Soldiers found different ways of denying death. Wolff knew if he died, it would be for the Fallschirmjäger, the man’s personal god. Schulte was cynical and chased skirts. Muller had his sense of family honor to uphold. Weber held to his belief in vast conspiracies against Germany. Animal antagonized everybody.
Steiner just laughed at it. The psychotic SS, the shrieking officers, the crazy Italians, the spunky Americans, the stiff Brits, the savage bloodshed over patches of dirt. These were all jokes that told themselves. The whole war was a big joke, a cosmic joke about the ridiculous things people believed and what they’d kill and die for. Limitless fodder for endless sarcasm.
But this. This just wasn’t funny anymore.
A voice above him: “What’s wrong with you?”
Steiner looked up through blurred vision to take in three dark figures standing over him. Americans.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer, as he faced the inevitability of shame for the rest of his life, something no amount of humor could ever help him deny.
“Thinking about what you did, you fucking Kraut?” The man kicked him hard with his boot. “I know you speak English. Answer me.”
“We did not know,” Steiner sighed in his heavily accented English.
“You knew. All you Krauts knew.”
Another American said, “Or you didn’t want to know.”
“Maybe he thought a guy like Hitler would never, ever do something like this.”
“What could I do?” Steiner moaned.
He was one man, fighting for his country and following orders. His unit had never abused prisoners or killed civilians.
What could he do? What could one man have done?
Nonetheless, the shame crushed him.
“What could you do, Fritz? How about kill yourself—”
“Do it,” Steiner said.
The Americans looked at each other. “Do what?”
“I know why you followed me here. I want you to do it.”
The Americans said nothing. The gravity knife one of the paratroopers held glimmered in the starlight. The air thickened with impending violence.
Make it quick, Steiner thought.
“Christ, look at him,” one of the Americans said. “I can’t.”
“Because we aren’t him, Escobedo.”
“Better he live with what he did,” the third said. “It’s punishment enough.”
Another man stepped out of the hangar. “You boys have three seconds before I put my boot up each of your sorry asses.”
The Americans jumped. “Sorry, Sarge.”
One spat on Steiner’s shoulder. “Maybe another time, Fritz.”
“Back in your bunks, you stupid idiots,” the newcomer growled. “We’re seeing action tomorrow night. Get your shut-eye while you can.”
The men skulked back into the hangar under the sergeant’s frosty glare. The sergeant approached Steiner and sat next to him, looking up at the stars.
“Weather’s clearing,” the man said. “We’ll be able to launch bombers and fighters to help out our guys fighting at the Meuse. It’ll buy us time to do our jobs. Your officers told you we’re jumping tomorrow?”
Steiner nodded. His mouth had gone dry. He was shivering with burnt adrenaline. He’d thought the Americans were going to put him out of his misery.
“I’m Sergeant Pierce,” the American told him. “You speak English, right?”
“Ja,” Steiner said. “A little.”
“You come out here to commit suicide by American?”
“Everybody I know back home might be dead because of a madman for whom I fought for years.”
During the war, everybody horrible thing he’d had to do with his MG42, he’d stuffed it in his rucksack. A little more weight to carry every day. The weight of at least twenty Americans mowed down under his gun’s withering fire.
This new weight might be too much to carry.
“We fought those things at Bastogne before we ran out of ammo and ran like hell,” said Pierce. “It was hell. Those men who almost jumped you, they lost a lot of friends.” He sighed. “Even if my boys survive this, I don’t know how many of them are going to be right in the head at the end of it.”
Steiner understood. The Americans carried their own unbearable weight.
“Are you still loyal to Hitler?” Pierce added. “Are you fighting for him now?”
“Nein.”
“Good.”
Rage burned in Steiner’s chest now. “Fuck Hitler.”
“Don’t fight for him then. Don’t even fight for Germany. I’ve got a suggestion exactly where to put your loyalty and lay down your life.”
Steiner frowned. “Do not ask me to fight for America.”
“That’s not what I’m saying, pal.”
“Then where? Where should I put my loyalty?”
“The human race.”
“The human race,” Steiner echoed.
“Yeah. Fight for that. Our countries, this war, none of it matters anymore. Not when facing this. We’re all in this together. And we happen to need you. And when I say ‘we,’ I mean anybody with a pulse.”
Steiner thought about it. He couldn’t erase the stain, but he could make amends. “I will fight.”
Sergeant Pierce stood and dusted his pants. “That’s good to hear. Because if we don’t do our part, it’s the end for all of us.”
CHAPTER NINE
MISSION
The Fallschirmjäger tramped into a separate hangar used for the mission briefing. Oberfeldwebel Wolff took his seat in one of the folding chairs and lit his pipe. Schulte sat next to him and crossed his legs with a futile sigh. Schneider’s bulk filled the chair on the other side, releasing a sulfurous fart.
The officers had told the paratroopers they were jumping tonight, weather permitting. The Fallschirmjäger knew they were going to Berlin. Otherwise, they had few details, which would be forthcoming.
By tonight, Wolff would be back in the field braving the elements, hard fighting, fuckups, and bad rations.
A hard existence, being in combat, but it was the devil he knew. It beat idleness. He wanted to be useful. He wanted to end this scourge.
The last of what was left of the 3FJR, 550 strong, marched into the room and took their seats facing a stage and enormous map taped to the wall. The air filled with babble and cigarette smoke.
The map showed Berlin.
Oberst Heilman stomped up the steps onto the stage carrying a wooden pointer as long as a spear.
At the sight of their fierce and vaunted commander, the paratroopers rapped their knuckles against their metal chairs, creating a racket like military drumming.
Heilman said, “Fallschirmjäger, destiny has an odd sense of humor.”
The last of the knocking, the German version of applause, died out.
The commander extended his pointer and slapped it against the map behind him. “Our destiny is taking us to Berlin to save our nation, to save all nations, from a unique enemy that has united us with our former foes. Operation Valhalla.”
“Couldn’t they pick a better name than a place where heroes go after they die?” Schulte muttered next to him.
Wolff was thinking about what Heilman had said. He didn’t care about other nations, not really. Less than a week ago, he’d fought to subjugate the whole world to Germany’s will. He wanted his country to survive above all others. For that alone, he was all in for this operation.
The pointer shifted to a section in downtown Berlin. Tiergarten. “There is an Army Research Center located in the park here on its western side.”
Obergruppenführer Wolfensohn chimed in. “The special projects research facility was constructed in Berlin due to enhanced security need. It was built in the park on the assumption the Allies would not bomb it. However, as it conducted biological weapons research, most of the four-level facility is underground for the city’s protection. The most vital research is on the bottom level.”