“Get into position,” he snapped. He had no illusions about their ability to defend the camp against an armoured thrust, but at least they could hurt the stormtroopers before they were crushed. “Hurry!”
He groaned, inwardly, as the men stumbled into position. They’d never had a chance to plan out a defence before the mutiny; afterwards, they’d been too busy enjoying themselves to do anything about their defences. In hindsight, it had been a mistake…
…But there was no point in worrying about it, not now. The radiation would kill them even if the bullets didn’t.
He sucked in his breath as the first vehicle — an armoured fighting vehicle — came into view, a squad of black-clad infantry surrounding it. Their paranoia was almost laughable. Bandits and insurgents might do everything in their power to slow the vehicles down — rigging bombs and mines — but his men hadn’t done anything of the sort. They hadn’t even had the weapons and equipment to try. Two more armoured fighting vehicles appeared, grinding forward…
“Take aim,” he ordered. The enemy could probably see them — and if they couldn’t see them, they could certainly smell them. “Fire on my command.”
A scattered volley of shots rang out. Hennecke had barely a second to realise that some of his men had fired without orders before the approaching vehicles returned fire. Machine gun bullets tore through the air, slashing through tents as though they were made of paper; three of his men jumped to their feet, only to be torn apart by the hail of bullets. They’d wanted to die, Hennecke realised, as he started to shoot himself, picking off two stormtroopers before the others took cover. There wasn’t anything to live for…
He turned and crawled away as the shooting grew louder. The entire camp had been devastated in the blink of an eye. He snickered as he thought of the nurses, killed by their would-be saviours, then kept moving until he was right across the camp and heading into the woods. Behind him, the roar of engines grew louder as the enemy took possession of the camp. He smirked as he picked himself up and started to run, despite the throbbing pain in his head. Taking the camp wouldn’t do them any good, unless they wanted to have a few hundred dead bodies.
There was no sign of pursuit, but he kept moving until he was sure he was lost in the cold forest. His body felt feverish as he stopped long enough to lean against a tree and catch his breath, despite the snow around him. Despite himself, he started to giggle helplessly. The stormtroopers had attacked, they’d killed everyone… but him. He’d survived the war, he’d survived the radiation, he’d survived brutal labour that was meant to kill him…
The skies were darkening rapidly. He looked up, sharply, as it started to snow. There was no way he could stay still, not if he wanted to remain alive. And yet, where could he go? He gritted his teeth as he started to stumble through the snow, his body starting to shiver despite the fever. And yet, the snowfall only grew worse. It was so intense that he could barely see…
He stumbled, then fell to the ground. It was so cold that he could barely move, the cold seeping into his body as if it were a living thing. He tried to summon up some determination, the same determination that had kept him alive after the nuclear blasts and radiation poisoning, but it was gone. There was nowhere to go. Who would help him? Who would take him in…?
Stupid bastards, he thought. He thought he understood the rebels a little better now, as he hovered on the brink of death. He’d thought the stories about betrayal were lies, enemy propaganda, until he’d been betrayed himself. We could have won the war if they’d just thought…
The darkness reached up and swallowed him. And then there was nothing.
“Do you think they can be trusted?”
Herman shrugged. Seven enemy deserters sat in the tent, their hands tied behind their backs while the army tried to figure out what to do with them. Their story — that they had deserted from the Waffen-SS — didn’t sound believable, but he’d been a policeman. People had tried to lie to him all the time and he’d gotten very good at spotting it.
But these goons came from the SS, he thought, darkly. They’re probably very good liars.
“Have them sent to a detention camp,” he suggested, finally. “And make sure they’re kept separate from the other prisoners.”
He scowled as the prisoners were marched out of the camp. The entire offensive had been called off, leaving him feeling rather exposed after most of the remaining panzers had been recalled and repositioned behind the front lines. He understood the logic, but he wasn’t too pleased about it. His unit would take the brunt of any enemy blow, allowing the front-line units time to get ready to meet and repel the offensive.
But at least we’re not stuck guarding POWs, he thought. Or…
He turned as he heard the sound of running footsteps behind him. A young man — barely old enough to shave — was running up to him, his face flushed with excitement. Herman couldn’t help feeling a stab of guilt and shame at seeing the young soldier, a boy no older than his middle son, in the midst of a battlefield. There was no way he had enough training to do more than point and shoot, even if he had been in the Hitler Youth.
“Herr Leutnant,” the young man managed, as he came to a halt. “I… you have been called back to Berlin, immediately.”
He turned and hurried off. Herman would have rebuked him, if he’d still been a paratrooper, but he doubted there was any point. He’d need to be very harsh — and it would probably kill the young man’s determination to do well. The thought made him scowl as he turned and headed towards the gate. Johan was already in training. If he thought there was someone his age fighting on the front line, he’d probably sneak out of the training centre and head east.
And that would get him killed, Herman thought, morbidly.
He’d been terrified when Kurt had headed off to the Berlin Guard, even though he’d hidden it behind a facade of enthusiasm and pride. The thought of losing his firstborn son had been horrific. And Johan was much younger. It was always the ones who had never been to war who spoke of glory. War was hell, no matter what the songs said; war was blood and suffering and death. War should never be the first choice.
But there were times when the alternative was worse, when fighting was the only alternative to submission. And the Provisional Government had no choice but to fight. Everyone involved in the government — including Herman himself — would be purged in the aftermath, if Holliston won the war. And that would only be the beginning of the nightmare…
He sighed as he saw the van, waiting by the gates. There was no way to know why he’d been summoned. He’d find out soon enough. Berlin might have something in mind for him — or he might just be told he was needed back on the streets. He climbed into the van, spoke briefly to the driver and then sat down and closed his eyes. Whatever was coming, he had the feeling he needed to be alert.
And if the enemy is starting to leak deserters, he thought, we might just be on the verge of ending the war.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Germanica, Germany East