Chapter Four: December 20th, 1942
...
To say it took a lot of convincing to get both Gerd von Rundstedt and Albert Speer to take a two hour excursion to the moon would be understating it.
Speer was by far easier to convince. between his youth and his unusual, bordering on unnatural levels of curiosity was only tempered by a tad display of reluctance, something that as expected by Halid'Zorah if he was to work with a race that was only just touching on the practical applications of rocketry and jet engines. Rundstedt by far was harder to convince. It was a nightmare trying to get him to use quarian technology, it was harder than pulling krogan teeth to get him onto a shuttle and take him to meet Alaan in person.
It was supposed to have been a surprise, a sort of belated birthday gift to the Generalfeldmarschall, but unfortunately he had to spoil it in order to convince them that they would be on their Moon for very good reason.
"Welcome to the Compassionate Action, your new factory," Halid addressed the two men staring wondrously at the elegant design of the improvised factory built to fuel the war effort on Earth. Speer and Von Rundstedt turned back, both of them impressed.
"The Compassionate Action is a stripped down dreadnought that was critically damaged and abandoned by the asari after the krogans crippled it in the uprising," Zorah explained to the two of them as they moved through the ship. "We salvaged it last year and had no idea what to do with it until now. It was most likely going to become another food producer until the two of you told me your predicament with forced labour and you're more recent problems, the Waffen-SS being granted first priority in armaments."
The humans did not reply to what the Admiral serving as tour guide was saying. Frowning, he turned back to Speer and Von Rundstedt were clearly still in a state of shock from both the inability to comprehend they were on the Earth moon and the alien built vessel. Zorah had to be patient. They were , after all, the first humans to have been standing on their moon. Speer turned back, his hand reaching up and tugging off his peaked cap, resting it under his arm.
"This is... beyond impressive, Admiral," Speer spoke on behalf of the two of them. "Does this now mean your people now know what is happening? Have they been informed of the plan you are proposing?"
Halid shook his head.
"No. Not until the deadline for the recall to the fleet have been met," Zorah explained to the two of them. "We are converting our galactic currencies to gold and buying what technologies we can. Once we make our presence known, the Mass Relay travel will be banned for public use and monitored by our military."
Speer quirked his lip, unable to believe what he was hearing apparently.
"So you are keeping a thousand or so factory workers in the dark," Speer guessed, squinting curiously as he paid attention to the noise of constructing occurring no more than a few dozen meters from them.
Halid merely offered the Armaments Minister a smile and beckoned the two men to follow. Together the trio wandered through the long winding corridors of the ship, though abandoned a thousand years ago was still elegant and sleek, preserved since the time of the krogan overwhelming the galaxy. Something brought upon by salarians uplifting them. Halid was not blind to the irony; here he was guiding the destiny of humanity to fit his people's agenda. He could have only hoped that when the deed was done, when Rannoch was in quarian hands once more, they would not have to sterilize Humanity like the salarians did to the krogan.
The group wandered into what was once the crew deck. There from one end of the stripped shit to the other were assembly lines, on them Panzer chassis being worked over by automated machine wielders. Halid glanced back to the two men, Speer looked as though the human tradition of Christmas had arrived early, Rundstedt had the gist of it, but was not quite sure what the machines were.
"Automated assembly lines have reduced the quarian workforce down to supervisors and quality assurance," Halid explained to the Generalfeldmarschall. He looked up and noticed a quarian in work clothing approaching the Admiral. He smiled slightly and gestured to the approaching man, adding. "This is Captain Yagar'Haevjar vas Compassionate Action. This is Generalfeldmarschall Gerd von Rundstedt and Minister Speer."
The quarian, suited due to his lack of time amongst the humans and therefore, frightened of infection, offered Rundstedt a nod. He turned to Speer and appeared much more excited by the younger enigma standing before him.
"I have heard all about you, Minister Speer," Captain Haevjar greeted the man with great enthusiasm. "We are in the same line of work, you know. You and I are going to be in quite a lot of contact from now on... Come along, I'll show you the finished product."
Speer and Von Rundstedt glanced to one another; they followed the excited engineer, who led them through the assembly lines and through the sliding doors at the opposite end of the Factory. They soon enough found themselves in the docking bay and before them, a lone tank waited for them.
It was longer than the Tiger; it had many more angles than the stubby beast heavy tank had. The vehicle… It was flat out attractive looking, but that was a part of the deception. It would have nearly the same kick as a Tiger and none of the weaknesses.
"I received the blueprints and have fed them into the factory," The Captain spoke as he stepped in front of the Panzer, adding. "As you see, your very first quarian built Panzer V Panther Tank... take a look."
Speer nodded and before anyone knew it, he was up on the tank's turret, peering inside of the hatch, next to him was the quarian captain, standing there as though he was expecting praise. Speer pulled his head out and nodded to himself.
"It's to the schematics," Conceded Speer, "The Fuhrer was insistent on making this vehicle almost as big as the Tiger… I had asked for this tank to be built lighter."
"This tank is lighter minister Speer. It just does not look like it," The Captain argued, his words earning Speer's attention. "At first we played around the prototype you sent to us and ran it hard around the ship's cargo bay. Did not take the quality testers long to notice that the driveshaft design for it made the tank a liability in combat. We redesigned it."
The Captain leaped off the Panzer and moved to its stern, he unhinged the access port to the engine and turned back to Speer, who was now sitting on the turret.
"We also had to refit the engine with a much more efficient stabilizer wrapping, less likely to be knocked out of place if amine were to be run over. The engine block was found to be too heavy by our standards, therefore we have decided against the use of cast iron in favour of the original aluminum," he pressed on. "The engines also overheated due to it being so insulated against flooding. The fire risk was very real; we have taken steps to install additional ventilation shafts that will elevate the problems."
Slamming the metal plates back over the Engine, Captain Haevjar kicked one of the steel wheels in the track.
"Finally, the tracks... honestly, there is not much we can do about them," he admitted with a mild grin behind his clear faceplate. "It's a silly design, but your Panzer men were trained to handle it. I am going to defer to them."
From behind Zorah a cough emerged from Rundstedt. He was an infantry general. His interest in tanks was nowhere near the level of his comrades. From above them was Speer, rubbing his chin as he silently brooded.
"Lots of critic," The Minister remarked to no one in particular. "It makes me wonder if I press for mass production of Panzer IV's or Tiger's instead."
The Captain looked at the Minister, clearly befuddled.
"Perhaps I was not clear," He said. "All of the original issues with the tank were something that was simple enough to repair. Considering the level of technology that Admiral Zorah has told me your world subsides in, this tank... it's an absolute gem. If I was servicing in an armour corps like my grandfather's grandfather, I would want to do so in a tank like this."
Staring at the Panzer underneath him for a good long while, Speer finally nodded in agreement; he was joined by Gerd who was walking circles around the vehicle. The Generalfeldmarschall nodded, not entirely as optimistic as the head of the improvised factory. Glancing to the bemused Admiral, Haevjar stepped forward, his hand banging hard the sloped frontal plate armour.
"This steel sloped plate is a ruse. Underneath it is high quality self-sustaining electric reactive armour that will displace the effects of shaped charges, all the way up to the main gun of the Tiger. It will not need to be maintained by the crews, nor will it be noticed," Haevjar spoke up enthusiastically about his own work. He paused, noticed the impressed expression on Speer's face, adding. "Let's get this straight. You would not be invincible, but it'll make the tanks more capable of absorbing damage. It's the closest thing that your people will get to kinetic barriers for quite some time."
The sound of footsteps approached them. Admiral Zorah, still mildly grinning turned back and instantly froze in place, his smile forming into a brief look of hereditary fear. It was a geth, its headlamp focused on him as the platform stopped moving. Zorah turned away and noticed the Captain was staring at the machine as though it was one of his men.
"Creator Haevjar, steel supplies are down to eighty one percent," The machine prattled to its master. "We have produced two hundred thirty seven units in the past two solar days."
Nodding, Haevjar turned back to the machine standing there blankly.
"Enough for the time being, move on to the ME-262. Three hundred units, then I want those assault rifles back on track," The Captain ordered the machine. He turned back to Speer and bowed his head slightly, adding. "If you will excuse me, it's a pleasure to meet you again, Speer, Rundstedt."
The Captain wandered off with the machine in toe. It was not long before the Captain stopped and turned back to the men.
"Oh… where do you want them landed?" Haevjar inquired curiously. He paused and smirked, his voice growing bright as he added. "You know... With a little more work, I could convert the Panther tank over to Hydrogen cells and Solar, install a VI programs and drop them into Moscow, Washington and London... would save on manpower..."
Sighing at the enthusiasm displayed by the Captain and the very interested expression on the Generalfeldmarschall's face, Halid held up his hand to silence him.
"That will be quite enough, I will handle the details, you're dismissed."
The Captain nodded, somewhat put off by the Admiral's lack of warmth to his sudden and daring plan. Zorah though had to admit, he liked the concept, but the thought gethlike Panther tanks would keep him up at night. He turned back to Speer who was staring curiously at the platform as it retreated.
"What was that machine?" Speer inquired as the Captain and the geth platform retreated from view.
Halid frowned.
"Geth, though it would be quite the stretch to call them geth," Halid spoke distastefully, finally regaining his controls over his fear. "They are geth platforms controlled by a simple quarian controlled VI. They are geth in the most simplest of functions, before my ancestors started tinkering with their intelligence. I guess the captain employs them for the finesse work of your weapons."
Speer nodded, Von Rundstedt on the other hand knew exactly why Zorah was so unwilling to speak on the subject.
"So what do you need for this plant to continue operation? Raw materials?" the old soldier asked.
Zorah shook his head.
"No, it would raise too many questions as to where the resources are going. We have everything we need," The Admiral reassured the humans. "If you cannot capture the major players, civil war will spiral out of hand. The SS will turn around and hit the forces involved in the conspiracy with immense firepower that you do not have on your hands just yet. You cannot divert men from the East, or men from Africa. Those two fronts have the bulk of the equipment. Having this manufacturing plant will elevate any equipment issues you might find yourself in during the take over of the Reich. Now come, we'll figure out the delivery point.
...
...
With the capture of Malta fresh on his mind, Utala'Falan had found Erwin Rommel in extremely jubilant spirits as he marked Alexandria, German controlled Egypt
Malta had been a blight that hampered his supply and medical ship routes to and from Italy. The only thing he had to worry about now was what lay beyond the Suez and the last island bastion in Mediterranean, Gibraltar. The island perched at the mouth of the sea was such a massive hassle that Rommel had been making serious inquiries into annexing Vichy French and begin conducting an all-out bombing campaign against the island. As reliable as the Regia Marina had become to him, the U-boats poaching the Royal Navy deep behind enemy lines was his new priority. The navy had begun commerce raiding, taking Italian and German vessels in some cases and deliver his supplies to the English in what little of Egypt the British held.
It was not to happen however, the collaborating French wanted to hold their land, their way. It was what little pride they had left in defending the lands mercifully granted to the by their German superiors. OBW, led by Gerd von Rundstedt happened to agree with him. Though relations between Von Rundstedt, a relic from the past, but admirably uncompromising logical and Rommel, a forward thinking commander who was somewhat brash were getting better. Von Rundstedt sided with the French for the time being. The Luftwaffe was far too fragile to send against a garrison that size.
Then again, there was always quarian intervention, which was decidedly ruled out when Utala approached Jarva and Zorah. Frying the Malta garrison pulse charge, Zorah felt that one time could be shrugged off by the English. A second time against an even greater strategically important island would lead to many questions being asked by the humans they were working against. Alaan on the other hand was against first hand intervention, at least until the political party was flushed out, their political army destroyed before they worked against the English openly.
Speaking of political soldiers, the door to Rommel's room opened up and suddenly, Utala'Falan had found herself looking up to stare into the dark eyes belonging to Rommel's adjutant to the SS, Joachim Peiper. His eyes narrowed as he stared suspiciously at the woman.
"Admiral Falan," was all he said before leaving Falan.
Exhaling and pushing the arrogant little Nazi out of her mind as she pushed open the doors to Rommel's room. Falan had to admit that she had actually come to hate Peiper. There was a smug pride to him that made Rommel look modest by comparison.
'-Working in unison, Manstein, the mastermind of this operation is commanding General's Guderian and Hoth's pincer attack against the Soviet savages caught the Asiatic hordes off guard. Local correspondent's report that the lead elements of the counterattack are now fifteen kilometres away from the outskirts of Stalingrad, where the glorious Sixth Army makes its stand in the bulwark of Bolshevism...'
Allowing the radio blaring to become simple buzzing in the back of her mind, Utala turned to focus properly on Rommel, before him, a stack of papers that were not official German army orders. It was clear that he was writing something as the pen in his hand did not stop. His expression was unusually stern in appearance. He was concentrating, Falan had half a mind to turn around and leave if not for her own curiosity getting the best of her.
"What are you doing?" she inquired.
Rommel peered over his reading glasses to glance at her.
"I'm writing."
Utala nodded as Rommel turned back and stepped closer to the Field Marshal. Her hands touched against the papers as she inspected the first page which had but only two words. Falan tried not to smirk. The title was for a book, though he was creative in the battlefield, he sure as hell was not artistic outside of it.
"Panzer Attack…" Falan spoke the title with enough amusement to catch Rommel's attention. She paused, blinked and added. "You're placing all your theories into a book... for your enemies to read and use against you."
Bemused by her disbelief, Rommel grabbed the mass of papers from out of Falan's weak grasp. He shoved them back into his briefcase as he set down his pen to turn to focus on the Admiral now hovering over him.
"It will be released at the end of war, just as Infantry Attacks were released at the end of the last war," he explained as he sipped his glass of water, his eyes scanning his manuscript. "With any luck my theories will be obsolete for future combat use against us. It will serve a something interesting to read, nothing more. How primitive man fought war before the quarians came and raised us to a new level of consciousness."
Falan pursed her lips and tried not to snort at the biting sarcasm in the Generalfeldmarschall's voice. Despite his attitude, Falan knew that Rommel was being modest.
"So... essentially this is just another thing to secure your legacy?" Utala guessed, her tone amused as Rommel stiffened and glanced up to her.
"You speak of pride as though it was a bad thing," he pointed out, his voice less than enthused by her observation. "Is there something wrong with that? A man needs a legacy. I imagine long before that mess on your world, the quarian people were prideful, not so now it seems."
The quarian blinked. They were now treading dangerously to the topic about the geth. It was a subject she did not want to bring up.
"So, anyways... What is your family like?"
Utala blinked yet again at the question she had asked. It was both random and personal. She had always tried to keep Rommel's personal life his own business. The last thing she wanted was to make him uncomfortable about such things. He usually left his personal life back in Germany, preferring to remain professional out in the field.
Falan noticed Rommel's eyes squinted as he continued to write. It took several long moments before he finally set his pen down to look up to her.
"If you are asking to meet them, I'm going to have to recommend you wait until your people reveal themselves," he reminded her.
Utala flushed slightly, the last thing she wanted to do was to meet them for the time being. If things were awkward between Erwin and her, she could only imagine the vast scorn that his wife would have for her being there, thinking of her husband in less than professional ways...
"My son is still young and impressionable. He seems to think that his future lies joining the SS thanks to his membership in the Hitlerjugend," He stated offhandedly. He paused, and with a much more delicate tone, added. "My wife, we married more out of expectation then anything. I will be honest; I do care quite a bit about her though."
Utala tilted her head.
"Though not enough to find an interest in… this… us… whatever this is."
The slightly older human quirked his lips at the remark offered by the woman attempting to sound casual about referring to the two of them in a nonprofessional nature. His pen was set down, his fingers laced together as his looked up to her, his eyes inspecting her stance, question her resolve that hid her desire to lean down to kiss him like she had done only days before.
"Considering your age, I must have assumed that you were in a relationship, that you were not being faithful as well," was all Rommel had to say on the subject.
Utala's nostril's flustered as Rommel's words made her suddenly both very offended and extremely self-aware. She was freely displaying an attraction to a married man and she was not risking anything either. She paid no mind to Rommel as he stood from his seat; instead her head was staring at the ground.
"I am going to forget that comment on the basis of how terribly offensive I find that assumption to be," Falan managed to get out, her words near delusional. "No, Erwin, I am not married. Being forty-eight does not mean I have had time to marry someone..."
Falan trailed off as she felt Rommel's hand gripping her forearm. She looked up and stared at Generalfeldmarschall. His expression was still stern, but there was a spark in his eyes, a kindness that rarely presented itself for public. Utala bit her lower lip and simply stood there, unable to move under his intense inspection.
Honestly, she had no idea what to do about him, she liked him of course, but he was a married man, there were far too many things to consider before she could simply admit that the kiss she gave him was not a onetime thing, made by a quarian impressed that he would stand up to tyranny when many of his contemporaries would not do the same.
Perhaps she would go speak to Admiral Jarva's daughter about this issue; perhaps she would know how to help her handle this. Though, then again it might not have been a good idea. Hanala'Jarva had basically lost everything she once was before her crash landing on earth all thanks to her intimate interaction with humanity and that man in particular.
"I-... what did Peiper want?"
Her words seemed the interaction with the Generalfeldmarschall. Rommel let go of her arm and turned away to find his glass of water; a faint smirk crossed his lips as he left her flustered.
"I have been invited for a dinner with Herr Sepp Dietrich," Rommel stated as he sat back down, crossing one leg over the other as he leaned back into his seat. "Apparently I have not made much in the way of time for our newest addition. I would have thought that my lack of interaction would have been a clear enough message."
Holding his glass out, to the Admiral disguised as an Oberst, Falan hid her resigned expression as she took the glass and went to fill it up from the pitcher in the corner of the room that held a tray of a variety of local foods he had bought. She glanced over to Rommel; he had turned back to his manuscript his pen back in his hand as he wrote.
"I better not come, I might say something," Utala mused as she returned to his side, setting the glass down in front of the human. "That and I am a woman. Peiper always looks like he's going to have a brain aneurism when I'm offering you advice that you take over his. It must be a grievous shame."
Rommel glanced up to her, his eyebrows perched.
"If I did not know better, I would think that you are gloating," Rommel replied to her, his tone sarcastic as he inspected the quarian.
Rommel turned back to his writings, leaving Falan flustered by his honesty.
...
...
The artillery barrage from just outside of the apartment block was unnerving, but Christian Bohr would have endured artillery another round if the noise of the falling shells was not replaced by the patriotic Soviet roar, indicating that the commissioners had managed to round up a new wave to hit the hundred or so burnt out Germans in their improvised garrison.
A Hauptmann named Brandis had organized this unit from remnants of the exterior defensive perimeter of the pocket. Bohr and his men had hid the edge of the westernmost part of the city until they were found by him. So, like good German soldiers, they followed him to the relative safety provided in the residential districts in the centre of the city, amongst the Soviet citizens that were too entrenched and frightened to rise up against the near primitive rage the Germans had from being trapped alongside them.
From out of the oily smoke the Soviets came, a thousand voices roaring and clamouring through the wreckage and craters. The entrenched men of the Heer opened up with everything in their possession, from pistols to captured Bazookas, which the Soviets must have bought from the America.
Christian shot a man clambering over a burnt out T-34 trapped in rubble and reloaded, firing over and over again at the seemingly endless wave of Russians. With wild eyes he turned back to several machine gunners loading their weapons.
"Ivan pushing through the courtyard! Get those DP's in place!"
The two unidentified soldiers obliged, rushing to push their two captured light machine guns out of the windows and fired away on the Russians below though. Next to him, the short wave radio crackled to life, it was Brandis, and he sounded close to having a breakdown.
"-SOVIET PROBING TEAM HAS BREECHED THROUGH THE UNDERGROUND. BOHR, TAKE YOUR TEAM TO INVESTIGATE!"
Christian fired one more rifle round into the mass outside before turning to gather his squad. Hammer, refilling his flamethrower extremely carefully as he tucked his pistol back into his belt, Oster, who had abandoned his Sniper rifle in favour of a MP-40 he had discovered left on the body of a Heer NCO, Fuhrmann was curled up under the window nearest to him, he was reloading his PPSH.
He did not need to issue an order as he stood. The depleted squad moved out through the gun and grenade fire. The window where Fuhrmann had been hiding behind exploded. Thankfully all of them were in the hallways leading to the staircase, past the rushing around of supply personnel rearming the defenders with what meagre supplies they could scrounge.
Boots stamped in front of the squad, rushing towards them. Before Bohr realized it, a small group of Soviets was standing in the hallway, firing wildly until the Germans were forced to die into various rooms to lean out, returning their fire. How in the hell did these Russian assholes get so deep into the Garrison so quickly?
Bohr decided then and there, the Soviets must have been ghosts. It was the only explanation.
The Bolshevik officer roared to his men. It did not take a genius for Bohr to understand what he was telling his men. Germans above them, kill them until they were dead.
Well, fortunately for Bohr, Kurt Hammer had decided enough was enough. He shoved past the squad that was returning fire moving from room to room so that the Soviets paying attention to the three Germans firing on them and not on him. Finally, Hammer disappeared for much longer. Bohr hoped that he was not dead.
He was not as the hall around the Russians was suddenly and completely engulfed in oily flames. With their firing ceasing to a halt and their screaming replaced the noise, Bohr led the others down the hallway, through the flames, pausing briefly to put the Soviets out of their misery as they wringed on the ground.
By the time they go to where Hammer was supposed to be, he was no longer there, instead he was down the flight of stairs by one level, his pistol cracking as he fired on the Russians advancing. The Russians returned fire, forcing Hammer to slump on the stairs in an attempt to find cover.
"GET BACK HERE, HAMMER!"
Not listening to the Feldwebel's desperate order, Hammer pushed himself up, his face nearly animalistic, he looked close to insanity. The Unteroffizier then pushed the nozzle of his flamethrower over the balcony edge and blasted the nearest Russians, who were on the first steps of the staircase with wave of fire that torched the Russians, the stairs, the walls, everything.
The Russians screamed in the tar and gasoline fire that boiled their skin and muscle from of their bones. The lobby now quiet, Hammer stood up breathed a low mirth filled laugh as he watched the men die slowly. Bohr closed his eyes and turned away, he absolutely hated Flamethrowers. It was one thing to shoot a man, but to douse them in flames that were by-product of a sticky flammable substance? Ghastly was an understatement.
With the fuel tank on his back now emptied and he had no reserves left in the Garrison. , he pushed it off his back and retrieved a singed Russian rifle left by the Russians and re-joined the rest of his slack jawed squad.
Bohr was the first one who focused. He did his best not to shoot Hammer, who was clearly becoming more and more a liability. It was as though he wanted to die. Calmly, carefully, the Feldwebel turned around to face Oster and Fuhrmann, he tried to ignore the smell of burning human flesh.
"Oster, take Fuhrmann down there."
Oster nodded, glancing to Fuhrmann. The two of them nearly bolted down the staircase, dodging the fire and bodies as they went to secure the lobby while they waited for the other two to join them, leaving Bohr staring down his second in command, who was heaving hard. He looked amusingly at the burning bodies left in his wake.
Before Hammer knew it, the butt of a Mauser rifle slammed into his gut, dropping the Unteroffizier to the ground. The Unteroffizier heaved and rolled over onto his back, only to find himself staring into the barrel of the rifle. Behind it stood Bohr, his expression cool.
"Act the hero again and I'll kill you myself," Bohr warned him, his voice soft despite the topic at hand. "I said I was not going to fail Mann and get everyone killed, but you're making my promise very difficult to keep. So get your shit together."
Hammer did not reply, instead he simply allowed Christian to lean down and take his hand, dragging him back to his feet. The Unteroffizier shoved past Bohr with a sneer as he limped down to join Oster and Fuhrmann. Bohr sighed, wishing Mann was here.
...
...
"I cannot believe I had to walk into that, I get it that she was young, you could have at least gone to her place instead of our dorm. I did not want to see that…Well… not you at least!"
"Come on, you must have liked enough to use it as proof you knew me. My God, I got in trouble for that when Fuhrmann said it out loud."
The two of them were drinking out in the parking lot, Joachim, sitting on the pavement, Mann, wrapped in Joachim's greatcoat like a blanket to shield him from the chilly darkening skies. Both of them were taking swigs from the bottle brought by Joachim as though they were school kids again, swapping stories of the old days, back when the two of had fun, beating on other children, roaming the streets doing everything an adolescence without direction would do.
He was grateful that Fuhrmann had dragged Joachim along. He might not have gotten the answers he wanted, but the trip had helped Joachim out immensely. It felt good to have been in Mann's company. It was a reminder of a time before he ended up in Langer's hands, before he was moulded into the man he was now... Mann had been his best friend, the only person in his life who could challenge him, the only person Joachim ever really feared to be better than he was.
Mann might have been following him, but Mann was by far more intelligent then he let on, he was just unwilling to exploit his own strengths as though it was a bad thing. It must have been his family that centred him, his loyalties stayed with them, they were the foundation of what made Helmut Mann a good man in his later life. Joachim did not have such a thing. Sure he was nearly a Langer, but as Gerald pointed out to him, he really was not. Joachim did not have much in the way of family; he did not have people humbling him. There were only to types in his life: people against him or educating him.
"How has the SS been treating you?"
Joachim turned back, sipping the whiskey bottle and passing it back. He smiled as bright as he could through his still pretty mashed up face.
"Like family until recently," He carefully admitted, knowing Mann was too smart not to notice his state. "We had a bit of a miscommunication. Everything has been sorted out however."
Mann nodded his head and handed the bottle back to him. An uncomfortable silence fell between the two of them.
"I have lost touch with the old gang, Helmut," Joachim decided to change the topic at hand. "How is everyone?"
Exhaling his cigarette and painfully cough, Mann chuckled with no humour in it.
"Most of them are dead," He stated flatly to the Waffen-SS officer sitting next to him. "Wolfgang in the Netherlands, Viktor in Norway, Karl and Peter in Russia... Fridolein is in a U-boat somewhere in the North Atlantic; and Jans had a spot of bad luck in Africa. He's sitting in a British POW camp..."
Ignoring the burning sensation in his throat as he downed his whiskey and past the bottle to the wheelchair bound Heer soldier. Joachim knocked off his cap to the cement and snow next to him, his hand running over his shaven head.
"That's... fucked."
Helmut nodded gravelly as he took a drink and passed it along to Joachim.
"Not everyone had it easy like you, Hoch," the wounded man gasped in a teasing tone. "Over six feet, capable of tracing your blood back two hundred years..." He trailed off, his eyes glancing to Joachim as he added. "How is your mother?"
Joachim set the bottle on the road pavement in front of them. He looked up to Helmut, his lips forming a dizzy smile as he tried to form words despite him already being pretty buzzed.
"The British got her back in February," he admitted. Noticing the suddenly sympathy forming on Helmut's face, he added. "We had not spoken since I was eighteen... She will not be missed."
Helmut frowned at his lack of concern.
"Still... I'm sorry," he mumbled. "You might not have liked her, but getting killed by a bomber raid is not a way anyone should have to go."
Joachim nodded his head, accepting the Leutnant's sympathy. He could not blame Mann for feeling like that. If the position was reversed, he too would have probably found the lack of sympathy for his own mother rather troublesome. Mann reached out, his hand touching the Obersturmbannführer's shoulder briefly before letting go. They fell silent and together, the two of them drank a few more times each as Joachim debated what to say to his old friend, who was, according to Fuhrmann, looking to extract men who were forbidden to leave that Hellish city known as Stalingrad.
"So what do you plan on doing now?" Joachim spoke up, deciding to bite the bullet. Mann shrugged as he re-tightened Hoch's jacket over him.
"Finding a way to get my men out of Stalingrad," he said as though it was the most obvious thing ever conceived, as though his mission to free his comrades from that icy hell would be a simple task.
Joachim found himself feeling terrible, he knew that this was why he was here. He was to give Mann a dose of reality. Mann needed to know that talk about retreat in Stalingrad amongst the Heer was about to become treason, the crime of defeatism was quickly becoming a potentially capital offence.
"Stalingrad is fucked, Mann, there is absolutely nothing you or I can do about it, so get it out of your head right now, for everyone's sake," Joachim flat out stated to the Leutnant, watching him wince. "Look... If they do not get out through the Manstein offensive, they will not get out of it, period. Their survival is in their hands now, not yours. They got you out of that nightmare. Throwing your life away on some half thought out plot will be a slap in the face to them."
Mann looked close to protesting the words, but he was either too drunk or too much in pain to believe in his delusions any longer.
"I know..." he confessed softly. "I know I need to be realistic about their survival and I have to hope Manstein promises will happen. They're... They're like family."
"Leutnant!"
Interrupted from his thoughts about his brothers left behind in that hell, Mann growled at the Swabian tone shouting out his rank.
"Shit... it's the ward administrator," Mann muttered under his breath.
Joachim glanced over to the direction Mann was pointing to. Sure enough was a stout, balding man with a thin moustache walking towards them; he looked almost out of breath, his double chin flapping in the wind.
"You, Leutnant, drinking out in public!" the bastard roared as he approached the two men. "If you were not in that wheelchair I would have you Court Marsh-."
Without the drinks in him Joachim had a quick temper, drinking only made it ten times worse. Joachim stood up from his seat and stormed towards the pudgy medical officer. His hand reached out and grabbed the middle aged man by the front of his jacket. The bespectacled man both froze and shook with terror as the heavily carried, easily a foot taller Waffen-SS officer glared down at him.
"One more insult… one more word and I'll have your fat ass on the next train to Russia, you god forsaken desk rider!" Joachim growled, looking down on the fat man, his teeth bared.
The old Stabarzt looked up to the SS Obersturmbannführer's collar, then up to his eyes with wide and clear fear for what Joachim was threatening him with. Stammering an apology to Mann, Hoch let him retreat back into the safety of the hospital.
The moment he left, Joachim threw up his head and burst into a rare controllable fit of laughter. It was not long before he was joined by Mann, who laughed far less, his injury probably making it too painful to join in.
"That felt… sooo very good..." Joachim laughed as he sat back down against his car. "It has been a while since I threw my weight around."
It was the truth, since he had gotten back from Gestapo custody; he had felt nothing but shame about everything, his humiliation at the hands of the quarians... by Hanala, his abuse, Langer telling him where he stood. Sure he might have shouted at an old fat man until he nearly had a heart attack, but it felt like a small piece of which he was back, that perhaps it would all come back to him sooner rather than later.
Mann's hand fell onto his shoulder. Joachim looked past from the bottle he was drinking from. Helmut was grinning widely.
"You know, Joachim..." He mused aloud. "I could really get used to having an Obersturmbannführer as back up."
The two men forgot about their woes as they laughed like old times.
...
...
"How is your steak, Herr Generalfeldmarschall?"
While Erwin Rommel savoured the flavour a perfect medium rare texture the top grade cut of meat in front of him. He was not about to admit it to the commander of the Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler, Joseph 'Sepp' Dietrich.
"I have not had steak in years," Rommel admitted to the SS man. It was true, with an exception to his hospitalization; he had tried his best to eat the same rations as his men. It was in good taste, any decent commander would have done the same as he.
"One of the many perks of joining the call," Dietrich boasted in between mouthfuls of his dinner. "We run in far different circles than the Heer. We work harder and, thus, reward ourselves better."
Rommel squinted his nose and casted a careful look at Dietrich.
"I'm going to take a wild guess and say that you stole these food stuffs from the local English population... after I specifically told you and your men not to do so," Rommel pointed out, ignoring the growing displeasure he held for the man.
Dietrich merely smirked as he ate quietly.
Rommel sighed, his palm pressing to his face. Dietrich was clearly an eastern front commander. There it was a clash of two polar opposite ideologies, where no quarter was given and none returned. Out here in the west, the English and Rommel were also in an ideological war, but at least the English and German nations shared many traits. The war could be clean if both sides were willing to try.
Another thing that Dietrich did not seem to understand was just how vast the number of English civilians and prisoners were now fallen into Rommel's hands since his all but assured conquering of Egypt. The English were a stubborn race, but star struck by his presence. When they had concerns and issues, they sent along their representatives, like any decent German would. Rommel, now finding himself in the strange position as a Commandant to this city, would see to their requests with whatever he could. He respected their customs, he respected their access to food and water. He even allowed the English to police themselves so long as they answered to local German commanders.
It was all a part of his theory that really should have been followed on both sides: Honour in defeat. A well-treated captive was less likely to pick up a gun and shoot at their oppressors if they did not think the enemy was any worse than their own side.
This sort of mutual respect for victor and vanquished was a theory that Dietrich did not seem to put much faith in. It had gotten to the point where if the Afrika Korps spotted SS men looming around civilians, they would see to escorting the English to the safety of Afrika Korps controlled sections of the city until the SS men were gone, in some cases, notably when English woman were harassed, they turned to street brawling.
The Egyptian people were more on their own, not because Rommel did not like them, it was because they were much too numerous. Still, Rommel did what he could for them. He even went so far as to mobilize the Italians to cooperate with the Bobbies in street patrols. The Egyptians, however were much more rugged than the English, they could handle the harassment. Their people, from the lowest of street urchins, to the highest clerics of Alexandria greeted Rommel as though he was the second coming of Saladin. His offices had been flooded with hundreds, thousands of requests to join the Korps as they saw the German/Italian army as the liberators from their British masters, perhaps even the eventual protectors of Palestine -The great emancipator of the Arab people.
His amused thoughts of becoming the next T.E Lawrence were pushed aside. For now, however, Rommel was instead having dinner with a Nazi who looked close to replying.
"You act as though it's a capital offence," Dietrich laughed it off as though the Generalfeldmarschall had been telling a joke. "The English would do the same thing if the situation was reversed and you know it. Besides, the English pigs would simply take these perfect cuts of meat and broiled them, then baked them in some sort of piecrust slathered in salted pork juice. A filthy, backstabbing, scheming race, led by that half-jew drunkard Churchill… I suppose they compliment each other."
The SS man set down his knife and fork.
"Herr Rommel, you have been blessed by having to conduct this war," Dietrich rumbled out his bartone voice. "Warm weather and fighting the Anglo-Saxons is preferable to the Slavic hordes. It seems to me that if you really want to secure your name, you will take your talents east."
Rommel set down his silverware and arched his brow.
"Yet you are here, in my front, trying to regain the glory you lost..." Rommel pointed out, his tone slippery as he leaned backwards into his seat, his words catching the SS general off guard. "Speaking of which," Rommel pressed on with the edged tone. "I had heard a peculiar rumour with regards to your fighting in the east. That you had been the real reason behind the failure of 1941 to take Moscow, and ultimately Von Rundstedt took the blame for you."
Erwin watched and took a small pleasure watching Dietrich's face turn faintly red at the observation.
"I always find it funny when I have an SS officer in front of me, telling me how I should run my war, telling me that they are the future of the armed forced of the Fatherland, when clearly you lot have miles to go," Rommel twisted the knife with as much vicious condescension which he picked up from the East Prussians who would talk down to him with. "Whether he likes it or not, the Führer needs the army. So someone has too kept him grounded in reality. Though your army may be bruisers, I have limited faith in your leaders, especially since your lot answers to men like Himmler."
Dietrich hid the growing annoyance he must have felt by lifting his wine glass to his face.
"That implies the men of the Waffen-SS have a love for the Reichsführer." Dietrich spoke in between sips. "That implies I have any respect for the Reichsführer as military commander, or as a rational man."
Rommel frowned slightly; he had not expected the vanguard of the regime to speak so angrily about his advocate to the Fuhrer. Perhaps the SS was much more complicated than first appeared. He, like many of his contemporaries felt they were unthinking, unfeeling shock troops who were better off deprogrammed and sent into the Heer. Perhaps they were capable of listening to reason.
To have the Waffen-SS stand against the regime... it made him nearly giddy.
"Are you..." Rommel started delicately. "… are you aware of what he is doing?"
Gulping down the last mouthful of steak, Dietrich looked up to Rommel disbelievingly.
"With all due respect, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, but have you had your head stuck up your ass since 1933?" his words biting, but his tone respectful. "Of course I am aware. It's not exactly a state secret."
"And you agree with it?" Rommel retorted. "Wholesale murder programs against other races?"
Sepp Dietrich scowled.
"It's not in my place to voice an opinion, nor is yours," was Dietrich officially sounding answer… as though he was worried about being overheard. "I may not like Himmler, but some of his work is respectable..."
Respectable… how delusional could Dietrich be?
"Your master is not here, you do not need to show your loyalty," Rommel spoke lowly to the General. "What do you think of it?"
Frowning, Dietrich seriously considered the soldier sitting before him.
"That from what I have seen, it is extremely messy business. The Reichsführer does not understand what performing firing squads against ten thousand Jews, let alone ten million Jews does to men, what it does to any man who's volunteered their services to the cause," Dietrich finally allowed himself to complain openly. "3rd Totenkopf is on the verge of being swamped with psychological issues. 2nd Das Reich has been fighting too much to get involved. You can thank Bittrich for that… clever son of a bitch. Volunteered the hardest assignments so that they were not volunteered for cleaning..."
Dietrich exhaled the mouthful of smoke. His eyes travelled back up to Rommel.
"Personally however, I think it might be wrong to lump all the Jews together, much like how everyone lumps the SS together." Dietrich continued as he stubbed out his cigarette on the oak table. "The Jewry of Europe can be split up into two groups: Western Jewry and the Ostjude."
Rommel narrowed his brow.
"The western Jew is a somewhat clean, respectable people, Herr Rommel," he explained. "They can assimilate somewhat into the fabric of their adopted coutry, they go to war and die for the Kaiser. You and I have seen it for ourselves. They're intellectuals, but they have enough respect for German values. Enough to stay quiet and not make a sound, no matter how terribly a situation they are in... Like a loyal dog. Mistreating them... it's close to animal cruelty, really. I have a great reserve about Himmler's rounding up of the western Jew."
Finishing his wine, he set the glass down, unknowably enrapturing Rommel's attention. Rommel found himself both sickened and marvelled at how well he rationalized hatred.
"The Ostjude is a whole different story, however." Dietrich pressed on, his mild grin dying into a look of disgust. "They lie, cheat and murder. They tricked the Russian people into Bolshevism. They murdered the Tsar and his family and the rest of the true patriots of Russia, They forced the Ukrainians into staying submissive when that psychotic Georgian ex-priest, Stalin starved them so that he could pay for a modern army we fight today. Unlike the western jew, loyal dogs that their masters must occasionally shout at for pissing on the carpet, the Ostjude are simply locus. They have rotted away the foundations of the once noble nation of Russia because we let them, because we were short sighted, we needed peace in the east so that our men could face the West and finally break the Entente in the last war."
The SS man paused, rubbing his mouth.
"Now they seek to do the same to the rest of the civilized world, with one exception," Dietrich spoke again to the Generalfeldmarschall. "They will eradicate us because we were brave enough to be the first to stand against their tyranny. They will have the Slavs rape our women, destroy our bloodlines, burn our cities until Germany is but a rumour, a stern warning to the rest of the free world about standing up to real monsters..."
Pushing his empty plate top the side and waiting for the Egyptian servant boy collect it. Dietrich tugged out his cigarettes, not before offering one to Rommel, who shook his head. The Generalfeldmarschall's refusal would have been the sign for a Heer soldier or officer not to smoke unless directed by their superior that it was tolerable.
The SS, on the other hand, did not have the same sort of respect. As the SS man lit up and exhaled the smoke, the servant boy coughed slightly, a small amount of spittle touching against the uniform of the Waffen-SS man. As a response, Dietrich's boot snapped out, kicking the boy gathering his plate and glass. The boy stumbled, but did not lose them, his eyes growing wide as he noticed Rommel's eyes on him.
"Speaking of firing squads, I know what you did on Malta." Dietrich pressed on, jabbing his cigarette out towards Rommel threateningly. "Did you think I would not have questioned the civilian's spreading rumours about how Eichmann died?"
Rommel remained dead still, his expression only displaying a distasteful scowl. It was all he could do in defiance, short of shooting Dietrich. Killing Dietrich, however, would have been something he could not have gotten away with.
"I would assume you would ignore it," Rommel flat out dodged, maintaining his hard tone. "Rumours are dangerous, especially spread by the enemy. Lies meant to drop the morale of our men."
Smiling bemusedly, Dietrich nodded, knowing full well that the Heer officer had been lying to him.
"Especially considering the rumour involves the grand and noble Rommel having personally executed my liaison to Himmler," Dietrich pressed on. "Meanwhile here I am dining with a man who apparently despises who I stand by."
Rommel allowed his eyes to scan for any hostile movement. Underneath the table, his hand moved to unbuckle his holster. Still Dietrich had not made a move. He simply sat there at the table, his hands resting connected to one another. He looked almost amused by Rommel's sudden show of near paranoia.
"You can relax, Generalfeldmarschall, I would not dare turn you in," Dietrich informed his CO. He leaned inwards, whispering. "Eichmann was scum of the worse sort, the Allgemeine-SS in general really. They refuse to get their hands dirty, they always go to use when they need to show the conquered people about their genetic superiority hypothesis."
Chuckling grimly, Dietrich leaned back into his seat, his blatantly open remark about the madness occurring in Europe chilling the Generalfeldmarschall.
"Still… I think that it would be in your best interest to head to Vienna and pay your respects," Dietrich spoke in between puffing his cigarette. "I have been asked to come, but I think it would make a gesture of good inter-service relations if you went in my place. Personally, I think that little shit is better off dead... If I were in your shoes, I would have dropped him in one of his prison camps and fed him to the Jews."
Rommel nodded idly. Perhaps he would make an appearance in Vienna. It had been some time since he was in that city.
…
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