Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2) (29 page)

“I don’t know, father,” Gudrun said, honestly.  There was no point in trying to lie - or mislead.  “I do love him ... if things had been different, I would have agreed at once.”

“If things had been different,” her father pointed out, “you would have married Konrad.”

Gudrun winced in pain.  “Konrad is dead,” she snapped.  “If things had been different ... yes, I
would
have married Konrad.  And I would have done my best to be a good wife for him.”

“He would have liked that, I think,” her father said, dryly.

“But right now, I don’t know if I want to marry,” Gudrun admitted.  She was too upset to care about what she was saying.  “Why
can't
we have a relationship without getting married?”

“Because, sooner or later, you will get pregnant,” her father retorted.  His voice was surprisingly even, which worried her.  “And what will you do then?”

Gudrun cringed.  If she could have, she would have jumped out of the window or made herself vanish in a flash of light.  Her father ... her father couldn't know what Horst and she had been doing, could he?  And yet, he’d been a young man too.  Gudrun - and her siblings - were living proof that their parents had slept together at least four times.  She didn't want to think about her parents being intimate, but there was no way to avoid it.

“Marriage exists to ensure that children are raised in a safe and loving home,” her father continued, when she said nothing.  “If you are not married when you give birth ... people will raise eyebrows.”

It would be worse than that, Gudrun knew.  If there had been a strong promise to marry - which had been broken, through no fault of the woman - she might just be regarded as untainted.  But if there had been no promise ... she knew it would reflect badly on the woman, her parents and everyone else.  It didn't seem fair, somehow, that it was always the woman who suffered for a mutual sin.  A man who slept with many girls, outside marriage, would be given a slap on the back by his friends, while everyone scorned the women ...

“I do want to marry him,” Gudrun said.  “But at the same time, I worry about all of this.”

Her father’s lips twitched.  “Your mother has started to move into politics, too.”

Gudrun met his eyes.  “What do you think of that?”

“I think it would be unwise to object,” her father said, dryly.  He smiled.  “One thing you will learn, when you start married life, is that while your husband is always meant to be in charge, you will have a great deal of influence behind the scenes.”

“Unless you get a very bad husband,” Gudrun said.

“Unless you do,” her father agreed.

He leaned forward, resting his hands on her desk.  “I approve of Horst,” he said, flatly.  “He did ... he did a great many things to keep you safe, before and after the uprising.  He’s smart, he comes from a good family, he has prospects ...”

“So do I,” Gudrun said.

“Yes, now,” her father said.

He cleared his throat.  “I have discussed the matter with your mother,” he said, firmly.  “We have agreed that we will approve the match, when Horst works up the nerve to ask you.  It may take some time.”

Gudrun blinked.  “He’s brave ...”

“There are many kinds of bravery,” her father said, cutting her off.  “Charging into the teeth of enemy fire is one thing, I suppose.  Asking a girl to marry you ... that’s a very different kind of bravery.”

“He approached you,” Gudrun said.

She shook her head.  It was hard not to feel that Horst should have approached
her
first, even though law and custom demanded that her father be asked for his approval before the girl herself was asked.  His refusal would have put an end to the whole affair, unless the happy couple ran off and married secretly ... a difficult task, when the law demanded that both sets of parents needed to be present when the marriage took place.  She knew girls who had only found out by accident that their parents had rejected a number of prospective suitors.  Some of them had been very hurt, but what could they do?  They had no recourse if their parents turned down the match.

“That isn't quite the same,” her father said.  “The fear of being rejected by a girl is so much greater.”

He paused.  “Give him time to work up the nerve,” he warned.  “You don’t want him to feel pressured into it, not when marriage is fraught with emotional hazards.  And when he asks ... well, you shouldn't make him wait
too
long before you say yes.”

“If I do say yes,” Gudrun said.

Her father met her eyes.  “Marriage will change your life,” he warned.  “If you are not sure that you want to marry him, say so now.  I will be quite happy to refuse the suit for you, if that is what you wish.”

“But I don’t want you to refuse the suit,” Gudrun said.  “I just don’t know if I want to marry him
now
.”

“Make up your mind,” her father said.  He nodded towards the window as a pair of explosions echoed out in the distance.  “You may not have much time left.”

“I know,” Gudrun said.  And yet ... she sighed.  Perhaps
she
should broach the topic with Horst, rather than waiting for him.  “I’ll make up my mind soon.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Berlin, Germany Prime

3 October 1985

“The advance forces are in position,”
Sturmbannfuehrer
Friedemann Weineck reported, briskly.  “Aircraft and gunners are standing by.”

“Order them to open fire in ten minutes,” Alfred ordered.  “The advance forces can move forward five minutes after that.”

“
Jawohl
,” Weineck said.

Alfred nodded, never taking his eyes off the looming city.  There were no cracks in the city’s defences, no hidden tunnels that would take the stormtroopers directly into the
Reichstag
.  A handful of tunnels
had
existed, he knew, but a cursory examination had told him that they’d all been collapsed.  The provisional government wouldn't have missed
that
trick, not after underground tunnels had been used to move commandoes into Moscow during the war.  It was impossible to avoid the simple fact that the only way to break into Berlin was through naked force.

This is going to cost us
, he thought.  He’d used all of the five days Holliston had allowed him to muster his men and resources, but he still felt as if he needed more time.  And yet, Holliston had a point.  Germany East had to win the war quickly or she would never win at all. 
Far too many of my men are going to be killed
.

He cursed under his breath.  The scouts had reported back, but none of their messages had been very reassuring.  There were row after row of defences, ranging from basic trenches to fortified houses.  Breaking through one defence line would only expose his men to fire from the
next
defence line.  There was little hope of ramming a spearhead through the defence and then pushing reinforcements into the gap before the enemy could rally and counterattack.  It would be disastrous if he tried.  There just wasn't the room to manoeuvre his forces.  No, he would have to clear the defence lines one by one in a full-frontal assault.  And it was going to cost him dearly.

A nuke would clear the way
, he thought. 
But that would open up Pandora’s Box
.

Berlin was just too large, he noted, as he finally turned his attention to the map.  The reports from inside the city hadn't been very detailed, but between them, the aircraft and the recon reports he knew more than he wanted to know about the defences.  Even trying to break through to the
Reichstag
would be a nightmare, particularly if the rest of the city was used as a base for the enemy to recuperate before launching a counterattack.  About the only advantage he had was that the
Fuhrer
had told him that it didn't matter if Berlin was reduced to rubble.  The capital would be rebuilt after the war.

“The aircraft are taking off now,” Weineck reported.  “They’ll be over their targets in five minutes.”

Alfred nodded, not trusting himself to speak.  They’d moved every aircraft they could westwards, ranging from single-propeller hunters that had served in the counterinsurgency to fast-jet fighters that were normally charged with guarding the seas between Kamchatka and Alaska.  Drawing down their airpower across Germany East was a calculated risk, one that could easily backfire if all hell broke loose.  No matter who won the war, the
Reich
would be badly weakened for years to come.  It was on the tip of his tongue to cancel the airstrike, but he knew it would be a waste of breath.  The odds of winning the battle quickly were in no way improved by withholding the aircraft.

“Order the gunners to watch their targeting,” he said, instead.  “We don’t want to accidentally hit the
Reichstag
.”

He scowled as Weineck turned away. 
He’d
argued to leave the
Reichstag
alone until the battle actually began - there was no point in hoping for a surrender that was never going to come - and then shelling it into a pile of rubble, but the
Fuhrer
had overruled him.  Karl Holliston wanted to sit in the
Reichstag
once again, as her lord and master - her
Fuhrer
- and he didn't give a damn how many stormtroopers died to return him to Berlin.  Or how many civilians ... Berlin had had over three
million
citizens before the uprising.  Now, with hundreds of thousands of refugees streaming into the city, the population could be a great deal higher.  And far too many of them were about to die.

Shaking his head, he looked back towards Berlin as the flight of aircraft roared overhead, blocking out the sun.  The Berliners were about to be exposed to the first full-scale airstrike since the Arab Rebellions had been brutally crushed ...

... And, somehow, he knew it wasn't going to be enough.

Too many men are going to die
, he thought. 
And I can do nothing
.

***

“Radar reports that hundreds of aircraft are inbound,” the young messenger gasped.  “They're coming!”

“You don’t say,” Kurt snapped.  The aircraft were already in view, advancing towards the defence lines with stately malice.  His ears were starting to hurt from the racket.  He raised his voice, knowing the NCOs would pass on the warning.  “Get down!”

He scowled at the messenger, who was staring around like a gormless idiot, then pulled him into the trench as the bombs started to fall.  Darkness fell over him as the aircraft passed overhead, the droning rising and falling as a handful of aircraft were picked off by guided missiles and blown out of the air.  The bombs started to detonate seconds later; he covered his ears, praying desperately that none of the bombs would find targets.  If they didn't land on the trench directly, he told himself, there was a good chance of survival ...

The sound of explosions faded away as the aircraft banked, trying to avoid flying over the city.  Several aircraft had been shot down over the last few days, their pilots bailing out only to drop down to a welcoming committee composed of angry civilians.  They’d been lynched, the police idly standing by as the civilians tore the pilots asunder.  After reading some of the horror stories from the east, as the SS brutally trampled its way westwards, Kurt found it hard to care.

“Shit,” the messenger breathed.  “They destroyed the line.”

“Shut up,” Kurt ordered.  A number of buildings
had
been knocked down, but the defence line was still largely intact.  Hell, the rubble would make better barricades than flimsy warehouses that had been put together by the cheapest possible contractor.  “Get back to the CP and tell them we’re still alive.”

He shoved the messenger towards the edge of the trench, then peered eastwards as the shells started to rain down on the city.  This time, the shells were crashing down with terrifying force, rather than a handful of shells hurled into Berlin at random.  The ground shook, time and time again, as the barrage crawled over their position and headed west.   He heard someone scream, so loud he could hear it over the constant rumble of exploding shells, and knew one of his men had been hit.  But there was no way to get him to a field hospital until the shellfire had finally come to an end.

“Mines,” someone shouted.  “They’re dropping mines!”

Kurt swore under his breath.  “Careful where you put your feet,” he bawled.  The SS might not be planning to attack his position, then ... unless they just didn't give a damn about their own people.  “Don’t go near one of the damned things!”

He swallowed, hard.  Shell-dropped mines were absolute nightmares, although they didn't tend to bury themselves automatically.  The ground would have to be swept carefully before it could be declared safe.  They rarely carried enough explosive to kill, but a soldier who lost a leg in combat would be rendered useless, even if he did get rushed hastily to the field hospital.  Surely, if the SS was reduced to dropping the tiny weapons on his position, they weren’t actually planning to attack ...

“Incoming,” Loeb shouted.  “We have incoming!”

Kurt turned, hefting his rifle; he swore out loud as he saw the grey-clad figures moving slowly towards him.  They were good, he noted; one section moved forward while two more covered them, using every last chunk of debris to keep themselves hidden from watching eyes.  And they didn't seem to be firing too ... hell, the bombardment had tailed off completely, as if the enemy had run out of shells.

Or as if they don’t want to kill their own people
, he thought, darkly. 
That would be very bad for their morale
.

He felt a surge of hatred as the stormtroopers advanced closer.  Konrad had been alright - for a young man who was courting Kurt’s sister - but far too many other SS stormtroopers were bastards.  Kurt wouldn't forget any of the atrocities in a hurry, or what it meant for the civilians caught in the city.  Half the population was female ... they’d be raped and then murdered by the SS, if they were lucky.  The remainder, if rumour was to be believed, were being taken east.  He didn't want to
think
about what would happen to them there.

“Take aim,” he ordered, choosing a target.  The SS man was sneaking closer, using his helmet to hide his face.  A rapist, perhaps?  Or merely one of the monsters who’d slaughtered the population of dozens of towns and villages.  “Fire on my command.”

He forced himself to remain calm, thinking hard.  None of his superiors had expected the line to last indefinitely, not when the SS would bring overwhelming force to bear against any prospective weak point.  Their orders were to give the enemy a bloody nose and then fall back, something that reminded him far too much of their earlier orders.  But Berlin was huge and they had plenty of space to trade for time.  Let the SS have the outer edge of the defence lines, if they wished.  The mortars already had the area firmly targeted.

Gritting his teeth, he took aim at his target.  “Fire!”

There was a ragged burst of firing.  Four stormtroopers fell; the remainder, their skills sharpened by constant combat, dropped to the ground and started to crawl for cover.  A handful fired back, but their shots went wide.  Loeb tapped his radio, calling in a mortar strike, as the soldiers kept firing, trying to hit the stormtroopers as they hid.  For a second, the advance seemed to come to an end ...

... And then the stormtroopers resumed their crawl, pushing forward with icy determination.

Assholes
, Kurt thought.  He picked off another stormtrooper, then ducked hurriedly as a bullet cracked through the air alarmingly close to him.  Two of his men were dead, a third badly wounded. 
You’ll just keep coming until we stop you
.

The mortar shells crashed down, shaking the ground and stopping the advance for a few brief seconds.  Kurt rose, blew the whistle as hard as he could and then followed his men down the path they’d planned for their retreat.  Another explosion, a smaller one, told him that one of his men had stumbled over a mine; he glanced left and swallowed, feeling his stomach heave, as he saw the victim lying on the ground, his legs completely missing.  Blood was pouring from his thighs ... Kurt didn't want to think about what had happened to his
manhood. 
Even if he could be saved - and Nazi Germany led the way in transplants - there was no way he’d ever be complete again.

Loeb scooped the man up, blood pouring down and staining his uniform.  “Run,” he snapped, loudly.  Behind them, shots echoed in the distance.  “Move it!”

Kurt nodded and ran.  More mortar shells crashed down, concealing their escape until they reached the next set of trenches.  A machine gun opened fire, riddling a pair of stormtroopers who had pushed too close to the defences.  Kurt jumped down into the trench, then turned to help Loeb.  But the
Oberfeldwebel
was staring down at his charge with a bitter expression.

“He’s dead,
Herr Hauptmann
,”  he said.  “There’s nothing we can do.”

“We can keep fighting,” Kurt snarled.  He’d never hated anyone quite as much as he’d hated the SS, not now.  A man had died in screaming agony because he’d put his foot on a tiny little mine, then been carried to a nearby trench.  He hadn't deserved to die.  And the hell of it was that Kurt couldn't even remember the man’s
name
.  “That’s all we can do.”