We might not be able to win, he thought, taking a long look at the map. How do we crush a rebellion that has over ninety percent of the population on its side?
Schrupp followed him back to the barracks, then into one of the small offices they were allowed to use for their paperwork. “I read the leaflets,” he said, once the door was firmly closed. “We might be going to our deaths.”
“That’s always a risk,” Kurt pointed out, trying hard to keep his face impassive. One day, Schrupp would go too far and wind up hauled off by the SS for interrogation. “We’re not sailors, you know.”
“My brother is a sailor on the Graf Zeppelin,” Schrupp said. “He says that life on the ocean waves can be just as dangerous as life in the Heer.”
Kurt snorted. It was an article of faith among the soldiers – and the Waffen-SS, he suspected – that the Kriegsmarine sailors did nothing more than sit in port, scrub their decks and try to look good in their fancy uniforms. And it might even be true. The sea could be rough – he’d enjoyed sailing with the Hitler Youth, once he’d managed to recover from an unexpected bout of seasickness – but it wasn’t as dangerous as being shot at by insurgents.
“But that isn’t the point,” Schrupp added, after a moment. “What happens to us when we get wounded in South Africa?”
“Good question,” Kurt said. “Why don’t you ask the CO?”
Schrupp gave him a sardonic look. “Do you think he’d give me a straight answer?”
He turned and headed out of the tiny office before Kurt could formulate a response. Kurt watched him go, trying to understand what Schrupp was doing. Grumbling was one thing, but doing something – anything – that could be taken as trying to prepare the ground for a mutiny was quite another. Kurt could report him right away and Schrupp’s career would come to a screeching halt, even if he avoided anything worse than the punishment units in Germany East. It was Kurt’s duty to report him. And yet, betraying Schrupp would ensure that no one ever trusted him again…
Maybe I should just leave him to get on with it, Kurt thought.
But the thought kept nagging at his mind. He’d be leading a platoon into combat in South Africa, with a number of men under his command, men he’d be responsible for. What would happen when one of them died while under his command? Would the dead man’s family be informed or would they just be left in limbo?
He shuddered. Perhaps it would have been better if he hadn’t accompanied Gudrun to the hospital, if he’d reported her to their father as soon as she asked for his help. But he hadn’t and now he had to deal with his own doubts about the Reich.
And we’re leaving for South Africa in three months, he reminded himself. By then, something may change…
Volker Schulze knew, from hard experience, that life could be painful. He’d joined the SS as a young man, gone through a brutal training program that killed a handful of new recruits every year and served as a front-line Waffen-SS soldier for fifteen years before retiring and going to work in a factory. He had no illusions about the world; it was a brutal place and the Third Reich needed brutal men to dominate it. Loyalty had been hammered into him from birth.
And yet, he was angry.
He’d known that Konrad could end up dead or wounded. He had accepted that the moment Konrad insisted on following in his father’s footsteps and applying to join the Waffen-SS; Konrad might die in training, let alone in the field. Volker had accepted that, he told himself, and yet… he’d believed that his loyalty would always be returned. The SS would have told his parents if he had died, he was sure, and they should have told him when his son was brutally wounded, permanently crippled. But they hadn’t. They’d lied to him. And even his contacts within the bureaucracy hadn’t been able to locate his son.
The thought had nagged at his mind ever since he’d discovered the truth. He’d given the best years of his life to the Reich. His son, it seemed, had lost his life for the Reich… and yet, the Reich hadn’t even tried to honour his death. Konrad should have been allowed to die with dignity, his family by his side, his body laid to rest in the ground. Instead, he was trapped on life support, eternally suspended on the brink of death, his hopes and dreams smashed along with his body. And they’d lied to him.
He mulled the feeling over as he made his way slowly into the giant factory complex, nodding to a handful of men he recognised along the way. The giant complex produced vehicles, ranging from the handful of publicly-available cars to lorries and small armoured patrol vehicles for the military. He’d been proud to work in the factory, once upon a time; it had seemed a chance to make use of his experience even though he was no longer a Waffen-SS stormtrooper. Now… now it had all turned to ashes in his mouth.
“Volker,” the secretary said, as he entered the office. “What can I do for you?”
Volker sighed, inwardly. The secretary had never served. He’d gone straight into the corporate sphere as soon as he’d graduated from school, instead of volunteering for active service. Volker had always disliked him, but now… now he wished Konrad had chosen to do something – anything – else to prove he was a man. At least he’d still be alive.
“I want you to arrange a meeting of everyone who has a relative in the military,” he said. The secretary would have no trouble putting together a list, just by consulting the files. “Have them assemble in the cafeteria after the next shift.”
The secretary frowned. “I could only ask the workers on the current shift,” he said, after a moment. “Unless you wanted to put it off for a couple of days, so that everyone could be informed.”
“Just inform as many as you can,” Volker said. “I intend to find a way to honour our serving men.”
He turned and strode out, confident his orders would be obeyed. The secretary wouldn’t defy him on such a minor matter, even though he’d probably report the meeting to higher management. He doubted his superiors would care, as long as he wasn’t pulling workers away from their duties. Besides, corporate events honouring the troops were popular and suggested the corporation cared about the fighting men.
Not that they do, Volker thought. He still shuddered at the thought of having to ride in one of the new jeeps a corporation had produced for the soldiers. They’d been so unprotected that a lunatic with a single pistol could do real damage. All they care about is money.
The thought was a distraction, so he turned it over and over in his mind as the whistle blew and he went to work. They’d been working longer hours recently, turning out fewer civilian cars and more military vehicles; reading between the lines, he had a private suspicion that meant that the losses in South Africa were far higher than expected. Panzers would probably make short work of the insurgents, if the insurgents were fool enough to stand and fight. The Arabs had tried that in their rebellion and it had ended very badly, for them.