“We should get some warning of their advance, Herr Leutnant,” Loeb reassured him. “They can’t just drop in on us.”
“They did drop in on Berlin,” Kurt pointed out.
“And it cost them a number of highly-trained commandos, for nothing,” Loeb said. “I don’t think we’re important enough to risk another commando unit.”
“I hope you’re right,” Kurt said.
He sighed, inwardly, as he peered into the darkness. They were only twenty kilometres from the border, which was hardly a solid line. There had been enough outbursts of firing between patrol groups to keep everyone on their toes. A Panzer division could cross the border and reach the town within an hour, perhaps less, if nothing slowed them down. It was quite possible the war would end, for him, on the day it started.
“We’re only a handful of soldiers,” Loeb pointed out. “Their commandos are worth far more than any of us.”
Kurt shot him a sharp look. “Thanks.”
But it was true, he knew. SS Commandos went through absolute hell to qualify. Indeed, if the more striking rumours were true, a third of each class of volunteers didn’t survive the training program. The survivors were tough, willing to do anything for the Reich, but they couldn’t be expended lightly. There were nowhere near enough commandos for them to be treated like ordinary soldiers.
“Get some rest, Herr Leutnant,” Loeb advised. “It won’t be long now.”
Kurt nodded and took one last look into the darkness. It was unbroken; there wasn’t a single light for miles, not after the military had declared martial law and threatened to arrest anyone who showed a light. He couldn’t help wondering if they’d gone back in time, to the days before electric light and other modern conveniences. Fredrick the Great would have told him he was being an idiot, if they’d spoken. His men had campaigned under far more disagreeable conditions.
“I know,” he said. “They’ll be on their way soon.”
Chapter Twelve
Near Warsaw, Germany Prime
13 September 1985
Obergefreiter Hugo Stellmann hated to admit it, but he was bored. He’d hoped for an exciting assignment when he’d joined the Heer, yet so far the only real excitement had come from marching up and down in front of Hamburg’s Town Hall. Even the uprising hadn’t brought him any excitement, save for an assignment to the border and orders to guard one of the autobahn bridges over a river. He’d found himself checking refugees as they headed west, ordering them to wait until they could be processed and entered into the system, but it hadn’t been particularly exciting. And even the trickle of refugees had dried up, over the last four days.
He scowled as he glared eastwards. He’d never liked the SS, although – if he were being honest with himself – it had more to do with their success with women than any moral objections. There wasn’t a blonde-haired girl his own age or near it who hadn’t done her duty with one of the black-shirted men, marrying him and bearing his children while Hugo himself remained without a wife or a girlfriend. They were overrated, he felt; they had hundreds of little blessings from the government while men like Hugo, the ones who did all the work, had nothing. Surely, a wife wasn’t too much to ask.
At least the bastards won’t be chasing women over here any longer, he thought, as he peered into the darkness. The first hints of sunrise were slowly rising above the horizon. They can ravish their way through Germany East for all I care.
He lit a cigarette, shaking his head slowly. His father had died when he was very young, leaving his mother struggling to bring up four children on their father’s pension. She didn’t have the connections to organise marriages for her children, even if she’d wanted to. It was yet another reason to hate the SS. Everyone knew that SS dependents not only received bigger pensions, they were regularly introduced to prospective partners as soon as they reached marriageable age. And the SS made sure that their men were rewarded for marrying and bringing more black-shirted brats into the world.
And they blew up the economy while they were doing it, he thought. They just couldn’t pay for all their children.
He snorted to himself. It would have been funny, if he hadn’t been so sure that men like him were going to get the shaft as a result of their gross carelessness. He didn’t pretend to understand basic economics – he’d never done very well at school – but it was evident, to him, that one couldn’t spend more money than one earned. God knew the bank managers had laughed at him when he’d gone, cap in hand, for a loan. They knew better than to loan money that probably couldn’t be repaid.
The sound of engines echoed in the air. He glanced up, one hand reaching for the pistol at his belt, then relaxed as he realised they came from the west. Their relief was due early in the morning, thankfully. They’d be rotated back to the inner defence lines, where they’d probably wind up digging more trenches… it was unlikely they’d have any hope of actual leave. But who knew? Perhaps some enterprising bastard had set up a brothel near the front lines and started charging soldiers for entry. Hugo didn’t like the idea of dipping his wick in some Untermensch bitch on a work-contract, but it was better than nothing. And there was no hope of a little Hugo popping out, nine months later. The bitches in the brothels were always sterile.
He turned as the truck approached, a simple troop transport. There were literally hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of them in the Reich. Many were sold to civilians, allowing the factories to make a profit while keeping careful track of where the transports could be found, if there was a sudden demand for additional logistic support. The driver waved cheerfully to Hugo as he parked on one end of the bridge, then beckoned him forward. Hugo nodded and walked over to the cab…
…And found himself staring straight into the barrel of a gun.
“Shout and you’re dead,” a voice hissed. He looked up into a pair of merciless eyes. “Do as I tell you and you will live this day.”
Hugo swallowed, hard. He felt liquid trickling down his legs as his bladder gave way. He was dead. He was so dead. He’d been watching for trouble from the east, but it had never occurred to him that he should be wary of anyone approaching the bridge. The man covering him had to be a commando. He would shoot Hugo down without hesitation if Hugo gave him the slightest excuse. And there was nothing he could do.
The back of the lorry opened, revealing a dozen men wearing standard grey urban combat uniforms. They moved like trained professionals, their eyes scanning the bridge for signs of trouble while holding their weapons at the ready. None of them paid much attention to Hugo save for brief glances to confirm he was no threat. For once, Hugo was almost grateful. The SS would kill him in a moment if they believed otherwise.
“Call your men,” his captor ordered. “Now!”
Hugo wanted to refuse, but he knew it would be pointless. His men were already trapped within the guardhouse. Resistance would last as long as it took the commandos to roll a grenade into the tiny room… he’d been a fool, allowing them to remain in the concrete guardhouse. It would have been smarter to have an Observation Post established near the bridge.