One by one, all the other German satrapies had been taken by the Russians but New Schwabia had been left until last. It had even grown a bit, absorbed some territory and refugees from the others. He'd also been lucky in position; he had the Black Sea guarding his left, the Caspian guarding his right and neutral Turkey guarding his rear. Only the Northern front was open and half of that was guarded by the Volga. When the Russians attacked, and it was a when, not an if, their front would be from Donetsk to Walthersburg. He'd stacked his defenses there and dug in. His army had spent twelve years digging in.
For all the digging, his army was still mobile, that was the wonder of it. His first crisis had been when the news of the American attack with their Hellburners had reached them. His troops were demoralized, most wanted to go home to see if their families had left. Some had and about half had made it back. Their message had been chilling. Nothing left, no families, nothing. The Americans destroyed everything.
His troops had faced reality. Now, New Schwabia was the only bit of Germany left anywhere in the world. The German soldiers had taken Russian wives (taken being the operative word, the women's consent had been neither sought nor desired) and built themselves new lives here. New Schwabia had become the perfect modern feudal state. Russian serfs, Wehrmacht Yeomanry, SS aristocracy and, over them all, Baron Walther Model,
That's when he'd faced his second crisis. Equipment. His German tanks and guns and aircraft had worn out in the end and there was little chance of getting replacements let alone developing new models to replace the obsolete designs. Then, a miracle had occurred. A miracle in the shape of a Japanese Colonel and an Iranian priest. Colonel Masanobu Tsuji and Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini. Negotiations were long and hard but in the end, a three-cornered deal had been struck.
The Islamic States bought modern arms, large quantities of them, from Chipan, paying for them with oil. They then sold those armaments to New Schwabia in exchange for Model training their soldiers. Soldiers from the Islamic States of the Middle East spent two years with the German colors now, learning to act like modern soldiers. Model grinned to himself. Act like was right, they weren't Germans and never would be but they were good enough.
Those meetings had been hard though. The Japanese had been reasonable enough, they had their own agenda and this was a part of it. Model could see that and negotiate accordingly. Khomeini had been more of a problem, he just wasn't a rational man. But common ground had been established; they both hated America, Khomeini for what America was, Model for what it had done. They'd shared another hatred as well, one that had cemented them together when Model had shown him films of his Einsatzgruppen making New Schwabia Judenfrei.
So now his Army had manpower and armor. His Air Force had aircraft. Now, when the Ivans came, he could fight. And, who knew? On a limited front with a mobile force he might even win. Better odds than he'd faced many times during the War. And better odds than facing Hellbumers.
Chapter Four Initial Gains
Ban Rom Phuoc, Thai-Burmese Border
The long dusty road into Ban Rom Phuoc was getting familiar now, just like the roads leading to a dozen more villages in the area. Well, perhaps not now. For some reason the Thai government was surfacing roads in the province with blacktop. Senior Cadre had reported that and it was puzzling headquarters. Blacktop held the heat and was uncomfortable to walk on in the noon sun. It didn't have the dust clouds of laterite of course but it seemed eliminating dust was a small benefit for such a great cost and effort. It didn't matter here-and-now though, this road was still laterite.
The Senior Cadre thought that this village was just about ready for the next step. He and his Junior Cadre assistant had made several visits, instructing the villagers in the evils and oppression of the Government, opening their eyes to how they were being exploited by the merchants and bankers, how the Europeans were responsible for their poverty and hardships. He'd told them all about how a new force was rising in Asia that would drive the Europeans away and the village could be lead into a new era of peace and prosperity.
He'd followed the book precisely, even though he couldn't agree with most of it. All this farce of walking from village to village, pretending to be traveling traders. Of treating the villagers as being equals. He was a Japanese Army officer; he should enter the village in style, impressing the farmers with his status and importance. How dare a bunch of uneducated farmers think they were his equals! He'd made his real status clear to his Junior Cadre from a very early point in the operation. Junior Cadre was a Burmese nationalist and now knew well where power and authority really lay.
Anyway, it didn't matter, this village was ready now. They'd have another consciousness-raising session this evening and stay overnight. Then, tomorrow evening, he would incite the masses into rising against the Headman they now saw as a tool of the Government and they would kill him and his family. The authorities would investigate but their investigation would prove little. In frustration, they would punish the villagers who would thus be driven into the hands of the revolution.
It was an inevitable sequence of events, clearly laid down in the books they had studied. Follow the manuals and it would go well, the first of his assigned villages would be won over to the side of Japan. By late evening, Senior Cadre was convinced that his judgment had been correct. Ban Rom Phuoc was ready to be radicalized. After the evening revolutionary consciousness session he'd told the villagers he and Junior Cadre would be staying the night. There had been a stir of unmistakable satisfaction at that. As he went to the hut the villagers kept for travelers who wished to stay overnight. Senior Cadre saw that the village was indeed ready.
Senior Cadre woke from a dream where he was suffocating - and realized it was no dream. Something had been thrown over his head, covering his face. Even as he struggled to wake properly, he felt a dreadful pain across his stomach, a blow, probably from a heavy bamboo stave. It was the first of many, raining down on his chest and stomach and legs. Some were flat blows from the length of the bamboo clubs; others were vicious short stabs where the staves were wielded as spears. Mixed in were kicks from feet, some hardened from waking barefoot, others softer.
From inside the muffling blanket, Senior Cadre could hear screams, his own and those of Junior Cadre. And more sounds of blows and kicks and the pants of those delivering them. Then he was dragged from the wooden bed and thrown to the floor. More blows, and his hands were tied in front of him, a bamboo staff rammed between his elbows and his back. He could feel himself being hauled through the hut door and hurled down the steps. The impact as he hit the ground at the bottom knocked what little breath was left out of his body.
Then the blanket was torn away and he could see again. The entire village was surrounding him, the scene lit by burning torches that gave a flickering orange glow to the scene. Some of the villagers were the local defense force, the Tahan Pran, in their black coveralls and carrying a mix of shotguns and muzzle-loading muskets. Others were the villager civilians, men, women and children who had gathered around the guest hut.
Senior Cadre saw Junior Cadre flying through the air to land with a dull crump beside him. Then, both were dragged to their knees to face the villagers surrounding them. Senior Cadre was bewildered, confused, this was a bad dream it couldn't be happening. He and Junior Cadre were supposed to be doing this to the Headman and his family, it was him and his wife and their children who were supposed to be kneeling here, bound and beaten, surrounded by an accusing crowd. Not him, he was Senior Cadre.
You poor fools, Phong Nguyen thought quietly to himself as he watched the two cadres being beaten and kicked into position. You poor, poor fools. You had no idea did you? You were so swept up in your own arrogance, your own self-importance, you didn't see what was going on around you. You were so convinced you were following the book, you didn't see you were fighting the people who wrote that book. He shook his head, a gesture that those around him mistook as anger at the injustices the strangers had committed but in reality was pity for two foots who were playing with things they didn't understand and would now pay the price. But pity should never stand in the way of duty.