperial Japanese Army.

  Bailey walked up to the desk of a Marine colonel and saluted.

  “Sir, Commander Bailey reporting with the Combined Fleet’s Plans.”

  The colonel returned the salute and had one of his aides take the plans briefcase.

  “Take a seat, Bailey,” he said. “I’m Colonel Dan Kemp, chief of staff of this whole nightmare. I take it fleet’s sent you here as liaison?”

  “Yes sir,” Bailey said. “That seems to be my job a lot these days.”

  “It’s not glamorous, Bailey, but someone’s got to do it. How much landlubber do you speak?”

  “If it doesn’t involve small arms, none at all,” Bailey said.

  “Before I put you in front of a bunch of brass,” said Kemp, “I’m gonna prime you up on where we are. Since you boys in the Navy kicked Hitler’s ass out by the Horn of Africa, we’ve made some progress. Come with me to the map.”

  Bailey followed Colonel Kemp to a large map of the Middle East, adorned with symbols for military units.

  “In three months,” Kemp said, “we managed to thrash Mussolini’s boys in Ethiopia. The Free British and Free French, along with the Ethiopians, are driving north from there through Sudan. We’ve got our 3rd Armored Division with them.”

  He motioned to the map, pointing at some symbols near the Atlantic coast of Africa.

  “On the other end, Operation Torch is a go. This one had to be all-American; too tough to pull Japanese assets from the Pacific here, especially with the turbulence in Indochina and the Middle East. The Krauts’ U-boat force did some damage to the invasion force, but Jerry learned the hard way that it’s one thing to sink trawlers and another entirely to go after a full fleet invasion force.”

  Bailey whistled. Enough escorts to make a submariner’s nightmare, he thought.

  “The Vichy haven’t put up much resistance,” said Kemp. “They saw the writing on the wall from the brush-up in Indochina, and they ain’t wild about speaking German, but they’re still manning positions. So that leads us to this, the main effort.”

  He pointed to the map. The Suez Canal was covered with pins, each representing different units.

  “We’ve got the entirety of the Japanese Special Naval Landing Force, as well as two divisions of soldiers they trust.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, what was that? Trusted divisions?” asked Bailey. “I was just the liaison to Yamamoto, he mentioned nothing like that.”

  Kemp smiled. “‘Course he didn’t. The Japanese, they’re big on ‘face.’ Means they don’t like to look bad, think John Wayne, but if he could never stop being the guy he is in the pictures. This whole ‘trust’ thing is incredibly shameful to them, but simply put, they don’t trust their army right now, what with the coup and assassination attempts a decade ago, the whole ‘let’s start a fight with China and force the empire to go along’ gambit. When that failed, they had to sideline most of their army, which is why they’re pulling garrison duty on Formosa or confined to the home islands. Don’t bring it up around the Japanese; they’re sensitive, but yes…that’s the deal.”

  He went back to the board.

  “Here, just past the Suez, we’ve got three corps’ worth of troops—VI and VIII Corps, plus my old friends from 1st Marine Division from the US and the Japanese Naval Infantry Corps, which also has their army guys. We’ve got a problem, and that problem is Cairo.”

  “Right,” said Bailey. “Since the real problem is the Suez, and if the Krauts have a bunch of heavy hitters fortified in Cairo, it’s one quick movement to jeopardize the canal.”

  “And if they do that, with Britain currently speaking German, it’ll be that much harder to put American boots to Hitler’s ass,” said Kemp. “This is the main effort. We’re up against Erwin Rommel and his Afrika Korps. You ever heard of Rommel, Bailey?”

  Bailey nodded. “His name’s been in the newsreels.”

  “And the intel briefs,” said Kemp. “He’s a tough son of a bitch, and clever. When he realized he was being hit from three sides, he brought all his boys and all their toys into Egypt. Easy to be resupplied from Axis bases in the Med, and a way to contest the canal. Got his armor spread out across the Nile, and his infantry holding the city itself. Gonna be a bitch to dig him out. Intel thinks he’s not gonna stay on the defensive forever, so we need to strike fast, before he overwhelms our Sinai forces.”

  “What’s the plan?” asked Bailey. “I can tell you the Navy plans to support throughout the gulf, but presumably, you ground guys have something else going.”

  “Sure do,” Kemp said, grinning. “A two-corps offensive, kicking off tomorrow. First elements into the city will be the 45th Infantry Division. They were green boys six months ago, but since then they’ve fought in the biggest engagements we’ve had in this theater. They took the Suez, and they did so with some heavy losses. We’ve got replacements in, but they’re first in the pipe. Immediately following them will be 1 MARDIV, along with the Japanese SNLF Division covering the northern flank. Once this advance secures the outskirts, we’ll find out if Rommel has the stomach for a city fight.”


  “Wait, how much naval infantry do the Japanese have?” asked Bailey, quietly wishing he’d paid more attention to the land-centric intel briefing.

  Kemp looked at him. “They’ve got about a division and a half, plus their loyal army units. Their SNLF, though, they’re the real deal. Japanese Marines.” Kemp grinned broadly. “So you know they’re worth a damn.”

  “How long do we have to plan?” asked Bailey.

  Kemp shrugged. “Not long enough, so let’s get to it.”

  * * *

  Sergeant First Class Gary Kurtzhals took another pull on his Lucky Strike. Smoke breaks were his time to relax—a time where he didn’t have to worry what his crewmen were doing or what tasking the platoon leader or first sergeant might have. He could just relax, at least as much as he could relax clad in greasy tanker coveralls and sweating under the desert sun.

  He stared out at the wastes, all flat sand, with only the silhouettes of his unit’s tanks breaking up the endless dunes. Egypt was, as far as he could tell, a really lousy place to live. It wasn’t that it was ugly—hell, his home state of Nebraska got made fun of for being flat and boring—but more that it was the site of a war. Kurtzhals was sitting against the ruins of a German Panzer III medium tank. It wasn’t one he’d shot—it had been blown to smithereens years ago when the Free British were fighting their rearguard action here.

  That was what made Gary think it was such a lousy place to live. To live in Egypt meant to live in a war that didn’t show any sign of ending. The Germans had defeated the British, nearly entirely, and looked poised to be the masters of Europe, until the US and Japan entered the war, but none of that should’ve mattered to Egypt. They were just another battleground between stronger powers.