The Long Hard Road

Chapter Forty-One: Which Side Are You On?

Forward Command Post

Brandenburg, Germany

15^th June 1942

Field Marshal Kesselring was puzzled. Himmler had broadcast a surrender order, one that placed all of the military, Wehrmacht and SS alike, under his command. Only minutes later, he’d tried to countermand his own orders, but too late to prevent many units – the ones with reasonable commanders – from siding with him. Oddly, some of the reasonable units included SS units, with Wehrmacht units supporting the ‘fight to the last’ idea.

He cursed as an SS messenger brought him a note from Roth. He scowled as he realised what must have happened; Roth’s little plan had clearly failed, although not completely. The forces inside the city, by and large, were remaining firm, but almost all of the other units had declared for him – and ending the war.

“Raise the British,” he ordered, hoping that they could punch a message through the infrequent jamming. “Tell them… tell them that we wish to discuss terms.”

Ten Downing Street

London, United Kingdom

16^th June 1942

The situation map was changing even as he watched, illustrating the complex nature of what was rapidly becoming a multi-front war. Hanover scowled as fighting broke out in Paris and the rest of France, while Italy was trying to throw off the German yoke. Worst of all was Germany itself; half of the German units in the field seemed to be fighting the other half, and some of them were pleading for Allied assistance.

“So, what exactly is happening?” Hanover asked finally. He waved a hand at the map. “My eyes are going to go if I look at that too long.”

Stirling smiled dutifully. “It’s confused,” he said. “From what we can gather, Field Marshal Kesselring contacted all of the German army units and ordered them to surrender, but not all of the units agreed with this policy. Himmler’s stand to the last order seems to have also made the rounds, and some units are following it. As it happens, Himmler himself seems to have vanished and some units are heading east to meet up with the Russian army, which is digging in along the border, which is about midway through Poland.”

Hanover scowled. The little units, marked with the hammer and stickle flag, were growing even as he watched. Stalin seemed unwilling to let his allies go down without a fight, or perhaps to allow the Allies to take up positions in Poland.

“Bother,” he said absently. “I think that we’d better lean on the teams in place in Russia. With all of the unrest in the Ukraine, you’d think that we would be able to slow down their reinforcing.”

“Most of our bomber asserts are concentrating on reducing the German units that have refused the surrender order,” Stirling said. “There are four divisions dug into Berlin, sir; we might have to force them out just to recover whatever records there are in Berlin.”

Hanover scowled. “What about the Wehrmacht?” He asked. “What’s happening to it?”

“We’re disarming the units that surrender and we’re placing them in POW camps,” Stirling said. “After one incident when a surrendered unit opened fire on American forces, we started ordering them to disarm first, which not all of them are willing to do. Other units seem to have simply dissolved and scattered, heading back home.”

“They won’t be that much of a problem there,” Hanover said. “What about the advance?”

“Going very quickly now,” Stirling said. “Berlin, of course, presents the real problem; we can take it, but the cost would be high.”

Hanover studied the map. “And, of course, we have to prepare to move against Stalin as well,” he said. “If we move forward as far as Berlin and surround the city, then we would at least buy ourselves some time. Who knows, maybe whoever’s in command of the city will surrender.”

“We would have to offer amnesty,” Stirling said. “One SS unit did offer to surrender, in exchange for amnesty, and General Flynn rejected it.”

“Good for him,” Hanover said. He approved of such decisiveness. “We will not allow any of them to escape to Peru and Argentina this time.”

“Sir, President Truman did suggest the use of a nuclear weapon on Berlin,” Stirling pointed out. “General Eisenhower is going to ask you about it this afternoon.”

Hanover, who knew that British intelligence read American mail, shrugged. “We have to avoid using nukes against cities,” he said firmly. “There have already been too many nukes going off on this world.”

Forward Command Post

Brandenburg, Germany

19^th June 1942

General Rommel rarely shouted. He had a way of getting his opinion across the room or into the discussion without shouting or screaming, a trick that Jagar envied. He felt sick, very sick; the British had insisted on showing them around a Concentration Camp.

“It is a matter of honour, General Flynn,” Rommel said. The little troika of commanding officers – Flynn, Stilwell and Rommel – stared firmly at one another. “We have to liberate Berlin.”

“With all due respect for the fighting qualities of the Bundeswehr,” Flynn said thoughtfully, “you are ill-prepared for a street-to-street fight.”

Rommel shook his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Look; you saw that camp. It is a matter – no, a demand – of honour that we, we Germans, take part in the cleansing of Berlin.”

“You want to accomplish it yourselves,” Flynn said. “I won’t lie to you, General; you might succeed, but the cost would be appalling.”

“We would bear it,” Rommel said. “General, we have to do this. Britain has never committed such organised atrocities, and if Germans don’t do something to end them, then we will carry the blame for the rest of history.”

“You may carry a lot of blame anyway,” Stillwell said, speaking for the first time. He waved a hand in the direction of the camp. “Thousands of old people, too old or ill to work, walked into the gas chambers and never came out. Germans did that to them, just as German enslaved millions of Frenchmen and Italians towards their deadly ends.”

“Which is why we must do our part to end the war,” Rommel said. “We have to pay for our crimes.”

Jagar watched as Flynn nodded slowly. “I have a condition,” Flynn said. “Two conditions, actually. The first one is that you agree to softening up the targets by bombing first, and then advancing, under cover of shellfire.” Rommel nodded once, sharply, showing no trace of pain on his face. “The second one is that you allow an SAS team time to slip in ahead of you, one that will broach the secret bunker.”

“And take Himmler alive,” Rommel said. “I agree on that condition.”

Flynn scowled at him. “For the record, I think that this is a dreadful mistake,” he said. “However… I’ll go make the arrangements now.”

“Thank you,” Rommel said. He left the other two generals and came over to where Jagar was standing. “Tell me, how many of our divisions are ready to move forward?”

“Four, two panzer, two infantry,” Jagar said, after consulting his PDA. “We might manage to have a third infantry division if we held off the attack.”

“We have to move as soon as possible,” Rommel said. “Inform the commanders that I want to see them at once in the forward tent.”

Jagar half-wanted to protest. “Jawohl,” he said finally.

Squadron Leader Shelia Dunbar gritted her teeth to hide the pain. Victor’s death had hurt her; she’d flown beside him, fought beside him and shared a bed with him one night. He’d been so determined to set foot on the moon; he hadn’t deserved to die that way, falling endlessly towards the Earth.

“Sierra-one, I have completed refuelling,” she said, her tone dull. Her commander had offered to give her a period of compassionate leave and she’d laughed at him; leave in the middle of a war? The idea was insane; what were her own pains compared to fighting and ending the terrible war?

“What, no sexist jokes?” The tanker crewman asked. She bit his head off. “Ok, ok, I’m sorry I asked.”

“Control, Eagle-flight is ready to move,” she said, ignoring the crewman. He wasn’t important, even though she would have normally have flirted with him. “Please assign us a flight corridor.”

The controller’s voice was professional. “Eagle-flight, assigning you vectors now,” he said. “You have a clear line, all the way to Berlin.”

“Thank Christ for that,” Dunbar muttered. “Eagle-flight, follow me…”

The Eurofighters and the Tornado bombers swooped around and drove directly for Berlin. The ground sped past under their flight; there were no attempts to interfere with their flight. The Germans had other problems, including a miniature civil war that was being mopped up by the Allied ground forces, even now.

“There she blows,” one of the Tornado pilots said, as they swooped high over Berlin. Anti-aircraft blasts began appearing below them, but they were too high up for the proximity detonations to harm them. “Berlin below.”

“The satellites have designated the targets,” she said. There would be no SAS spotters this time. “Stand by to fire… fire!”

“Bombs away,” the Tornado pilot said, as a hail of explosive death fell towards Berlin, concentrating on the defence lines. Flames flickered far below as the bombs found their targets. “We hit the bastards.”

“And here come the Americans to continue the job,” Dunbar snapped, as the B-29s appeared, heading in lower than the British planes. A B-29 was struck directly by an anti-aircraft shell and fell directly out of the air, smashing into an unfortunate German building. “We can leave it to them, I think.”

She knew she was lying. She wanted to hurt Germany, to hurt them and keep hurting them until the pain went away. “Time to go home,” she said, and the words were bile in her mouth. “Let’s go.”

Five weeks ago, he’d been another student in Germany, studying chemistry for his future career. Then the war had reached Germany itself, and Gunter Hofmann had been unwillingly recruited into the defence force, armed and sent out to the barricades.

“Air attack,” the SS Obersturmfuehrer snapped. Hofmann winced; he hated air attacks with a passion. Even as the massive anti-aircraft guns began to bark, the bombs began to fall; precision weapons that landed directly on the barricades, and dumb bombs that smashed buildings and people with equal enthusiasm. He cowered in his trench, praying for it to end soon.

“Get up, you cowardly shit,” the Obersturmfuehrer bellowed, yanking Hofmann to his feet. “The enemy is coming, now they’ve weakened us!”

Hofmann sighed, being careful enough not to let the Obersturmfuehrer hear, and ran to join the barricades. The three-dozen students were almost completely untrained; all they knew was basic rifle maintenance. His background wasn’t in the military, but he was certain that the barricade wouldn’t stand up to a single shell.

“Here they come,” the Obersturmfuehrer bellowed. “Hold fire till I gave the command!”

Hofmann stared along the long road as the sounds of battle grew louder. The SS divisions had been dug in around the Reichstag and the untrained forces had been spread around the city, hoping to degrade the enemy at the cost of their lives. Along the road, a group of soldiers in unfamiliar uniforms appeared, moving quickly, but skilfully along the road, pausing to check the buildings as they passed.

The Obersturmfuehrer closed a connection; one of the buildings exploded as a massive blast destroyed it. “Fire,” he snapped, and Hofmann opened fire, shooting madly down the road. One of the soldiers died, then another, and then they began to fire back. Hofmann felt a burst of heat flash through his head… and then nothing. Nothing at all.

The explosion had triggered an entire chain of explosions, shattering buildings that hadn’t existed in the Berlin he was familiar with. Colonel Muhlenkampf drove the tank carefully down the road, using the machine gun to fire on snipers and the main gun as sparingly as possible. Bundeswehr infantry followed him, carefully securing the buildings. When they found more explosives, they were careful to detonate them from a sate distance, or remove the controlling wires if they could do that.

“Sir, we’re meeting heavy resistance,” he said into his radio. A skilful SS commander had set up a blockade using bricks and mortar, and had a battery of guns hidden behind it. The SS had to be running short on ammunition, but they were firing as if they had an unlimited supply.

“Understood,” Rommel said. “The air force is on its way.”

“Better make it quick,” Muhlenkampf said, just before a chain of explosions ripped through the barricade. “Forward,” he snapped, and the tanks moved forward. They were moving closer and closer to the heart of Berlin, and the SS had to be running out of tricks.

“We’re almost there,” he said, as yet another ambush failed to slow them down. “We’ll be there in time for tea.”

The SAS had learnt, from Kesselring, that there was an entrance to the Fuhrerbunker near the Landwehr Canal. Even as the Bundeswehr infantry marched towards the centre of Berlin, blasting their way through the SS’s traps, Captain Dwynn carefully opened the entrance. It was unguarded.

“Where are they?” Vash subvocalised. “There should be an entire reception committee here.”

“I don’t know,” Dwynn snapped back. “How the hell should I know?”

A dull explosion rang through the corridor. “I think we’d better move quickly,” he said. “The Fuhrer’s quarters are supposed to be under the Reichstag.”

The corridors were dusty; it was easy to believe that there had never been anyone living there forever. If there hadn’t been lights, Dwynn would have quite enjoyed the trip, but the lights proved that something was still working, even if the defences would hardly be as automated as the defences around the bunker at Hack Green, or a similar location.

“Do you think that there’s been an accident?” Plummer asked. He waved a hand at a door. On close inspection, it was clearly designed to be an airtight door between two sections. “Someone must have used a bazooka on that one.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” Dwynn admitted. The team spread out; they could here some Germans talking in a larger room. He peeked around the corner… to see a group of SS generals stuffing themselves with food.

“Bastards,” Vash commented. “A grenade?”

Dwynn picked one of his grenades off his belt and tossed it into the room. Seconds later, it exploded, killing the generals. He checked quickly; none of the generals were still alive.

“What the hell were they doing there?” Dwynn asked grimly. “Stuffing themselves before being hung?”

“It looks that way,” Chang said. “By now, Himmler must have run out of capable officers.”

“I suppose,” Dwynn said. He led the way towards what looked like a control centre. “They must have heard the explosion and…”

Two men came running along the corridor. The SAS men cut them down quickly, moving faster as the news of their presence spread. Dwynn jumped into the control centre and fired once into the ceiling.

“Surrender now and you won’t be harmed,” Dwynn bellowed, his voice amplified to hurt eardrums. “Fight and you won’t live to see tomorrow!”

A portly colonel whimpered. “We surrender,” he said. “We surrender.”

Dwynn nodded at the radio console. “Order the troops on the surface to surrender,” he snapped. The operator started to mutter into his microphone. “Where’s Himmler?”

“He left, he fled,” the colonel said. “I’m Standartenfuehrer Scholz.”

Dwynn glared at him. “Listen fatty, this is not a game,” he snapped. “Where are all the good units?”

“They went with Himmler,” Standartenfuehrer Scholz said. He shook. “We were just left here, and ordered to fight to the last.”

“Well, you’re prisoners now,” Dwynn snapped. “You will surrender your command to General Rommel, and if you behave, it will be used in evidence when it comes to determining your fate.”

It took nearly two hours for the surrender to be effected; some units simply didn’t get the orders, even with the network of tunnels linking Berlin together. Rommel, escorted by an entire platoon of infantry, entered the Fuhrerbunker as soon as the surrender had been concluded, followed by Jagar and Sergeant Kettle.

“I’m not surprised that Himmler has fled,” Rommel said grimly. “He was always a coward.”

Jagar nodded. Satellite photographs placed Himmler’s crack divisions entering Russian-held Poland, heading to join up with Stalin. If Himmler was with them, God only knew what he would do next.

“Have the SS men been secured?” Rommel asked. Sergeant Kettle nodded. “What about the other places?”

“We think that we’ve secured everywhere,” Sergeant Kettle assured him. “With nearly thirty divisions nearby, none of the handful of remaining free German units have showed any stomach for concluding the fight.”

It was undiplomatically phased, but Rommel let it pass. “It was lucky, I suppose,” he said, with a heavy sigh. “Losses?”

“Nearly ten thousand of us,” Jagar said. “A couple of hundred American aircrew were shot down, but we hope that we can recover some of them.”

“You must be Rommel,” a new voice said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Rommel turned and blinked; the man who was stumbling towards him was black as the night, with a very bloody face and a clearly broken leg. One of the SAS team was supporting him, although if the man was a prisoner or merely being escorted, Rommel couldn’t tell.

“You must be Professor Horton,” he said, making the connection. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Horton nodded. “Bastards kept me locked up after Roth died,” he said. “If Himmler hadn’t issued orders back when I got here, they might have shot me out of hand. He said he was going to join up with Stalin and end the war… sir, he has a nuke.”

Rommel felt his blood run cold. Sergeant Kettle grabbed his radio and started to talk rapidly into it. If Himmler had a nuclear warhead – and Stalin would soon have the ability to make his own – the war wasn’t over yet.