“Remember, we’re Germans,” he muttered, as they approached the German command shack for the region. Satellites had suggested that the Germans had someone important running matters there, and as the British and American tanks were pressing hard towards the position, the high command had ordered the SAS to capture or kill the German commanders.
“So don’t mention the war,” Vash said, putting on a bad German accept. “Achtung, spitfire, Rommel, egg in the eye, mien Kamrad…”
“Shut up,” Dwynn said. The words might have amused cinemagoers – there had been a resurgence of interest in war movies – but he didn’t think that they would have impressed real Germans. “Everyone ready?”
They nodded; Dwynn led the way down to the German command post. It wasn’t as pretentious as he had expected and for a long moment he wondered if they had made a mistake. It would hardly be the first time that intelligence had gotten something wrong; if they had the SAS team would have to kill everyone and be extracted under hostile fire.
“Good,” Dwynn said, as three sentries appeared out of nowhere. They demanded his business in sharp German; one of them, he was amused to note, was clearly a Frenchman. “I have a prisoner for the commander,” he snapped.
The SS guards glared at him. They were SS, which meant that he couldn’t hope to intimidate them by his own fake rank. An explosion blossomed, not too far away, and the guards jumped. Dwynn allowed himself a sneer at their expressions.
“Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer, the Obergruppenfuehrer is not to be disturbed,” the leader said finally. “Can you not take him to the command post?”
Dwynn’s suspicions were activated. If this building wasn’t the command post, then what was it? “I have strict orders to deliver the prisoner to the Obergruppenfuehrer in person,” he said, and hoped that the guards didn’t know that he was lying. “Open the doors.”
The guard started to protest. Dwynn glared him down. “Jawohl, Herr Hauptsturmfuehrer,” the guard said finally. He opened the doors. “Herr Obergruppenfuehrer, there is an Allied prisoner for you.” He chuckled. “A slant-eye, no less.”
The Obergruppenfuehrer burst up the stairs, slamming a door shut, but not before Dwynn had caught sight of shells buried under the ground. He blinked; what sort of shells needed an SS armed guard?
“What are you doing here?” He snapped. “There are particular orders…”
His eyes fixed on Dwynn’s face and a terrible realisation came into his eyes. Dwynn didn’t hesitate and shot him neatly through the head; the others had already taken care of the guards. The Obergruppenfuehrer’s body tumbled back down the stairs and hit the ground.
“I think we’d better check it out,” Dwynn said, and led the team down the stairs. He opened the door carefully, to peer into a scene from hell. Countless shells, ones he recognised from service in Iran, lined the walls, along with a gun designed to fire them.
“Fuck,” Vash breathed.
“Gas shells,” Dwynn said. He headed back up the stairs. “I think we’d better call this in; let the head sheds decide what to do with it.”
General Walther Model put the latest reports on the map in his mind and knew that the battle was lost. Three major enemy armoured columns; one British, one American and one Bundeswehr, had engaged the defence line in three places, a coordinated attack that would have been very difficult for even the Wehrmacht at its prime. His King Tigers had been directed against the American tanks and they had had some success, but then the British had launched an attack and…
He shook his head. Three hundred of the heavy tanks had been destroyed in the space of half an hour, and with them the war. The defence line, the last line of defence before Berlin, was collapsing. He knew that the local commanders from the line to Berlin would do what they could, but the bulk of the skilled manpower was trapped or had been destroyed.
“Herr General,” an SS officer shouted. “Herr General, they destroyed the gas stockpile!”
Model swore brutally. The gas shells had been the last chance for producing any kind of victory. Without them, the cities were practically unable to launch any attacks, leaving the populations trapped inside.
“Herr General, we have a communication from someone on the radio,” his aide said. Model looked up sharply; the airwaves had been jammed ever since the attack had begun. “He claims to be the British commander.”
“Give me the headphones,” Model said, taking the small radio. “This is General Walther Model.”
“My name is General Robert Flynn,” the voice at the far end said. “General, your people were attempting to prepare gas shells.”
The note of cold condemnation within his voice stunned Model. “General, your forces have invaded Germany and…”
“This is no time for posturing,” General Flynn snapped. “General, allow me to summarize the situation; my forces have broken your defence line in five places, shattering your ability to counter-attack. You have nothing left to hit us with, and further fighting would be futile.”
Model sighed. “I might have one or two tricks left,” he said.
“Bollocks,” Flynn said, in English. “General, think of your men. You cannot resist further to any useful end. We have trapped thousands of your men and they will be worn down and destroyed, unless you surrender.” He paused. “Think of the civilian population, which would be utterly devastated by a long siege.”
“Enough,” Model snapped. “If you cut your jamming, I will issue the order to surrender, understand?”
Flynn didn’t seem to notice the sharp tone. “I understand,” he said. “Be warned; if there is trickery, your forces will suffer.”
Chapter Forty: Leaving the Sinking Ship
Fuhrerbunker
Berlin, Germany
12th June 1942
Kesselring cursed as the reports came in. No one in the Fuhrerbunker had expected the front to collapse that quickly; they’d had faith in Model – and in the gas shells – to prevent a quick defeat. Instead, the German forces had been surrounded, and forced to surrender. Model’s surrender orders had been obeyed in most cases, despite hysterical orders from Himmler to retreat backwards towards Berlin.
It was happening too fast. He’d hoped to sneak in more than a single Wehrmacht battalion into Berlin, but instead he had only a single infantry group. Himmler had to be removed, or perhaps he had to be forced to issue the surrender orders. With the thousands of SS men crawling over Berlin, it would be difficult to carry out any form of coup d’etat.
“The Fuhrer wants an updated briefing,” Roth said. Kesselring looked up; he hadn’t heard the SS officer arrive. “I don’t think he’s too happy.”
“Nor am I,” Kesselring said. He waved a hand at the map. “Do you understand the situation?” Roth shook his head. “The enemy has broken our main line,” he said. “The troops in France and Spain are stuck. Our internal transport network is ruined. Our communications network is a shambles.”
Roth stared at the line of red arrows advancing towards Berlin. “There’s nothing to hold them?”
Kesselring snorted. “There are hundreds of divisions composed of old men and new conscripts,” he said. “They won’t hold back the Allies for more than a few minutes apiece. They’ll just brush their way through them.”