“Hauptmann Wieland,” a voice called.
Kurt looked up, suppressing a flicker of irritation when he saw the speaker. The boy – Kurt would have been astonished if he was actually old enough to enlist, in a more rational age – looked as tired as Kurt felt, although it didn’t look as though he was doing anything more dangerous than taking messages forwards and backwards across the battlefield. But then, Kurt had to admit, that could be very dangerous. The SS snipers were advancing forward, ready to put a bullet in anyone foolish enough to show themselves too openly. He would have bet half his salary, if he thought he had a hope of collecting it, that a number of other messengers had died running through the lines.
He scowled, inwardly, as he waved the boy over. Johan – Kurt’s younger brother – definitely looked older than the messenger. Kurt had no idea where Johan was – he’d volunteered to join the military shortly after the uprising – but he hoped his brother was safe. And yet, safety was increasingly an illusion in Berlin. SS shellfire had knocked down hundreds of buildings, trying to disrupt the defenders as the stormtroopers pushed forward.
“Herr Hauptmann,” the boy said. His eyes were alight with something. It took Kurt a moment to recognise that it was hero-worship. “I have a message for you.”
Kurt sighed, inwardly. Hardly anyone used paper messages these days, not when a messenger’s body might be retrieved by the wrong side. It was a shame that the field telephones were unreliable, too. The damned SS had known precisely where to aim their guns to do maximum damage. He met the young boy’s eyes and nodded impatiently, silently urging him to get on with it. His body was just too tired to curse the youngster for not giving him the message at once.
“You are to report to the Reichstag,” the young boy said. “Your CO has already approved the transfer.”
Kurt felt his eyes narrow. There was nothing for him in the Reichstag, certainly not as far as he knew. Gudrun wouldn’t have called him out of the front lines, would she? She certainly hadn’t arranged his promotion when she’d had the political power to do almost anything, although he knew that abusing the power would have been a good way to lose it. And yet, why would anyone else call him to the Reichstag. He was a mere Hauptmann, not a Field Marshal! Orders would normally pass through several higher ranks before they reached him.
“I understand,” he said, taking a look at his men. Two-thirds of them were trying to catch some sleep, too used to the endless bombardment to allow it to keep them from resting; the remainder were trying, hard, to entertain themselves before they went back to the war. “I’ll be on my way in two minutes.”
He sighed inwardly, then waved to Loeb. If he was lucky, this – whatever it was – could be resolved quickly, allowing him to return to the front. The men under his command were his men. He shared their trials and tribulations and, in exchange, they respected him. He’d worked hard to build up that rapport, damn it! He didn’t want to lose his connection to his men, simply because he’d been called to the Reichstag. Unless he was in deep trouble, of course.
Not likely, he thought. They’d have sent the MPs to arrest me if I was in trouble.
“I’ve been called out of the line,” he said, bluntly. Loeb nodded, his face showing no visible reaction. “I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
“We’re due to rotate back into the front lines in two hours, Herr Hauptmann,” Loeb reminded him. “Do you think you’ll be back by then?”
“If I’m not, take command yourself,” Kurt ordered. Loeb had more experience than his entire graduating class put together. He was damned if he was allowing a green officer to take command of his unit, not when they were fighting for their lives and freedom. “Don’t let the bastards get any closer.”
Loeb nodded – they both knew it was a tall order – then saluted as Kurt turned and walked away, following the messenger towards the rear of the lines. He kept his head down, trying to ignore the handful of bodies on the ground. No one had yet had time to draw them to one of the mass graves, let alone give them a decent burial. Standard procedures were to dispose of bodies as quickly as possible, just to keep disease from spreading, but procedures were steadily breaking down under the onslaught. The bodies might have to wait until nightfall before they were finally recovered and buried.
He shuddered as they reached the edge of the lines and hurried into the city itself. The streets were almost deserted, save for emergency vehicles; the windows were boarded up or covered over to minimise the danger of flying glass. He saw a handful of civilians on the streets; he winced, inwardly, as he saw a pair of young girls, no older than Gudrun. Once, he might have tried to strike up a conversation, but he didn’t have the energy. And they barely even noticed him as they staggered home. They looked alarmingly thin for girls who should have had more than enough to eat before the uprising.
The fear on the streets was almost palpable. Berlin had always been a city of fear – he didn’t understand how Gudrun had found the nerve to challenge the government on its own territory – but this was different. The fear of the police, of ever-listening ears, of schoolmasters who watched for the slightest hint of independent thought was gone, replaced by the fear of incoming shells and the coming holocaust when the SS finally breached the defences and stormed the city. Hundreds of buildings were damaged, dozens more lay in ruins, struck by shells and collapsed into rubble. He hated to think of just how many people had died in the fighting so far. It was possible that no one would ever know for sure.
“The guards will see you though the checkpoints,” the messenger said, as they finally approached the Reichstag. Kurt didn’t know if he should be relieved or angry that most of the buildings around them were intact, save for one that had been struck by a cruise missile in the early days of the war. “And they’ll tell you where to go.”
Kurt nodded, tartly, as he strode up to the first checkpoints. He’d expected headquarters troops – wearing clean uniforms, shiny boots and unearned medals – but the troops guarding the building were very clearly experienced soldiers. They wore urban combat outfits and carried their weapons at the ready, clearly unconcerned about threatening high-ranking visitors to the Reichstag. Kurt kept his expression carefully blank as they checked his ID, then searched him so thoroughly he couldn’t help wondering if they planned to strip him naked. It was a surprise when, after passing through three separate checkpoints, they returned his service pistol to him. The remainder of his weapons would be held in storage until he left the building.
“Kurt,” his father said, as he was shown into a room. “Welcome back!”
Kurt blinked in surprise as his father enfolded him in a tight hug, then drew back long enough for Kurt to see that his mother and youngest brother were also in the room. That was a surprise. Kurt had known that his parents had rooms in the Reichstag – they couldn’t remain in their old home, not after the uprising – but he’d never visited. There just hadn’t been time.