The Long Hard Road

Chapter Forty: Leaving the Sinking Ship

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

12^th 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.”

Roth nodded. “Then we have to move,” he said. “You can’t handle the troops?”

Kesselring was a strategist, not a tactician, but he knew the basic odds were bad. He shook his head, taking a moment to study Roth. The SS officer looked sick at heart, battered beyond recovery, but Germany needed him. The fatherland had few people who could help it survive, and Roth had to stand up now.

“No,” Kesselring said slowly. “There are four crack Waffen-SS divisions digging in into Berlin. I have one Wehrmacht division close by, but not close enough.”

“Then Himmler has to die,” Roth said. “Field Marshal, if you leave the city now, with orders to lead the final battle, you could simply surrender the troops.”

Kesselring had considered it. “And what will you do?” He asked. “Will you come with me?”

“I’m going to kill the Fuhrer,” Roth said, and stood up. “Will you come with me for your orders?”

Kesselring allowed himself a moment of hope. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll make it as convincing as I can.”

Himmler knew, even before Kesselring, that the defence line had failed. The sudden shock had galvanised him; panic could come later. Having sent Roth to find Kesselring, Himmler considered his options and recognised that they had suddenly become limited. Germany – in some form – might live into July 1942 and beyond; Himmler himself certainly wouldn’t live that long, unless he left now.

He scowled. That, of course, left the question of where to go. The Allies knew what he looked like – and Mengele had ranted on about things like DNA testing before he was killed – and so west was out of the question. Switzerland, which was facing heavy Allied diplomatic pressure, was out, and so was the Vatican. The Pope might have declared the future Catholics to be heretics, but he could hardly afford to agonise the Allies. Both Canada and America had strong parties demanding that their Governments refuse further diplomatic status to the Vatican, although for different reasons, and the Pope had to be sweating blood.

For a long moment he considered simply trying to leave and blend in with the local population, but he knew that that would never work for long; almost every house in Germany had his portrait hanging on the wall. No, there was only one option left… and the news from the secret weapons project made it very possible.

Calling his secretary, he began to draft orders. The SS units near Poland would retreat into Poland, and then right up to the border with Russian-held territory. A quick phone call to Molotov had the arrangements made; the pride of the SS would fight beside the 2^nd Shock Army. In the meantime, stockpiles of advanced weapons and nuclear material were heading east, right to the science cities that had been established in Russia.

He smiled, feeling real hope for the first time in the week. The Wehrmacht had clearly not been composed of good Aryans, for good Aryans would not have lost to the mongrels of America. They could die, to the last man, just to buy the SS the time it needed to prepare the final weapons.

“Mein Fuhrer, the Field Marshal has a plan to defeat the enemy,” Roth said. Himmler made a mental note to discipline his secretary, who had left his post to carry out Himmler’s orders. “He believes that we might still win.”

Himmler looked up. “That is good news,” he said, and meant it. Had Kesselring really come up with something, or was it an attempt to save his head?

“Mein Fuhrer, the enemy has clearly taken losses of their own in the battle yesterday,” Kesselring said. “They are not advancing through our country at hundreds of miles a day, but licking their wounds.”

Himmler nodded. He’d seen that for himself; the British and Americans were concentrating on securing their conquests before leaping forward again like a giant frog. They had little choice, merely to avoid a total disaster; the mini-civil war between surrendering units and units determined to fight to the death had ruined vast parts of the country and the food stockpiles.

He smiled. The thought of the British and Americans having to feed German citizens, if they weren’t all Jews and therefore known to be anti-German, was pleasing. They had betrayed Himmler; to subsist on British charity would be a fitting punishment.

“That gives us time,” Kesselring said. “We still have a number of infantry units, both the older units and the SS units, which we can use to halt the enemy short of Berlin. I believe that they will combine their forces for a single unstoppable thrust across the country – and I plan to meet them and stop them.”

Roth spoke for the first time. There was something… different about his voice; Himmler would have been worried under other circumstances. He smiled to himself; there has been a significant decline in the quality and quantity of your toadying lately, Herman. The Simpsons – whatever they were – would never be introduced to the Germans at large, but Himmler had watched a few episodes, hoping to understand the enemy a little better.

“In the week we should have, at least, we can produce massive amounts of mines and anti-tank weapons, including the new warheads,” Roth said. Himmler relaxed slightly; he hadn’t hired Roth for toadying. Roth spoke on, describing a fluid battle, using mines and armed infantrymen to hammer the enemy, to wear them down, prior to throwing the elite SS regiments in to complete the job.

“I see,” he said finally, when Roth had finished. “The SS regiments have their own tasks to accomplish…”

Kesselring gaped at him. “What could be more important that defeating the enemy thrust?” he asked, astonished. “They’re going to rape our country!”

“What an unfortunate metaphor,” Himmler murmured. There hadn’t been any reports of British or American troops engaging in raping German woman, but he was certain that it had happened – if starvation hadn’t already driven women into prostitution. “Unfortunately, the SS regiments have to complete their own tasks.”

“The plan may still work without them,” Roth said. Himmler nodded; he liked it when someone as intelligent as Roth supported him. “I will see to the logistics at once.”

Himmler smiled. “Field Marshal, you will take personal command of this operation,” he said. “Do not bother to return if you die.”

It had been all that Roth could do to prevent himself from simply drawing his sidearm and shooting Himmler right there and then. Instead, he listened as Himmler informed him that they would be bound to succeed, and then dismissed them without even saying good luck. He sniffed the air as they re-entered the main tunnels of the bunker; there was a definite smell of pure fear in the air. It stank, as if unshaven Slavs had been urinating in the corridors.

He said nothing until they returned to the military quarters, watching as Kesselring issued orders through the communications network, such as it was. He said nothing as Kesselring packed one of the handful of laptops, the one containing some of the data on the nuclear weapons program.

“Are you ready?” Kesselring asked finally. Roth nodded; unknown to Kesselring – it would only have upset him – was more than ready. He’d had enough time to make his own plans, ones that might just allow the Reich to survive in some form, even though it would be radically transformed. Perhaps… if everything worked, he might survive the coming few days.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he said. “When are you going to move?”

Kesselring frowned. “In two days, or thereabouts,” he said finally. “I’ll send you the code word when I’m ready.”

Roth nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I won’t let you down.”

He frowned. He knew what Kesselring didn’t know, or wouldn’t acknowledge. With the SS dug into Berlin, a quick surrender would be out of the question. There was only one way to end the war, and he’d made up his mind to try.

Fuhrerbunker

Berlin, Germany

15^th June 1942

Discovering that he’d been locked up in his rooms again was an unpleasant shock for Professor Horton, who’d worried endlessly what would happen next, assuming that Himmler had been killed by one of his rivals. None of the major Nazis – those that had been spared by the SS – would trust him, and as a black man the rank and file would hate him. Something had happened, he knew, but what?

“Come with me,” Himmler’s secretary said, bursting in without bothering to knock. Horton looked up; the young man was sweating with fear, which was… odd. He hadn’t seen anything that could scare him before; the young man didn’t seem to be fazed by anything, even blood on the carpets.

Ignoring Horton’s questions, he pulled him along the corridors, taking him directly into Himmler’s office. Ignoring the two gorilla-like guards who wanted to search Horton, he pulled him into Himmler’s room, saluted Himmler, and then left.

“Observe the map,” Himmler said grimly. Horton stared up at the map; red arrows were marching across Germany. It had taken nearly a year to advance on Berlin before, he knew, and that had been with the Soviets advancing from the other side of Germany. He concealed a smile; his people had done well.

“As you can see, the Allies” – Himmler practically spat the word – “have managed to shatter the defence line and they’re now heading for Berlin. Follow-up forces are occupying the cities behind their lines even as we speak, preventing the citizens from rising in revolt against them. It won’t be long, Herr Professor, before they reach Berlin.”

Horton blinked. A strange recklessness came over him. “Then why haven’t you fled while the Wehrmacht dies to cover your flight?” He asked. “That’s what you tried to do in the other history?”

Himmler’s eyes glittered. “I will leave today, Herr Professor, and you will come with me,” he said. “We are going on a little trip.”

“To where?” Horton asked. “Switzerland?” He smiled hopefully; the Swiss would hardly court British intervention by allowing Himmler to keep him prisoner.

“To Russia,” Himmler said. Horton gaped at him. “Comrade Stalin has agreed to play host to me, several thousand of the best SS men, and the fruits of the advanced weapons projects, such as the first atomic bomb of the Reich.”

Horton felt a numb sensation spreading through his body. His legs nearly gave out. “Don’t know remember what they did to Germany, just for hosting a bioweapons laboratory?” He asked. “What do you think they’ll do for using a nuke on them?”

“Oh, the Russians will get the blame,” Himmler said. “The nuke will be launched in defence of their territory, after all. In the meantime, the Werewolves will grow strong, and then I will make my triumphant return to Germany at the head of an army of SS men…”

He’s mad, Horton realised. Himmler had finally gone off the deep end. “You can’t be serious,” he breathed. “You can’t do that…”

“Oh, Herr Professor, I think you’ll find that I can do that,” Himmler said. Horton recoiled; the Fuhrer had definitely lost it. “You, of course, are coming with me, just to help me adapt to conditions in Stalin’s court.”

Horton felt his mind whirl. He was certain that Stalin would simply shoot Himmler out of hand – and that was hardly a bad thing – and he was certain that he would be shot soon afterwards, or would the NKVD insist on dissecting his secrets first?

Roth received the codeword a day late, when he had just begun to fret in earnest. Kesselring had been receiving as much in the way of supplies that Roth could dig up, including in some cases weapons that were intended for one of Himmler’s pet regiments. Himmler had turned a blind eye to his actions; he seemed to be certain that Roth was working for the good of the Reich.

It had taken nearly a week to build his own private network. It helped that most of the SS men in his part of the service were intelligent; it hadn’t taken long to convince them that Himmler was going to desert them to save his own skin. It had taken Himmler time to suppress all the evidence of his cowardliness in the other timeline, but Roth threw his store of information open to a selected number of his friends and allies, convincing them to move against Himmler.

He hadn’t breathed a word about the second plan to Kesselring. It would have only have upset him.

“It’s time,” he muttered to himself, and gathered his men. There were only twenty-three of them, but they had surprise on their side, and determination. “Group one goes to the communications room,” he ordered. Half of the staff there would be on their side anyway. “Group two follows me.”

He led the second team through the corridors, meeting no one, until they reached the outside of Himmler’s quarters. Quickly, he picked up one of the telephones that had been attached to a wall, and gave a particular order. Alarms started to sound, emergency systems started to move. In seconds, the bunker would be divided into little sections, all cowering against the threat of a nuclear attack.

“It’s done,” he said, as the doors to Himmler’s suite of rooms burst open. He fired once from his pistol, a long burst of machine gun fire answered him, killing half of his team. The rest shot down Himmler’s men, rushing into his office. A single grenade blew down Himmler’s door; he would treasure the expression on Himmler’s face for as long as he lived.

“It’s over,” he said, noticing with shock the secret tunnel in the side of the bunker. He blinked to realise that Professor Horton, handcuffed, was waiting with Himmler. “Give up!”

Himmler’s face whitened very quickly. “What is the meaning of this?” He demanded. “I demand to know…”

Roth almost gave him a flippant answer. “You have been disposed,” he said. “You have a choice; you can order the units on the surface to surrender, or you can die right here, right now!”

Himmler was trembling. “If I order them to surrender, you’ll just kill me,” he said. “I can’t…”

“We won’t kill you,” Roth promised. “We will send you to South America. You can take your chances there.”

Himmler picked up the radio and spoke rapidly. Roth listened carefully; the orders were for surrender, which was to be made to the British immediately. “Are you happy, traitor?” Himmler asked finally, as he put the radio down.

“I haven’t been happy since discovering that you had Kristy raped and murdered,” Roth snapped. “I…”

There was a sudden burst of firing from behind him. Roth spun around, pistol lifted, to see one of his men fall backwards, shot through the head. He fired quickly, firing into Himmler’s secretary, and then something slammed down on the side of his head. He had only moments to realise that Himmler had acted quicker than he would have believed possible, before the world sank into darkness.

Himmler allowed himself a quick moment of absolute triumph, before realising that the surrender order had not been countermanded. Cursing, he sent out the orders on both lines, and was shocked to discover that the line to the Wehrmacht had been cut. He cursed, once, and then again; Professor Horton had been shot through the leg.

“There are people much worse off,” he snapped at Horton, before thinking as fast as he could. Staying in the bunker was certain death, so he checked the dead body of his secretary, picked up his weapon, and pointed it at Horton. “Tell them it will never be over,” he said, and ran down the escape tunnel.

Horton bit his lip as hard as he could to stop himself from screaming; his leg felt horribly sore. He tried to hold it, to stop the bleeding, but with his hands handcuffed it was impossible to stem the flow. Dimly, he was aware that Roth wasn’t dead, but too close to death to help him.

“I’m sorry,” Roth said. His voice was weak; he vomited. Horton shuddered; the vomit had streaks of red mixed in with yellow. “You might survive, Doctor.”

Horton looked down at his wound. “I don’t think so,” he said. He tried to hold himself still, willing the blood to stop flowing. It didn’t work. “I don’t deserve to die this way.”

Roth laughed, coughing up more blood. “We all die in the end,” he said. “Doctor, I’m sorry I got you into this.”

Horton realised dimly that Roth was sincere. “It wasn’t your fault,” he said. “No one knew that this would happen.” He paused. “Why? Why did you join the Nazis?”

“Never had a better opportunity for my skills,” Roth said. “Never had a job because of the depression, never got along well enough to teach, but I knew engineering. Hitler took the gloves off and allowed us to experiment.” He laughed. “And then I was offered a commission in the SS, studying the equipment of other nations, because I had little skill for my own. I was supposed to be examining the new French tanks… and then your aircraft crashes right next to me.” He snickered. “And now the man I looked at as a second father has fucked off to Russia with an atomic bomb…”

He coughed up more blood. When he spoke, his voice was delirious. “Tell Kristy I love her,” he said, and died.