16 January, 1943
…
"This is General Orlando Ward reporting directly to the Western task force. The situation deteriorated to the breaking point. Eighty Sherman's left. Everything else is in German hands. Estimate three thousand men left in the division that are capable of fighting."
"So… No rational German would make a stand for Algeria."
General Eisenhower and Bradley looked up at the voice, high and nearly gloating. Naturally, it belonged to George Patton. He appeared ready for combat, his helmet on, his pistol at his side, giving him the appearance of a cowboy looking eager to wipe out fascists. Inwardly Omar cringed at the smug war hawk leering at the two more level-headed Generals.
As always, Eisenhower showed his lenient respect to his old mentor and friend. He stood and gestured for the Tanker to join them. Patton obliged, taking a seat next to Omar, turning slightly to offer him a nod. Omar could barely contain his seething annoyance long enough to return the welcome.
"It seems I owe you an apology, Georgie," Eisenhower started, his voice resigned to having to admit his failure of perception. "You were right, Rommel struck fast and hard. He's nearly broken the First Armoured Division and has them pinned down in what remains of Bouïra. I shouldn't have doubted you; I'm starting to empathize with Montgomery now."
Patton crossed his arms.
"With all due respect, I'm not looking for a goddamn apology. I'm looking at what will be done for our boys," he said to his commanding officer, his tone remaining respectful. "Give me an armour battalion and enough fuel trucks and I could get there in two days and kick the ever-loving piss out of those Germans."
"It will be too late for that. The division will collapse soon if they cannot withdraw. There is nothing you can do," was all Bradley could manage to say.
Patton blinked, his head swilling to turn back to Bradley. He looked as though Omar had muttered something treasonous out loud. He wasn't going to sugarcoat it, not when Eisenhower was in concurrence with his opinion. The division was doomed. It was only a matter of how Ward wanted to end the battle: withdrawal or surrender.
"Nothing we can do?" Patton repeated incredulously. "Am I going deaf? Those are our boys dying in droves and you would do nothing. Just shrug your shoulders and say 'tough shit'?
"I didn't say that-"
"That's enough from both of you," Eisenhower intervened before the argument turned infantile. "George, he's right and you better accept it before you get some foolish notion in your head. There is nothing we can do for those boys from here. The air force is tied up forcing the Italians out of Algeria; Ward is operating outside of proper fighter support range. It will be a week to move a force this distant towards them. They have hours, at best a day."
Omar and George ended their argument. They turned back to face Eisenhower.
"What do we know about the Germans facing Ward and his boys?" Patton inquired.
Looking at each other, Eisenhower leaned to pull a file from his desk. He handed it over to Patton, who opened it to find only a small written report and a single photograph inside.
"This came in three hours ago. We know they're a smaller unit but heavily armed for a two thousand-man battalion. Intelligence also received photographs of what appears to be the commander, via British intelligence," Omar spoke as he explained the photograph and file to Patton. "We think Rommel sent them as a forward unit to harass Algiers until Rommel could deliver the rest of his task force. We know that they are heavily armed, more so than we expected them to be."
Patton examined the photograph carefully. The German in question was tall, a scowl looking permanently etched onto his expression. He was holding open the door as several other Germans exited the bar, carrying a body in their arms. Patton squinted. What the hell was the German doing?
"His name is Hoch, according to second-hand reports, a Lieutenant Colonel in the Waffen-SS," Bradley told the tanker, who narrowed his eyes. "Judging from the photograph, he's the rather nasty sort. One of those indoctrinated teenagers, who has probably been fighting the war since the beginning. He sneaked his battalion to the front by the ocean and landed in Bougie."
Patton nodded. A Nazi, a genuine, honest-to-goodness, soulless little blue-eyed Nazi. Quietly, his eyes focused once more on the dead man.
"Who's the stiff?"
Eisenhower and Bradley glanced at each other. Patton looked up, expression clearly demanding an answer from the two of them. Finally, Eisenhower cleared his throat.
"Intelligence agent claims it was one of his men, a Major," Eisenhower explained to George, his voice remaining neutral. "The Major killed a civilian so Hoch summarily executed him… by his hand."
Patton's eyes widened. He looked from Eisenhower to Bradley, who nodded, confirming the information. As soon as he did, Patton allowed a laugh to escape him.
"Someone who seems to take the rule of war seriously enough to kill his men; I have to admit it's impressive," Murmured Patton as he set the picture back in the folder, his words making Bradley shudder at the display. He added. "Why not order Fredendall to relieve his division?"
Eisenhower shook his head.
"We can't risk running any more of his task force into falling into the same trap. This Hoch could just be the vanguard, a distraction for the main advance," was the General's sound reasoning. "The Central Taskforce has been blunted, The Western Taskforce is in tatters. They need to conserve their strength until we reach them."
Silence fell between the three Generals. Patton was in serious contemplation. It was a few long moments before Patton finally looked back up to the small gathering.
"Okay let's say I'm fine with abandoning the 1st Armoured," Patton spoke, the very thought of the inevitable making him disgusted. "The way I see it, we have to make our presence felt. Push the Western Taskforce hard and fast up to Oran. The German needs to know we're there and we're looking for his blood."
Eisenhower's lips twitched as he watched Bradley's expression widen.
"Then we will be stuck in the middle of Algeria for a week or two waiting for fuel lines to be set up. This was the same issue that Rommel had to deal with during the first Battle of El Alamein. This is insane-"
"Dammit Brad, let me finish!" Patton countered, snapping at the man and forcing Omar's silence before turning back to Eisenhower. "We stall out the Western Taskforce in the desert; I drive up to Oran and take over command of the Central Taskforce. The Central Taskforce will be used as a sword. The Western task force is the shield while it waits for the fuel lines to catch up. I cut the Germans and pull back to behind the shield."
Both of the men looked at the Tanker disbelievingly. Patton grinned crookedly as he ran his hand over his balding hair. Exhaling sharply, Hoch turned away from the audacious man and back to Eisenhower.
"As impossible as this may sound, George may be onto something." Bradley conceded, as painful as it sounded. "It's in our best interest to take this risk. The German build-up could have been significantly larger if they had sent such a large reaction force after Ward so quickly.
Eisenhower nodded; he turned back to his old friend.
"Central Taskforce is down one division; it will be probably outnumbered and will have to face off against battle-hardened veterans commanded by some of the finest officers ever produced in modern combat," Eisenhower summed up the situation for the Major General. "Are you certain you have what it takes to protect the task force? The Germans aren't going to pussyfoot around now. Neither can us."
Patton bared his teeth in a grin as he accepted the challenge.
"Sir, you can count on me. Rommel and Guderian are going to wish they were never sent to this front in the first place," Patton assured both men, standing from his seat, pulling his helmet over his head as he rested one hand on his ivory-handled Smith & Wesson Revolver. "Two versus one… It might just be a fair fight."
Taking a deep breath as he tried to ignore Patton's bravado, Eisenhower turned to Bradley. He was resigned to the decision. It was the only play they had in their books for the time being.
"Bradley, send the word, we move out in an hour."
…
…
"-Hoch, Generale Bitossi is most grateful for the show of force. He has diverted supply trucks and has sent a battalion south. They should arrive by midday."
"-One hundred forty-eight dead, one hundred and three wounded, we killed five thousand, easily three hundred tanks destroyed, thirty of the Sherman's are in working order; Just had to scrape the crews out. Four hundred are captured. We'll leave them with Cutri's men."
"I did what you asked, three hours of basic tank school isn't going to be enough, but it will do for now. Thankfully a few of the crews had their training manuals on them. The American tanks are called the M4 Sherman. I suggest the captured American panzers be split up and placed on defensive duties guarding the Tigers. We have so few Tigers that it might be wise to make sure they survive in case this general is holding back a few surprises. I would not be surprised if they had English Churchill's on them."
"Hoch was right to call them basic. The thing is the launcher is battery powered. They will be only good to us for a short while."
"They have these neat little four-man light trucks. Jeeps according to those we captured, armed with thirty calibre Browning Machine Guns. They are a decent support platform for the troops. Buy the infantry team's time to set up the MG-42s."
"Hoch… are you there?"
The question posed by Hauptmann Welcker had been a good one. The battle, now into its thirteenth hour had left Joachim Hoch in a near ethereal state, wandering from position to position, screaming over a radio and wondering how in the hell he had managed to advance a kilometre, inflicting thousands of casualties on an enemy vastly superior to him in every possible way but experience. They had advanced so far that he now held three city blocks under his control.
His temporary headquarters had been set up in an estate home held by some wealthy Dutch landowners. The family, probably overjoyed to house the Americans for a brief time must have quickly changed their opinions the moment the 'Liberators' had been forced to run, leaving the family now playing host to the command section of the home. Joachim knew little in the way of Dutch. He only ever spent a short time there before being transferred to break the French border. The family did however speak English. This bridged the language gap.
Judging from the amount of wealth this home had, untouched by the artillery, he imagined that the family serving his officers early morning breakfast and feeding the infantry everything else in their pantry must have been a despicable action. Their protests fell on deaf ears. This land was potentially quarian soil now, so he simply did not care.
Quarian soil. It made Joachim pause when he realized that the quarians were already using his countrymen as proxy soldiers to acquire a homeland. Sighing, he raised his empty coffee cup over his head.
"Fille, Coffee," he ordered, waving his cup back and forth.
The woman did not respond. Oh, he knew she knew what he was saying. She was pretending to be a deaf-mute.
"Coffee..." he repeated, his chemically destabilized mind now starting to get the better of his patience.
Again she ignored him.
"YOU!"He suddenly screamed, making the woman jump, her eyes darted to him.
"YES, YOU WITH THE POT IN YOUR HAND, I WANT MORE COFFEE!" he continued to spit at the woman. "C-O-F-F-E-E, POUR ME A CUP! YOU INSUFFERABLE PIG-FACED WENCH, WIPE THAT FUCKING EXPRESSION OFF YOUR FACE AND DO WHAT YOU ARE TOLD!"
In a flash, the woman, whom he never met before in his life listened to him. With trembling hands, she refreshed his drink. Hoch stared up at her. Ignoring the feeling he might have been a bit rough on her. Tears in her eyes, she glared hatefully into Hoch's face and retreated into the corner of the room.
The Dutch have stubborn personalities that hide an inferiority complex. Loud words and strength to back it up usually force them back into subservience.
These were words taught to him by Gerald Langer, private lessons about the nationalities across Europe. For the most part, they appeared to work. Of course in this case it could have simply been fear of the invader, fried on medical Methamphetamine.
"And what have we learned today Frau? Silence is golden, but listening to orders is divine. Thank you, kindly..." he murmured sardonically before turning back his men.
"Prepare for the attack. I want the Panzer III's supporting the Stug's. Every building comes down. No exception." Hoch commanded finally. "Infantry will follow the Sherman's, Tigers and Panzer IV's. Panthers will move together in a pack around the outskirts of the town, if they attempt a withdrawal we'll position the Panthers to pick off their retreat and force them to take shelter, or chase them if they attempt a breakthrough… Grab your plates."
Before many of the men could react, Hoch slid his chair back, emitting a sharp screech against the stone floor. With a resounding kick, Hoch broke the kitchen table leg, smashing the plates and food as the table collapsed. The men flew from their seats, all of them staring at the unfazed Hoch, who finished his cup of coffee and dropped it.
Ignoring the sudden screaming, Hoch collected the broken leg of the table and the dirtied white linen. Idly, he tore a long unstained white strip from the tablecloth and went to work fastening the edges to the leg. The screaming of the woman continued, so loud that the door to the kitchen burst open and the woman's husband burst into the room. He stormed through the officers and went to his wife, who looked close to attacking Hoch for what he had done.
"Herr Hoch?" Reister called out, he looked close to laughing, but he forced all humour to remain buried.
Twitching slightly as he finished fixing his improvised flag, Joachim finally turned his focus on his gathered Commanders, Hoch finally stood up and wandered to the nearest window and glanced out at the stable out back. He tilted his head as he noticed several equine commingling with the gathering of some of his men.
"I think I shall be borrowing the horse," he called to the husband and wife. Ignoring their protests shouted out at them in Dutch, he turned to his Lukas and added. "Welcker, I would like to borrow your coat."
Without questioning, Welcker pulled off his jacket and handed it to his Commander. Pulling it over him taking off his Waffen-SS cap, and placing it on Reister's head. He buttoned the jacket up and wordlessly left the kitchen to the screaming married couple, his men in tow.
"So many are dead or dying," he informed them as they headed out to the stable. "They should know that we're not going to let them run. We've lost more men than I wanted to lose, I imagine the American commander feels the same. Why die over some damn town?"
…
…
The silence was eerie.
Artillery had been hitting them every half an hour in ten-minute barrages. The latest barrage was fifteen minutes overdue. Meaning the Krauts had run out of shells, or that something was in the air; something big. The Germans were moving into the breach and followed their artillery in a fashion not dissimilar to the first war.
Whatever the case, it gave Ward enough time to tour the makeshift aid stations where the wounded were triaged. It left him numb as to how many of his good brave boys had been wounded and how many more had been killed in the ferocious counterattack the Germans had hit them with.
Heads were going to roll for this disaster, probably his as well. Sure, he was following an order, which on paper made sense; the plan simply did not count on this. He would not blame anyone for this. Not the flyboys, not even Fredendall, who ordered him down here in the first place. He should not have made assumptions and now five thousand men were dead captured or wounded because of it.
The honking of a Jeep's horn caught his attention. Driving the vehicle was Major Ernest Walker, his supply coordinator. A somewhat heavyset man, He looked almost out of breath as he pulled up to the General and snapped a salute.
"Sir, you better come look at this." Called Major Walker.
The General nodded and climbed into Walker's Jeep. The Major took off with him, driving him carefully through the blasted streets, saluting the men as he passed them by, and ignored the guilty pang in his gut as civilians caught in the crossfire screamed and cried at the utter devastation and death that the krauts had rained down upon them all.
Coming to a stop behind a .50 calibre gun position, Ward immediately realized the issue that Walker wanted him to be aware of. There, on a Dutch Warmblood sat quite possibly the largest German officer he had ever seen in his life. Well, the only German officer he had seen before anyway. One hand gripped the reigns of the horse, the other, carrying a makeshift truce flag.
He was scanning the infantry carefully until his eyes fell on Ward's. The German immediately knew who the newest presence was. Shaking the feeling that something was wrong, he turned to a Captain approaching his car. He saluted Ward briefly before gesturing to the Kraut.
"We found him trotting into town, asked to see you," Captain Marcus Rothman added. "Been goading him into saying something else, quiet bastard."
Nodding to his two subordinates, General Ward climbed from out of his jeep and stood there next to the hundreds of soldiers in the open, and the thousands watching from the garrison. This fact did not seem to faze the Envoy, who remained mounted on his animal.
"On behalf of my Commander, Obersturmbannführer Joachim Hoch, I am to offer you a chance to spare yours and our men from further bloodshed," the German spoke, his English exceptionally spoken. "We are asking for your surrender inside the hour."
Surrender. There had been a word that Ward wanted to never hear, especially in front of his battle weary. To hear this coming from a horse-riding Nazi bastard only made it that much worse.
"You'll find that he's not an unreasonable man," the German announced once more. "In return for your surrender, your wounded will be sent back to your origin point in Oran, the rest of you will be placed in Prisoner Of War camps in Italy, he will see to it. This is a very generous offer, Herr General. I implore that you take it."
The German fell back into silence, leaving his offer hanging in the minds of the men gathered. Orlando rubbed his forehead. For a plea of surrender, it was a rather generous one. Perhaps it was a buff, perhaps his boys damaged them badly enough that they were resorting to tricking their adversary into surrendering.
No… as tempting as the offer was, he wasn't going to take it. He might not have had much in the way of offensive capability left at his disposal, but Oran was a few hundred miles away. A long-shot dash back to Fredendall was still possible.
There would be no surrender. Not now. Ward looked away from the German and turned to Rothman.
"Give him an answer, Captain Rothman," Ward spoke finally. "I'd rather not address this Nazi."
The Jewish-American Captain, a man built like a linebacker nodded his head with a slight grin and stepped back out past the line to go and handle the German still high on his horse, both metaphorically and physically.
"You come across the line to offer us a chance to surrender?" Rothman repeated, his voice high and dramatic for all of the boys watching the scene unfold. "Well listen to me you cabbage-eating, Jew-hating, Horse riding, backwards fucking Teutonic piece of pig shit, who probably fucks your sister. You can take that flag and shove it up your ass, you scummy, overgrown Nazi fuckhead."
Rothman took a deep breath and took in the roaring approval of the Infantry.
"In case you're retarded, I'll make things clear! There is no way in hell we're going to surrender to you!" Rothman concluded. "Now go fuck yourself, you Goy motherfucker!"
The Division exploded with laughter at the words and the lone German. Despite the rather colourful language, even Ward had to chuckle. At least he did until he noticed the expression on the German's face. There had been no reaction to the call out in the slightest.
From here, he could see the German lean forward, his fingers motioning for Rothman to come closer. Smirking, Rothman stepped forward. The German leaned closer and whispered something only audible to the Jewish-American Captain. Whatever it had been, wiped the smile off his face.
Satisfied, the German pulled back, his head turned up in the direction of the General. The German nodded slightly and pulled his horse to take it back to where he came from. Leaving Rothman standing there for a moment before he turned back to join the General.
"Well?" Ward asked the Captain as he rejoined the General.
"He said his Commander would meet you in a few short hours…" Rothman spoke, slightly dazed as he added, "he… uh… he said he would find me and personally put a bullet in my head... I'm not one to be scared sir, but something about him makes me think he's not just making a threat."
Ward reached out and patted the younger man on the shoulder reassuringly.
"We'll have to make sure that it doesn't happen, son," Ward promised him before turning to Major Walker, adding. "Prepare for a withdrawal. Rothman's words are inspiring, but it won't be enough. Besides, I don't want to have a conversation with Rommel, not as a prisoner anyway."
The officers rang a chorus of 'yes sir' and went to work preparing the withdrawal back to the safety of Oran.
…
…
It was a half an hour of tension. Kicking the dirt hard, Paul Fuhrmann sighed.
He should have gone with the Obersturmbannführer. He was his guard detail. Why in the hell didn't Hoch consult him in these sorts of seemingly random acts?
Oh, Fuhrmann wasn't a stupid man. Whether he was willing to admit it or not, Joachim Hoch was in a state of terrified fear. Fear of failure, fear of success, fear for the alien… well… woman he loved. How he could endure such a… well… such a terrible woman was unbelievable.
To say that there was no love lost between him and the alien was an understatement. First, she killed her friends, then deceived Hoch and him into going on an adventure that ended up losing Hoch an arm, and him getting shot to pieces, now she had the nerve to treat his new wife like a verbal punching bag.
Why would Hoch submit himself to her? Well, he was in no real position to judge. Hoch wasn't a simple man. If half of what Helena had told him was true, then the Obersturmbannführer was likely to be held to a hell of a lot of issues.
As though on cue, a man on horseback came around the ruins of what appeared to be a bank. The animal slowed from a gallop to a trot as he approached the improvised line they had set up in his absence. Fuhrmann breathed a sigh of relief, the last thing he wanted to do was form the Father-In-Law Hoch had been killed on his watch.
Hoch looked troubled as he climbed off the equine and gave it a resounding slap on its flank, spooking the mare into running off in the opposite direction. Joachim took off his borrowed Heer jacket and finally, he looked up to the men gathered around Peiper, all of them waiting for an update.
The disgusted expression silently answered the unspoken question. Fuhrmann glanced back to his squad nervously before turning back to Hoch, who was swallowing two methamphetamine tablets dry.
"Get on the line with Cutri. Flatten Bouïra," was all Hoch had to say on his failed expedition.
…
…
Three hours of artillery fire more than flattened the small town.
Although the buildings had been destroyed, it did not waver the valiant defence. It left him thinking this battle had quickly become a miniaturized version of the hell he endured in Stalingrad.
"Dammit Tatiyana, hurry up!"
Firing his MP-40 on a rifle squad that had taken the lull of MG-42 fire to push several feet closer, Christian Bohr pegged one of the soldiers in the arm and forced the other to duck down. He could hear their screaming through the artillery whizzing overhead and the rumbling of panzers moving through the broken streets around him, hunting their American counterparts.
Three hours into the renewed offensive they had been fighting the Americans in a running battle to the south-western sector of the city. It was a strange fight. The Americans were unpredictable. Some would fall back; some would stand their ground, some, such as the men shooting at him at the moment were only interested in advancing.
Bohr had to admit, they were a neat lot, all things together. Perhaps after the war was over, he might wander on over to their continent for a visit. However, at this moment he was ordered to shoot down any American he saw; And like a good German soldier, he did what he was told.
"Tatiyana? Tatiyana, I need that gun up."
Tatiyana did not respond as she continued to work on his Machine Gun. Muttering under his breath, He stood up and fired open the American position. They had bolted out of the street and into a ransacked, bombed-out townhouse.
He continued to fire on them until his eyes widened at the sound of whizzing coming to him instead of away from him. He ducked back behind the cover as an American light mortar round fell a dozen metres from him, all of his body weight landed on top of the much smaller Tatiyana. She did not make a sound.
"Barrel changed," she said, touching the machine gun lying at her side. "The hammer was bent, I took it out and straightened it the best I could. I am sorry it took so long."
Another round of mortar fire fell. It did not faze him the slightest as he looked into her dark, inquiring eyes. Breathing a low, shuddering breath, Bohr leaned forward, his eyes closing as he pressed his lips against hers, an action that was returned, her mouth parting his for only a brief moment to allow the tip of her tongue to touch his.
Bohr pulled back to look at the woman, her expression was that of a bemused half smile at the surreal moment shared between two –in the middle of mortal danger. Exhaling as he chuckled weakly, Bohr grabbed his machine gun.
"Thank you, beautiful," was all he could manage to say. "Let's move."
High over their heads they did not notice the buzzing sound.
…
…
"HOCH, STUKA'S AND 109'S! ROMMEL DELIVERED, HE DELIVERED!"
Looking up to where Peiper was excitedly pointing, Joachim could not help but grin at the sight of the Luftwaffe finally providing him aerial support in the form of ground attack bombers and fighter planes. Even if it was only for a brief moment before they went back to Tunis or wherever. Well, he would not complain about air cover as a Stuka dived at a running Sherman tank.
Air cover that had probably come at the cost of Hanala's blood.
"It took them long enough." He shouted over the screaming siren of another Stuka in a dive towards the American potions. He grabbed the radio. "Cutri I want artillery fire directed on what appears to be City Hall, Position G-13 on your maps."
In under a minute, the building he was ordering a firing position on exploded, kicking smoke, rock and concrete up into the air. Joachim and his guard ducked back under cover. He turned to his radio receiver and contacted his officers.
"City Hall is neutralized, but we have tanks in the courtyard." He stated to them. "Reister, push the Tigers into attack formation. If this group isn't destroyed before I gather the Spearhead, consider yourself relieved. I will have Wittmann placed in command."
Reister growled on the other line, clearly not a fan of being placed under a rookie's command.
"Yes, Herr Hoch!"
Motors caught Hoch attention, there approaching his position were a dozen odd Italian light trucks and tanks. The vehicles came to a dead stop and out pours dozens and dozens of the most elaborately dressed Italian infantry he had ever seen. They looked like swashbucklers from the old serials, their helmets draping long Cock feathers.
The leader approached them, making Hoch feel under dressed without his jacket on. It was a rare occurrence to find a man better dressed than a Waffen-SS officer. Then again, the Italian wasn't covered in oil stains and quarian blood.
"Primo Captaino Girardi, 7. Bersaglieri!" the extravagant Italian announced to the German commander. "My company and I have been attached to your Battalion by order of Herr Rommel. The main body of the Bitossi's advance will be here in minutes. Tell me, how is the situation?"
Hoch shared a look with Peiper, who grinned somewhat skeptically at the Italian elite soldier. Silently, Hoch exchanged salutes with the man.
"They're down to a quarter of division strength," Hoch informed the Italian. "It looks like they're wavering. One final thrust and they'll likely become combat ineffective. Whether that affects surrender remains to be seen."
The Italian soldier nodded his head, his hand flying back to the rest of his company.
"Allow us to spearhead, Herr Hoch," Girardi requested. "Your men have done so much and us so little. It's the least we can do."
Without a moment's hesitation, Hoch nodded to the request. Anything to spare German lives from the initial attack. With a wide, grin, the Primo Captaino turned away and sent the orders in Italian. The men shouted out in approval as they followed Reister's Tiger detachment into the town square.
…
…
That was that. Two hours later and with more men dying for a futile resistance, the American command staff ordered the white flag to be waved high above the Stars and Stripes.
The Battle of Aguni Lahwa and Bouïra had at long last ended.
Wincing as the Medic pulled a small chunk of brick from out of the skin covering his forehead. General Orlando Ward bowed his head, dismissing his medic to tend to the wounded while the ceasefire held.
He could not comprehend this. His armoured division, the 1st Armoured Division, the goddamn pride of the United States Army had been reduced to a shadow of its former self by the ferocious attack and chipping away by two small units that pinned him in the town that he took a stand-in. Estimates of seven to ten thousand dead… Ten thousand dead… how could it be?
How could he have failed his men so terribly?
He tried to break out built by the time his men had organized a push out; an Italian Armoured Battalion had shown up and broken up the breakthrough. Between them pushing from the North, The Germans moving house to house, killing everything they saw and the arrival of the Luftwaffe, the sound of the Stuka's bombs still ringing his head, more scarring than the actual bombings they attacked with…. By then he knew it was all over.
The only solace he could take was knowing that command watched this failure closely. They would regroup and learn from this. Something like this would never happen again. It was just a shame that it happened under his watch.
"Sir, they're outside the door," Rothman called out as he took his place behind his General. Ward nodded, dabbing the blood off his lips.
The door to his office opened, forcing everyone's attention to the new occupant standing there, the Nazi commander who had dealt him this blow. His eyes were sharp as he stared directly into Ward's direction. Smirking slightly, the man, no taller than he stepped forward, his hand reaching up to remove his cap, his hand slicking back through his hair as he stood before the Americans.
Behind him came more boots, and in stepped two regular German officers, causing the General to breathe a sigh of relief. Trailing them was the massive-looking brute of a soldier that tried to bargain a surrender only hours ago, an exotic rifle slung low as his expression sneered nothing less than utter arrogance and contempt for having to stand here. Like the well-dressed man heading the delegation, he too wore the rune markings of the SS. Unlike the first one who was immaculate, he was covered in grime, his uniform was rumpled.
Silence remained between the two parties for several long moments. The German commander simply stood there. He looked unimpressed with the state the General was in. Finally, Ward decided enough was enough. He turned his staring eyes to the rifle-wielding German.
"So… you two are genuine Nazis. Not just Germans, but actual, genuine Nazi swine," Ward spoke directly to the German translator. "Tell your commander that we want the same deal as before."
The German handed his rifle over to the man on his right.
"He's not going to offer you the same deal as before, Herr General," the younger man stated in English."He's not going to offer it to you because the Kampfgruppe... Battalion that destroyed your Division is named Hoch, not Peiper," the English-speaking German pressed on.
Ward blinked as the large SS man stepped past the well-dressed man, presumably named Peiper and stood there, leaning his hands on the desk.
"My name is Obersturmbannführer Joachim Hoch; I am by your standards a Lieutenant Colonel," the officer introduced himself. "I am the Commandant of the 438th Mechanized Infantry, Kampfgruppe Hoch."
The German named Hoch pulled back slightly and offered his hand to the General. Ward stared at it for amount, before his own hands fell flat on the table. He would not shake this fascist's hand. Noticing the defiance, the Lieutenant Colonel allowed a leer to cross his expression. He probably wasn't a man used to not getting what he wanted.
"I am to oversee the facilitation of your surrender on behalf of my bosses, Generaloberst Heinz Guderian, and indirectly his superior Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel," The German named Hoch spoke to him, his voice bored. "Please spare me the melodramatics - that you would rather die than surrender to the likes of me. The terms I will offer is better than you deserve."
"Better than I deserve?" Ward repeated.
Joachim Hoch nodded his head.
"If it were up to me, I would have you lined up against a wall, before what remains of your men and have you executed for gross incompetence and abuse of command," the younger soldier growled down at the General. "You forced our men into five hours of needless bloodshed and for what exactly? You had no means to break out. Was it to spite both myself and my generous offer? I have shot men for lesser things; Friend and foe alike."
Snorting, Hoch pulled himself back.
"Fortunately I answer to better men than myself. Men who seem to think your life is worth more than a shot to the back of your skull," Hoch continued, turning away to rejoin his officers.
"The terms of surrender are as follows: Any man not seriously wounded is to become a prisoner of war. Any man wounded significantly will be sent back to distinctions will be made by my own medical personnel. I simply do not have the resources to treat so many," Hoch said, earning a low mumble from Ward's staff. Hoch's eyes turned to Rothman for a moment, adding. "Any Jews in your division will be sent back to Oran as drivers for the wounded. The rest of the division will be marched back to Bougie and await transportation to Prisoner of War camps in Europe. Are these terms agreed upon?"
Exhaling, Ward remained silent for a moment. The Nazi remained silent as well as he allowed the General his respite. Finally Ward nodded curtly.
Turning away from from the Captain, the Lieutenant Colonel turned back to Ward. The large Nazi looked livid at the American, but he held back what he probably wanted to say to him. He gestured to Ward to join him properly. Looking to his men, Ward pushed past them and joined Hoch in the centre of the room as Americans and Germans watched the interaction.
"As for you, General. I present you with three choices. The first you can go with your wounded. You will have safe passage back to your leadership," Joachim laid out for the American officer. "The second will be to join your men in captivity."
"And the third?" Ward asked him.
Hoch stared at the shorter man for a moment before snapping his fingers. One of the German regular army officers stepped forward and placed a Webley revolver, a single cartridge and a half empty bottle of scotch on the desk next to Ward and Hoch. Judging by the look on Hoch's face, he knew exactly the option he wanted Ward to choose.
"It's your choice, sir," Joachim said, gesturing to the suicide kit he laid out for Ward.
Staring at the revolver for a moment, Ward turned back to Joachim.
"I'll stay with my captured men, Lieutenant Colonel," he decided.
Swallowing his pride, he extended his hand up to his head to offer the junior rank a salute. Looking at it for a moment, Joachim Hoch stepped back and brought his hand up to his head as well. Not a Nazi salute, a proper one. As they brought their arms down, Hoch collected the revolver, the round and the drink and handed it back to his men. He also switched back to German, issuing a command. One of the Germans in an army uniform nodded and stepped forward, grabbing Rothman by the scruff of his uniform and pulling the man out of the office, presumably to place him with the rest of the captured boys.
Hoch stood there, amused at the act. Sighing, he turned back to Ward.
"That one does not have my exemption. So… shall we inform the men?" The young Nazi son of a bitch inquired. "Or shall we continue to pretend you still hold any authority?"
Ward reluctantly chose the former of the two.
...
…
-Joachim
Hanala's just got out of surgery. She's going to be fine but they have placed her into a medically induced coma for the time being. Eighteen shrapnel wounds and several projectiles have been pulled out; her burn injuries are on the mend as well.
I was in contact with Lene and Gerald Langer before I contacted you. I realize how much being meddled with has become a large annoyance. I will survive your wrath. They have told me you would likely be feeling rather guilty for this incident. Know that neither I nor Alaan hold any blame for you. Hanala is a reckless young woman. This incident will save her in the long run. She will be much more careful now. Do yourself a great service and try not to burden yourself with guilt. She would not want that, we do not want that.
Contact me when you are ready. I shall relay whatever needs to be said to her until your timely arrival back to the fleet. Congratulations on your victory. You will have undoubtedly made Hanala proud.
Keelah Se'lai,
Galina'Jarva
Closing his omni-tool, Joachim pounded back the bottle of captured American whisky and sighed, his head resting against the steel siding. Hanala was going to make it; at least that was what it looked like.
Peiper was right. He should not have permitted Hanala's presence in this conflict. It was one thing that she lured him into the desert almost a year ago; it was quite another thing that he allowed her to join him at the front, in an actual combat role. By no means did he think of her as a weak soldier. She was talented, undoubtedly.
It was however something that emotionally compromised him. He did not plan on this attack. He only wanted to bleed the Division. He did not intend to engage in a running battle that cost two hundred and thirty-one of his men's lives.
But it was over and done with now. He had gotten lucky, exceptionally lucky. By all accounts, he should have been killed half a dozen times. But here he was, drinking a bottle of 1937 Jack Daniels and listening to a record player, that had been spewing out degenerate jazz music.
He had won a resounding victory. It still left him feeling like shit. Without Hanala there, his external conscience, he was simply numb to what he had done.
Sighing, he clambered out of the Hanomag. He stumbled in place for a moment and immediately took notice that Reister and his had parked Sigrid II next to an American supply truck. They were sitting inside the vehicle, testing out the American rations and smoking American cigarettes. What made the situation more amusing was the fifteen or so American Prisoners assigned to them. All of them were glaring at the armed men eating their food.
Suddenly Reister spat the mouthful of what appeared to be bread out on the men. He ignored the violent shouts of the Americans as he gave an angry expression at them.
"My God this is supposed to be bread? What do you idiots use? Sugar and cake batter instead of flour? BREAD ISN'T SUPPOSED TO LOOK AND TASTE LIKE CAKE!"
"I doubt they can understand, Johann," Hoch called out, catching their attention and making the panzer officer smile widely.
"Oh, they understand." Reister shot back to his leader. "A nation could go fat on white bread. What a bunch of fucking degenerates... Herr Hoch, have a drink. I took it off a Major. He gave me some lip, I showed him Sigrid's barrel."
Looking at the bottle of gin, Hoch shrugged. Deciding he earned another drink, he stepped through the Americans, kicking one man out of his path as he took the bottle and helped himself to a mouthful.
"Huh…" mumbled Rolf, the scar-faced radioman suddenly, his eyes buried deep in some reading material. "This Batman appears to be in a romantic relationship with a teenage boy. I knew Americans were deviants, but I did not think they would flaunt it so openly."
Reister laughed at the observation, his mouth full of canned fruit.
"Faggots?" he taunted the Americans in rough English, his finger jabbing the comic book violently. "You Faggots?"
Joachim was about to laugh when a sudden blinding flash caught him off guard. Blinking as his vision came back to him, he found a man in his mid-twenties standing there with a Camera in his hands. Joachim reacted by drawing his Walther from his holster and levelled it at the offender.
"Don't you dare move," he warned the cameraman.
Noticing that their commanding officer was drawing a pistol on someone, several passing-by infantry rushed the camera-wielding man, hitting the man so far he collapsed. The two soldiers held their rifles at his chest, both of them looking at their commander.
"Herr Obersturmbannführer, are you alright?!" one of them, an Unteroffizier, called out to him. Hoch nodded silently as he joined them as he too loomed over the man, his hand outstretched as his eyes darted from face to face.
"Why are you taking my picture?" Hoch demanded to know of the American, the pistol in his hand wavering from coming down from the meth and the liquor flowing through his veins.
"My name is C-Charles Foster," the man introduced himself, understandably shaky from three guns pointing at him. "I work with Life… it's a m-magazine. I was attached to the Old Ironsides for the landing in… in Oran."
Hoch considered what he said. Deciding this Foster was in no position to lie to him; he holstered his pistol and silently ordered the soldiers back. They obliged, raising their weapons off the man and went back to their patrol, leaving Hoch standing alone with the sprawled-out American, who was pulling himself back out of the dirt.
"A propagandist?" Hoch guessed, turning away from the man.
"No sir, a reporter," Foster spoke as he dusted himself off. "You know what a reporter is, right? It's the trade the Nazis destroyed as soon as they came to power, then replaced them with propagandists?"
The comment broke the tension building in Joachim, chuckling slightly, Hoch turned back to the reporter.
"There isn't much of a difference between a reporter and a propagandist, especially when he's sent to report the war," he retorted, crossing his arms as he stared the American dead in the eye. "You're clever..." he added. "I'm not a fan of clever. What makes you think I won't just shoot right here, right now?"
There was a brief flash of worry in the American's face, it quickly vanished, however.
"Because you aren't that sort of person, at least you're trying not to be..." Foster spoke, trying to sound confident. "I mean, you offered the surrender. You took a huge risk in doing so."
Joachim shrugged idly, sniffing as he scratched the back of his neck. Yes, he tried to operate with restraint.
"Amphetamines are a hell of a fear deterrent, though it may be in your best interest to omit that..." he said dismissively of the shining the reporter was trying to give. "What do you want?"
Laughing slightly at the words of the German, the American war correspondent reached out and latched his arm onto Joachim's, earning a slight glare from the much taller Northern German.
"I want an interview, Commander," Foster spoke plainly as he led the Obersturmbannführer away from the suspicious Reister and his crew. "I want the readers at home to know the enemy we face. There are a lot of chicken hawks at home demonizing the Nazis. It's understandable why they do it, but not only are they demonizing, they're saying the Nazi war machine is incompetent…"
Foster paused as he glanced around at the wholesale destruction the town occurred, the amount of dead being gathered.
"What happened here, they need to understand the fight will not be an easy one."
Hoch raised his eyebrow slightly.
"I realize that you are playing on my sense of nationalism, but I can assure you that I would rather them think of us as stupid oafs, Herr Charles," the Obersturmbannführer pointed out. "I would rather have them delude themselves into believing that this was a fluke."
"Sir, I know you don't like what happened here. What happened here was ignorance and overconfidence," the reporter argued. "You can prevent unnecessary deaths. Granted, they are Allied men you'll be helping. Besides, what better way to raise your personality? I swear on my Mother and Father's lives I won't belittle you. I pride myself on being a fair man."
Hoch had to admit it; he had guts for staking his parents' lives in the hands of a man like him.
"An idealistic reporter, how quaint… thank you for the guarantee that would spare me from hunting your parents down and exacting a terrible revenge like the godless Hun that I am," the German mocked, watching Foster go sheet white.
Sighing, he glanced at his wristwatch. What the hell, he was going to become a traitor in a matter of months; he might as well get good at it.
"I have two hours to spare..." he said, watching the American nearly grin in excitement. "Come, I know a Dutch family who would be delighted to serve us some lunch. Conqueror's privilege, I suppose."
Together, the two men wandered back in the direction of his temporary headquarters, naturally, followed by Paul Fuhrmann and his squad.
…
…
Halid felt sick to his stomach as he watched Alaan'Jarva pace back and forth the floor of the medical freighter Blue Abyss, a former asari colony ship.
As a Father himself, Halid could not possibly comprehend the amount of worry, fear and regret Alaan must have been feeling since they brought Hanala on board for extensive surgeries. She was in a terrible state. Shot up, heavily burnt, a breathing tube down her throat and covered in heavy, blood-soaked human bandaging, probably applied sloppily by Hoch. Hoch was probably in a state of depression and fear at the moment. He considered Hanala the only thing he would have left after the revolution commenced.
It took over thirteen Earth hours before the physicians could stabilize her. It gave Alaan more than enough time to find every possible avenue in which he could find things to blame for himself. Primarily he took the blame for not providing Rommel with more support. For not giving the man more tanks, for allowing Captain Yagar'Haevjar vas Compassionate Action time to convert the ME-262 into a limited orbital drop and return fighter bomber.
Perhaps this injury would serve a purpose. Perhaps now Alaan would stop holding back, it was in Halid's opinion he was punishing the conspiracy for allowing the Nazis to take hold in the first place. Not anymore. Punishment would have to wait until after a foothold on Earth was made.
The door opened Alaan paused briefly to make sure it wasn't his wife. The last thing he wanted was to show her that he was scared. It wasn't Galina. It was a young lieutenant under Zorah's command. A surveyor by trade, Zorah had sent him to watch the developments of the Western Hemisphere, Canada and the United States most notably.
Why he was here was beyond Zorah's understanding. He usually filed his reports every week.
"Lieutenant Gerrel, something to report?" Zorah inquired, standing up and moving past Alaan to join the lieutenant.
The lieutenant nodded his head gravely.
"You wanted me to report any sort of anomaly?" Gerrel said. Waiting for a nod from Zorah, he added. "I think I'm afraid that I have indeed found one.
Gerrel raised his omni-tool to reveal a large-scale replica of the Earth. Quietly the surveyor zoomed into the North American region and then he zoomed further into the Pacific Northwest, then zoomed in closer to a small state nestled on the Canadian/United States border.
"This region is known as Hanford, Washington," the lieutenant informed his Admirals as he zoomed in on a small region in the southeast of the state. "Hanford is located in the northwestern sector of the United States. The area has been relatively unimportant until recently. They have begun construction on a large scale facility out of the way from the major population centres of the state."
The map zoomed in closer from the region map, it zoomed into the region closer and closer until the display showed construction occurring, heavily guarded by hundreds of military units.
"We weren't asking for more production reports," a voice belonging to Alaan called out, apparently deciding to use Zorah's work as a means to distract himself from the thoughts of his child barely clinging to life.
Gerrel was unfazed by the annoyance. It only meant that he knew something his superiors didn't.
"That's what I thought as well until the spy drones caught this."
He closed the live feed and turned their attention to an archived video feed. There on the screen were dozens of cargo trucks parking inside the walls of the facility. Looking at how nervous Gerrel suddenly became, left Zorah somewhat pensive.
"We performed a series of different analyses," the lieutenant narrated over the video footage. "The trucks were carrying large convoy shipments of uranium from across the Canadian border for stockpile in this facility."
All colour drained from Halid's expression. No…no this cannot be, he thought this civilization was a decade or two away from such a technological leap!
"Uranium…" Zorah spoke weakly, shaking his head. "No, that can't be right."
"You can double-check it if you want, Admiral Zorah. I triple-checked it myself, and then checked it once again," Gerrel spoke, cutting through the foggy state of the stunned Admiral. "They are stockpiling uranium and building a facility that is mostly isolated. All the signs are there."
"Those bastards…" Admiral Jarva breathed suddenly, leaning back into his seat, his eyes wide. "Those stupid bastards… they're developing nuclear technology!"
The statement was left hanging in the air. Gerrel seemed somewhat uncomfortable to see an Admiral usually so renowned for patience and civility, driving up the wall by the actions of this younger race. Not that Gerrel could blame Jarva for it. Between his children clinging to life and these humans appeared to have had a wide suicidal streak in them. To say it was frightening was an understatement.
Halid took a seat just across from the brooding older man. For the first time since he was handed the assignment of handling the humans, he found himself completely over his head. Something had to be done about this. Perhaps they could organize that Skorzeny fellow to assault the facility and spook the Americans into forgetting their nuclear ambitions, at least for the short term.
Glancing at the facility, he shivered. Although it might have been in the early stages of development, the American production industry was untouchable to German bombs. This unfinished facility would be completed in weeks, months perhaps, a first step on the road to nuclear technology in the hands of an enemy power.
"Perhaps it's for energy purposes. Whatever the case is, the development is years off two, three years perhaps if they're at such a primitive stage," he muttered under his breath, a statement meant for himself that was picked up by Jarva and laughed at.
"You place too much blind faith in them, Zorah. You cannot assume the best in these people… look how it worked out for Admiral Calis. Now we have to spend the next thirty years cleaning the German image of genocide when it inevitably gets out," the Admiral warned his junior carefully. "Developing nuclear technology in the middle of a war means one thing and one thing only; these idiots are on the verge of developing atomic weaponry."
Slicking his hair back, Jarva stood from his seat and wandered his way to the door.
"Make a note of it and we'll address the future of nuclear development once we sit them all down."
Alaan paused for a moment, his lips tightening as though he was privately debating his next words.
"Gather the Generals," he continued, his words no longer of anger, but in the capacity of the Senior Admiral of the Migrant Fleet. "Inform them that the plans go into effect. It is two days from the marshal law being enacted. I want this bastard Hitler on the Kareon as our prisoner in a month. We have been in the shadows for long enough, Zorah. This Operation Götterdämmerung has come to fruition."
Saluting Jarva alongside the Lieutenant, Halid'Zorah watched as Alaan'Jarva left the room, leaving Halid with a mountain of work to do. Work he was only too glad to get done after a year's hard labour.
Earth would soon be their home.
...
...
Changes:
- Making Langer far more committed to the ideology, making it far more clearer that he was grooming Hoch.
- The most obvious was Greta Rauch's survival and the content there. I knew going into making changes to her fate that it would mean large changes there. It also means more changes in the next one.
- I drastically cut down one the Rommel x Utala'Falan content. Far too rushed, and while Rommel engaged in affairs in his youth it wasn't a priority in his older age.
- Better established Halid'Zorah and Hoch's working relationship. The future stories have Zorah being unusually hard on him. I feel it was better to set up the reasoning early.
- Better established Kaltenbrunner's deal with the quarians. Initially it was a stupid half-assed blackmail plot. Now it's a proper deal which both parties are motivated to see through.
- Cut back on a few additional characters. American soldiers in Oran. One of which was originally the Grandfather of the original protagonist for the second generation of stories. In recent years I have developed who I want to write about in the stories past the original series. (if I get to it, I don't know)
- I was considering doing a rewrite of the final battle. It felt one-sided, but my rationale back then as it is still is that this was the Kesserine Pass of this timeline. What happened at Kesserine doesn't happen here. The US Army had serious teething problems in North Africa, but it was better to have them in Africa then it would have been in for the rewrite, at some point I have to stop myself and just let the original story go on. Sort of like keeping the Kaltenbrunner killing a couple of quarians. It's silly, but I'll stand by it.
Thanks for reading and waiting. Lots of new stuff was added in the first half, which slowed down work on this story. Looks like the next story will also have a lot of new stuff added as well. I don't know how long it will take. Good news is that I've been looking through my disorganized document folder and found the an updated version of the the series. It looks a little better on the technical side so going through the original content will take a less time.
In the meantime, I also will release a few of the straight up Mass Effect stories I wrote. "Eden" for starters as it establishes post-Reaper war world, then work on the story I started "Our Private World" (Story about a Human Dad, his Turian adopted daughter and a turian woman) I won't release that right away. Not until I get a couple new chapters done there.