But we could rebuild, Alfred thought, bitterly. Rebuilding the Reichstag would hardly be a major problem.
“It might,” Alfred said. “But their fighting men have nowhere to run.”
He sighed as he glared at the secure phone. He’d studied the great campaigns in Poland, France and Russia and all three of them had one thing in common. There had been room for both sides to manoeuvre, room for the defenders to break and run… when they hadn’t had that room, they’d tended to fight harder. The Russians at Leningrad, Stalingrad, and Moscow hadn’t been able to run and they’d fought like mad bastards. He’d read the campaign records, including diaries that had been deemed too inflammatory to release to their families; if anything, he’d come to realise, those long-dead German soldiers had understated the nightmare of fighting in a city. Berlin was being held so strongly that he doubted his ability to take the city…
And if we do take the city, he thought morbidly, we may lose the war.
“It will not matter, if we can retake the Reichstag,” Holliston said. “Prepare your men for a final savage push.”
Alfred winced. “Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “Can your forces within the city take the Reichstag?”
“Yes,” Holliston said. “And they can do much else besides.”
There was a pause. “Prepare your men. There is one final battle that must be fought.”
Alfred closed his eyes in pain. Resistance – further resistance – would be worse than futile. A single word from Germanica would be enough to ensure his death, either at the hands of an SS security force or a covert operative hidden within his staff. He knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was someone keeping an eye on him. If he resisted Holliston, if he ordered a retreat or even a redeployment to face the oncoming storm, his life and those of his family would be forfeit.
And if I retire, he asked himself, who will take my place?
He shuddered at the thought. The SS commanders ranged from enthusiastic to outright fanatical, the kind of fire-breathers who should never be in command of anything larger than a company. There was something to be said for aggression on the battlefield, he had to admit, but it needed to be tempered with due care and long-term thinking. An SS panzer division wasn’t an assault troop and couldn’t be treated as one. And those who did couldn’t be allowed to take command of the entire army.
“It shall be done, Mein Fuhrer,” he said, finally. “When do you want the offensive to begin?”
“Four days,” Holliston said. “Do whatever you have to do to make it work.”
“Jawohl, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said.
The line disconnected. Alfred stared at the phone for a long moment, then returned the handset to its cradle, thinking hard. The Fuhrer had told him to do whatever he had to do to make the offensive work, an order that gave him a great deal of latitude. Karl Holliston probably wouldn’t approve of just how far he intended to take the order and run with it, but Alfred found it hard to care. If taking Berlin was the only thing keeping him – and his family – from ending their lives hanging from meathooks in a cellar under Germanica, he would do everything in his power to make sure the final offensive was actually final.
Rising, he strode into the next room and nodded to Weineck, who made his way over to stand beside his superior as Alfred studied the map. The endless fighting might have overrun parts of Berlin, but none of them were particularly important. A couple of suburbs had been completely worthless, save for the opportunity to wear down the defenders by forcing them to fight for the territory.
And expend their ammunition, he thought. If his ammunition consumption calculations had been so badly off-base, surely theirs had been too. They can’t have much left, can they?
Weineck glanced at him. “Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer?”
Alfred frowned, without taking his eyes off the map. Was Weineck receiving secret orders from Germanica? Or would it be one or more of the communications techs, the men whose names he barely knew? Or some of the guards? Or perhaps his orderly, who had been with him for the last decade? There was no way to know, no way even to guess.
“The Fuhrer wishes us to make one final push towards the Reichstag,” he said, flatly. There was no point in worrying about it, not now. “We need to make some preparations.”
“Of course, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said. “This time we will be victorious.”
And are you saying that for my benefit, Alfred asked himself, or for the edification of any listening ears?
He pushed the thought aside as he looked up at his aide. “Pull all of the Category A units out of the front lines,” he ordered. “Give them a day or two of rest, then prepare them for a final thrust. We’ll mass our forces and advance under heavy shelling.”
Weineck frowned. “Our stockpiles of shells are quite low…”
“Then we need to bring in more,” Alfred said. “And I want you to inform the gunners, when the offensive begins, that they are not to hold back.”
He ignored Weineck’s shock. Standard procedure might have been to hold a number of shells in reserve, just in case there was an urgent call for fire support, but standard procedures would have to be abandoned. As long as there was a hope, however faint, of breaking through the defence lines and punching their way towards the Reichstag, the gunners would have to do their utmost.
“The same goes for our remaining air power,” he added. “Once the offensive begins, they are to strike at targets within Berlin, doing everything in their power to weaken the defenders.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said. He still looked shocked. “But… but that will cost us badly.”
“Yes, it will,” Alfred said. “But the Fuhrer has ordered us to take Berlin.”
He scowled as he turned to the overall map. The traitors were gathering their forces under the protection of their remaining air force – and those damned American missiles. Ideally, he would have preferred to deploy his air power to slow their advance, but that would drain the remainder of his aircraft for very little return. He had to admire the traitors for choosing to leave Berlin uncovered, despite the American missiles; the decision might have cost them quite badly, but it had definitely worked out for them.
“I also want you to redeploy a number of commando teams,” he added. “Once it becomes clear that we are storming the city, the traitors will attempt to send their own forces forward to engage us. The commandos are to slow them down as much as possible.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.
Alfred nodded, curtly. His redeployments were the best hope the Waffen-SS had of breaking through the defence line and storming Berlin, but there was no way to avoid the sense that there was nothing he could do to prevent disaster. A retreat now would look bad, yet it would preserve his forces and give him time to bleed the enemy… doing unto them as they’d done unto the SS. And yet, the Fuhrer would not listen. He’d gambled everything on taking Berlin.
“And then I have a number of other redeployments that need to be handled,” Alfred added, slowly. Maybe they could win the battle… but if they didn’t, he’d have to do what he could to avoid losing the overall war. “But we will handle those later.”