Berlin or Bust

^{CHAPTER THIRTEEN} ASSEMBLY

Oberfeldwebel Wolff led his men on an eastward ski trek until the sun began to burn off night’s edge.

“Halt,” a voice called from a line of trees ahead.

“Second Platoon,” Wolff called out.

“Come in.”

He looked back at his squad, who leaned panting on their poles by the twisted bodies of two dead draugr. “This should be the assembly area.”

The men nodded, no doubt thinking about brewing up hot American coffee. Animal dragged the tied-up rafts behind him in the snow.

A makeshift camp occupied the assembly area along the banks of the Havel River. Fallschirmjäger heated rations and boiled water on their Esbit stoves. Dropped on gliders, motorcycles with sidecars zipped in an out of the camp, ferrying wounded to the aid station. Despite the difficulties of the landing, the men seemed to be in good spirits. They again stood on German soil.

Wolff assigned his men to a patch of ground under a copse of trees and roamed the camp searching for Leutnant Reiser and Jäger Muller.

Instead, he discovered Eagle Company’s headquarters, where Hauptfeldwebel Vogel, Hauptmann Werner’s staff sergeant, was ordering his men to dig in.

“Herr Hauptfeldwebel,” he hailed.

The grizzled sergeant major smiled. “Jurgen. How goes it?”

“My squad is accounted for except for one. Leutnant Reiser is also missing.”

“We’re missing over eighty men,” Vogel said. “Which isn’t too bad considering a night jump and losses in the air. Any of your men wounded?”

“Nein, Herr Hauptfeldwebel.”

“That is good. We suffered fifteen percent casualties just from the jump. Twisted ankles and ghouls. Get your men some hot food and a little rest. We’re moving out in an hour to stay on schedule.”

“Verstanden.”

“The river’s frozen over, so we’ll be leaving the rafts.”

“Good. That’ll help us make up some lost time as well.”

Vogel didn’t answer, distracted by a messenger. Wolff saluted and watched the men dig in while medics treated the drop casualties. He returned to his squad shaking his head. The Fallschirmjäger were elite troops, suicidally brave and good at killing, but they were fighting a new war with old doctrine. Vogel had ordered his men to dig in because that’s what you did. The draugr, however, weren’t about to come at them shooting, making it a waste of energy.

He found his men huddled around their stoves, boiling coffee. Wolff sat on a log and produced a box labeled, US ARMY FIELD RATION K, BREAKFAST.

Chopped ham and eggs in a can, biscuits, malted milk tablets, dried fruit bar, Wrigley’s gum, toilet paper, and Halazone water purification tablets. He devoured the food, grateful for the calories, and pocketed the rest. Then he drank his coffee.

Steiner held up his pack of Wrigley’s to inspect in the early light. “They’re trying to turn us into gum-chewing Amis.”

Weber laughed. “It is the source of their kampfgeist.” Fighting spirit.

Wolff thought that wasn’t far from the truth. The gum aided digestion, gave the soldier sugar, and released tension. Good rations won wars. In the German ranks, a deteriorating diet had led to scurvy, dysentery, even typhus.

“Ugh,” said Steiner. “Cinnamon flavor.”

Beck held out his pack. “What flavor is this? I will trade you.”

“Wintergreen. Sure, I’ll trade.”

Gunshots echoed across the snow at random intervals, though nobody seemed to care. Wolff did. It gave him an idea.

“Squad, gather weapons and follow me,” he said.

He led them onto the snowy field past the pickets and raised his binoculars. Attracted by the gunfire, draugr lurched across the snow toward him. Two more poor souls from the Reserve Army, wearing steel helmets and field-gray greatcoats.

“Everything you know is wrong,” he told his men. “Consider yourselves raw recruits again.”

“What do you mean, Herr Oberfeldwebel?” Beck asked him.

“Suppressing fire means nothing against these ghouls. Covering fire. Cover itself. Even concealment, unless you’re actually hiding from them.”

The men had learned fire and maneuver as the two pillars of light infantry tactics. Lay down as much lead as you could to establish fire superiority and suppress, and then flank on one or both sides to destroy the enemy.

None of that mattered to the draugr.

Wolff said, “You keep fighting like the war is still going on. You have to unlearn everything and start fresh. Watch.”

He lay prone on the ground and extended his FG42’s bipod from the barrel collar to give him a firing platform. He loved the automatic weapon, which had been designed specifically for paratrooper use. It delivered the size and weight of a standard infantry rifle but with the firepower of a light machine-gun. Normally, he selected automatic fire to punch the enemy with short, lethal bursts. From now on, he’d favor single shot, as the enemy had changed.

As the ghouls grew near, they let out a moan. Of joy or despair, he didn’t know. Probably both for these creatures that embodied schadenfreude. He took hold of the angled pistol grip and nestled the ribbed buttstock against his shoulder. Then he aimed at one of the ghouls using iron sights.

He exhaled and squeezed the trigger. The first draugr pitched back and toppled. The second quickened its pace, growling now with arms swinging as it dragged its mangled leg behind it.

“I almost feel sorry for the poor bastards,” Beck said.

“You should,” Wolff said. “Enough pity to kill them. It’s an act of mercy. See how he hurries so I can stop his suffering. So he can finally rest in peace.”

He fired again and heard the slug punch through the thing’s helmet with a metallic sound, as if it had been struck by a hammer.

The ghoul fell on its face and lay still.

Wolff stood patting his rifle. “Take your time. Aim carefully, firing prone when you can from a distance and with somebody watching your back. Conserve ammunition. Stay close together, covering 360 degrees around you.”

He imagined the ideal formation in a pitched battle against the draugr would be something like a Napoleonic square, as long as it was mobile, had more ammunition than there were ghouls, and had an egress path in case they needed it.

“Now then,” Wolff said, “who wants to be next?”

Everybody did. Over the next hour, the men lay in the snow and slew draugr. At first, the paratroopers hesitated at shooting unarmed men, especially Germans. Schulte balked at shooting a civilian woman who capered at them across the snow. It had to be done, and they all had to do it, as it was first and foremost an act of mercy. Every kill rewired their tactical instincts and renewed their confidence. They were taking heart. They could do this. It might not even be that difficult.

Wolff knew better. When they reached the city itself with its buildings crowding all around, the balance of power would shift to the infected.