A nuke would clear the way, he thought. But that would open up Pandora’s Box.
Berlin was just too large, he noted, as he finally turned his attention to the map. The reports from inside the city hadn’t been very detailed, but between them, the aircraft and the recon reports he knew more than he wanted to know about the defences. Even trying to break through to the Reichstag would be a nightmare, particularly if the rest of the city was used as a base for the enemy to recuperate before launching a counterattack. About the only advantage he had was that the Fuhrer had told him that it didn’t matter if Berlin was reduced to rubble. The capital would be rebuilt after the war.
“The aircraft are taking off now,” Weineck reported. “They’ll be over their targets in five minutes.”
Alfred nodded, not trusting himself to speak. They’d moved every aircraft they could westwards, ranging from single-propeller hunters that had served in the counterinsurgency to fast-jet fighters that were normally charged with guarding the seas between Kamchatka and Alaska. Drawing down their airpower across Germany East was a calculated risk, one that could easily backfire if all hell broke loose. No matter who won the war, the Reich would be badly weakened for years to come. It was on the tip of his tongue to cancel the airstrike, but he knew it would be a waste of breath. The odds of winning the battle quickly were in no way improved by withholding the aircraft.
“Order the gunners to watch their targeting,” he said, instead. “We don’t want to accidentally hit the Reichstag.”
He scowled as Weineck turned away. He’d argued to leave the Reichstag alone until the battle actually began – there was no point in hoping for a surrender that was never going to come – and then shelling it into a pile of rubble, but the Fuhrer had overruled him. Karl Holliston wanted to sit in the Reichstag once again, as her lord and master – her Fuhrer – and he didn’t give a damn how many stormtroopers died to return him to Berlin. Or how many civilians… Berlin had had over three million citizens before the uprising. Now, with hundreds of thousands of refugees streaming into the city, the population could be a great deal higher. And far too many of them were about to die.
Shaking his head, he looked back towards Berlin as the flight of aircraft roared overhead, blocking out the sun. The Berliners were about to be exposed to the first full-scale airstrike since the Arab Rebellions had been brutally crushed…
…And, somehow, he knew it wasn’t going to be enough.
Too many men are going to die, he thought. And I can do nothing.
“Radar reports that hundreds of aircraft are inbound,” the young messenger gasped. “They’re coming!”
“You don’t say,” Kurt snapped. The aircraft were already in view, advancing towards the defence lines with stately malice. His ears were starting to hurt from the racket. He raised his voice, knowing the NCOs would pass on the warning. “Get down!”
He scowled at the messenger, who was staring around like a gormless idiot, then pulled him into the trench as the bombs started to fall. Darkness fell over him as the aircraft passed overhead, the droning rising and falling as a handful of aircraft were picked off by guided missiles and blown out of the air. The bombs started to detonate seconds later; he covered his ears, praying desperately that none of the bombs would find targets. If they didn’t land on the trench directly, he told himself, there was a good chance of survival…
The sound of explosions faded away as the aircraft banked, trying to avoid flying over the city. Several aircraft had been shot down over the last few days, their pilots bailing out only to drop down to a welcoming committee composed of angry civilians. They’d been lynched, the police idly standing by as the civilians tore the pilots asunder. After reading some of the horror stories from the east, as the SS brutally trampled its way westwards, Kurt found it hard to care.
“Shit,” the messenger breathed. “They destroyed the line.”
“Shut up,” Kurt ordered. A number of buildings had been knocked down, but the defence line was still largely intact. Hell, the rubble would make better barricades than flimsy warehouses that had been put together by the cheapest possible contractor. “Get back to the CP and tell them we’re still alive.”
He shoved the messenger towards the edge of the trench, then peered eastwards as the shells started to rain down on the city. This time, the shells were crashing down with terrifying force, rather than a handful of shells hurled into Berlin at random. The ground shook, time and time again, as the barrage crawled over their position and headed west. He heard someone scream, so loud he could hear it over the constant rumble of exploding shells, and knew one of his men had been hit. But there was no way to get him to a field hospital until the shellfire had finally come to an end.
“Mines,” someone shouted. “They’re dropping mines!”
Kurt swore under his breath. “Careful where you put your feet,” he bawled. The SS might not be planning to attack his position, then… unless they just didn’t give a damn about their own people. “Don’t go near one of the damned things!”
He swallowed, hard. Shell-dropped mines were absolute nightmares, although they didn’t tend to bury themselves automatically. The ground would have to be swept carefully before it could be declared safe. They rarely carried enough explosive to kill, but a soldier who lost a leg in combat would be rendered useless, even if he did get rushed hastily to the field hospital. Surely, if the SS was reduced to dropping the tiny weapons on his position, they weren’t actually planning to attack…
“Incoming,” Loeb shouted. “We have incoming!”
Kurt turned, hefting his rifle; he swore out loud as he saw the grey-clad figures moving slowly towards him. They were good, he noted; one section moved forward while two more covered them, using every last chunk of debris to keep themselves hidden from watching eyes. And they didn’t seem to be firing too… hell, the bombardment had tailed off completely, as if the enemy had run out of shells.
Or as if they don’t want to kill their own people, he thought, darkly. That would be very bad for their morale.
He felt a surge of hatred as the stormtroopers advanced closer. Konrad had been alright – for a young man who was courting Kurt’s sister – but far too many other SS stormtroopers were bastards. Kurt wouldn’t forget any of the atrocities in a hurry, or what it meant for the civilians caught in the city. Half the population was female… they’d be raped and then murdered by the SS, if they were lucky. The remainder, if rumour was to be believed, were being taken east. He didn’t want to think about what would happen to them there.
“Take aim,” he ordered, choosing a target. The SS man was sneaking closer, using his helmet to hide his face. A rapist, perhaps? Or merely one of the monsters who’d slaughtered the population of dozens of towns and villages. “Fire on my command.”
He forced himself to remain calm, thinking hard. None of his superiors had expected the line to last indefinitely, not when the SS would bring overwhelming force to bear against any prospective weak point. Their orders were to give the enemy a bloody nose and then fall back, something that reminded him far too much of their earlier orders. But Berlin was huge and they had plenty of space to trade for time. Let the SS have the outer edge of the defence lines, if they wished. The mortars already had the area firmly targeted.