“Order the blocking forces to hold as long as they can,” he said. “I have to call the Fuhrer.”
“Jawohl,” Weineck said.
It was quiet in the secure room, Alfred noted, even though he could still hear the distant rumble from the battlefield. He sat down heavily, then braced himself as he picked up the red phone. It would connect, automatically, to the Fuhrer’s office in Germanica. And he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Karl Holliston would be sitting behind his desk, waiting for the news that his forces had won the battle. Alfred swallowed, hard, as he heard the Fuhrer pick up the phone. There was no way Holliston was going to take the truth lightly.
“Mein Fuhrer,” he said. “The enemy have launched their counterattack.”
Holliston snorted. “Block it.”
Alfred felt a flicker of anger. Holliston had worked his way up through the intelligence and counter-intelligence side of the SS, not the Waffen-SS. The Fuhrer was far from stupid, but he had no real idea of the military realities. Block a major panzer thrust? It was easier said than done.
“We can’t block the attacking forces while storming Berlin,” he said, carefully. “Mein Fuhrer, I request permission to abandon the siege and pull back to our defence lines.”
“Abandon the siege?” Holliston demanded. “That’s a cowardly…”
“We do not have the mobile firepower to continue the offensive while guarding our flanks,” Alfred snapped. “Mein Fuhrer, we must pull back now or they will pocket four divisions within the kessel. And that will be the end!”
He cursed under his breath, then went on. “There’s no shame in pulling back and allowing the enemy to expend themselves uselessly,” he added. “It’s a tactical withdrawal, not a surrender…”
“We can’t let them win,” Holliston insisted. “Everyone who’s currently sitting on the damned fence will join them! They cannot be allowed a victory!”
“They will have their victory, Mein Fuhrer,” Alfred said, throwing caution to the winds. “I cannot stop them. The only thing I can do is give them a pointless petty victory – driving us away from Berlin – instead of crushing four divisions! If we lose those men…”
He ground his teeth in range. The hell of it was that Holliston had a point. If the traitors and their provisional government scored a victory, everyone who had chosen to sit on the fence rather than join one side or the other would be forced to re-evaluate their position. The spy in the provisional government might change sides – again – while military officers and bureaucrats who had resigned might beg to be allowed back, while they still had something to bargain with. No, the traitors could not be allowed a victory…
…But they were going to get one anyway.
He took a long breath. “I can get the men out of the trap, Mein Fuhrer,” he said. He knew he was pleading, but he no longer cared. “And then we can launch a counterattack, once the enemy has exhausted itself…”
“Berlin is to be taken,” Holliston snapped. “Do not give the enemy a victory.”
There was a click as the Fuhrer put down the phone. Alfred stared at his handset for a long moment, then slowly put it down on the table. The Fuhrer was mad. He had to be mad – or too ignorant to be aware of his own ignorance. There was no way Alfred could take Berlin and, simultaneously, save his men from being pocketed and destroyed. After the atrocities, he had no reason to expect the traitors to show mercy. Why should they?
Do not give the enemy a victory, he thought, as he rose. And that is one order I can try to carry out.
He strode back into the main room and glanced at the map. The situation was growing worse by the minute, the enemy smashing their way through the blocking forces with almost contemptuous ease. They were paying for their haste, but it wouldn’t be enough to slow them down. And if he didn’t react now, he and his men were doomed.
Weineck looked at him. “Orders, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer?”
I could be shot for this, Alfred thought. Disobeying orders in the face of the enemy was a court martial offence, if anyone actually bothered with the court martial. The legendary Erwin Rommel had once summarily shot an SS officer who was trying to interfere with his command, during the final drive across the Suez and into Palestine. And my family could be killed too.
He kept his face impassive with an effort. His family’s lives were at stake, but so were those of tens of thousands of stormtroopers. Losing those men would make defending Germany East impossible, ensuring the end of the war. And he liked Germany East. The westerners were too soft to do what needed to be done to preserve the Reich. Life was far too easy…
And I have to save my men, he told himself. Everything else is secondary.
His family might be killed by the Fuhrer, he told himself, but they’d also be killed if the traitors won the war. Everyone with any connection to the SS would be purged. There would be no mercy…
“Orders from Germanica,” he lied smoothly. “We are to begin a withdrawal back to the Warsaw Line.”
He turned to look at the map. “Pull the assault forces back from Berlin, then order the gunners to slow up the inevitable counterattacks as much as possible,” he added. “Deploy the Category B units to slow down the enemy counterattack, then move the Category A units to the rear.”
Weineck frowned, doubtfully. Alfred didn’t blame him. The Category B units were unlikely to be able to do more than slow the enemy, but the Category A units had to be saved to fight again. Without them, integrating the steady flow of reservists into the ranks would be impossible. There was no choice.
“Do it,” he snarled. “And then prepare for departure. This place is to be purged as soon as we leave.”
“Jawohl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuehrer,” Weineck said.
Alfred nodded and turned his attention back to the map, covertly glancing around the room and wondering which one of them was the spy. If someone thought to check with Germanica… all hell would break loose. He’d twisted Karl Holliston’s final order into a tangled mess – and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the Fuhrer would not find it amusing. But there was no choice. A retreat under fire was one of the most dangerous manoeuvres a military force could attempt, but it was better than being caught in a trap and destroyed.
And if I can get the men out, he thought, I will die happy.
“We’re to do what?”
“Fall back,” the messenger said. “Orders from HQ.”
Hauptsturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk stared in disbelief. They were winning! The enemy line was crumbling in front of them! He could feel it. The enemy’s counterattacks were weakening and they’d practically stopped dropping mortar shells on the advancing stormtroopers. It was clear, to him at least, that the enemy was running short on everything from men to ammunition. One final push and they’d be in Berlin!