“Identify yourself,” the leader snarled.
“Johann Peltzer and Fritz Hanstein,” Horst said. “Our papers are in our jackets.”
He braced himself as the stormtroopers took the papers and inspected them carefully, using a flashlight to make out the words. Logically, the stormtroopers should send them onwards to Germanica as soon as possible, but nothing was the same any longer. They might wind up being ordered to serve in the SS divisions or…
The stormtrooper saluted, smartly. “You have orders to return to Germanica, Herr Inspector?”
“Yes,” Horst said. Posing as members of the SS Inspectorate was a risk, but very few stormtroopers would want to attract their attention. “We need transport back to the Reichstag.”
“I’ll have you escorted to the camp, Herr Inspector,” the stormtrooper said. “The Standartenführer will arrange transport for you.”
“Thank you,” Horst said.
He kept his expression under tight control as they were escorted up the road and into an enemy camp. Dozens of tents, all concealed under camouflage netting; hundreds of stormtroopers, most desperately catching up on their sleep before they had to return to their duties. There weren’t many vehicles in evidence, he noted, but that proved nothing. The Waffen-SS would probably have spread out their panzers, gambling that they would have time to concentrate their forces before the Heer began its advance. He glanced into a large tent as they passed and swore, under his breath, as he saw the wounded. The odds were good that none of them would survive the coming offensive.
They picked the wrong side, he told himself.
But it wasn’t convincing. No one had expected a civil war, not even Gudrun. Very few soldiers had voted with their feet, even when military bases had turned into battlegrounds; they’d stayed with their comrades rather than following their own inclination. And most of the Waffen-SS would be fanatically loyal. They knew what sort of chaos would be unleashed by the revolution. The Untermenschen would rise up in revolt all over the Reich.
He sucked in his breath as he saw a tall man, wearing a Standartenführer uniform, standing in front of one of the tents. A Standartenführer would not be so easily bullied, Horst knew; he’d want to make it clear that he was in charge, despite the wide-ranging authority granted to the Inspectorate.
“Heil Holliston,” the Standartenführer said.
“Heil Holliston,” Horst returned. He held out his papers. “We require immediate transport back to Germanica.”
The Standartenführer looked back at him evenly, then carefully went through Horst’s papers, one by one. They should pass muster, Horst knew, but if the Standartenführer insisted on checking with Germanica… they’d be caught, before the mission had even fairly begun. And then… they’d be lucky if they were only marched out of the camp and shot. It was quite possible that Holliston had marked Horst — and any member of Gudrun’s family — down for special attention.
“Very well, Herr Inspector,” the Standartenführer said. “We are sending a convoy of the wounded up to Warsaw in the morning. You may accompany them.”
“We need a vehicle that can take us all the way to Germanica,” Horst said, firmly. It would be perfectly in character for an Inspector to demand the very best, regardless of the practicalities. “Herr Standartenführer…”
“We don’t have anything that can be spared,” the Standartenführer said. He sounded too tired to care that he had just interrupted an Inspector. “You’ll have to go with the convoy.”
“Very well,” Horst said, trying to sound irritated. “We’ll inspect the camp while we’re waiting.”
The Standartenführer gave him a ghastly smile. “Make sure you tell Germanica that we need more supplies out here, Herr Inspector,” he said. “This camp is not going to hold against a determined offensive.”
“Of course,” Horst said.
He saluted the Standartenführer, then led Kurt out of the tent. Dawn was just beginning to glimmer in the distance, a wavering line of light heralding the approach of the day. He resisted the urge to yawn as he nodded to the sentries, then strode over to the medical tent and glanced inside. There were hundreds of wounded, including dozens who were too badly injured to be saved. The others… he shuddered as he recalled some of the horrors they’d uncovered in the files. He had never known — never even considered — that the Nazi Regime would kill its own wounded soldiers…
But they did, he thought.
He looked away, unwilling to meet the eyes of men he knew would probably be killed if they didn’t die soon. The files had made it clear, written in glowing tones by people who didn’t even have the decency to be ashamed of what they’d done. Hundreds of thousands of Germans — good Germans, men with the proper bloodlines — had simply been exterminated, murdered by their own government. And that had been the least of it. Children born with birth defects — even minor birth defects — had been murdered too…
And we never knew, he told himself. None of us ever realised what had happened.
It made him wonder — again — what had happened to his father. Uncle Emil had told Horst that his father had been killed in one of the wars — and Uncle Emil should have known — but he hadn’t gone into detail. Did he know what had happened? Or had something been covered up? There was no way to independently verify anything they’d been told. For all Horst knew, his father had been so badly wounded that he’d been murdered by his own government.
And I might never know, he thought.
He wandered through the camp, doing his best to memorise the details. He’d probably be called upon to give a report when they reached Warsaw, even if they were given a vehicle and told to make their own way to Germanica. And there might be a chance to slip a report back to Berlin, even though he knew it was unlikely…
Two hours later, they were called over to join a small collection of trucks heading east. The wounded didn’t look very comfortable — the trucks had clearly been designed to transport goods, rather than people — but none of them were in any fit state to complain. Horst bit down the urge to make sarcastic remarks — he couldn’t help noticing that none of the badly-wounded men were being shipped to Warsaw — as he clambered into the front seat. Kurt followed him as the lorry roared to life. Thankfully, the enlisted man in the driver’s seat didn’t seem inclined to make conversation.
“Get some sleep,” he urged Kurt. “It’s a long drive to Warsaw.”
He kept a wary eye on the sky as the convoy lurched down the road to the autobahn. It was unlikely that the Luftwaffe would deliberately target wounded men, but any prowling pilot wouldn’t know what the trucks were carrying until it was far too late. Besides, wrecking the SS’s logistics network would suit the Provisional Government perfectly. But there seemed to be no aircraft in the sky.