Hatred seethed in his gut as he prowled forward, listening carefully for the first hint of an enemy presence. How dare the westerners turn on the Reich? Didn’t they know the fate that awaited the Volk, if the Volk grew weak? Hennecke had seen the aftermath of too many insurgent attacks – in both Germany East and South Africa – to have any delusions about what would happen if he fell into their hands. It was the kind of madness that could never be allowed to run free. Give an Untermensch a hint of freedom – as a handful of idiots had found out over the years – and he would stick a knife in your chest, castrate your sons and rape your daughters. He knew it, as surely as he knew his own name. The Volk could not allow itself to become weak or the Volk would be lost.
Sweat trickled down his back as he eyed the forest, wondering if the enemy were lurking within the shadows. He could hear explosions and gunfire in the distance, but there was no sign of anything hostile nearby. That proved nothing, he reminded himself, as they inched forwards. The insurgents in Germany East were masters at using the endless forests and mountains for camouflage, knowing that a single mistake would attract a prowling aircraft or a commando team. Those that weren’t experts had been exterminated long ago. He tensed, again, as he heard something fluttering within the darkness, then sighed in relief as he saw a bird flying through the trees. But what had disturbed the bird…
He hit the ground, instinctively, as a shot cracked out. A soldier behind him wasn’t so lucky; he crumpled to the ground, gasping in pain. Hennecke ignored him as he used hand-signals to deploy his men, ordering one section to lay down covering fire while a second section crawled off to the right, trying to outflank the enemy position. He took command of the third section and led it towards the enemy personally, even though he knew he should probably stay in the rear. The Hauptsturmfuehrer might have been able to lead from the rear, but Hennecke knew he didn’t have that sort of authority.
The sound of shooting grew louder as the first section opened fire, bullets snapping through the trees and sending branches crashing to the ground. Hennecke would have been surprised if they actually hit anything – the enemy had had plenty of time to prepare their ambush – but it would certainly make it harder for the bastards to retreat. Unless, of course, they’d prepared their fallback position too. Hennecke disliked the idea of running from the enemy as much as the next Waffen-SS Stormtrooper, but there was nothing to be gained by sacrificing their lives for nothing. Their enemies had to know they wouldn’t slow down the advance with a handful of shots…
He paused as he saw the enemy position come into view, a firing point that had clearly been prepared some time in advance. But then, securing one of the roads that led off the autobahn was clearly a priority for any attacking force. He paused long enough to signal his men, then unhooked a grenade from his belt and threw it towards the enemy. The enemy turned, too late, as the grenade exploded. Hennecke barked orders for the first section to stop firing as it detonated, then led the charge forward. A man turned, trying to bring his rife up into firing position; Hennecke shot him in the chest and watched him crumple backwards, feeling nothing. The traitor had gotten away lightly. A second man hurled his rifle to the ground and held his hands in the air. Hennecke kicked him down, searched him roughly and then kept a foot on his neck as the second section caught up with them.
“Two prisoners,” he noted. “And four dead men.”
He glared down at the prisoners, quietly accessing them. Very few of the stormtroopers had any respect for the Wehrmacht, but even they doubted that the Wehrmacht was composed of overweight soldiers. The basic training routines were largely identical, after all. No, the men who had barred their way were reservists, men called back to the colours to fight after a long spell in civilian life. He felt a sudden surge of hatred as he took in their condition. The prisoners had been living the easy life in Germany Prime, while he and his comrades had been fighting and dying to cleanse Germany East of its Untermenschen infestation. And now they had had the nerve to try to bar their way into Germany Prime…
Orders made it clear; prisoners were to be taken, if possible. But he would have to spare a couple of men to guard the prisoners, at least until an MP unit arrived to take them into custody and transport them to a detention camp on the other side of the river. He couldn’t spare the men, he told himself; he was damned if he was risking the offensive for the sake of two traitors. Besides, he was sure no one would really care if the prisoners survived or not. They would never be released, not after taking up arms against the Waffen-SS; they’d spend the rest of their life in a concentration camp.
He cocked his pistol and pointed it at the first prisoner’s head. The man’s eyes went wide with fear and shock, even though he’d known that stormtroopers were rarely in the habit of taking prisoners. Hennecke smelt the tell-tale scent of urine as he took aim, then pulled the trigger. The prisoner jerked; his comrade opened his mouth to scream, but Hennecke shot him before he could make a sound. None of his men objected. They all knew what happened to prisoners, particularly insurgents. Indeed, Hennecke had given them an easier fate than they deserved.
Bastards, Hennecke thought.
“Leave the bodies,” he ordered, as they scooped up the weapons. “Let’s move.”
“The advance is proceeding as well as can be expected, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said. “We are advancing along the planned routes, slowly clearing out the enemy pockets as we encounter them.”
“Good,” Holliston said. “And the air defence of the bridges?”
Alfred kept his voice steady with an effort. Someone had clearly been telling tales to Germanica. He wasn’t really surprised to know there was an agent or two within his command staff – although he supposed it could have been an officer attached to the bridges – but it was still annoying. Holliston was a born intriguer, with political skills that Alfred knew outmatched his own, yet he was no military officer. He might well demand something his men couldn’t offer.
“The defences have been reinforced,” he said, fighting down the urge to point out that he’d been assured that most of the enemy aircraft would be put out of service. “There will not be a second successful attack on the bridges.”
“Good,” Holliston said, after a long chilling pause. “And the enemy pockets?”
“They’re behaving as we anticipated,” Alfred said. If the traitors had managed to move hundreds of panzers from west to east, they might well have taken the risk of thrusting forwards and catching his forces as they tried to cross the river. “They’re engaging us briefly, then falling back. I believe they are very definitely conserving their resources.”
“Then continue the advance,” Holliston ordered. “They are to have no time to prepare a tougher defence.”
Alfred scowled. Holliston didn’t see it, but the traitors were mounting a tough defence. Instead of lining up to be destroyed – that sort of idiotic behaviour was only seen in bad movies about French soldiers – they were slowing his panzers down, putting the offensive behind schedule while gathering their own forces. He’d assumed, right from the start, that there would be slippage, that matters would not proceed as fast as Holliston hoped. He had seen enough exercises to prove, to his own satisfaction, that timetables were nothing more than rough estimates.