“Grab a cup of water,” Kuhn ordered, as they marched back into camp. “And then you’ll have a short break before you go back to work.”
Hennecke was far too tired to care. The trenches were already manned; a handful of men, their rifles at the ready, watching for the rebels to advance east from Berlin. He knew — deep inside — that none of those men would survive, when the rebels finally came at them. The trenches might provide protection against infantry, but they wouldn’t stop panzers…
Kuhn was as good as his word, somewhat to Hennecke’s surprise. There was water waiting for them, along with some food rations. But even a man as foolish as Kuhn had to realise that not watering his men would kill them, eventually. And besides, they’d be working hard in the afternoon, unless the camp came under attack. Hennecke had no idea what they were meant to do if the enemy attacked. They had no weapons, nor did they know how to escape east…
No one gives a damn about us, he thought, morbidly. We’re just here to work until we die.
He drank his water rapidly, wishing he had the time to savour every last drop. But he’d seen, on his first day, just how easy it was for some of the men to steal water and food from their weaker comrades. Kuhn and his Scharführers didn’t seem to care, even though it meant losing manpower to thirst and dehydration. Bastards. Even he had been more careful of his men during the advance on Berlin…
The thought chilled him. He knew what he’d done, back when they’d crashed into the village; he’d heard rumours, whispered down the line, about far worse atrocities committed by other units. Perhaps he was being punished for what he’d done, even though his victims had been rebels who could — who should — have sided with the legitimate government. He tried to tell himself that he hadn’t done wrong, but somehow it felt hard to believe…
We’re not meant to survive long enough to go back to our units, he thought, as he watched two men get into a fistfight. He had no idea what they were fighting over, but he didn’t particularly care. We’re just meant to work until we die.
He shook his head, slowly. He’d been promised a month…
…But even if they’d been telling the truth, how was he meant to survive so long?
SS-Obergruppenführer Felix Kortig jumped out of the helicopter as soon as it came to a halt, bare inches above the ground, and ran towards the camouflaged building as through his life depended on it. Behind him, he heard the helicopter rev up its engines and claw its way back into the sky, flying eastwards as low as the pilot dared. He knew, all too well, that the Luftwaffe was on the prowl. A lone helicopter would seem an easy target.
“Herr Obergruppenführer,” Sturmbannführer Friedemann Weineck said. “Welcome back.”
Felix nodded, curtly. Weineck had been Oberstgruppenführer Alfred Ruengeler’s aide before he’d been recalled to Germanica, a weak-chinned young man who might easily have been charged with keeping a covert eye on his boss. And yet, Ruengeler had apparently not only survived the retreat from Berlin, he’d been promoted and put in overall command of the defence of Germany East, leaving Felix himself in command of the front lines. Felix honestly had no idea what to make of it.
“Thank you,” he said, as they walked into the map room. The building had once been a farmhouse, but now it was his HQ. He had no idea — he didn’t want to know — what had happened to the original owners. “Has there been any update from the pickets?”
“The enemy has been sniping and shelling at us along the front lines, but there has been no major offensive, nor are there any signs that one is imminent,” Weineck reported. “A number of our patrols have reported taking fire as they rounded up stragglers and dispatched them eastwards.”
Felix nodded in irritation. It had been nearly six days since the SS had fallen back from Berlin, but the divisions had been shattered so badly that stragglers and survivors were still making their way back to the lines. Entire units had been obliterated, their handful of survivors hastily reassigned to other units… it would take weeks, perhaps months, to sort the problem out, under normal circumstances. But the times were very far from normal. He’d been warned, in no uncertain terms, that the rebels intended to mount a major offensive as soon as possible.
“At least they’re still making it back to our lines,” he said. “Do we have an updated casualty count yet?”
“Nothing precise, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Weineck confessed. “We’re looking at around seven thousand men unaccounted for, as of now, but…”
“Anything could have happened to them,” Felix said. He undid his jacket and dumped it on a chair, then strode over to the map table. “They could have been killed, or captured, or they could have deserted…”
“Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Weineck said.
Felix looked down at the map for a long moment. It looked like an endless series of trenches, running north to south along the border between Germany Prime and Germany East, but he knew it was an illusion. The trench warfare of the first Great War — a war his father and grandfather had both recalled with horror — was an impossibility in the age of modern war, certainly when the territory that had to be covered was truly immense. Mobile warfare had come of age, during Operation Barbarossa; now, he couldn’t help feeling as though he was about to learn how the Russians had felt, back when the Germans had crossed the border and thrust deep into their territory.
They’ll probe our lines until they find a weak place, then ram their panzers through it, he thought, grimly. And they will find a weak place.
He looked up. “Have the panzer divisions reorganised themselves?”
“Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Weineck said. “We have two divisions positioned here and here” — he tapped two locations on the map — “and a third still working up, but held in reserve here.”
“Good,” Felix said. “They’ll know we’re there, of course.”
“We have them camouflaged,” Weineck protested, shocked.
Felix snorted. He’d seen the sort of orbital imagery the Reich’s space program had produced — and it was probably fair to say the Americans could do better. No matter how hard the panzer divisions had tried to remain unseen, he had no doubt they’d already been localised by the Americans. And the Americans would have quietly tipped off the rebels…
“But they still have to take Warsaw before pushing further into Germany East,” he mused, ignoring the protest. “They don’t have a choice. Warsaw is the linchpin of the Polish Gau.”
“Yes, Herr Obergruppenführer,” Weineck said.
“Which means they need to drive at the city, which will force us to defend it,” Felix mused. “And yet, if we pull back, they will have to storm the city themselves…”
He shook his head. Storming Berlin — trying to storm Berlin — hadn’t accomplished anything, beyond breaking a number of irreplaceable divisions. He’d met Field Marshal Voss — he knew how the older man thought. There was no way he would risk his divisions storming Warsaw. He’d seen precisely what had happened to the SS.