Two hundred thousand of them came, mostly the very young. Yet there had been enough young men, and women, six or seven thousand, of an age to fight. And fight they most certainly wanted to. Yet how? With whom? There was only one group in the German military used to assimilating foreigners… yet that group?
Mühlenkampf had offered, promising them their own unit. He had asked quite humbly for this chance to make up, in however small part, for a sordid… nay, horrid… past. He had even sent Hans Brasche, the history of whom he knew, to talk to the refugees and to Benjamin.
“Yes, I must go,” answered the Israeli. “My job is done here… but there is more I can do.”
Understanding at his core, Breitenbach stepped back, looking Benjamin over from top to bottom. A small silver star of David graced the Israeli’s right collar, the four pips of a major his left. Silver buttons held the tunic closed. A silver embroidered armband encircled his left sleeve, at the cuff.
The armband proclaimed, in silver letters, Hebrew and Roman, one above the other, “Judas Maccabeus.”
The uniform was midnight black.
Headquarters, Army Group Reserve,
Kapellendorf Castle, Thuringia, 25 July 2007
The group headquarters had taken possession of an ancient castle as its headquarters. Inauspiciously, the castle had once served as the headquarters of the Prussian Army before its disastrous defeat by Napoleon in the twin battle of Jena-Auerstadt in 1806. Cool and damp it was, made worse by its surrounding moat. It was not convenient, and one had to go outside to use the latrine. Yet it is, for the nonce, home, thought Mühlenkampf. And it is centrally located.
“Time, gentlemen. It is of the very essence. Whether Germany lives or dies depends on time more than anything. And we think we have less than six months until the next wave lands on our heads.”
“General?” asked Brasche of Mühlenkampf. “Do we have reason to believe they will come right down on us like last time?”
Mühlenkampf’s eyes swept the room. Not one man lower than a lieutenant general… except for Hans, recently promoted to full colonel. And yet Hans, not the others, asked the good questions. “Ordinarily, Hansi, I would say they are stupid enough to use the same trick twice. This time I expect it because they just may be smart enough to do so.”
“Why, sir?”
“Because it is unlikely we will be able to handle it. Within six months the numbers of the enemy to our east and west may have grown to as many a one billion each — yes, they mature that fast! That is the equivalent of perhaps ONE HUNDRED FORTY-FIVE THOUSAND infantry divisions on each front! Though they can move faster and with less train than any infantry division ever known, of course.”
Mühlenkampf continued, “There is actually a fair chance we could defend against each of those assaults. With foreign troops, recent expansions, and the culling of the slackers, Germany actually can place three hundred or so divisions along the Rhein, about as many facing the Vistula, and a like number dispersed throughout the center of the country. And we are digging in and pouring concrete like mad. All that while still leaving a significant reserve in the center, mostly ourselves.
“North and south our flanks are secure, of course, against any ground assault. And our Tigers,” he said, with an appreciative nod towards Brasche, “appear capable of dealing with many times their number.”
Brasche answered truthfully, “We can if we get enough of them. The system has not brought me up even to my old, preattack, strength. I have no strong hope that they’ll fill me to my new strength of forty-one Tigers.” He paused briefly. “I am training the new recruits on the seven Tigers I currently have operational. And new and rebuilt Tigers are coming at a rate of about one every six days or so. ”
Free to recruit for themselves, the 47th Korps had set to that task with a will. Posters, radio, television and internet carried the message of the now black-clad, Sigrune-bearing “asphalt soldiers.” Even the ranks of the Bundeswehr helped here, in two ways. More than a few men of the Bundeswehr opted to transfer. And from others came the message to younger brothers — and even to sons — that the 47th Korps, openly called “the SS Korps” now, was an altogether worthy group, vital to the Fatherland’s defense.
That the girls seemed more interested in the men of the more glamorous and dashing “Schwarze Korps” only helped matters.
Recruits, high-quality recruits, were plentiful. The ranks swelled and over swelled. The 501st, recently redubbed the 501st Schwere Panzer Brigade (Michael Wittmann), drew enough to expand its three skeletonized line companies into full battalions, and its headquarters and support company into three more such plus another battalion for brigade headquarters and general support. The addition of a large artillery regiment — seventy-two guns and twenty-four multiple rocket launchers, engineer demibattalion, air defense demibattalion, plus a reinforced battalion each of panzer grenadiers and reconnaissance troops completed the package. In all, Hans would command close to forty-six hundred troops.
The cadre for these men and the formations they comprised was obtained from diverse sources. First of course were the survivors of the original 501st. This mix was somewhat enhanced by intensive training courses for those deemed most worthy. Additionally, Bad Tolz had been identifying potential junior officers and noncoms all along. These, leadership training once completed, helped fill up both the 501st and the 47th Korps. Some cadre was obtained also from the regular Bundeswehr, from those who wished to escape any residual trace of the, admittedly dying, political correctness that had infected that force, sending many a young soldier to premature death and leaving many a town, like Giessen, ripe for the slaughter.
Lambs to the slaughter, mused Krueger, lambs to the slaughter.
As had Dieter Schultz and his peers once stood in shivering fear before the terror inspiring Krueger, now the new men likewise quaked. The cold of the Bavarian Alps had added to Dieter’s shivering. Now, in the mild Thuringian summer, Krueger needed nothing more than the black uniform with the silver insignia; that and his icy cold blue eyes and frosty mien.
The SS man stopped to slap the face of a new recruit whose face showed just a little too much fear. The boy was knocked to the ground by the blow, then kicked while he lay stunned by a high, polished jackboot. “An SS man recovers from any blow immediately,” announced Krueger, adding another, fairly mild, kick for punctuation. “Up, boy!” Then, loud enough to carry, “You’ll all learn to become tougher and more resilient than Krupp’s steel.
“Why,” he added, a trace of utter loathing in his voice, “you’ll even become more resilient than the Jews, and they put Krupp’s product to shame.”
Krueger shivered himself at the thought of the new formation, this “Judas Maccabeus” brigade. Fucking untermensch. It is a disgrace, it is.