Berlin or Bust

^{CHAPTER NINE} MISSION

The Fallschirmjäger tramped into a separate hangar used for the mission briefing. Oberfeldwebel Wolff took his seat in one of the folding chairs and lit his pipe. Schulte sat next to him and crossed his legs with a futile sigh. Schneider’s bulk filled the chair on the other side, releasing a sulfurous fart.

The officers had told the paratroopers they were jumping tonight, weather permitting. The Fallschirmjäger knew they were going to Berlin. Otherwise, they had few details, which would be forthcoming.

By tonight, Wolff would be back in the field braving the elements, hard fighting, fuckups, and bad rations.

A hard existence, being in combat, but it was the devil he knew. It beat idleness. He wanted to be useful. He wanted to end this scourge.

The last of what was left of the 3FJR, 550 strong, marched into the room and took their seats facing a stage and enormous map taped to the wall. The air filled with babble and cigarette smoke.

The map showed Berlin.

Oberst Heilman stomped up the steps onto the stage carrying a wooden pointer as long as a spear.

At the sight of their fierce and vaunted commander, the paratroopers rapped their knuckles against their metal chairs, creating a racket like military drumming.

Heilman said, “Fallschirmjäger, destiny has an odd sense of humor.”

The last of the knocking, the German version of applause, died out.

The commander extended his pointer and slapped it against the map behind him. “Our destiny is taking us to Berlin to save our nation, to save all nations, from a unique enemy that has united us with our former foes. Operation Valhalla.”

“Couldn’t they pick a better name than a place where heroes go after they die?” Schulte muttered next to him.

Wolff was thinking about what Heilman had said. He didn’t care about other nations, not really. Less than a week ago, he’d fought to subjugate the whole world to Germany’s will. He wanted his country to survive above all others. For that alone, he was all in for this operation.

The pointer shifted to a section in downtown Berlin. Tiergarten. “There is an Army Research Center located in the park here on its western side.”

Obergruppenführer Wolfensohn chimed in. “The special projects research facility was constructed in Berlin due to enhanced security need. It was built in the park on the assumption the Allies would not bomb it. However, as it conducted biological weapons research, most of the four-level facility is underground for the city’s protection. The most vital research is on the bottom level.”

“That is the prize,” Heilman said. “And it’s ours.”

“Lucky us,” Schulte murmured.

“Shut up,” Wolff said.

The sniper’s mouth curled in a slight smile. The man lived for a reaction and didn’t mind provoking one even from his sergeant.

The first phase of the airborne operation was for C-53 Skytrooper planes to drop American Pathfinder units onto the drop zones. These airborne troops would place radar beacons and marking lights. The lights would be different colors, designating the drop zone as friendly or hostile.

Heilman tapped an area west of Berlin. “Our regiment will drop here, five miles from Tiergarten. Farmland near Spandau. We will assemble on the west bank of the Havel and cross by raft to the Grunewald. From there, we will travel along Reichsautobahn 2 straight to Tiergarten.”

Wolff studied the map. The plan called for the regiment to stick to unpopulated areas as long as possible. Farmland, then cross the Havel River, then through the densely forested Grunewald.

After that, however, they’d be in the thick of it. Heavily populated areas. Would those infected still be there, or would they have migrated away from the city in search of fresh meat? Would areas they assumed were less populated, such as farms and forests, be relatively free of the beasts?

They were dealing with an enemy about which little was known. The ghouls fought with tooth and nail, though some carried weapons their diseased brains remembered how to use. They could see, and they were attracted to sound. They didn’t sleep and didn’t suffer from the cold. They could only be killed by destroying the brain. They had vast numbers that were increasing by the day.

Heilman swatted the map. “A battalion from the British 2^nd Parachute Brigade will drop on Tempelhof Airport and secure it. The American joint 101^st and 82^nd Airborne battalion will seize the Berlin-Schönefeld Airport.

“We will penetrate the research facility, secure everything we can find on the project, and transport it to Tempelhof. If Tempelhof is not secure, the planes will transfer to Berlin-Schönefeld. A much longer march for us.”

The colonel explained that the Americans would provide insurance in case the British were unsuccessful. Otherwise, they would play a combat support role to the other elements and, if necessary, divert the infected to them.

“That is the plan.” Heilman checked his watch. “Prepare to synchronize. The time is 1931. We will board the planes at 0200. We expect to drop around 0500, just before dawn. Any questions?”

Wolff and several other men stood at attention. Heilman called on him.

“Oberfeldwebel Jurgen Wolff, Second Platoon, Eagle Company, Herr Oberst,” he said. “What kind of resistance are we expecting, either infected or living?”

“Reconnaissance photography shows heavy concentrations of infected in the city, Oberfeldwebel. These concentrations are constantly moving.”

Hunting, Wolff clarified in his mind.

The commander continued, “As for any Reserve Army elements still operational, that is also unknown. Anybody alive in the city is no doubt hiding. Darkness will conceal the drop from both infected and any local military elements who might interpret our actions as hostile. Otherwise, we expect hard fighting to the objective and then to the extraction point. This is why we are going in force, 1,500 men in total. A small team would be quickly destroyed.”

Satisfied, Wolff returned to his seat.

The colonel called on another man to ask his question. The sergeant only half-listened. He knew everything he needed now. Schedule, objective, expected resistance.

Operation Valhalla was what the troops called a himmelfahrtskommando, a trip to Heaven. A Knight’s Cross job. A suicide mission.

“Fallschirmjäger,” Heilman said. “Fallschirmjäger! For years, we fought for our nation and our families. The war is over now but a new war has begun. Now we must fight again. Again for our families, who need us now more than ever. Again for our nation, but not the old Germany. No—a new Germany!”

The men pounded their chairs in approval. The colonel whistled. Several paratroopers from his headquarters staff marched onto the stage. They seized Wolfensohn’s arms.

“What are you doing?” the SS officer cried.

“Obergruppenführer, we are taking you into protective custody for crimes against the German people and all humanity,” Heilman shouted over the paratroopers’ cheering. “For your role in creating these monsters that are destroying our country.”

“Traitor!” Wolfensohn screamed. “When the Führer hears—”

“The Führer is dead. Lock this bastard up!”

Schulte muttered, “It’s about damn time.”