ChrisNuttall
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We're going on holiday, so futher updates may be delayed. Please keep commenting <grin>.
Chris
Chris
Alternate History The Flight of Werner Von Braun (Alternate History Stand-Alone)
- Thread starter ChrisNuttall
- Start date
Good.Now SS would think that other germans are guilty,so they have SMALL chance for running.Greta - would help them or die.Maybe both?
P.S According to what my grandmother say,many jews in Poland welcomed germans,and,for first year,they were treated better then poles.Some poles even pretended to be jews.
P.S According to what my grandmother say,many jews in Poland welcomed germans,and,for first year,they were treated better then poles.Some poles even pretended to be jews.
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Chapter Twenty-Three
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ChrisNuttall
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Chapter Twenty-Three: Occupied France, 1949
Kathleen was torn between relief and fear as they drove into Occupied France, even though she was all too aware the Nazis were in firm control and most of the French authorities – such as they were after nine years of occupation – were nothing more than collaborators. The resistance had tried to assassinate collaborators, once they made themselves visible, but the attacks had died away after the Nazis retaliated and it became clear France would not be liberated anytime soon. There weren't many people she could trust, in Occupied France, and going to any of them – even a contact she'd known for years –was dangerous. But they were running out of time.
She kept to the back roads as much as possible, picking their way through tracks she knew from her time with the French Resistance and swapping vehicles when they had the opportunity. The local French knew better than to attract attention from the Germans – the French police were collaborators, where they existed at all – and it was unlikely the thefts would go reported, at least to the Germans. She hoped that hadn't changed in the last few years. The Germans had mounted several anti-partisan sweeps in the region – and deported potential troublemakers to Vichy France or French Algeria – and while no one in their right mind would trust the Germans they might see no choice but to collaborate if the only alternative was deportation. The Germans looked down on the French and that was unlikely ti change any time soon. They certainly had no respect for French properly rights.
Von Braun sat beside her, his face grim. Kathleen risked a glance from time to time, wondering what was going through his head. They were outside Germany now, in territory ruled directly by the Reich, and it had to feel very different even though he'd been committed from the moment he made contact with her. The landscape bore the signs of war, from villages and towns shattered by the battle for France to others that had clearly been destroyed to teach the local resistance fighters a lesson. It was possible for the Germans – particularly well-connected Germans – to pretend that nothing had changed, but the French didn't have that option. Von Braun's inventions hadn't been involved in the Battle of France, as far as she knew, yet the sights before them were a grim reminder of the human cost of Hitler's rule. It wasn't even the worst of it. Kathleen's relatives had been murdered simply for being Jews.
No one in their right mind would think the French were lucky, Kathleen told herself, grimly. But the hell of it is that, compared to the Jews or the Slavs, they are.
They didn't run into any roadblocks as they drove further west, something that bothered her even though she knew she should be grateful. By now, the BDM girls should have realised 'Gudrun' and her driver had never returned to the group. How would they react? There was an SS station in the town ... they'd report the missing matron immediately and the alert would go out, and then ...? Kathleen wondered, tiredly, just how long it would take for them to realise Gudrun had been replaced, before she'd joined the group and taken command? There was no way to know. She'd been as bitchy as possible to Heidi and the other juniors, both to keep them from asking questions and to discourage them from sending out the alert too early, but she knew that wouldn't last forever. She'd be surprised if it lasted more than a day or two. Sure, the girls had activities to keep them busy, but ...
The thought nagged at her mind, tormenting her, as they switched cars again and headed down to a village on the edge of rough countryside. There was a major military base nearby, one designed and built to support a Nazi invasion of Britain, and SOE had been very interested in the region since they'd realised the base was there. They had quite a few contacts nearby, Frenchmen who remained determined to free their country, even if plans to set France ablaze had ended with the war. She let her eyes trail the rolling hills – the terrain provided cover for all sorts of sins, from smugglers and moonshiners to resistance fighters and bandits – and then drove onwards, into the village itself. It didn't seem to have changed that much, in the last two years. There were no SS men or local policemen monitoring the streets.
Von Braun nudged her. "What are those posters saying?"
"Vichy has its own Hitler Youth," Kathleen said. "They're inviting young Frenchmen to join up, to make their country rise again."
She sighed, inwardly. The posters promised a brand new age of national rejuvenation, with France rising once again to take her place amongst the new world order. She was surprised the Germans let the French stick their posters anywhere near the military base, although she could see their point. Vichy might bill their youth organisation as an updated version of the Boy Scouts, but in reality the young men often found themselves used as underpaid labour – if they were paid at all – and pushed into open collaboration. They tended to be steered into joining Vichy France's bullyboys, beating up anyone who questioned the wisdom of siding with the Reich, or being dispatched east to earn glory for France. They were lucky, she reflected tiredly, if they even earned a coffin.
The propaganda was heavier than before, she reflected, and crude to the point of utter uselessness. It was rare for anyone to speak out openly – there were traitors everywhere – but everyone knew that joining up would end badly. She liked to think there weren't many volunteers, yet ... she knew, better than most, that the combination of three meals a day and the chance to beat up on one's enemies was incredibly seductive. The locals lived on short rations – the Germans took the best for themselves, to feed the Reich – and one bad winter would be enough to push them into the edge into open starvation. If it was a choice between watching your family starve or joining up, which one would she make? She liked to think she would sooner starve, but if she had children who would starve too ...
Don't be silly, she told herself, rather sourly. The Nazis wouldn't be interested in recruiting you for anything more than the gas chambers.
Her heart sank as she parked the car just outside the village, silently relieved the farm was still off the beaten track. There had been a handful of Frenchmen who had tried to get as many Jews out of the country as possible, but Vichy had thrown its weight behind a pogrom that had sent countless Jews – and other undesirables – into the concentration camps. They could have done so much to resist, from sending their fleet to Britain and transferring their army and government to North Africa, but instead they'd just rolled over and collaborated. Kathleen didn't understand it. Sure, the French had lost a battle – their defeat owing much to their pre-war divisions, as well as German tactical superiority – yet they hadn't lost the war ...
"Stay here," she said. "I'll be back shortly."
The farm wasn't precisely hidden, but the owners had hidden the track leading up to the farm in foliage, making it difficult to spot unless the hunters already knew it was there. The region had a long tradition of hiding as much as possible from the local authorities, something that had come in handy when the Germans had invaded and occupied the region, and she'd been assured – years ago – that there were no official records of its existence. The Germans could easily find it, if they bothered to look, but ... they had other problems. Or so she'd been told.
A figure moved ahead of her, barely visible. Kathleen held up her hands, feeling her heart starting to race. The underground was twitchy and paranoid, all too aware they could be betrayed at any moment. The Germans would have no hesitation in using bribes or torture to make their prisoners talk – she'd lost count of how many resistance cells had been cracked over the last few years – and Vichy was, if anything, even worse. Kathleen had heard a rumour they didn't even have any plans to rearm, or resist a German invasion of Southern France, although she hoped that was disinformation. Her lips twisted in disgust. Vichy's small army was no match for the Wehrmacht. If the Germans wanted to occupy the rest of France, it would be an exercise in logistics rather than a war.
Which does explain why Vichy bends the knee, she reminded herself. The only other option is losing what little freedom they have left.
"Halt," a voice said. Kathleen froze. The voice was familiar – a woman's voice, tinted with an accent that was increasingly out of fashion - but that was meaningless. "Stay where you are."
She tensed as a middle-aged woman emerged out of the foliage, holding a shotgun in one hand. The Germans had confiscated most civilian weapons over the last few years – having a firearm without a permit was a one-way trip to the camps, and permits were near-impossible to obtain – but the farmers had managed to hold onto a handful of shotguns and rifles anyway, the latter used to supplement their rations with birds and wild game. Kathleen braced herself, all too aware she might have stuck her head in the noose. If she had made a mistake ...
The woman pointed the gun at Kathleen's face. "What are you doing here?"
"The night is dark, but dawn is only hours away," Kathleen replied, in the same language. It had taken her longer than it should to master French, not least because her teachers had tried to hammer the language into her head when she'd been a schoolgirl and their French was, at best, a foreign dialect that wouldn't go unnoticed in France. SOE had been more practical when it came to linguistics, hiring émigré French to teach their recruits how to pass for Frenchmen. "And yourself?"
"And we cannot wait for the dawn," the woman finished. Her eyes studied Kathleen's face with an intensity that made her blush. "Jeanette? Is that you?"
"More or less," Kathleen said. The last time she'd been in the region, she'd posed as Jeanette and she'd had the papers to prove it. "I have a friend waiting on the road."
The woman nodded, stiffly. "No names," she said, as if Kathleen was a rank amateur. "Bring your friend up, and quickly."
Kathleen nodded, returned to the car, and drove up the hidden lane. The farm blended neatly into the surrounding countryside, the farmhouse and barns woven together and covered with foliage to make them difficult to see from the air. A handful of chickens were pecking the ground outside the farmhouse, a pair of cows were clearly visible in the distance. The farm wasn't particularly big, compared to some of the farms she'd seen in the more developed parts of Britain and France, but it had belonged to the same family for hundreds of years.
"You'd better come in," the woman said. She looked Von Braun up and down thoughtfully, but if she recognised him she gave no sign. Kathleen had done what she could to change his appearance, again, yet there had been limits. "Call me Sophie, young man. That's the name of our dear prefect's wife."
Kathleen's lips twisted. "A collaborator?"
"He spends most of his time with his lips firmly attached to the inspector's cock," Sophie said, darkly. "The German must be embarrassed by his fawning, I'm sure."
"No doubt," Kathleen agreed. She took the offered chair, and accepted a mug of coffee. It was surprisingly decent, but then the farm did have ties to the black market as well as links to SOE. Half the contacts in Occupied France, she'd been told, were kept loyal by food shipments from Britain. It was astonishing just how far someone would go for coffee. Or tea. Or something else that was heavily rationed. "Is he giving you a hard time?"
"He doesn't seem aware of our existence," Sophie said. She went back and forth, laying out a simple meal of bread, cheese and ham. Very simple, compared to everything Kathleen had heard about French cuisine, but sheer luxury compared to what the average Frenchman ate in Vichy. The milk alone would be worth hundreds on the black market. "We don't send anything to the market, so ..."
She shrugged, expressively. "He's not very efficient, when it comes to looting. He certainly isn't making any attempt to update the records."
Kathleen allowed herself a moment of relief. The prefect could have caused them a great deal of trouble, just by harassing farmers – including ones with ties to the black market or the resistance – and forcing them to register so they could be taxed. She was mildly surprised he hadn't, if only to make himself look good to the German authorities, although it was quite possible he simply lacked the manpower to carry out proper inspections. Vichy was incredibly corrupt, as well as bent on collaboration, and the prefect's subordinates might have already been subverted, bribed into compliance. Her time in the region, moving between different resistance and SOE groups, had convinced her the locals would do everything in their power to avoid noticing something that would get them in trouble. If nothing else, a reputation as a snitch would make sure the black market would want nothing to do with them.
She met Sophie's eyes. "Have there been any major security alerts?"
"Not that I'm aware," Sophie said. Her brow furrowed. "Is there some reason there should be?"
Kathleen shook her head. She trusted Sophie, as far as she trusted anyone in occupied France, but the less she knew the better. Her contacts with the black market were a double-edged sword. SOE had lost operatives before through being betrayed, unaware – until it was too late – that the Germans had already rounded up the resistance cell and turned them into double agents. She'd heard horror stories of an entire series of infiltrators who had been parachuted, one by one, into France, only to be caught and turned the moment they landed. There were contingency plans, and codes, for such a situation, but it took nerve to actually use them. By the time the deception was revealed, it had been too late for a great many operatives.
"The airport is ready, as always," Sophie said. "You're welcome to stay here until pickup ..."
"Send a message, tell them we want to go tonight," Kathleen said. Airport was a fancy term for a field in the middle of nowhere, several miles from the farm, but hopefully anyone who heard it would think of the airports nearer the bigger cities rather than a hidden landing strip. "We don't have much time."
Sophie eyed her thoughtfully. "You understand the risks?"
"Yes," Kathleen said. The Germans were good at tracking radio transmissions and hunting down the transmitters. SOE trained its radio operators to keep transmissions as short as possible, using a handful of code phrases to convey vast amounts of information in relatively small broadcasts, but it was still a risk. "The sooner we go, the better."
"Far be it from me to disagree," Sophie said. She stood. "I'll have to pass the word up the chain. And get rid of that car you stole. You two stay here. Don't leave the farm."
"Understood," Kathleen said. She hoped to hell Sophie was smart enough to stay out of trouble for a few more hours. Perhaps it was time to invite her to leave France ... the offer of a ride out had won quite a few friends and allies, over the last few years. But she wouldn't want to abandon her farm. "We'll keep our heads down."
Sophie grimaced, before turning away. Kathleen winced inwardly. Sophie would lose the farm for sure, if she were caught aiding the resistance. Or SOE. The resistance was supposed to have a cellular structure, to make it harder for one traitor to betray more than one cell, but she was uneasily aware the Germans could have caught and turned someone, leaving them in place rather than rounding up the whole cell. Sophie wasn't supposed to know more than a handful of others, but she was smart and observant and probably knew more than she should about the local resistance. Kathleen hoped the camp in the mountains remained undiscovered, yet ... she groaned, all too aware it might have been uncovered years ago. The longer the Germans remained in control, the harder it would be to keep the resistance in being. And keep the fighters from devolving into bandits.
Von Braun leaned back in his chair. "Is there anyone else here?"
"There shouldn't be," Kathleen said. Sophie ran the farm alone, more or less. Vichy had been doing its own version of the BDM, trying to turn young French girls into farmers, but there hadn't been much enthusiasm, Sophie certainly wouldn't want a spy anywhere near the farm. "Right now, get some sleep. And keep your pistol close by."
Von Braun blinked, "Do you trust her?"
"These days, you can't trust anyone in France," Kathleen said. She knew better than to think the French were loyal to the British. DeGaulle and the French government-in-exile had their own agenda, one that didn't always jibe with SOE's. Given how poorly the Free French had fared since 1944, with very few nations treating them as anything more than a joke and denying them any kind of recognition, it wasn't impossible some might be thinking of finding their own way home ... even if it meant selling out their people. "Not completely."
She met his eyes. "If we didn't need to be here," she added, "we wouldn't be."
Von Braun nodded. "Got it."
Kathleen was torn between relief and fear as they drove into Occupied France, even though she was all too aware the Nazis were in firm control and most of the French authorities – such as they were after nine years of occupation – were nothing more than collaborators. The resistance had tried to assassinate collaborators, once they made themselves visible, but the attacks had died away after the Nazis retaliated and it became clear France would not be liberated anytime soon. There weren't many people she could trust, in Occupied France, and going to any of them – even a contact she'd known for years –was dangerous. But they were running out of time.
She kept to the back roads as much as possible, picking their way through tracks she knew from her time with the French Resistance and swapping vehicles when they had the opportunity. The local French knew better than to attract attention from the Germans – the French police were collaborators, where they existed at all – and it was unlikely the thefts would go reported, at least to the Germans. She hoped that hadn't changed in the last few years. The Germans had mounted several anti-partisan sweeps in the region – and deported potential troublemakers to Vichy France or French Algeria – and while no one in their right mind would trust the Germans they might see no choice but to collaborate if the only alternative was deportation. The Germans looked down on the French and that was unlikely ti change any time soon. They certainly had no respect for French properly rights.
Von Braun sat beside her, his face grim. Kathleen risked a glance from time to time, wondering what was going through his head. They were outside Germany now, in territory ruled directly by the Reich, and it had to feel very different even though he'd been committed from the moment he made contact with her. The landscape bore the signs of war, from villages and towns shattered by the battle for France to others that had clearly been destroyed to teach the local resistance fighters a lesson. It was possible for the Germans – particularly well-connected Germans – to pretend that nothing had changed, but the French didn't have that option. Von Braun's inventions hadn't been involved in the Battle of France, as far as she knew, yet the sights before them were a grim reminder of the human cost of Hitler's rule. It wasn't even the worst of it. Kathleen's relatives had been murdered simply for being Jews.
No one in their right mind would think the French were lucky, Kathleen told herself, grimly. But the hell of it is that, compared to the Jews or the Slavs, they are.
They didn't run into any roadblocks as they drove further west, something that bothered her even though she knew she should be grateful. By now, the BDM girls should have realised 'Gudrun' and her driver had never returned to the group. How would they react? There was an SS station in the town ... they'd report the missing matron immediately and the alert would go out, and then ...? Kathleen wondered, tiredly, just how long it would take for them to realise Gudrun had been replaced, before she'd joined the group and taken command? There was no way to know. She'd been as bitchy as possible to Heidi and the other juniors, both to keep them from asking questions and to discourage them from sending out the alert too early, but she knew that wouldn't last forever. She'd be surprised if it lasted more than a day or two. Sure, the girls had activities to keep them busy, but ...
The thought nagged at her mind, tormenting her, as they switched cars again and headed down to a village on the edge of rough countryside. There was a major military base nearby, one designed and built to support a Nazi invasion of Britain, and SOE had been very interested in the region since they'd realised the base was there. They had quite a few contacts nearby, Frenchmen who remained determined to free their country, even if plans to set France ablaze had ended with the war. She let her eyes trail the rolling hills – the terrain provided cover for all sorts of sins, from smugglers and moonshiners to resistance fighters and bandits – and then drove onwards, into the village itself. It didn't seem to have changed that much, in the last two years. There were no SS men or local policemen monitoring the streets.
Von Braun nudged her. "What are those posters saying?"
"Vichy has its own Hitler Youth," Kathleen said. "They're inviting young Frenchmen to join up, to make their country rise again."
She sighed, inwardly. The posters promised a brand new age of national rejuvenation, with France rising once again to take her place amongst the new world order. She was surprised the Germans let the French stick their posters anywhere near the military base, although she could see their point. Vichy might bill their youth organisation as an updated version of the Boy Scouts, but in reality the young men often found themselves used as underpaid labour – if they were paid at all – and pushed into open collaboration. They tended to be steered into joining Vichy France's bullyboys, beating up anyone who questioned the wisdom of siding with the Reich, or being dispatched east to earn glory for France. They were lucky, she reflected tiredly, if they even earned a coffin.
The propaganda was heavier than before, she reflected, and crude to the point of utter uselessness. It was rare for anyone to speak out openly – there were traitors everywhere – but everyone knew that joining up would end badly. She liked to think there weren't many volunteers, yet ... she knew, better than most, that the combination of three meals a day and the chance to beat up on one's enemies was incredibly seductive. The locals lived on short rations – the Germans took the best for themselves, to feed the Reich – and one bad winter would be enough to push them into the edge into open starvation. If it was a choice between watching your family starve or joining up, which one would she make? She liked to think she would sooner starve, but if she had children who would starve too ...
Don't be silly, she told herself, rather sourly. The Nazis wouldn't be interested in recruiting you for anything more than the gas chambers.
Her heart sank as she parked the car just outside the village, silently relieved the farm was still off the beaten track. There had been a handful of Frenchmen who had tried to get as many Jews out of the country as possible, but Vichy had thrown its weight behind a pogrom that had sent countless Jews – and other undesirables – into the concentration camps. They could have done so much to resist, from sending their fleet to Britain and transferring their army and government to North Africa, but instead they'd just rolled over and collaborated. Kathleen didn't understand it. Sure, the French had lost a battle – their defeat owing much to their pre-war divisions, as well as German tactical superiority – yet they hadn't lost the war ...
"Stay here," she said. "I'll be back shortly."
The farm wasn't precisely hidden, but the owners had hidden the track leading up to the farm in foliage, making it difficult to spot unless the hunters already knew it was there. The region had a long tradition of hiding as much as possible from the local authorities, something that had come in handy when the Germans had invaded and occupied the region, and she'd been assured – years ago – that there were no official records of its existence. The Germans could easily find it, if they bothered to look, but ... they had other problems. Or so she'd been told.
A figure moved ahead of her, barely visible. Kathleen held up her hands, feeling her heart starting to race. The underground was twitchy and paranoid, all too aware they could be betrayed at any moment. The Germans would have no hesitation in using bribes or torture to make their prisoners talk – she'd lost count of how many resistance cells had been cracked over the last few years – and Vichy was, if anything, even worse. Kathleen had heard a rumour they didn't even have any plans to rearm, or resist a German invasion of Southern France, although she hoped that was disinformation. Her lips twisted in disgust. Vichy's small army was no match for the Wehrmacht. If the Germans wanted to occupy the rest of France, it would be an exercise in logistics rather than a war.
Which does explain why Vichy bends the knee, she reminded herself. The only other option is losing what little freedom they have left.
"Halt," a voice said. Kathleen froze. The voice was familiar – a woman's voice, tinted with an accent that was increasingly out of fashion - but that was meaningless. "Stay where you are."
She tensed as a middle-aged woman emerged out of the foliage, holding a shotgun in one hand. The Germans had confiscated most civilian weapons over the last few years – having a firearm without a permit was a one-way trip to the camps, and permits were near-impossible to obtain – but the farmers had managed to hold onto a handful of shotguns and rifles anyway, the latter used to supplement their rations with birds and wild game. Kathleen braced herself, all too aware she might have stuck her head in the noose. If she had made a mistake ...
The woman pointed the gun at Kathleen's face. "What are you doing here?"
"The night is dark, but dawn is only hours away," Kathleen replied, in the same language. It had taken her longer than it should to master French, not least because her teachers had tried to hammer the language into her head when she'd been a schoolgirl and their French was, at best, a foreign dialect that wouldn't go unnoticed in France. SOE had been more practical when it came to linguistics, hiring émigré French to teach their recruits how to pass for Frenchmen. "And yourself?"
"And we cannot wait for the dawn," the woman finished. Her eyes studied Kathleen's face with an intensity that made her blush. "Jeanette? Is that you?"
"More or less," Kathleen said. The last time she'd been in the region, she'd posed as Jeanette and she'd had the papers to prove it. "I have a friend waiting on the road."
The woman nodded, stiffly. "No names," she said, as if Kathleen was a rank amateur. "Bring your friend up, and quickly."
Kathleen nodded, returned to the car, and drove up the hidden lane. The farm blended neatly into the surrounding countryside, the farmhouse and barns woven together and covered with foliage to make them difficult to see from the air. A handful of chickens were pecking the ground outside the farmhouse, a pair of cows were clearly visible in the distance. The farm wasn't particularly big, compared to some of the farms she'd seen in the more developed parts of Britain and France, but it had belonged to the same family for hundreds of years.
"You'd better come in," the woman said. She looked Von Braun up and down thoughtfully, but if she recognised him she gave no sign. Kathleen had done what she could to change his appearance, again, yet there had been limits. "Call me Sophie, young man. That's the name of our dear prefect's wife."
Kathleen's lips twisted. "A collaborator?"
"He spends most of his time with his lips firmly attached to the inspector's cock," Sophie said, darkly. "The German must be embarrassed by his fawning, I'm sure."
"No doubt," Kathleen agreed. She took the offered chair, and accepted a mug of coffee. It was surprisingly decent, but then the farm did have ties to the black market as well as links to SOE. Half the contacts in Occupied France, she'd been told, were kept loyal by food shipments from Britain. It was astonishing just how far someone would go for coffee. Or tea. Or something else that was heavily rationed. "Is he giving you a hard time?"
"He doesn't seem aware of our existence," Sophie said. She went back and forth, laying out a simple meal of bread, cheese and ham. Very simple, compared to everything Kathleen had heard about French cuisine, but sheer luxury compared to what the average Frenchman ate in Vichy. The milk alone would be worth hundreds on the black market. "We don't send anything to the market, so ..."
She shrugged, expressively. "He's not very efficient, when it comes to looting. He certainly isn't making any attempt to update the records."
Kathleen allowed herself a moment of relief. The prefect could have caused them a great deal of trouble, just by harassing farmers – including ones with ties to the black market or the resistance – and forcing them to register so they could be taxed. She was mildly surprised he hadn't, if only to make himself look good to the German authorities, although it was quite possible he simply lacked the manpower to carry out proper inspections. Vichy was incredibly corrupt, as well as bent on collaboration, and the prefect's subordinates might have already been subverted, bribed into compliance. Her time in the region, moving between different resistance and SOE groups, had convinced her the locals would do everything in their power to avoid noticing something that would get them in trouble. If nothing else, a reputation as a snitch would make sure the black market would want nothing to do with them.
She met Sophie's eyes. "Have there been any major security alerts?"
"Not that I'm aware," Sophie said. Her brow furrowed. "Is there some reason there should be?"
Kathleen shook her head. She trusted Sophie, as far as she trusted anyone in occupied France, but the less she knew the better. Her contacts with the black market were a double-edged sword. SOE had lost operatives before through being betrayed, unaware – until it was too late – that the Germans had already rounded up the resistance cell and turned them into double agents. She'd heard horror stories of an entire series of infiltrators who had been parachuted, one by one, into France, only to be caught and turned the moment they landed. There were contingency plans, and codes, for such a situation, but it took nerve to actually use them. By the time the deception was revealed, it had been too late for a great many operatives.
"The airport is ready, as always," Sophie said. "You're welcome to stay here until pickup ..."
"Send a message, tell them we want to go tonight," Kathleen said. Airport was a fancy term for a field in the middle of nowhere, several miles from the farm, but hopefully anyone who heard it would think of the airports nearer the bigger cities rather than a hidden landing strip. "We don't have much time."
Sophie eyed her thoughtfully. "You understand the risks?"
"Yes," Kathleen said. The Germans were good at tracking radio transmissions and hunting down the transmitters. SOE trained its radio operators to keep transmissions as short as possible, using a handful of code phrases to convey vast amounts of information in relatively small broadcasts, but it was still a risk. "The sooner we go, the better."
"Far be it from me to disagree," Sophie said. She stood. "I'll have to pass the word up the chain. And get rid of that car you stole. You two stay here. Don't leave the farm."
"Understood," Kathleen said. She hoped to hell Sophie was smart enough to stay out of trouble for a few more hours. Perhaps it was time to invite her to leave France ... the offer of a ride out had won quite a few friends and allies, over the last few years. But she wouldn't want to abandon her farm. "We'll keep our heads down."
Sophie grimaced, before turning away. Kathleen winced inwardly. Sophie would lose the farm for sure, if she were caught aiding the resistance. Or SOE. The resistance was supposed to have a cellular structure, to make it harder for one traitor to betray more than one cell, but she was uneasily aware the Germans could have caught and turned someone, leaving them in place rather than rounding up the whole cell. Sophie wasn't supposed to know more than a handful of others, but she was smart and observant and probably knew more than she should about the local resistance. Kathleen hoped the camp in the mountains remained undiscovered, yet ... she groaned, all too aware it might have been uncovered years ago. The longer the Germans remained in control, the harder it would be to keep the resistance in being. And keep the fighters from devolving into bandits.
Von Braun leaned back in his chair. "Is there anyone else here?"
"There shouldn't be," Kathleen said. Sophie ran the farm alone, more or less. Vichy had been doing its own version of the BDM, trying to turn young French girls into farmers, but there hadn't been much enthusiasm, Sophie certainly wouldn't want a spy anywhere near the farm. "Right now, get some sleep. And keep your pistol close by."
Von Braun blinked, "Do you trust her?"
"These days, you can't trust anyone in France," Kathleen said. She knew better than to think the French were loyal to the British. DeGaulle and the French government-in-exile had their own agenda, one that didn't always jibe with SOE's. Given how poorly the Free French had fared since 1944, with very few nations treating them as anything more than a joke and denying them any kind of recognition, it wasn't impossible some might be thinking of finding their own way home ... even if it meant selling out their people. "Not completely."
She met his eyes. "If we didn't need to be here," she added, "we wouldn't be."
Von Braun nodded. "Got it."
Chapter Twenty-Four
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ChrisNuttall
Well-known member
Chapter Twenty-Four: Occupied France, 1949
Hans kept his thoughts to himself as he studied the map, all too aware that saying what he was thinking out loud would get him in trouble. The giant military base might be guarded by the SS, as well as ground combat units from both the Heer and the Luftwaffe, but it didn't belong to them. The military officers might have bowed their heads, as soon as they'd seen his orders, and promised their full cooperation, yet he knew they were watching him, reporting back to their superiors in Berlin. The Führer's impending death was common knowledge – it wasn't meant to be, but it was – and Göring and Speer would be very interested indeed if Hans fell flat on his face. Hans himself was a nobody, in the grand scheme of things, but he reported to Himmler and his failure would make the Reichsführer-SS look bad. And weak.
He scowled, knowing all he could do was wait. There were dozens of military installations along the coastline, watching and waiting for the fugitives to try to catch a boat to Britain, but relatively few within the interior. Hans had redeployed hundreds of stormtroopers, and made contact with every deep-cover agent the SS had within the French Resistance, yet he was uneasily aware that large tracts of France were going unmonitored. He wasn't even sure the fugitives were in France, although how else were they going to make it out of the Reich? The prospect of being wrong loomed large in his mind, no matter how many times he reassured himself that his logic made sense. There was no other way out without running unacceptable risks. If they risked travelling into Vichy France, they'd be arrested and returned in short order. Vichy was eager to please.
Hans felt his scowl deepen, feeling a surge of utter contempt. He'd been a young officer during the Battle for France and even he, a Hitler loyalist to the core, had been surprised by how quickly the French had folded and surrendered. They'd expected a long and bloody campaign, but instead ... some French units had fought well, Hans had heard, yet the remainder had come apart at the seams. He'd guarded POWs after the fighting, uneasily aware the Germans didn't have the manpower to keep the prisoners in line, and yet only a handful had even tried to escape. Untermenschen, definitely. The Slavs might be uncivilised brutes, but even they fought harder. The French could have rallied and turned the war around, or at least made the Reich pay a high price for its conquests, yet instead they'd surrendered so completely there was almost no resistance. The few remaining cells, if the reports were accurate, had turned to banditry. They'd be wiped out soon enough.
He leaned back, wondering what else he could do. Nothing came to mind. The sneering Luftwaffe officer had hinted at an officers-only brothel somewhere outside the wire, with only the very best French girls, but Hans knew better than to make his way there. Himmler would be informed, and Himmler would not be pleased. If the fugitives slipped through the net while Hans was pleasuring himself, he'd be lucky if he had a chance to put a bullet through his skull before it was too late. He wouldn't be pleasuring himself in the concentration camps. His stomach twisted painfully. He'd seen the experiments carried out on Untermenschen, ranging from the logically sound to sadistic even by SS standards, and he knew the doctors wouldn't hesitate to experiment on him, if they had him in their clutches. There was a limit to what they could learn from Untermenschen, and if they had the chance to experiment on him instead ...
There was a tap at the door. Hans looked up. "Come."
Obersturmfuehrer Keitel stepped into the room, looking surprisingly dapper and carrying a file under his arm. Hans eyed him suspiciously, feeling a twinge of unease. Keitel had been drinking himself to death only a day ago, proving beyond all doubt that he wasn't cut out to be a high-ranking SS officer. Hans had already written the report, ensuring Keitel would be transferred to the Heer as soon as possible, where he could live out his fantasies of fighting a good clean war in the Middle East or somewhere else without a strong SS presence. There was nothing to be gained by sending him east and yet ...
Hans scowled. "Yes?"
"Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Keitel said. "You wished to be informed of anything interesting, anything out of the ordinary?"
"Yes, as you know perfectly well," Hans snarled. He was growing sick of Keitel's disapproving presence. Perhaps he'd send the young fool east after all. He'd grow a spine or get a noodle in the back of the head. Either way, his weakness wouldn't be plaguing the Reich any longer. "What happened?"
"A very odd report, from Schmidtstadt," Keitel said. "That's one of the new towns in Alsace–Lorraine."
Hans nodded, impatiently. He'd never been to any of the new towns, but he'd heard they were fertile breeding grounds for newer and better Germans. The French economy had been a joke even before the invasion and occupation, but with a hefty dose of German immigration – and the French being displaced or made to work for their masters – it could become a vital part of the Reich's war machine. Vichy might believe it could save itself, through collaboration, but that was a joke. Their very limited independence would last exactly as long as the Führer willed it and not a moment longer.
"There was a BDM tour scheduled to pass through, two days ago," Keitel continued. Hans resisted the urge to ask him if he intended to get to the point before 1950. "A senior matron, three junior matrons, and thirty girls ... plus a driver. The senior matron has apparently vanished."
Hans looked at the map. Schmidtstadt was quite some distance away. "And what does that have to do with us?"
"The senior matron was quite well connected," Keitel said, as if someone could become a senior matron without being very well connected. The BDM wasn't the Waffen-SS, where merit could ensure promotion over good breeding and connections. Given the importance of ensuring the next generation of German girls knew their place, and their role in the Reich, the post wasn't one that could be given to just anyone. "Her family has been requesting a full search and investigation."
"And they want it given priority over our mission," Hans finished. "Are they sure she didn't just get lost, somewhere in Alsace–Lorraine?"
"No, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Keitel said. "She was a replacement for an earlier matron, who fell ill and had to return home. She led the BDM girls to Schmidtstadt, held a ball for them, and then slipped off to visit a friend. Or so she said. Her family insist she has no friends in the area."
Hans's eyes narrowed. "She was a replacement?"
"Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Keitel said. "The previous matron had to withdraw ..."
"Interesting." Hans looked at the map, thinking hard. "Tell me ... this BDM troop ... where did the replacement matron meet them?"
"Bingen, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Keitel said.
Hans made a choking noise. "And she wasn't alone, was she?"
"No," Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Keitel said. "She had a driver with her."
If the situation hadn't been so dire, Hans would have laughed. The audacity! He couldn't believe a British spy could pretend to be a BDM matron, certainly not for very long, but ... he'd seen the BDM. The junior matrons were taught to follow orders, no matter how insane, as long as they came from their superiors, an instruction that had led to all sorts of problems over the last decade. Some senior matrons were trustworthy, others tried to exploit their positions in ways that brought shame on the Reich. And trying to question a matron was a good way to get slapped, or worse. Given even a basic understanding of how the BDM worked, and the ability to speak with an aristocratic accent, it was quite possible a fraudster might have managed to pass as matron for a few short days. As long as she didn't run into someone who actually knew her ...
Hans looked up. "Who was she?"
"Gudrun Mühlenkamp," Keitel said. He held out the file. "This is her."
"I see." Hans took the file ... Gudrun Mühlenkamp, related to the Mühlenkamp. A very well connected woman indeed, with an SS husband and a handful of brothers scattered over the military ... probably also with ties to other women who were powerless on their own, but could be relied upon to influence their husbands in the right way. The photograph was surprisingly flattering – he guessed she'd insisted on the photograph being taken and retaken until she was satisfied – but also slightly vague. "And she vanished near Schmidtstadt ..."
He checked the map, putting the pieces together. Gudrun Mühlenkamp lived near the derailed train ... not that close, as the stormtrooper walked, but easily within the radius he'd determined the fugitives had to be lurking. The fugitives could have ambushed her as she set out, or raided her manor to kidnap her, or simply bribed her into handing over her papers. Hans felt a hot flash of anger at the thought, feeling his old frustrations bubble to the surface once again. Gudrun Mühlenkamp was so well connected she could get away with anything, and ensure her menfolk reached the top, while Hans was a commoner who ...
"I see," he said. "Did someone check her home?"
"She set out two days ago, with the driver," Keitel said. "Her family didn't hear anything more from her until she was reported missing, early this morning."
"I see," Hans repeated.
His imagination drew a line on the map. They were searching for two fugitives, not a troop of BDM girls. The checkpoints would have waved the girls through, probably without even bothering to search their vehicles. If Von Braun had been the driver ... Hans gritted his teeth. Surrounding Von Braun with a small army of young girls was a stroke of genius. The guards wouldn't be paying attention to him when they could be looking at the girls. The only downside was that he might flirt with the girls himself, but his escort was presumably smart enough to keep an eye on him. The risk of an official complaint was very low – the girl would be blamed for drawing a male eye – yet it could not be dismissed.
He smiled. It was absurd. Unthinkable. And yet, the mere fact it was absurd gave it a certain kind of credence. The idea of someone posing as a BDM matron and using the girls as cover ... he felt his smile grow wider, feeling a twinge of respect for his opponent. He was lucky she wasn't a man. If she was that good as a woman, what would she be like if she were male?
"Have the witnesses brought here at once," he ordered, curtly. "In particular, anyone who had any contact with Gudrun before she vanished."
Keitel nodded and withdrew. Hans stared at the map. There was no solid evidence – it was quite possible, he admitted privately, that Gudrun Mühlenkamp had been having an illicit affair – and yet, all his instincts were insisting he was right. The real Gudrun Mühlenkamp had been replaced ... he wondered, idly, if she was dead, before deciding it probably didn't matter. If she were still alive, she probably didn't have anything to tell them. He studied the photograph thoughtfully, mentally comparing it to the sketches of 'Käthe Schmidt.' Could she pass for Gudrun? Perhaps, as long as no one in the troop had met the real Gudrun. Given the structure of the BDM, and its determination to break family ties as much as possible, the risk of meeting someone familiar was quite low.
He forced himself to wait, pacing back and forth, as the hours passed. The phone rang twice, brief updates from Germany ... confirmation, for what it was worth, that Gudrun Mühlenkamp had left her manor and vanished. There was no sign of her body ... Hans doubted they'd find it, certainly not in a hurry. The British agent was no slouch. She certainly wouldn't leave a body lying somewhere obvious. He didn't have to look at the map to know there were countless possible hiding places, places the bodies wouldn't be found for years.
There was another knock on the door. Keitel stepped inside, accompanied by a BDM girl in pigtails and a uniform that had been slightly altered to show off the shape of her body. Hans felt torn between admiration and disgust. A BDM girl would make a good wife – she didn't have many award ribbons, something largely meaningless outside the BDM itself – but if she was showing herself off like that ... Hans forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. She was brave, yet clearly nervous. Hans didn't blame her. The SS needed to cut deep to cleanse the Reich of its enemies, and if that meant a handful of innocents died as well as the guilty ... well, it was a price the Reich had to pay. She probably wasn't in danger of being sent to the camps, even if she were an outright traitor, but being sent east might easily turn into a fate worse than death. If she was tied to the wrong man ...
Keitel saluted. "Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, this is Greta Darmstadt," he said. "She was the last person to see Gudrun Mühlenkamp before her disappearance."
Hans studied Greta for a long moment. A good German name, for a good German girl. She was making a good show of pretending calm, he noted, but she was too young to hide her fear completely. He guessed she was about seventeen, her girlish pigtails making her look younger than she really was. Another year, then she'd be married off ... it was unlikely she could escape her fate. The BDM was her only other option, and unless she was very well-connected it was unlikely she would rise in the ranks. Probably.
"Greta," Hans said. "What happened?"
Greta tried to hold his eyes, then remembered she wasn't supposed to look men in the eye and dropped her gaze. "I saw her when she was leaving, and ... that was the last I saw of her. She was missing at morning roll call, and still missing when we met up again for lunch. That was when Madam Heidi asked if anyone had seen her ..."
Hans's eyes narrowed. Greta wasn't being quite honest. "And what aren't you telling me?"
Greta flinched. "Nothing, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer."
"Really?" Hans didn't know much about teenage girls, but he knew how to spot a liar. The girl was hiding something. "What aren't you telling me?"
The girl reddened. "Nothing, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer."
Hans stood and walked forward, reaching out to grip the girl's chin and force her to look at him. He heard Keitel shift uncomfortably and start forward, only to be frozen in place with a glare. Greta might be a BDM girl, the kind of girl-child they were supposed to protect, but that didn't mean she could be allowed to get away with lying to him.
"You are lying," Hans snarled. "And you are hiding something."
He allowed his voice to harden. "One word from me will see you on a train to the east, where you will be married to a settler and forced to spend the rest of your life on a homestead," he said. "Or you will go into the Lebensborn instead, where you will be forced to bear children until your body gives out under the strain, and those children will be farmed out to adoptive parents. Or ..."
Greta wilted. "Can you ... can you not tell my parents?"
Hans scowled. "If you wish ..."
"I was ... there was a young man," Greta said. Her face was as red as the flag. "We were kissing and ... she caught us. She sent him away and ... she gave me some advice. I ... that's what I didn't want to tell you. I was ..."
"Charming," Hans said, letting go of Greta's chin. She was a whore ... little better than a whore. Disgusting. "And what sort of advice did she give you?"
Greta looked down. "About getting pregnant and stuff ..."
Hans felt a hot flash of triumph. There was no way in hell a BDM matron like Gudrun Mühlenkamp would have that sort of conversation with a girl in their charge. They preferred to make sure the girls did get pregnant, as long as it was with the right sort of man, and then use the pregnancy to make sure the two married as quickly as possible. Gudrun Mühlenkamp would have slapped Greta, not offered her advice. But an Englishwoman ... it was her. It had to be her.
"Thank you," he said. "You've been very helpful."
He nodded to Keitel. "Take her to a holding cell," he ordered, ignoring the flash of fear in her eyes. "She'll remain here until the affair is over, one way or the other."
Keitel saluted, then led Greta out. Hans watched them go, feeling torn between gratitude and disgust. The slut needed to be punished for disgracing herself, and perhaps ensuring she couldn't be married off, yet she had been very helpful. Perhaps he'd send her east. Or perhaps ...
The telephone rang. Hans picked it up. "Sturmbannfuehrer Schneider."
"Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," the operator said. He spoke with grim urgency. "There is a call for you. The recognition code is gamma-delta-green."
Hans sucked in his breath. "Put it through," he ordered. Deep cover agents were told not to use the telephone lines, unless it was urgent. The risk of being monitored – or simply spotted – was just too high. "And then secure the line."
"Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer."
Hans kept his thoughts to himself as he studied the map, all too aware that saying what he was thinking out loud would get him in trouble. The giant military base might be guarded by the SS, as well as ground combat units from both the Heer and the Luftwaffe, but it didn't belong to them. The military officers might have bowed their heads, as soon as they'd seen his orders, and promised their full cooperation, yet he knew they were watching him, reporting back to their superiors in Berlin. The Führer's impending death was common knowledge – it wasn't meant to be, but it was – and Göring and Speer would be very interested indeed if Hans fell flat on his face. Hans himself was a nobody, in the grand scheme of things, but he reported to Himmler and his failure would make the Reichsführer-SS look bad. And weak.
He scowled, knowing all he could do was wait. There were dozens of military installations along the coastline, watching and waiting for the fugitives to try to catch a boat to Britain, but relatively few within the interior. Hans had redeployed hundreds of stormtroopers, and made contact with every deep-cover agent the SS had within the French Resistance, yet he was uneasily aware that large tracts of France were going unmonitored. He wasn't even sure the fugitives were in France, although how else were they going to make it out of the Reich? The prospect of being wrong loomed large in his mind, no matter how many times he reassured himself that his logic made sense. There was no other way out without running unacceptable risks. If they risked travelling into Vichy France, they'd be arrested and returned in short order. Vichy was eager to please.
Hans felt his scowl deepen, feeling a surge of utter contempt. He'd been a young officer during the Battle for France and even he, a Hitler loyalist to the core, had been surprised by how quickly the French had folded and surrendered. They'd expected a long and bloody campaign, but instead ... some French units had fought well, Hans had heard, yet the remainder had come apart at the seams. He'd guarded POWs after the fighting, uneasily aware the Germans didn't have the manpower to keep the prisoners in line, and yet only a handful had even tried to escape. Untermenschen, definitely. The Slavs might be uncivilised brutes, but even they fought harder. The French could have rallied and turned the war around, or at least made the Reich pay a high price for its conquests, yet instead they'd surrendered so completely there was almost no resistance. The few remaining cells, if the reports were accurate, had turned to banditry. They'd be wiped out soon enough.
He leaned back, wondering what else he could do. Nothing came to mind. The sneering Luftwaffe officer had hinted at an officers-only brothel somewhere outside the wire, with only the very best French girls, but Hans knew better than to make his way there. Himmler would be informed, and Himmler would not be pleased. If the fugitives slipped through the net while Hans was pleasuring himself, he'd be lucky if he had a chance to put a bullet through his skull before it was too late. He wouldn't be pleasuring himself in the concentration camps. His stomach twisted painfully. He'd seen the experiments carried out on Untermenschen, ranging from the logically sound to sadistic even by SS standards, and he knew the doctors wouldn't hesitate to experiment on him, if they had him in their clutches. There was a limit to what they could learn from Untermenschen, and if they had the chance to experiment on him instead ...
There was a tap at the door. Hans looked up. "Come."
Obersturmfuehrer Keitel stepped into the room, looking surprisingly dapper and carrying a file under his arm. Hans eyed him suspiciously, feeling a twinge of unease. Keitel had been drinking himself to death only a day ago, proving beyond all doubt that he wasn't cut out to be a high-ranking SS officer. Hans had already written the report, ensuring Keitel would be transferred to the Heer as soon as possible, where he could live out his fantasies of fighting a good clean war in the Middle East or somewhere else without a strong SS presence. There was nothing to be gained by sending him east and yet ...
Hans scowled. "Yes?"
"Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Keitel said. "You wished to be informed of anything interesting, anything out of the ordinary?"
"Yes, as you know perfectly well," Hans snarled. He was growing sick of Keitel's disapproving presence. Perhaps he'd send the young fool east after all. He'd grow a spine or get a noodle in the back of the head. Either way, his weakness wouldn't be plaguing the Reich any longer. "What happened?"
"A very odd report, from Schmidtstadt," Keitel said. "That's one of the new towns in Alsace–Lorraine."
Hans nodded, impatiently. He'd never been to any of the new towns, but he'd heard they were fertile breeding grounds for newer and better Germans. The French economy had been a joke even before the invasion and occupation, but with a hefty dose of German immigration – and the French being displaced or made to work for their masters – it could become a vital part of the Reich's war machine. Vichy might believe it could save itself, through collaboration, but that was a joke. Their very limited independence would last exactly as long as the Führer willed it and not a moment longer.
"There was a BDM tour scheduled to pass through, two days ago," Keitel continued. Hans resisted the urge to ask him if he intended to get to the point before 1950. "A senior matron, three junior matrons, and thirty girls ... plus a driver. The senior matron has apparently vanished."
Hans looked at the map. Schmidtstadt was quite some distance away. "And what does that have to do with us?"
"The senior matron was quite well connected," Keitel said, as if someone could become a senior matron without being very well connected. The BDM wasn't the Waffen-SS, where merit could ensure promotion over good breeding and connections. Given the importance of ensuring the next generation of German girls knew their place, and their role in the Reich, the post wasn't one that could be given to just anyone. "Her family has been requesting a full search and investigation."
"And they want it given priority over our mission," Hans finished. "Are they sure she didn't just get lost, somewhere in Alsace–Lorraine?"
"No, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Keitel said. "She was a replacement for an earlier matron, who fell ill and had to return home. She led the BDM girls to Schmidtstadt, held a ball for them, and then slipped off to visit a friend. Or so she said. Her family insist she has no friends in the area."
Hans's eyes narrowed. "She was a replacement?"
"Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Keitel said. "The previous matron had to withdraw ..."
"Interesting." Hans looked at the map, thinking hard. "Tell me ... this BDM troop ... where did the replacement matron meet them?"
"Bingen, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Keitel said.
Hans made a choking noise. "And she wasn't alone, was she?"
"No," Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Keitel said. "She had a driver with her."
If the situation hadn't been so dire, Hans would have laughed. The audacity! He couldn't believe a British spy could pretend to be a BDM matron, certainly not for very long, but ... he'd seen the BDM. The junior matrons were taught to follow orders, no matter how insane, as long as they came from their superiors, an instruction that had led to all sorts of problems over the last decade. Some senior matrons were trustworthy, others tried to exploit their positions in ways that brought shame on the Reich. And trying to question a matron was a good way to get slapped, or worse. Given even a basic understanding of how the BDM worked, and the ability to speak with an aristocratic accent, it was quite possible a fraudster might have managed to pass as matron for a few short days. As long as she didn't run into someone who actually knew her ...
Hans looked up. "Who was she?"
"Gudrun Mühlenkamp," Keitel said. He held out the file. "This is her."
"I see." Hans took the file ... Gudrun Mühlenkamp, related to the Mühlenkamp. A very well connected woman indeed, with an SS husband and a handful of brothers scattered over the military ... probably also with ties to other women who were powerless on their own, but could be relied upon to influence their husbands in the right way. The photograph was surprisingly flattering – he guessed she'd insisted on the photograph being taken and retaken until she was satisfied – but also slightly vague. "And she vanished near Schmidtstadt ..."
He checked the map, putting the pieces together. Gudrun Mühlenkamp lived near the derailed train ... not that close, as the stormtrooper walked, but easily within the radius he'd determined the fugitives had to be lurking. The fugitives could have ambushed her as she set out, or raided her manor to kidnap her, or simply bribed her into handing over her papers. Hans felt a hot flash of anger at the thought, feeling his old frustrations bubble to the surface once again. Gudrun Mühlenkamp was so well connected she could get away with anything, and ensure her menfolk reached the top, while Hans was a commoner who ...
"I see," he said. "Did someone check her home?"
"She set out two days ago, with the driver," Keitel said. "Her family didn't hear anything more from her until she was reported missing, early this morning."
"I see," Hans repeated.
His imagination drew a line on the map. They were searching for two fugitives, not a troop of BDM girls. The checkpoints would have waved the girls through, probably without even bothering to search their vehicles. If Von Braun had been the driver ... Hans gritted his teeth. Surrounding Von Braun with a small army of young girls was a stroke of genius. The guards wouldn't be paying attention to him when they could be looking at the girls. The only downside was that he might flirt with the girls himself, but his escort was presumably smart enough to keep an eye on him. The risk of an official complaint was very low – the girl would be blamed for drawing a male eye – yet it could not be dismissed.
He smiled. It was absurd. Unthinkable. And yet, the mere fact it was absurd gave it a certain kind of credence. The idea of someone posing as a BDM matron and using the girls as cover ... he felt his smile grow wider, feeling a twinge of respect for his opponent. He was lucky she wasn't a man. If she was that good as a woman, what would she be like if she were male?
"Have the witnesses brought here at once," he ordered, curtly. "In particular, anyone who had any contact with Gudrun before she vanished."
Keitel nodded and withdrew. Hans stared at the map. There was no solid evidence – it was quite possible, he admitted privately, that Gudrun Mühlenkamp had been having an illicit affair – and yet, all his instincts were insisting he was right. The real Gudrun Mühlenkamp had been replaced ... he wondered, idly, if she was dead, before deciding it probably didn't matter. If she were still alive, she probably didn't have anything to tell them. He studied the photograph thoughtfully, mentally comparing it to the sketches of 'Käthe Schmidt.' Could she pass for Gudrun? Perhaps, as long as no one in the troop had met the real Gudrun. Given the structure of the BDM, and its determination to break family ties as much as possible, the risk of meeting someone familiar was quite low.
He forced himself to wait, pacing back and forth, as the hours passed. The phone rang twice, brief updates from Germany ... confirmation, for what it was worth, that Gudrun Mühlenkamp had left her manor and vanished. There was no sign of her body ... Hans doubted they'd find it, certainly not in a hurry. The British agent was no slouch. She certainly wouldn't leave a body lying somewhere obvious. He didn't have to look at the map to know there were countless possible hiding places, places the bodies wouldn't be found for years.
There was another knock on the door. Keitel stepped inside, accompanied by a BDM girl in pigtails and a uniform that had been slightly altered to show off the shape of her body. Hans felt torn between admiration and disgust. A BDM girl would make a good wife – she didn't have many award ribbons, something largely meaningless outside the BDM itself – but if she was showing herself off like that ... Hans forced himself to keep his eyes on her face. She was brave, yet clearly nervous. Hans didn't blame her. The SS needed to cut deep to cleanse the Reich of its enemies, and if that meant a handful of innocents died as well as the guilty ... well, it was a price the Reich had to pay. She probably wasn't in danger of being sent to the camps, even if she were an outright traitor, but being sent east might easily turn into a fate worse than death. If she was tied to the wrong man ...
Keitel saluted. "Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, this is Greta Darmstadt," he said. "She was the last person to see Gudrun Mühlenkamp before her disappearance."
Hans studied Greta for a long moment. A good German name, for a good German girl. She was making a good show of pretending calm, he noted, but she was too young to hide her fear completely. He guessed she was about seventeen, her girlish pigtails making her look younger than she really was. Another year, then she'd be married off ... it was unlikely she could escape her fate. The BDM was her only other option, and unless she was very well-connected it was unlikely she would rise in the ranks. Probably.
"Greta," Hans said. "What happened?"
Greta tried to hold his eyes, then remembered she wasn't supposed to look men in the eye and dropped her gaze. "I saw her when she was leaving, and ... that was the last I saw of her. She was missing at morning roll call, and still missing when we met up again for lunch. That was when Madam Heidi asked if anyone had seen her ..."
Hans's eyes narrowed. Greta wasn't being quite honest. "And what aren't you telling me?"
Greta flinched. "Nothing, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer."
"Really?" Hans didn't know much about teenage girls, but he knew how to spot a liar. The girl was hiding something. "What aren't you telling me?"
The girl reddened. "Nothing, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer."
Hans stood and walked forward, reaching out to grip the girl's chin and force her to look at him. He heard Keitel shift uncomfortably and start forward, only to be frozen in place with a glare. Greta might be a BDM girl, the kind of girl-child they were supposed to protect, but that didn't mean she could be allowed to get away with lying to him.
"You are lying," Hans snarled. "And you are hiding something."
He allowed his voice to harden. "One word from me will see you on a train to the east, where you will be married to a settler and forced to spend the rest of your life on a homestead," he said. "Or you will go into the Lebensborn instead, where you will be forced to bear children until your body gives out under the strain, and those children will be farmed out to adoptive parents. Or ..."
Greta wilted. "Can you ... can you not tell my parents?"
Hans scowled. "If you wish ..."
"I was ... there was a young man," Greta said. Her face was as red as the flag. "We were kissing and ... she caught us. She sent him away and ... she gave me some advice. I ... that's what I didn't want to tell you. I was ..."
"Charming," Hans said, letting go of Greta's chin. She was a whore ... little better than a whore. Disgusting. "And what sort of advice did she give you?"
Greta looked down. "About getting pregnant and stuff ..."
Hans felt a hot flash of triumph. There was no way in hell a BDM matron like Gudrun Mühlenkamp would have that sort of conversation with a girl in their charge. They preferred to make sure the girls did get pregnant, as long as it was with the right sort of man, and then use the pregnancy to make sure the two married as quickly as possible. Gudrun Mühlenkamp would have slapped Greta, not offered her advice. But an Englishwoman ... it was her. It had to be her.
"Thank you," he said. "You've been very helpful."
He nodded to Keitel. "Take her to a holding cell," he ordered, ignoring the flash of fear in her eyes. "She'll remain here until the affair is over, one way or the other."
Keitel saluted, then led Greta out. Hans watched them go, feeling torn between gratitude and disgust. The slut needed to be punished for disgracing herself, and perhaps ensuring she couldn't be married off, yet she had been very helpful. Perhaps he'd send her east. Or perhaps ...
The telephone rang. Hans picked it up. "Sturmbannfuehrer Schneider."
"Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," the operator said. He spoke with grim urgency. "There is a call for you. The recognition code is gamma-delta-green."
Hans sucked in his breath. "Put it through," he ordered. Deep cover agents were told not to use the telephone lines, unless it was urgent. The risk of being monitored – or simply spotted – was just too high. "And then secure the line."
"Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer."
Chapter Twenty-Five
New
ChrisNuttall
Well-known member
Chapter Twenty-Five: Occupied France, 1949
"Keep your head down at all times," Kathleen said, as darkness fell over the land. "And don't say a word to anyone."
Von Braun nodded. Kathleen checked his appearance and made sure he was carrying his pistol, just in case, then looked down at herself. They looked like a young peasant couple out for a midnight stroll, although she knew any couple who risked leaving the farm after curfew in Occupied France might be arrested or simply shot out of hand. The curfew wasn't enforced that strictly, not in the countryside, but they didn't want to do something that could attract attention, not tonight of all nights. The plane was only an hour away.
Sophie joined them, a rifle slung over her shoulder. "There won't be any time to come back," she said, quietly. "Make sure you have everything before we go."
Kathleen nodded. She had Von Braun's notes in her knapsack, everything they'd carried all the way from Berlin. Sophie would return to the farm, after pickup, and try to resume her normal life, keeping her head down in hopes the Germans wouldn't connect her with the light aircraft heading over France, right towards them. Assuming, of course, the Germans ever realised it was there. SOE had plenty of experience avoiding the growing German radar network – German radar had always been behind its British and American counterparts – and if everything went according to plan the plane would land and fly Von Braun back to Britain without being spotted. The first the Germans would hear of their escape would be through a radio broadcast, telling Europe that Germany's most famous son had turned against the Nazis and fled. The Reich would pass it off as lies, she was sure, but some would believe. The regime itself would certainly know what had happened.
She slung her knapsack over her bag, then motioned for Von Braun to follow her as Sophie led them both out the farmhouse, across the fence, and into the wild countryside. The path was barely visible in the gloom, despite the rising moon, and she rapidly found herself lost as Sophie led her towards the concealed landing strip. It was little more than a clearing in the midst of the woods, she had been assured, but that was hardly a problem for a light aircraft. It would be a great deal more dangerous if they'd tried to use a jet – her lips quirked at the thought – or a helicopter. The former required much longer runways, which couldn't be passed off as anything else, and the latter were just too loud and slow. SOE knew better than to risk using them, certainly not over enemy territory. The risk of being shot down was too great.
The shadows seemed to darken as the path closed in, the undergrowth weirdly silent despite the absence of any other humans. Kathleen felt sweat prickling down her back as the path titled upwards, recalling the days she'd worked with resistance fighters not too far away. They were still there, as far as she knew, but ... she shook her head. The French Government might think they could find a balance between collaboration and maintaining a certain degree of independence, yet she knew better. There could be no peace between the Nazis and anyone else. The resistance fighters still held out, but she wondered – numbly – just how long their resistance would last. If the Germans made any sort of real concessions, their war might be brought to a halt sooner than they thought.
But no one would trust their word on anything, she told herself. No one sane, at least.
She grimaced. She'd gone undercover before, but she'd always known her travails would come to an end and she'd return to Britain – or go into a holding cell before she was interrogated, executed, and her ashes dumped in an unmarked grave. The local Frenchmen didn't have the chance to leave their occupied lands, to replenish themselves in a free country, before returning to do battle once again. They had to be being steadily ground down, fighting to keep themselves mentally free even as the noose tightened around their collective necks. If there was no hope in sight, how many would keep fighting?
We're lucky the Germans have proven, time and time again, that they simply cannot be trusted, Kathleen thought A general amnesty for resistance fighters would put an end to the resistance, more effectively than hunting down and executing every last member. Only a fool would take their promises as anything reliable.
The path opened suddenly, revealing a clearing that looked a little too short for an aircraft to land. Kathleen heard Von Braun mutter a word under his breath and nodded in agreement. The engineer knew the clearing was large enough to take a light aircraft, if flown by a skilled pilot, but he didn't quite believe it. Kathleen had nearly panicked, the first time she'd been flown out of a similar clearing. If she hadn't been so determined to prove she could handle the job, she might have lost control of herself completely.
Sophie nudged her. "Help me with the lights."
Kathleen nodded, and helped her dig the lights out of their waterproof concealment and place them in position, marking the landing spot. The lights were supposed to be invisible from the ground – she had to admit she could see little, even standing right next to them – but very visible from high above, guiding the aircraft towards the clearing. She looked up at the starry sky, eyes scanning for any evidence the plane was already orbiting overhead. She could hear nothing, but that was meaningless. SOE's aircraft were surprisingly quiet.
"Now we wait," Sophie said, turning on the lights. She sounded jumpy, even though it was hardly the first time she'd laid out the lights for a British aircraft to land in Occupied France. Kathleen understood, all too well. Sophie could pretend to be a dumb little farmer elsewhere, playing on the Nazi prejudices against Frenchmen, but not if they caught her laying out the lights and waiting for the aircraft to land. "Patience."
"We'll wait," Kathleen agreed, dryly. There was a faint hum in the air, disturbing the nightlife, but she knew it wouldn't carry all the way to the nearest German outpost. Sophie would have been caught a long time ago if it did. "We don't have a choice."
She leaned against a tree and forced herself to wait, all too aware of how much could go wrong. The Germans might get lucky with their radar. She'd heard rumours they'd been experimenting with airborne radar sets, devices that might let them peer down from high above and spot low-flying aircraft trying to evade ground-based radar sets. Or some German ace, fresh from the Eastern Front, might be patrolling late at night, in just the right place to spot the intruder as it flew over the water and crossed into Occupied France. Or there could have been a delay in Britain itself ... Kathleen had been assured SOE maintained multiple aircraft, to ensure that at least one would be fit to fly at all times, but ... she calmed herself with an effort. They had time. They could afford to wait for hours, as long as they were over the English Channel by sunrise. They'd be in real trouble if they were spotted in broad daylight.
Sophie tensed. "You hear that?"
Kathleen listened, then nodded as she heard the low sound of an approaching aircraft. She looked up, but saw nothing in the night sky. The aircraft didn't sound German ... she reminded herself, sharply, that that was meaningless. The Nazis might be monsters, but they were also technically ingenious and they'd captured a handful of SOE's insertion aircraft over the years. Copying the design and churning out a few hundred of their own was hardly beyond their abilities. Hell, there was no reason they couldn't land agents in Britain too. They tended to stick out like sore thumbs, but that would change as the Germans grew more accustomed to operating in the United Kingdom. And for all she knew, they had spies too.
We think we have all the spy rings in Britain under control, she thought. She had been told as much, although only in the vaguest possible terms. She hoped her superiors hadn't lied to her, in hopes she'd relay their lie to the Germans when they finally broke her, but there was no way to know. Yet if we missed one ...
Something moved, in the darkness. Kathleen tensed, one hand dropping to her pistol as the noise grew louder, a moment before the plane materialised out of the darkness and dropped down neatly to land on the grassy clearing. The aircraft seemed almost to land vertically, the pilot throttling back the engine to bring the aircraft to a halt before she could crash into the trees. Kathleen heard Von Braun suck in his breath as the hatch was thrown open, revealing a cramped interior. It would be loud and uncomfortable, but she could cope for a couple of hours. And then they'd be in Britain.
Kathleen nudged Sophie. "Do you want to come?"
"No," Sophie said. There was ... something ... in her voice. "I'll be staying here."
"Got it." Kathleen had no more time to worry about it. She straightened and caught Von Braun's arm. "We have to move ..."
She hurried forward, pulling Von Braun behind her. The pilot – a dark shape visible within the cramped cockpit – waved to her, his hands making a recognition sign. Kathleen returned the gesture, reminding herself to be patient with the man. She'd never met a pilot – RAF, FAA or SOE – who didn't make a pass at any young woman who crossed his path, something she regarded as unprofessional in the extreme. But then, any pilot who flew the unfriendly skies knew the next mission could be his last. If war resumed, the RAF would be on the front lines – again – and this time the Germans would have learnt from their mistakes. The Second Battle of Britain might easily go the wrong way ...
The world seemed to explode with bright light. Kathleen swore and threw herself to the ground, yanking Von Braun after her, as she heard the submachine guns open fire. A wave of bullets crashed through the cockpit, ripping through the interior of the aircraft and tearing the pilot apart. Kathleen looked up and saw dark-clad figures emerging from the treeline, weapons at the ready. She swore again and pulled Von Braun back, all too aware it was only a matter of bare seconds – if that – before the aircraft caught fire and exploded. The light aircraft wasn't crammed with bombs, but SOE designed its craft to self-destruct if the damage rendered the aircraft unflyable. She heard a whoosh, an instant before the airframe exploded into a roaring fire. It wouldn't last long, but it might just give them cover ... enough to get away. Who knew? There didn't seem to be any Nazis approaching from the path they'd used to reach the airfield, giving her a chance to escape into the shadows and vanish again.
Sophie loomed up in front of her, drawing her rifle. Her face was grim ... Kathleen realised, suddenly, that Sophie had betrayed them. Who else could have told the Germans about the night flight, and arranged for the SS to set an ambush? Horror washed through her – SOE had used Sophie to insert agents before, including some that had vanished over the last two years – as she drew her pistol. The Germans had planned the ambush well, knowing that Sophie would be in a position to block their escape. Kathleen might have surrendered, if she had thought there was a chance she'd get out alive. But she knew better. A captured spy – and a Jewess – had no rights, no protections under the laws of war. She would vanish into an SS basement and be interrogated, then killed. And Von Braun ...
Kathleen shot Sophie and watched the older woman's body hit the ground. She might have been turned a long time ago, through money or threats or even rewards only the occupiying power could offer, and then left in place, like a snake in the grass, to wait for the order to reveal herself and strike. Or she might have been caught earlier in the day and compelled to betray them ... it didn't matter. Kathleen had heard all kinds of sob stories, from men who had betrayed their country for money or because their country didn't recognise their greatness to women who had been promised their husbands would be freed from POW camps or their children spared conscription into labour gangs or paramilitary organisations, but in the end the motive didn't matter. Sophie had betrayed them, and her country, and perhaps the entire world, and that was all that mattered.
"STOP," a voice bellowed. The harsh German words shook her to her core. The starshell was too bright, too high for her to be sure of taking it out with her pistol. "PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR ..."
Kathleen turned, ready to put a bullet through Von Braun's head and then sell her life dearly, but a single shot rang out. The pistol was blasted out of her hand and sent spiralling into the shadows, a shot she wouldn't have believed possible. She yanked back her hand, her tongue feeling the poison pill in her false tooth ... perhaps she could crack it open and kiss Von Braun, letting the poison kill them both. Or perhaps she could get them to open fire madly, gunning them both down. It was a madcap scheme, but she didn't have any other ideas. She tensed, bracing herself.
"Herr Doctor," the voice said. A man stepped out of the light, a face she vaguely recalled from the dance, the dance where everything had started. "It's time to come home and ..."
"Let her go," Von Braun said. "Now."
Kathleen glanced at him, and froze. Von Braun was pointing his pistol at his own head.
"You ..."
Von Braun spoke over his former minder. "Let her go and I will come with you willingly," he said, stiffly. He kept his pistol pointed firmly at his skull. "Or I'll pull the trigger instead."
Kathleen swallowed, hard. Von Braun had to be bluffing. Except ... he knew what would happen to her, if she fell into their hands, even though he enjoyed a certain degree of protection. And he also knew how important he was to the Reich. She swallowed again, unsure what would happen ... unsure what she should do. The SS stormtroopers were too close now, their eyes watching her coldly ... she would have been amused at the display of genuine respect, the kind one might offer to a deadly opponent, if the situation hadn't been so dire. Her legs twitched as she braced herself ... perhaps, if she threw herself at Von Braun, he'd pull the trigger and put a bullet through his own brain. They'd kill her afterwards, slowly and painfully, but it didn't matter as long as Von Braun died. The Reich could not be allowed to keep him.
She looked up, at Von Braun's minder. His face was all too readable. He was undecided, unsure what to do ... he had orders to bring them both in alive, she was certain, but Von Braun had thrown all his calculations out the window. Did he dare try to grab them both, knowing that Von Braun's death would end his career and probably his life, or did he risk letting them go? The SS didn't have much in common with SOE, but she'd bet what remained of her maidenhead that both organisations had a surfeit of critics who had never seen real action and were quite happy to insist that they would have done a better job, if they'd been the ones on the ground at the time. It was funny how few of them actually went into the field, when challenged ...
"Now," Von Braun repeated. "Let her go."
"Don't be a fool, Herr Doctor," the SS minder said. Kathleen wondered if he was stalling for time. The SS couldn't have surrounded the area, not without risking their presence being noted before it was too late, but if their procedures were anything like the ones followed by the Home Guard they'd have sent a call for reinforcements the moment the shooting started. "You don't have to ..."
"Let her go!" Von Braun's hand tightened on the trigger, even as the starshell started to burn itself out. "You have five ..."
The SS officer looked at her. Kathleen shivered, seeing a depth of hatred and loathing within the other man's eyes that chilled her to the bone. The SS had everything from punch-clocking soldiers working for pay to outright fanatics, willing to do anything for the Reich, and this man was clearly one of the latter. And the hatred was deeply personal ... she knew, without having to ask, that she'd come within bare inches of wrecking his career. Losing Von Braun might have cost him everything, even if he recaptured the rocket scientist. There was no way in hell anyone would trust him again.
"Go," he said, angrily.
"Go," Von Braun echoed.
Kathleen hesitated, weighing her chances. Poor. There was no way she could snap Von Braun's neck before they dragged her off him and brought a pistol butt down on her head. If she could make him pull the trigger ... she wondered, suddenly, if he even had any bullets in the gun. Or if he were bluffing ...
"Go," the SS officer said.
It isn't over, Kathleen promised herself, as she turned and fled down the ill-marked path. It isn't over.
But she knew, as she ran faster, that she'd lost the round ...
... And she had come very close to losing the whole match.
"Keep your head down at all times," Kathleen said, as darkness fell over the land. "And don't say a word to anyone."
Von Braun nodded. Kathleen checked his appearance and made sure he was carrying his pistol, just in case, then looked down at herself. They looked like a young peasant couple out for a midnight stroll, although she knew any couple who risked leaving the farm after curfew in Occupied France might be arrested or simply shot out of hand. The curfew wasn't enforced that strictly, not in the countryside, but they didn't want to do something that could attract attention, not tonight of all nights. The plane was only an hour away.
Sophie joined them, a rifle slung over her shoulder. "There won't be any time to come back," she said, quietly. "Make sure you have everything before we go."
Kathleen nodded. She had Von Braun's notes in her knapsack, everything they'd carried all the way from Berlin. Sophie would return to the farm, after pickup, and try to resume her normal life, keeping her head down in hopes the Germans wouldn't connect her with the light aircraft heading over France, right towards them. Assuming, of course, the Germans ever realised it was there. SOE had plenty of experience avoiding the growing German radar network – German radar had always been behind its British and American counterparts – and if everything went according to plan the plane would land and fly Von Braun back to Britain without being spotted. The first the Germans would hear of their escape would be through a radio broadcast, telling Europe that Germany's most famous son had turned against the Nazis and fled. The Reich would pass it off as lies, she was sure, but some would believe. The regime itself would certainly know what had happened.
She slung her knapsack over her bag, then motioned for Von Braun to follow her as Sophie led them both out the farmhouse, across the fence, and into the wild countryside. The path was barely visible in the gloom, despite the rising moon, and she rapidly found herself lost as Sophie led her towards the concealed landing strip. It was little more than a clearing in the midst of the woods, she had been assured, but that was hardly a problem for a light aircraft. It would be a great deal more dangerous if they'd tried to use a jet – her lips quirked at the thought – or a helicopter. The former required much longer runways, which couldn't be passed off as anything else, and the latter were just too loud and slow. SOE knew better than to risk using them, certainly not over enemy territory. The risk of being shot down was too great.
The shadows seemed to darken as the path closed in, the undergrowth weirdly silent despite the absence of any other humans. Kathleen felt sweat prickling down her back as the path titled upwards, recalling the days she'd worked with resistance fighters not too far away. They were still there, as far as she knew, but ... she shook her head. The French Government might think they could find a balance between collaboration and maintaining a certain degree of independence, yet she knew better. There could be no peace between the Nazis and anyone else. The resistance fighters still held out, but she wondered – numbly – just how long their resistance would last. If the Germans made any sort of real concessions, their war might be brought to a halt sooner than they thought.
But no one would trust their word on anything, she told herself. No one sane, at least.
She grimaced. She'd gone undercover before, but she'd always known her travails would come to an end and she'd return to Britain – or go into a holding cell before she was interrogated, executed, and her ashes dumped in an unmarked grave. The local Frenchmen didn't have the chance to leave their occupied lands, to replenish themselves in a free country, before returning to do battle once again. They had to be being steadily ground down, fighting to keep themselves mentally free even as the noose tightened around their collective necks. If there was no hope in sight, how many would keep fighting?
We're lucky the Germans have proven, time and time again, that they simply cannot be trusted, Kathleen thought A general amnesty for resistance fighters would put an end to the resistance, more effectively than hunting down and executing every last member. Only a fool would take their promises as anything reliable.
The path opened suddenly, revealing a clearing that looked a little too short for an aircraft to land. Kathleen heard Von Braun mutter a word under his breath and nodded in agreement. The engineer knew the clearing was large enough to take a light aircraft, if flown by a skilled pilot, but he didn't quite believe it. Kathleen had nearly panicked, the first time she'd been flown out of a similar clearing. If she hadn't been so determined to prove she could handle the job, she might have lost control of herself completely.
Sophie nudged her. "Help me with the lights."
Kathleen nodded, and helped her dig the lights out of their waterproof concealment and place them in position, marking the landing spot. The lights were supposed to be invisible from the ground – she had to admit she could see little, even standing right next to them – but very visible from high above, guiding the aircraft towards the clearing. She looked up at the starry sky, eyes scanning for any evidence the plane was already orbiting overhead. She could hear nothing, but that was meaningless. SOE's aircraft were surprisingly quiet.
"Now we wait," Sophie said, turning on the lights. She sounded jumpy, even though it was hardly the first time she'd laid out the lights for a British aircraft to land in Occupied France. Kathleen understood, all too well. Sophie could pretend to be a dumb little farmer elsewhere, playing on the Nazi prejudices against Frenchmen, but not if they caught her laying out the lights and waiting for the aircraft to land. "Patience."
"We'll wait," Kathleen agreed, dryly. There was a faint hum in the air, disturbing the nightlife, but she knew it wouldn't carry all the way to the nearest German outpost. Sophie would have been caught a long time ago if it did. "We don't have a choice."
She leaned against a tree and forced herself to wait, all too aware of how much could go wrong. The Germans might get lucky with their radar. She'd heard rumours they'd been experimenting with airborne radar sets, devices that might let them peer down from high above and spot low-flying aircraft trying to evade ground-based radar sets. Or some German ace, fresh from the Eastern Front, might be patrolling late at night, in just the right place to spot the intruder as it flew over the water and crossed into Occupied France. Or there could have been a delay in Britain itself ... Kathleen had been assured SOE maintained multiple aircraft, to ensure that at least one would be fit to fly at all times, but ... she calmed herself with an effort. They had time. They could afford to wait for hours, as long as they were over the English Channel by sunrise. They'd be in real trouble if they were spotted in broad daylight.
Sophie tensed. "You hear that?"
Kathleen listened, then nodded as she heard the low sound of an approaching aircraft. She looked up, but saw nothing in the night sky. The aircraft didn't sound German ... she reminded herself, sharply, that that was meaningless. The Nazis might be monsters, but they were also technically ingenious and they'd captured a handful of SOE's insertion aircraft over the years. Copying the design and churning out a few hundred of their own was hardly beyond their abilities. Hell, there was no reason they couldn't land agents in Britain too. They tended to stick out like sore thumbs, but that would change as the Germans grew more accustomed to operating in the United Kingdom. And for all she knew, they had spies too.
We think we have all the spy rings in Britain under control, she thought. She had been told as much, although only in the vaguest possible terms. She hoped her superiors hadn't lied to her, in hopes she'd relay their lie to the Germans when they finally broke her, but there was no way to know. Yet if we missed one ...
Something moved, in the darkness. Kathleen tensed, one hand dropping to her pistol as the noise grew louder, a moment before the plane materialised out of the darkness and dropped down neatly to land on the grassy clearing. The aircraft seemed almost to land vertically, the pilot throttling back the engine to bring the aircraft to a halt before she could crash into the trees. Kathleen heard Von Braun suck in his breath as the hatch was thrown open, revealing a cramped interior. It would be loud and uncomfortable, but she could cope for a couple of hours. And then they'd be in Britain.
Kathleen nudged Sophie. "Do you want to come?"
"No," Sophie said. There was ... something ... in her voice. "I'll be staying here."
"Got it." Kathleen had no more time to worry about it. She straightened and caught Von Braun's arm. "We have to move ..."
She hurried forward, pulling Von Braun behind her. The pilot – a dark shape visible within the cramped cockpit – waved to her, his hands making a recognition sign. Kathleen returned the gesture, reminding herself to be patient with the man. She'd never met a pilot – RAF, FAA or SOE – who didn't make a pass at any young woman who crossed his path, something she regarded as unprofessional in the extreme. But then, any pilot who flew the unfriendly skies knew the next mission could be his last. If war resumed, the RAF would be on the front lines – again – and this time the Germans would have learnt from their mistakes. The Second Battle of Britain might easily go the wrong way ...
The world seemed to explode with bright light. Kathleen swore and threw herself to the ground, yanking Von Braun after her, as she heard the submachine guns open fire. A wave of bullets crashed through the cockpit, ripping through the interior of the aircraft and tearing the pilot apart. Kathleen looked up and saw dark-clad figures emerging from the treeline, weapons at the ready. She swore again and pulled Von Braun back, all too aware it was only a matter of bare seconds – if that – before the aircraft caught fire and exploded. The light aircraft wasn't crammed with bombs, but SOE designed its craft to self-destruct if the damage rendered the aircraft unflyable. She heard a whoosh, an instant before the airframe exploded into a roaring fire. It wouldn't last long, but it might just give them cover ... enough to get away. Who knew? There didn't seem to be any Nazis approaching from the path they'd used to reach the airfield, giving her a chance to escape into the shadows and vanish again.
Sophie loomed up in front of her, drawing her rifle. Her face was grim ... Kathleen realised, suddenly, that Sophie had betrayed them. Who else could have told the Germans about the night flight, and arranged for the SS to set an ambush? Horror washed through her – SOE had used Sophie to insert agents before, including some that had vanished over the last two years – as she drew her pistol. The Germans had planned the ambush well, knowing that Sophie would be in a position to block their escape. Kathleen might have surrendered, if she had thought there was a chance she'd get out alive. But she knew better. A captured spy – and a Jewess – had no rights, no protections under the laws of war. She would vanish into an SS basement and be interrogated, then killed. And Von Braun ...
Kathleen shot Sophie and watched the older woman's body hit the ground. She might have been turned a long time ago, through money or threats or even rewards only the occupiying power could offer, and then left in place, like a snake in the grass, to wait for the order to reveal herself and strike. Or she might have been caught earlier in the day and compelled to betray them ... it didn't matter. Kathleen had heard all kinds of sob stories, from men who had betrayed their country for money or because their country didn't recognise their greatness to women who had been promised their husbands would be freed from POW camps or their children spared conscription into labour gangs or paramilitary organisations, but in the end the motive didn't matter. Sophie had betrayed them, and her country, and perhaps the entire world, and that was all that mattered.
"STOP," a voice bellowed. The harsh German words shook her to her core. The starshell was too bright, too high for her to be sure of taking it out with her pistol. "PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR ..."
Kathleen turned, ready to put a bullet through Von Braun's head and then sell her life dearly, but a single shot rang out. The pistol was blasted out of her hand and sent spiralling into the shadows, a shot she wouldn't have believed possible. She yanked back her hand, her tongue feeling the poison pill in her false tooth ... perhaps she could crack it open and kiss Von Braun, letting the poison kill them both. Or perhaps she could get them to open fire madly, gunning them both down. It was a madcap scheme, but she didn't have any other ideas. She tensed, bracing herself.
"Herr Doctor," the voice said. A man stepped out of the light, a face she vaguely recalled from the dance, the dance where everything had started. "It's time to come home and ..."
"Let her go," Von Braun said. "Now."
Kathleen glanced at him, and froze. Von Braun was pointing his pistol at his own head.
"You ..."
Von Braun spoke over his former minder. "Let her go and I will come with you willingly," he said, stiffly. He kept his pistol pointed firmly at his skull. "Or I'll pull the trigger instead."
Kathleen swallowed, hard. Von Braun had to be bluffing. Except ... he knew what would happen to her, if she fell into their hands, even though he enjoyed a certain degree of protection. And he also knew how important he was to the Reich. She swallowed again, unsure what would happen ... unsure what she should do. The SS stormtroopers were too close now, their eyes watching her coldly ... she would have been amused at the display of genuine respect, the kind one might offer to a deadly opponent, if the situation hadn't been so dire. Her legs twitched as she braced herself ... perhaps, if she threw herself at Von Braun, he'd pull the trigger and put a bullet through his own brain. They'd kill her afterwards, slowly and painfully, but it didn't matter as long as Von Braun died. The Reich could not be allowed to keep him.
She looked up, at Von Braun's minder. His face was all too readable. He was undecided, unsure what to do ... he had orders to bring them both in alive, she was certain, but Von Braun had thrown all his calculations out the window. Did he dare try to grab them both, knowing that Von Braun's death would end his career and probably his life, or did he risk letting them go? The SS didn't have much in common with SOE, but she'd bet what remained of her maidenhead that both organisations had a surfeit of critics who had never seen real action and were quite happy to insist that they would have done a better job, if they'd been the ones on the ground at the time. It was funny how few of them actually went into the field, when challenged ...
"Now," Von Braun repeated. "Let her go."
"Don't be a fool, Herr Doctor," the SS minder said. Kathleen wondered if he was stalling for time. The SS couldn't have surrounded the area, not without risking their presence being noted before it was too late, but if their procedures were anything like the ones followed by the Home Guard they'd have sent a call for reinforcements the moment the shooting started. "You don't have to ..."
"Let her go!" Von Braun's hand tightened on the trigger, even as the starshell started to burn itself out. "You have five ..."
The SS officer looked at her. Kathleen shivered, seeing a depth of hatred and loathing within the other man's eyes that chilled her to the bone. The SS had everything from punch-clocking soldiers working for pay to outright fanatics, willing to do anything for the Reich, and this man was clearly one of the latter. And the hatred was deeply personal ... she knew, without having to ask, that she'd come within bare inches of wrecking his career. Losing Von Braun might have cost him everything, even if he recaptured the rocket scientist. There was no way in hell anyone would trust him again.
"Go," he said, angrily.
"Go," Von Braun echoed.
Kathleen hesitated, weighing her chances. Poor. There was no way she could snap Von Braun's neck before they dragged her off him and brought a pistol butt down on her head. If she could make him pull the trigger ... she wondered, suddenly, if he even had any bullets in the gun. Or if he were bluffing ...
"Go," the SS officer said.
It isn't over, Kathleen promised herself, as she turned and fled down the ill-marked path. It isn't over.
But she knew, as she ran faster, that she'd lost the round ...
... And she had come very close to losing the whole match.
Chapter Twenty-Six
New
ChrisNuttall
Well-known member
Chapter Twenty-Six: Occupied France, 1949
Hans glared after the British agent as she fled, all too aware it would likely be impossible to catch up with her in the darkness. There had been no time to organise more than a single snatch squad and while reinforcements were on the way there was no time to deploy them to set up a secure perimeter. He turned back to Von Braun instead, feeling ice congealing in his stomach as he realised Von Braun might pull the trigger anyway. It wouldn't be out of character for a womaniser to protect a woman, but now ... Von Braun had to know his life would never be the same again.
"Give me the gun," Hans growled. The rocket scientist was too valuable to torture, at least until he'd trained and inspired the next generation of rocket scientists, but he'd never be allowed any freedom ever again. "Now."
Von Braun handed it over without hesitation. Hans took it and sucked in his breath. Unloaded. He'd been tricked ... he stowed the weapon in his coat, making a mental note to ensure no one else, particularly Keitel, ever knew they'd been bluffed. It would be easy to write a report insisting they'd had no choice, but he knew better than most it wouldn't be convincing. Once someone had been marked down as a scapegoat, their career was at an end even if they redeemed themselves. He'd just have to pray no one ever found out.
"Search him, gently," he ordered. The stormtroopers were trained in hostage rescue techniques – not, he admitted sourly, something the Reich generally considered important – but something could still easily go wrong. "Where are his papers?"
Von Braun smiled at him. "What papers?"
Hans drew back his fist to strike the doctor, then thought better of it. "Your papers."
"They burned," Von Braun said. "There's nothing left, but ash."
"You ..." Hans controlled his anger with an effort. The papers didn't matter. They had Von Braun. He would be put to work designing rockets and this time every last piece of paperwork would be checked thoroughly, time and time again, before anything moved from the drawing board into the real world. "You do realise she won't get away?"
Von Braun smiled. "She's quite ingenious."
Hans kept his temper under tight control. He had no idea if the British agent had the papers, or even if the papers existed ... for all he knew, they could have been slipped to the embassy a long time before Von Braun escaped his custody and went on the run. He told himself it didn't matter. Von Braun was all that mattered. And he was safely back in German custody.
"Cuff him," he ordered this men. "And then bring him back to the lorries."
He allowed himself a tight smile. The British agent was still out there, but she was alone, unsure who to trust. She had no way of communicating with London, he was sure, and no way to get more forged documents in a hurry. She was no threat, not any longer. It would take her some time to gather herself and by then, Von Braun would be safely back in the rocket complex, surrounded by an armed guard. The affair was over. He would have loved to have the Englishwoman in an interrogation chair, if only to make sure her final hours were as painful as possible, but he could go without. Von Braun was the prize.
Hans took one final look into the darkness, then schooled his face into a blank mask as they started to walk down to the lorries. He'd won! Despite everything, he'd won! He might not be allowed anywhere near the rocket complex any longer, and it was unlikely he'd see promotion ever again, but Himmler wouldn't order him executed for failure. Hell, the Reichsführer-SS might even be pleased enough to overlook his earlier failings. Von Braun had been recovered, and the SS had been saved from an embarrassment that could easily have ended very badly. Himmler's dream of being Hitler's successor would become a reality ...
... And a lone British agent, no matter how ingenious, was not going to change anything.
And yet I still have no way to know just how much she told them, she reminded herself, numbly. She stopped and leant against a tree, gasping for breath. There was no sign of the SS stormtroopers, yet she could feel their presence surrounding her. She told herself it was her imagination, but it was impossible to convince herself. How much did she know?
She put the question out of her mind and forced herself to think. There weren't many options. She spoke French like a native, and she'd have no trouble blending in as she made her way to the coast or south through Vichy to Spain, but ... it wasn't enough. The papers in her knapsack were her priority now, yet ... she wondered, numbly, just how long it would take the SS to put out a renewed call for her capture or death. Not long, if she was any judge. They had Von Braun now, and no longer needed to hide the reason for their search as much as possible. It wouldn't be long before her face was plastered across Occupied and Vichy France, posters scattered everywhere promising vast rewards to the one who turned her in and harsh punishments to anyone who kept their mouths firmly closed. She dared not assume they French wouldn't betray her. Sophie already had.
A low rumble echoed through the air. Kathleen looked up, ice crawling down her spine. A motorbike ... an SS patrol? She was too tired to fight, too tired to run ... she looked up and breathed a sigh of relief as she saw a Frenchman riding towards her, a teenager too young to have bought the motorbike himself. His father was probably a collaborator, she thought grimly. Most Frenchmen were restricted to peddle bikes, with cars and motorbikes reserved for the elite. She leaned against the tree and gathered herself as the young man slowed to a halt. Up close, there were a dozen other signs his parents were well-to-do. Kathleen kept her face under tight control as he gazed at her, his eyes crawling over her body.
"You're out early," he said, cheerfully. "Can I ask why ...?"
"My boyfriend kicked me out when I refused to sleep with him," Kathleen said, doing her best to present an impression of a naive young girl. "Can I beg a lift?"
The boy smiled, and nodded. Kathleen could practically read his thoughts. He'd give her a lift alright, then pull over a few miles down the line and demand she service him in exchange for taking her the rest of the way. She had no doubt of it ... he hadn't even asked where she wanted to go. She clambered onto the motorbike, pressed her breasts into his back, wrapped her arms around him ... and jabbed her fingernails right into his eyes. He opened his mouth to scream, too late, as she pressed her hand against his mouth. His entire body convulsed, then lay still. Kathleen dragged him off the bike, dumped him in the undergrowth, and mounted the bike again. By the time someone realised he was missing, she'd be quite some distance away.
He was a collaborator, she told herself. The young man had been too old to be innocent. She knew just how vile some collaborators could be, striving hard to exceed even the SS when it came to persecuting innocent people, and she dreaded to think what a young boy would become if he were raised by collaborators. He deserved it.
The thought made her smile as she drove onwards, a plan taking shape in her mind. It would be risky, but what wasn't in this day and age? She had no intention of admitting defeat if she could avoid it. Von Braun was just too important to let go. Sophie had known a handful of contacts, all of whom had to be considered compromised, but she hadn't known everyone. And if Jean-Luc was still in place ...
If, Kathleen thought. The only other contact she had, the only one she could be reasonably sure Sophie could not have betrayed, was in Paris. There was no way to get there in time to muster help, assuming it was even on offer. If they have left their home in the last few months ... it's over.
She bit her lip. It wasn't over until she said it was over.
The landscape grew rougher as she headed into the countryside, abandoning the motorbike as it ran short of fuel and walking onwards to the camp. She wished she had a weapon, even though she knew it would give her a false sense of security, but ... she removed her hat, letting her hair fall free. Jean-Luc would recognise her, of course, and his men might hesitate to snipe a woman from a distance. If ...
"Hold it," a voice growled. "Raise your hands."
Kathleen felt a flicker of déjà vu as she obeyed. Two men appeared in front of her – she knew, without looking, that there were at least two others behind her. Their eyes were grim, flickering over her as if they expected trouble. They probably did. The camp hadn't remained undiscovered because the resistance fighters had played fast and loose with their security. They knew through grim experience that anyone who did wound up dead ...
"Who are you?"
"Jeanette," Kathleen said. She spoke in English, not French. "I want to speak to Jean-Luc."
There was a long pause. "Blindfold her," one said, a moment later. "And bring her."
Kathleen offered no resistance as they wrapped a blindfold over her eyes, then took her arm and led her onwards. The resistance fighters would cut her throat if she did anything stupid and dump her body somewhere it would never be found. Sweat prickled down her back as she felt their hands searching her, making sure she wasn't carrying a radio transmitter. Her tutors had made it clear the French Resistance marched to the beat of its own drum, unwilling or unable to take orders from London. Kathleen didn't really blame them. The end of the war had come as a shock to the resistance, and they feared London would betray them if it was the price of peace. Thankfully, that had been one lesson London had remembered from 1938. There was nothing to be gained by selling out one's allies ...
The blindfold was removed, sharply. She found herself in a tent, staring at Jean-Luc. He hadn't changed much, in the last few months; he was still a wiry man with dark hair, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and an insolent air that made him look harmless. He hadn't been a soldier, from what she recalled, although she had wondered just how much of his official bio was actually true. The Free French had placed a surprising amount of trust in a man who had never fought for his country.
"Jeanette," Jean-Luc said, pointing to a chair. He spoke in perfect English. "Why are you here?"
Kathleen hesitated, all too aware that saying the wrong thing could easily get her killed. "I need your help."
Jean-Luc eyed her, thoughtfully. She knew better than to take him lightly. He'd worked hard to develop the appearance of a drifter, a contented soul wandering from place to place, never settling down or having children. It was astonishing how little attention the Germans paid to the onion men, carrying their crop from Vichy to Occupied France without bothering with details like passes or permits. But then, the Germans benefited from the onion men too.
"What do you want?"
Kathleen took a moment to choose her words carefully. "London needs a favour," she said, slowly. "And it has to be completely off the books."
Jean-Luc took a drag on his cigarette. "What kind of favour?"
"There's someone we have to get out of the nearest SS base," Kathleen said. "If you help ..."
"Are you mad?" Jean-Luc sounded more amused than angry. "You think we can take out an SS base?"
"I don't want to take out the base," Kathleen said. "I want to get someone out of the base, and then out of the country."
Jean-Luc laughed. "Fanciful."
His eyes narrowed. "And who is this person for whom you wish me to risk my men?"
Kathleen took the plunge. "Werner Von Braun."
Jean-Luc made a choking sound. "Are you serious ...?"
"Yes." Kathleen knew there was no point in holding back. If the plan worked, her superiors would be too pleased by victory to be angry; if the plan failed, she'd be dead. There was no middle ground. "He was trying to defect."
She spelled out the whole story, taking her life in her hands. The Germans had never been very successful at rooting out the resistance camps, but in truth the resistance hadn't managed to give the Germans more than a few minor headaches. If they turned into a real threat, the Germans would bring immense force to bear against their camps, searching the entire area and pressuring the locals to betray them. Jean-Luc had no illusions. His men had nowhere to go – the Germans considered them terrorists and Vichy considered them traitors, making it impossible for them to go home and pretend they'd been there all along – but as long as they hid in the wilderness they were relatively safe. The moment they became a real threat, the Germans would start hunting them ruthlessly.
Jean-Luc said nothing for a long moment, when she'd finished. His face was oddly inscrutable. Kathleen braced herself, unsure what to expect. If he refused, it was unlikely he'd let her leave. London would not be pleased, if it heard Jean-Luc had refused her aid in her darkest hour, and the resistance camp might be cut off from outside support. It wouldn't be the first. A handful of resistance units had turned into bandits, alienating the locals. London had stopped supporting them shortly afterwards.
He leaned forward. "Why should I?"
"Von Braun is the father of the German rocket program," Kathleen said. "And he has already given the Germans a considerable lead ..."
She hesitated, unsure how to put the problem into words. She'd listened to him often enough to know he was more than just a genius. He was a visionary. He'd spoken of spacecraft heading to the moon or the asteroid field, bringing back raw materials to be turned into space habitats, and rockets that could fly all the way from Europe to America so quickly they'd arrive before any warning could possibly reach their target; he'd gone on, outlining ideas so fantastical they belonged in a Smith or Heinlein novella rather than the real world. Kathleen had no idea if they were even possible, but it hadn't been that long ago that everyone had thought powered flight was impossible too. Her grandmother would have refused to believe a man could fly, and who could have blamed her? She'd lived and died before the first airplane took flight.
"Right now, Britain and America can hold the line against the Reich," Kathleen continued, grimly. "If the Germans develop newer and better rockets, though, that will change. They could invade Britain, force America out of the war, and ensure the Third Reich will last for a thousand years. What hope for France then?"
Jean-Luc frowned. "And you think his rockets could prove decisive?"
"We used tanks to break the Germans in 1918, changing the face of war," Kathleen reminded him. "The Japanese and Americans used aircraft carriers to fight naval wars, sinking older battleships from well beyond their reach and making them obsolete. What'll happen if the Germans develop a weapon that makes everything we have, now, completely obsolete?"
She took a breath. "Even if we can defend Britain and America from Nazi superweapons, we won't ever be able to liberate France."
"You can't liberate France anyway," Jean-Luc pointed out. "Can you?"
"I don't know," Kathleen said. "But I do know that German rockets" – and their supposed super-bomb, her thoughts added – "will make any attempt at liberation futile. When the war starts again, and it will, would you rather the Germans have rockets, or us? Which will offer France the greatest chance of seeing freedom again? Or ensuring that generations of Frenchmen grow up kowtowing to the Reich ...?"
"Enough," Jean-Luc said. "I will speak to my advisors. And then I will let you know."
Kathleen nodded and watched him go, then sagged. There was no way to know which way the argument would go. The resistance was surprisingly democratic, not least because there was no way to enforce military discipline. It was quite possible someone would argue against helping her, which meant ... she shook her head. Either they went along with her, and risked their lives to help, or they cut her throat. She'd given it her best shot ...
Jean-Luc returned, an hour later. "We took a vote," he said, "We'll help."
"Thank you," Kathleen said. She couldn't hide her relief. "If we can get him back ..."
"Thank me later," Jean-Luc told her. "A lot of good men are about to die."
Hans glared after the British agent as she fled, all too aware it would likely be impossible to catch up with her in the darkness. There had been no time to organise more than a single snatch squad and while reinforcements were on the way there was no time to deploy them to set up a secure perimeter. He turned back to Von Braun instead, feeling ice congealing in his stomach as he realised Von Braun might pull the trigger anyway. It wouldn't be out of character for a womaniser to protect a woman, but now ... Von Braun had to know his life would never be the same again.
"Give me the gun," Hans growled. The rocket scientist was too valuable to torture, at least until he'd trained and inspired the next generation of rocket scientists, but he'd never be allowed any freedom ever again. "Now."
Von Braun handed it over without hesitation. Hans took it and sucked in his breath. Unloaded. He'd been tricked ... he stowed the weapon in his coat, making a mental note to ensure no one else, particularly Keitel, ever knew they'd been bluffed. It would be easy to write a report insisting they'd had no choice, but he knew better than most it wouldn't be convincing. Once someone had been marked down as a scapegoat, their career was at an end even if they redeemed themselves. He'd just have to pray no one ever found out.
"Search him, gently," he ordered. The stormtroopers were trained in hostage rescue techniques – not, he admitted sourly, something the Reich generally considered important – but something could still easily go wrong. "Where are his papers?"
Von Braun smiled at him. "What papers?"
Hans drew back his fist to strike the doctor, then thought better of it. "Your papers."
"They burned," Von Braun said. "There's nothing left, but ash."
"You ..." Hans controlled his anger with an effort. The papers didn't matter. They had Von Braun. He would be put to work designing rockets and this time every last piece of paperwork would be checked thoroughly, time and time again, before anything moved from the drawing board into the real world. "You do realise she won't get away?"
Von Braun smiled. "She's quite ingenious."
Hans kept his temper under tight control. He had no idea if the British agent had the papers, or even if the papers existed ... for all he knew, they could have been slipped to the embassy a long time before Von Braun escaped his custody and went on the run. He told himself it didn't matter. Von Braun was all that mattered. And he was safely back in German custody.
"Cuff him," he ordered this men. "And then bring him back to the lorries."
He allowed himself a tight smile. The British agent was still out there, but she was alone, unsure who to trust. She had no way of communicating with London, he was sure, and no way to get more forged documents in a hurry. She was no threat, not any longer. It would take her some time to gather herself and by then, Von Braun would be safely back in the rocket complex, surrounded by an armed guard. The affair was over. He would have loved to have the Englishwoman in an interrogation chair, if only to make sure her final hours were as painful as possible, but he could go without. Von Braun was the prize.
Hans took one final look into the darkness, then schooled his face into a blank mask as they started to walk down to the lorries. He'd won! Despite everything, he'd won! He might not be allowed anywhere near the rocket complex any longer, and it was unlikely he'd see promotion ever again, but Himmler wouldn't order him executed for failure. Hell, the Reichsführer-SS might even be pleased enough to overlook his earlier failings. Von Braun had been recovered, and the SS had been saved from an embarrassment that could easily have ended very badly. Himmler's dream of being Hitler's successor would become a reality ...
... And a lone British agent, no matter how ingenious, was not going to change anything.
***
Kathleen gritted her teeth as she slowed to a walk, all too aware of the first glimmerings of sunlight in the distance. Dawn was breaking, bringing with it heightened risk of discovery and detention – or worse. Her mind raced as she tried to think of a clever trick that could save the mission, even as hopelessness tightened its grip on her heart. She'd made a mistake and trusted the wrong person and now Von Braun was back in enemy custody, despite everything she'd done to get him to Britain. Sophie had betrayed them ... she wondered, numbly, just how many others she'd betrayed. She hadn't been supposed to know about some resistance camps, or some SOE deep-cover assets, but the odds were good she'd known more than she should. The only upside, Kathleen supposed, was that Sophie was dead. She wouldn't be able to betray anyone any longer.
And yet I still have no way to know just how much she told them, she reminded herself, numbly. She stopped and leant against a tree, gasping for breath. There was no sign of the SS stormtroopers, yet she could feel their presence surrounding her. She told herself it was her imagination, but it was impossible to convince herself. How much did she know?
She put the question out of her mind and forced herself to think. There weren't many options. She spoke French like a native, and she'd have no trouble blending in as she made her way to the coast or south through Vichy to Spain, but ... it wasn't enough. The papers in her knapsack were her priority now, yet ... she wondered, numbly, just how long it would take the SS to put out a renewed call for her capture or death. Not long, if she was any judge. They had Von Braun now, and no longer needed to hide the reason for their search as much as possible. It wouldn't be long before her face was plastered across Occupied and Vichy France, posters scattered everywhere promising vast rewards to the one who turned her in and harsh punishments to anyone who kept their mouths firmly closed. She dared not assume they French wouldn't betray her. Sophie already had.
A low rumble echoed through the air. Kathleen looked up, ice crawling down her spine. A motorbike ... an SS patrol? She was too tired to fight, too tired to run ... she looked up and breathed a sigh of relief as she saw a Frenchman riding towards her, a teenager too young to have bought the motorbike himself. His father was probably a collaborator, she thought grimly. Most Frenchmen were restricted to peddle bikes, with cars and motorbikes reserved for the elite. She leaned against the tree and gathered herself as the young man slowed to a halt. Up close, there were a dozen other signs his parents were well-to-do. Kathleen kept her face under tight control as he gazed at her, his eyes crawling over her body.
"You're out early," he said, cheerfully. "Can I ask why ...?"
"My boyfriend kicked me out when I refused to sleep with him," Kathleen said, doing her best to present an impression of a naive young girl. "Can I beg a lift?"
The boy smiled, and nodded. Kathleen could practically read his thoughts. He'd give her a lift alright, then pull over a few miles down the line and demand she service him in exchange for taking her the rest of the way. She had no doubt of it ... he hadn't even asked where she wanted to go. She clambered onto the motorbike, pressed her breasts into his back, wrapped her arms around him ... and jabbed her fingernails right into his eyes. He opened his mouth to scream, too late, as she pressed her hand against his mouth. His entire body convulsed, then lay still. Kathleen dragged him off the bike, dumped him in the undergrowth, and mounted the bike again. By the time someone realised he was missing, she'd be quite some distance away.
He was a collaborator, she told herself. The young man had been too old to be innocent. She knew just how vile some collaborators could be, striving hard to exceed even the SS when it came to persecuting innocent people, and she dreaded to think what a young boy would become if he were raised by collaborators. He deserved it.
The thought made her smile as she drove onwards, a plan taking shape in her mind. It would be risky, but what wasn't in this day and age? She had no intention of admitting defeat if she could avoid it. Von Braun was just too important to let go. Sophie had known a handful of contacts, all of whom had to be considered compromised, but she hadn't known everyone. And if Jean-Luc was still in place ...
If, Kathleen thought. The only other contact she had, the only one she could be reasonably sure Sophie could not have betrayed, was in Paris. There was no way to get there in time to muster help, assuming it was even on offer. If they have left their home in the last few months ... it's over.
She bit her lip. It wasn't over until she said it was over.
The landscape grew rougher as she headed into the countryside, abandoning the motorbike as it ran short of fuel and walking onwards to the camp. She wished she had a weapon, even though she knew it would give her a false sense of security, but ... she removed her hat, letting her hair fall free. Jean-Luc would recognise her, of course, and his men might hesitate to snipe a woman from a distance. If ...
"Hold it," a voice growled. "Raise your hands."
Kathleen felt a flicker of déjà vu as she obeyed. Two men appeared in front of her – she knew, without looking, that there were at least two others behind her. Their eyes were grim, flickering over her as if they expected trouble. They probably did. The camp hadn't remained undiscovered because the resistance fighters had played fast and loose with their security. They knew through grim experience that anyone who did wound up dead ...
"Who are you?"
"Jeanette," Kathleen said. She spoke in English, not French. "I want to speak to Jean-Luc."
There was a long pause. "Blindfold her," one said, a moment later. "And bring her."
Kathleen offered no resistance as they wrapped a blindfold over her eyes, then took her arm and led her onwards. The resistance fighters would cut her throat if she did anything stupid and dump her body somewhere it would never be found. Sweat prickled down her back as she felt their hands searching her, making sure she wasn't carrying a radio transmitter. Her tutors had made it clear the French Resistance marched to the beat of its own drum, unwilling or unable to take orders from London. Kathleen didn't really blame them. The end of the war had come as a shock to the resistance, and they feared London would betray them if it was the price of peace. Thankfully, that had been one lesson London had remembered from 1938. There was nothing to be gained by selling out one's allies ...
The blindfold was removed, sharply. She found herself in a tent, staring at Jean-Luc. He hadn't changed much, in the last few months; he was still a wiry man with dark hair, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and an insolent air that made him look harmless. He hadn't been a soldier, from what she recalled, although she had wondered just how much of his official bio was actually true. The Free French had placed a surprising amount of trust in a man who had never fought for his country.
"Jeanette," Jean-Luc said, pointing to a chair. He spoke in perfect English. "Why are you here?"
Kathleen hesitated, all too aware that saying the wrong thing could easily get her killed. "I need your help."
Jean-Luc eyed her, thoughtfully. She knew better than to take him lightly. He'd worked hard to develop the appearance of a drifter, a contented soul wandering from place to place, never settling down or having children. It was astonishing how little attention the Germans paid to the onion men, carrying their crop from Vichy to Occupied France without bothering with details like passes or permits. But then, the Germans benefited from the onion men too.
"What do you want?"
Kathleen took a moment to choose her words carefully. "London needs a favour," she said, slowly. "And it has to be completely off the books."
Jean-Luc took a drag on his cigarette. "What kind of favour?"
"There's someone we have to get out of the nearest SS base," Kathleen said. "If you help ..."
"Are you mad?" Jean-Luc sounded more amused than angry. "You think we can take out an SS base?"
"I don't want to take out the base," Kathleen said. "I want to get someone out of the base, and then out of the country."
Jean-Luc laughed. "Fanciful."
His eyes narrowed. "And who is this person for whom you wish me to risk my men?"
Kathleen took the plunge. "Werner Von Braun."
Jean-Luc made a choking sound. "Are you serious ...?"
"Yes." Kathleen knew there was no point in holding back. If the plan worked, her superiors would be too pleased by victory to be angry; if the plan failed, she'd be dead. There was no middle ground. "He was trying to defect."
She spelled out the whole story, taking her life in her hands. The Germans had never been very successful at rooting out the resistance camps, but in truth the resistance hadn't managed to give the Germans more than a few minor headaches. If they turned into a real threat, the Germans would bring immense force to bear against their camps, searching the entire area and pressuring the locals to betray them. Jean-Luc had no illusions. His men had nowhere to go – the Germans considered them terrorists and Vichy considered them traitors, making it impossible for them to go home and pretend they'd been there all along – but as long as they hid in the wilderness they were relatively safe. The moment they became a real threat, the Germans would start hunting them ruthlessly.
Jean-Luc said nothing for a long moment, when she'd finished. His face was oddly inscrutable. Kathleen braced herself, unsure what to expect. If he refused, it was unlikely he'd let her leave. London would not be pleased, if it heard Jean-Luc had refused her aid in her darkest hour, and the resistance camp might be cut off from outside support. It wouldn't be the first. A handful of resistance units had turned into bandits, alienating the locals. London had stopped supporting them shortly afterwards.
He leaned forward. "Why should I?"
"Von Braun is the father of the German rocket program," Kathleen said. "And he has already given the Germans a considerable lead ..."
She hesitated, unsure how to put the problem into words. She'd listened to him often enough to know he was more than just a genius. He was a visionary. He'd spoken of spacecraft heading to the moon or the asteroid field, bringing back raw materials to be turned into space habitats, and rockets that could fly all the way from Europe to America so quickly they'd arrive before any warning could possibly reach their target; he'd gone on, outlining ideas so fantastical they belonged in a Smith or Heinlein novella rather than the real world. Kathleen had no idea if they were even possible, but it hadn't been that long ago that everyone had thought powered flight was impossible too. Her grandmother would have refused to believe a man could fly, and who could have blamed her? She'd lived and died before the first airplane took flight.
"Right now, Britain and America can hold the line against the Reich," Kathleen continued, grimly. "If the Germans develop newer and better rockets, though, that will change. They could invade Britain, force America out of the war, and ensure the Third Reich will last for a thousand years. What hope for France then?"
Jean-Luc frowned. "And you think his rockets could prove decisive?"
"We used tanks to break the Germans in 1918, changing the face of war," Kathleen reminded him. "The Japanese and Americans used aircraft carriers to fight naval wars, sinking older battleships from well beyond their reach and making them obsolete. What'll happen if the Germans develop a weapon that makes everything we have, now, completely obsolete?"
She took a breath. "Even if we can defend Britain and America from Nazi superweapons, we won't ever be able to liberate France."
"You can't liberate France anyway," Jean-Luc pointed out. "Can you?"
"I don't know," Kathleen said. "But I do know that German rockets" – and their supposed super-bomb, her thoughts added – "will make any attempt at liberation futile. When the war starts again, and it will, would you rather the Germans have rockets, or us? Which will offer France the greatest chance of seeing freedom again? Or ensuring that generations of Frenchmen grow up kowtowing to the Reich ...?"
"Enough," Jean-Luc said. "I will speak to my advisors. And then I will let you know."
Kathleen nodded and watched him go, then sagged. There was no way to know which way the argument would go. The resistance was surprisingly democratic, not least because there was no way to enforce military discipline. It was quite possible someone would argue against helping her, which meant ... she shook her head. Either they went along with her, and risked their lives to help, or they cut her throat. She'd given it her best shot ...
Jean-Luc returned, an hour later. "We took a vote," he said, "We'll help."
"Thank you," Kathleen said. She couldn't hide her relief. "If we can get him back ..."
"Thank me later," Jean-Luc told her. "A lot of good men are about to die."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
New
ChrisNuttall
Well-known member
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Occupied France, 1949
"The flight back to the Reich is already being organised," Hans said. Von Braun, sitting in a chair with his hands cuffed to the armrests, scowled at him. "You'll soon be back to work in the rocket complex."
Von Braun gave him a faintly superior smile. Hans felt his temper flare. Did Von Braun not understand how far he'd gone, how much trouble he was in? If he was literally anyone else, he would be heading for the camps or the execution yard by now. The mere fact he was a rocket engineer of genius was enough to save his life, but it wasn't enough to save his former way of life. Hans had no idea if he would be permitted to remain as Von Braun's minder – he feared not, even after recapturing the man – yet whoever took his place would keep Von Braun under tight supervision. No more trips to Berlin, no more womanising, no more anything but rocket science and teaching. And when he had raised up the next generation of rocket scientists, and in doing so rendered himself surplus to requirements, the SS would execute him. Hans hoped he'd be there to see it.
He stared down at Von Braun, wondering if it would be the last they saw of each other. The flight back east might be their last time together, before Hans was reassigned and a new minder appointed to take his place. Hans had never really liked Von Braun, but he had respected him as a man of genius, a man who had promised to inaugurate a whole new age of global domination. Why had he left the Reich, in the company of a foreign agent, and headed to Britain? Why had he gone so far as to threaten suicide, just to give her a chance to escape? It was so far out of character that Hans had insisted on checking the doctor's fingerprints, just to be certain he was Von Braun. The idea of an Englishman posing as the rocket engineer was insane and yet, there was little about the whole affair that made any sort of sense. Von Braun was a good German, a man who had been rewarded beyond the dreams of any other loyalist, and yet he had betrayed the Reich.
Hans leaned forward. It was hard to keep his voice calm, to keep the betrayal he felt keenly from slipping into his tone. "Why?"
"You killed Sergei," Von Braun said.
"Sergei?" It took Hans a moment to place the name. Sergei Korolev, the Russian Untermensch, executed on Himmler's orders. "All this, for an Untermensch?"
"You killed him," Von Braun said.
Hans choked. Of all the pathetic reasons ... Hans would have understood love or lust, or the desire for fame or money, but ... Von Braun had betrayed the Reich for an Untermensch? It was insane! The Russian had been a pet, little more. The idea he could have made any real contribution to rocket science was just absurd. The Russians were tough – Hans had fought in the east, he could hardly deny it – but they were nothing more than copycats, capable of copying European technology yet incapable of developing it for themselves. They would still be swimming in their wretched mud, unaware of the true greatness of the human soul, if they hadn't been raised up by their western friends. And how foolish that had been. Like all Untermensch, the Russians could not be grateful, nor accept their proper place. The Reich would teach them better, in time. And they would be happy in servitude.
"You're insane."
Von Braun met his eyes. "I thought I was doing the right thing, when I joined the SS," he said, quietly. "The promise of rocket funding was irresistible. I closed my eyes to the true horrors, even when" – his voice broke, just for a second – "or told myself it was necessary, that it was the price of developing the technology to put mankind in space to stay. But when you killed Sergei, I knew I'd made a dreadful mistake. I had sold my soul and I had been cheated of my price and ... I could no longer look away."
Hans stared at him. "He was an Untermensch ..."
"No," Von Braun said. "He was a thinking man ..."
"He was a thief, who stole from you and your peers and insisted it was all his own work," Hans said. "You ..."
Von Braun smiled his superior smile. "Is that what they told you?"
Hans had to bite his lip to keep from striking the older man. Von Braun was trying to get under his skin, perhaps push Hans into killing him ... or worse. Hans had watched experiments in which Untermenschen had their heads struck, with varying levels of force, to see just how much damage they could take. Von Braun was a superior being, naturally, but if his head was struck hard enough the damage would be irreparable. He'd turn into a vegetable, fit only for the extermination camps. Was he provoking Hans in hopes of destroying everything the Reich valued in him ...?
"I've been in Russia," Hans said, instead. He wasn't sure why he was allowing the debate. Perhaps he could convince Von Braun he was wrong ... or silence his own nagging doubts. "I know how they live. Lived."
"I knew Sergei," Von Braun said. "He was a genius, one of the very few peers I had."
His voice hardened suddenly, bringing back unhappy memories of a strict teacher who had believed – firmly – that to spare the rod was to spoil the child. "Don't you dare tell me, one of the few who can truly evacuate a man's genius, that Sergei was a crook. I watched his rocket program from a distance, before the war, and worked with him after he was taken into our custody. There was nothing wrong with his mind, or his ability to think ... no inherent inferiority, no weakness that could never be overcome. He was a genius, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, and you killed him because you could not accept that the quest to overcome technical limitations was – and would always be – a long and hard one."
"I didn't issue the order," Hans said.
"You pulled the trigger," Von Braun reminded him. "Didn't you?"
Hans flinched. "I did my duty."
"Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Von Braun said. "I thought the same too."
He smiled, rather tiredly. "My eyes were opened. The Reich is built on a graveyard beyond human comprehension, a graveyard filled with our victims. We killed mercilessly ... no, we didn't even do that. We tested human bodies to destruction, piling on the pressure to see what they could take, or worked them to death and then buried them where they fell. Did they tell you about atomics, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, or their wonderful and terrible promise? What will the Reich do, if it gains sole control of such weapons?"
Hans glared. "You think the Americans, who wiped out the Indians, or the British, who rule millions of other Indians, will be any better?"
"I have to," Von Braun said.
"Naive," Hans snarled. "The world isn't driven by right or wrong. The strong do as they please, and the weak suffer what they must."
Von Braun smiled. "Remind me," he said. "What happened to Imperial Athens?"
Hans ignored the jibe. "We are strong, and that gives us the right to do as we please to those who are weak," he said. "Our strength lies in our unity under the Führer - Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer – and that gives us power. We won, because we are strong. And we will always be strong."
"I'm sure Athens thought the same way too," Von Braun mocked.
"If they had stayed strong, they would have stayed powerful," Hans said. "They would rule the world to the present day. Instead ..."
Von Braun fixed him with a look. "You are a primitive," he said, flatly. "And if people like you were allowed unchallenged control over the world, there would be no more technological development. Do you know how much we lost, when we drove the Jewish scientists out of the Reich or threw them into concentration camps? Do you know how much we hampered ourselves, when we started telling ourselves that Jewish science was an oxymoron and restricted exploration into such matters because it was Jewish and therefore inherently inferior? Of course not! You don't have the intelligence to understand how badly we hurt ourselves."
Hans found his fists clenching. He took a breath, forcing himself to step back. Von Braun was trying to provoke him. They had worked together – practically lived together – for years. Von Braun knew him, knew his buttons, knew what to say to provoke a violent reaction. He was smart enough to do it, and insane enough to try. And if Hans damaged his mind ...
"You will be flown back to the Reich tomorrow morning," Hans said. "You will go back to the complex and be put to work, under far tighter security. You will never have the freedom you once enjoyed, never. And if you fail to produce ..."
Von Braun gave him a disgusted look. "All that sophistication and yet you're really nothing more than a playground bully."
Hans smirked. "All that intelligence, and you really cannot defend yourself against a playground bully," he said. "Can you?"
He turned and left the cell, leaving Von Braun alone with his thoughts. The man was secure, unable to hurt himself in any way ... Hans strode down the corridor, allowing himself a tight smile as he passed the other chambers. The complex was a comfortable prison, true, but a prison nonetheless. Greta was in one chamber, waiting for the flight that would start her on her journey east; others were occupied by resistance agents who would be steadily broken down soon enough, forced to betray everyone they knew to be involved with the bandits – or SOE. It was unfortunate that Sophie had been caught in the crossfire and killed – she had been skilfully manipulated, with promises of her POW sons being returned to her constantly being dangled in front of her eyes – and even more so that the Englishwoman had vanished into the countryside, but it hardly mattered. They had recovered Von Braun – he'd saved his life and perhaps his career – and they knew enough to deal the resistance a death blow. And they could even make sure the British got the blame. They'd have problems finding allies if the French thought the British had sent them to their doom.
And in a way, Hans reflected, they did.
Keitel was sitting in the office, looking drunk. Hans snorted inwardly. The young fool was definitely going to go east. It would toughen him up or kill him and either way the Reich would come out ahead. And then ...
And then he heard the first explosion.
Kathleen nodded, gritting her teeth as she surveyed the well-lit complex. The Germans weren't afraid of being attacked, either by the French or by British bombers. There were no air raid warders stamping about, throwing their weight around as they told everyone to turn off their lights. She hoped they'd become complacent over the last few years, as they shipped combat troops east to pacify the Russians and turn their lands into giant German plantations and farms. Vichy had helped, she supposed. The French Resistance hadn't been quite moribund, but the combination of limited resources and a semi-legal French government had discouraged attacks on military bases. She shuddered, inwardly, at the hell she knew the Germans would unleash, when they realised the resistance had attacked them. A great many innocent people were about to suffer ...
They'll suffer worse, if Von Braun is put back to work for the Nazis, Kathleen said. She had no idea how many of his ideas were technically practical, but if even the simplest ideas could be put into mass production the balance of power would turn against Britain and America. It is a price that has to be paid.
She checked her weapon automatically, sweat prickling down her back. There was no way to be sure Von Braun was being held in the complex, no matter how many times Jean-Luc assured her that his source was trustworthy. The SS could easily have created a false trail to deceive her, if they thought she wasn't running for the southern border as fast as she could. The resistance had picked up signs the Germans were actually intensifying their efforts to the west, deploying more patrols to France's north and west coast. They clearly expected to catch her, as she tried to slip through the net. And if the base was a trap ...
"We know the plan," Jean-Luc said. He'd introduced her to a handful of his men, but told her almost nothing about them. She hoped to hell they were trustworthy. Jean-Luc might tell himself his men were a serious threat, but the Germans wouldn't be impressed by a couple of hundred former soldiers, bandits and men of dubious loyalty. SOE had shipped them a surprising amount of weaponry over the years, but nowhere near enough to let them face the Germans on even terms. "You know your part?"
Kathleen nodded, tightly. The Germans might be taken by surprise, when the French attacked, but they'd rally quickly. They'd know what she'd come to do and react accordingly ... Jean-Luc had said it himself, when they'd laid the plan. There was only one way out of the base and she'd have to take it, hopefully with Von Braun in tow. She gritted her teeth as the last few seconds ticked away, wishing they'd had time to make contact with allies on the inside. But that would have been far too dangerous.
Her lips tightened as she heard the first explosion. Let the dice fly high!
The ground shook, a moment later. The Germans were the only ones allowed to drive after curfew, at least on the main roads, and the resistance had taken advantage of their complacency to capture a truck, cram it with high explosives, and drive it right into the gate, where it exploded with enough power to take out the guardposts and fence. Two more followed, their drivers – assuming the plan had been followed to the letter – heading right for the barracks and armoury, aiming their vehicles to crash into the walls. She gritted her teeth as two more explosions shook the ground, followed by a series of secondary explosions. The plan had paid lip service to the drivers having a chance to get out, before it was too late, but everyone involved had known it was a suicide mission. The shooting started a moment later, assault teams – dressed in stolen uniforms – coming out of the undergrowth and charging into the base itself, backed up by short-range mortar fire. It had to sound as though the Germans were under attack from an infantry company or two, not a relative handful of Frenchmen.
Jean-Luc tapped her shoulder. "Move."
Kathleen nodded and forced herself towards the wire. The Germans should be looking north now, trying to rally and drive the Frenchmen out before they broke into the airfield and captured the fuel dump. She hoped the guest workers would take advantage of the chaos to break out of their pens and riot, adding to the confusion. The Germans might even blame the chaos on the Russians, rather than the French ... the Russians, unlike their French counterparts, had risked strikes deep into German territory. But then, they had far less to lose ...
The flames burned brighter, casting an eerie light over the scene as the assault team reached the wire. The power should have been cut – and in any case the Germans had a great many other problems to worry about – but she tensed anyway as the cutters went to work, opening a gap in the wire with practiced skill. The fence wasn't much of a deterrent, she noted absently. The base CO would be busted all the way down to Rottenfuehrer, if he were lucky, after the shooting stopped and his superiors demanded answers. The German bases in Russia were fortresses, with trenches and palisades and clear fields of fire, but they really had grown complacent in France. She told herself to count her blessings as the shooting grew louder. If she'd tried this stunt in Russia, they'd all be dead before they reached the gates.
"This way," Jean-Luc said. "Hurry!"
The assault team split up, one group following Jean-Luc and Kathleen as they headed towards the SS block, the other making their way to the airfield. If their part of the mission failed ... Kathleen told herself to worry about it later. The attack had started well, but if the Germans rallied, or it turned out they'd made a dreadful mistake and Von Braun was nowhere to be found ...
She spotted a pair of guards at the doors, weapons at the ready. The Frenchmen opened fire before the Germans could realise the newcomers weren't their comrades, even though they were wearing German uniforms. Kathleen felt a flicker of grim satisfaction as they forced open the door and plunged inside, hoping to hell they hadn't been spotted. Her heart beat as they headed upstairs, even as the ground heaved again. The French were giving it all they had, fighting desperately to buy her time. She promised herself it wouldn't be wasted.
Her lips twitched, mouthing the words. "Vive la France!"
"The flight back to the Reich is already being organised," Hans said. Von Braun, sitting in a chair with his hands cuffed to the armrests, scowled at him. "You'll soon be back to work in the rocket complex."
Von Braun gave him a faintly superior smile. Hans felt his temper flare. Did Von Braun not understand how far he'd gone, how much trouble he was in? If he was literally anyone else, he would be heading for the camps or the execution yard by now. The mere fact he was a rocket engineer of genius was enough to save his life, but it wasn't enough to save his former way of life. Hans had no idea if he would be permitted to remain as Von Braun's minder – he feared not, even after recapturing the man – yet whoever took his place would keep Von Braun under tight supervision. No more trips to Berlin, no more womanising, no more anything but rocket science and teaching. And when he had raised up the next generation of rocket scientists, and in doing so rendered himself surplus to requirements, the SS would execute him. Hans hoped he'd be there to see it.
He stared down at Von Braun, wondering if it would be the last they saw of each other. The flight back east might be their last time together, before Hans was reassigned and a new minder appointed to take his place. Hans had never really liked Von Braun, but he had respected him as a man of genius, a man who had promised to inaugurate a whole new age of global domination. Why had he left the Reich, in the company of a foreign agent, and headed to Britain? Why had he gone so far as to threaten suicide, just to give her a chance to escape? It was so far out of character that Hans had insisted on checking the doctor's fingerprints, just to be certain he was Von Braun. The idea of an Englishman posing as the rocket engineer was insane and yet, there was little about the whole affair that made any sort of sense. Von Braun was a good German, a man who had been rewarded beyond the dreams of any other loyalist, and yet he had betrayed the Reich.
Hans leaned forward. It was hard to keep his voice calm, to keep the betrayal he felt keenly from slipping into his tone. "Why?"
"You killed Sergei," Von Braun said.
"Sergei?" It took Hans a moment to place the name. Sergei Korolev, the Russian Untermensch, executed on Himmler's orders. "All this, for an Untermensch?"
"You killed him," Von Braun said.
Hans choked. Of all the pathetic reasons ... Hans would have understood love or lust, or the desire for fame or money, but ... Von Braun had betrayed the Reich for an Untermensch? It was insane! The Russian had been a pet, little more. The idea he could have made any real contribution to rocket science was just absurd. The Russians were tough – Hans had fought in the east, he could hardly deny it – but they were nothing more than copycats, capable of copying European technology yet incapable of developing it for themselves. They would still be swimming in their wretched mud, unaware of the true greatness of the human soul, if they hadn't been raised up by their western friends. And how foolish that had been. Like all Untermensch, the Russians could not be grateful, nor accept their proper place. The Reich would teach them better, in time. And they would be happy in servitude.
"You're insane."
Von Braun met his eyes. "I thought I was doing the right thing, when I joined the SS," he said, quietly. "The promise of rocket funding was irresistible. I closed my eyes to the true horrors, even when" – his voice broke, just for a second – "or told myself it was necessary, that it was the price of developing the technology to put mankind in space to stay. But when you killed Sergei, I knew I'd made a dreadful mistake. I had sold my soul and I had been cheated of my price and ... I could no longer look away."
Hans stared at him. "He was an Untermensch ..."
"No," Von Braun said. "He was a thinking man ..."
"He was a thief, who stole from you and your peers and insisted it was all his own work," Hans said. "You ..."
Von Braun smiled his superior smile. "Is that what they told you?"
Hans had to bite his lip to keep from striking the older man. Von Braun was trying to get under his skin, perhaps push Hans into killing him ... or worse. Hans had watched experiments in which Untermenschen had their heads struck, with varying levels of force, to see just how much damage they could take. Von Braun was a superior being, naturally, but if his head was struck hard enough the damage would be irreparable. He'd turn into a vegetable, fit only for the extermination camps. Was he provoking Hans in hopes of destroying everything the Reich valued in him ...?
"I've been in Russia," Hans said, instead. He wasn't sure why he was allowing the debate. Perhaps he could convince Von Braun he was wrong ... or silence his own nagging doubts. "I know how they live. Lived."
"I knew Sergei," Von Braun said. "He was a genius, one of the very few peers I had."
His voice hardened suddenly, bringing back unhappy memories of a strict teacher who had believed – firmly – that to spare the rod was to spoil the child. "Don't you dare tell me, one of the few who can truly evacuate a man's genius, that Sergei was a crook. I watched his rocket program from a distance, before the war, and worked with him after he was taken into our custody. There was nothing wrong with his mind, or his ability to think ... no inherent inferiority, no weakness that could never be overcome. He was a genius, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, and you killed him because you could not accept that the quest to overcome technical limitations was – and would always be – a long and hard one."
"I didn't issue the order," Hans said.
"You pulled the trigger," Von Braun reminded him. "Didn't you?"
Hans flinched. "I did my duty."
"Yes, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," Von Braun said. "I thought the same too."
He smiled, rather tiredly. "My eyes were opened. The Reich is built on a graveyard beyond human comprehension, a graveyard filled with our victims. We killed mercilessly ... no, we didn't even do that. We tested human bodies to destruction, piling on the pressure to see what they could take, or worked them to death and then buried them where they fell. Did they tell you about atomics, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, or their wonderful and terrible promise? What will the Reich do, if it gains sole control of such weapons?"
Hans glared. "You think the Americans, who wiped out the Indians, or the British, who rule millions of other Indians, will be any better?"
"I have to," Von Braun said.
"Naive," Hans snarled. "The world isn't driven by right or wrong. The strong do as they please, and the weak suffer what they must."
Von Braun smiled. "Remind me," he said. "What happened to Imperial Athens?"
Hans ignored the jibe. "We are strong, and that gives us the right to do as we please to those who are weak," he said. "Our strength lies in our unity under the Führer - Ein Volk, Ein Reich, Ein Führer – and that gives us power. We won, because we are strong. And we will always be strong."
"I'm sure Athens thought the same way too," Von Braun mocked.
"If they had stayed strong, they would have stayed powerful," Hans said. "They would rule the world to the present day. Instead ..."
Von Braun fixed him with a look. "You are a primitive," he said, flatly. "And if people like you were allowed unchallenged control over the world, there would be no more technological development. Do you know how much we lost, when we drove the Jewish scientists out of the Reich or threw them into concentration camps? Do you know how much we hampered ourselves, when we started telling ourselves that Jewish science was an oxymoron and restricted exploration into such matters because it was Jewish and therefore inherently inferior? Of course not! You don't have the intelligence to understand how badly we hurt ourselves."
Hans found his fists clenching. He took a breath, forcing himself to step back. Von Braun was trying to provoke him. They had worked together – practically lived together – for years. Von Braun knew him, knew his buttons, knew what to say to provoke a violent reaction. He was smart enough to do it, and insane enough to try. And if Hans damaged his mind ...
"You will be flown back to the Reich tomorrow morning," Hans said. "You will go back to the complex and be put to work, under far tighter security. You will never have the freedom you once enjoyed, never. And if you fail to produce ..."
Von Braun gave him a disgusted look. "All that sophistication and yet you're really nothing more than a playground bully."
Hans smirked. "All that intelligence, and you really cannot defend yourself against a playground bully," he said. "Can you?"
He turned and left the cell, leaving Von Braun alone with his thoughts. The man was secure, unable to hurt himself in any way ... Hans strode down the corridor, allowing himself a tight smile as he passed the other chambers. The complex was a comfortable prison, true, but a prison nonetheless. Greta was in one chamber, waiting for the flight that would start her on her journey east; others were occupied by resistance agents who would be steadily broken down soon enough, forced to betray everyone they knew to be involved with the bandits – or SOE. It was unfortunate that Sophie had been caught in the crossfire and killed – she had been skilfully manipulated, with promises of her POW sons being returned to her constantly being dangled in front of her eyes – and even more so that the Englishwoman had vanished into the countryside, but it hardly mattered. They had recovered Von Braun – he'd saved his life and perhaps his career – and they knew enough to deal the resistance a death blow. And they could even make sure the British got the blame. They'd have problems finding allies if the French thought the British had sent them to their doom.
And in a way, Hans reflected, they did.
Keitel was sitting in the office, looking drunk. Hans snorted inwardly. The young fool was definitely going to go east. It would toughen him up or kill him and either way the Reich would come out ahead. And then ...
And then he heard the first explosion.
***
"I used to work there," Jean-Luc whispered, as the resistance troops took up position near the German base. It had been built by the French military in 1900, from what he'd said, and expanded rapidly into a combination of military garrison and airbase, manned by troops from the Luftwaffe and Waffen-SS as well as the Heer. "Our sources tell us they have an important prisoner, held in the SS block."
Kathleen nodded, gritting her teeth as she surveyed the well-lit complex. The Germans weren't afraid of being attacked, either by the French or by British bombers. There were no air raid warders stamping about, throwing their weight around as they told everyone to turn off their lights. She hoped they'd become complacent over the last few years, as they shipped combat troops east to pacify the Russians and turn their lands into giant German plantations and farms. Vichy had helped, she supposed. The French Resistance hadn't been quite moribund, but the combination of limited resources and a semi-legal French government had discouraged attacks on military bases. She shuddered, inwardly, at the hell she knew the Germans would unleash, when they realised the resistance had attacked them. A great many innocent people were about to suffer ...
They'll suffer worse, if Von Braun is put back to work for the Nazis, Kathleen said. She had no idea how many of his ideas were technically practical, but if even the simplest ideas could be put into mass production the balance of power would turn against Britain and America. It is a price that has to be paid.
She checked her weapon automatically, sweat prickling down her back. There was no way to be sure Von Braun was being held in the complex, no matter how many times Jean-Luc assured her that his source was trustworthy. The SS could easily have created a false trail to deceive her, if they thought she wasn't running for the southern border as fast as she could. The resistance had picked up signs the Germans were actually intensifying their efforts to the west, deploying more patrols to France's north and west coast. They clearly expected to catch her, as she tried to slip through the net. And if the base was a trap ...
"We know the plan," Jean-Luc said. He'd introduced her to a handful of his men, but told her almost nothing about them. She hoped to hell they were trustworthy. Jean-Luc might tell himself his men were a serious threat, but the Germans wouldn't be impressed by a couple of hundred former soldiers, bandits and men of dubious loyalty. SOE had shipped them a surprising amount of weaponry over the years, but nowhere near enough to let them face the Germans on even terms. "You know your part?"
Kathleen nodded, tightly. The Germans might be taken by surprise, when the French attacked, but they'd rally quickly. They'd know what she'd come to do and react accordingly ... Jean-Luc had said it himself, when they'd laid the plan. There was only one way out of the base and she'd have to take it, hopefully with Von Braun in tow. She gritted her teeth as the last few seconds ticked away, wishing they'd had time to make contact with allies on the inside. But that would have been far too dangerous.
Her lips tightened as she heard the first explosion. Let the dice fly high!
The ground shook, a moment later. The Germans were the only ones allowed to drive after curfew, at least on the main roads, and the resistance had taken advantage of their complacency to capture a truck, cram it with high explosives, and drive it right into the gate, where it exploded with enough power to take out the guardposts and fence. Two more followed, their drivers – assuming the plan had been followed to the letter – heading right for the barracks and armoury, aiming their vehicles to crash into the walls. She gritted her teeth as two more explosions shook the ground, followed by a series of secondary explosions. The plan had paid lip service to the drivers having a chance to get out, before it was too late, but everyone involved had known it was a suicide mission. The shooting started a moment later, assault teams – dressed in stolen uniforms – coming out of the undergrowth and charging into the base itself, backed up by short-range mortar fire. It had to sound as though the Germans were under attack from an infantry company or two, not a relative handful of Frenchmen.
Jean-Luc tapped her shoulder. "Move."
Kathleen nodded and forced herself towards the wire. The Germans should be looking north now, trying to rally and drive the Frenchmen out before they broke into the airfield and captured the fuel dump. She hoped the guest workers would take advantage of the chaos to break out of their pens and riot, adding to the confusion. The Germans might even blame the chaos on the Russians, rather than the French ... the Russians, unlike their French counterparts, had risked strikes deep into German territory. But then, they had far less to lose ...
The flames burned brighter, casting an eerie light over the scene as the assault team reached the wire. The power should have been cut – and in any case the Germans had a great many other problems to worry about – but she tensed anyway as the cutters went to work, opening a gap in the wire with practiced skill. The fence wasn't much of a deterrent, she noted absently. The base CO would be busted all the way down to Rottenfuehrer, if he were lucky, after the shooting stopped and his superiors demanded answers. The German bases in Russia were fortresses, with trenches and palisades and clear fields of fire, but they really had grown complacent in France. She told herself to count her blessings as the shooting grew louder. If she'd tried this stunt in Russia, they'd all be dead before they reached the gates.
"This way," Jean-Luc said. "Hurry!"
The assault team split up, one group following Jean-Luc and Kathleen as they headed towards the SS block, the other making their way to the airfield. If their part of the mission failed ... Kathleen told herself to worry about it later. The attack had started well, but if the Germans rallied, or it turned out they'd made a dreadful mistake and Von Braun was nowhere to be found ...
She spotted a pair of guards at the doors, weapons at the ready. The Frenchmen opened fire before the Germans could realise the newcomers weren't their comrades, even though they were wearing German uniforms. Kathleen felt a flicker of grim satisfaction as they forced open the door and plunged inside, hoping to hell they hadn't been spotted. Her heart beat as they headed upstairs, even as the ground heaved again. The French were giving it all they had, fighting desperately to buy her time. She promised herself it wouldn't be wasted.
Her lips twitched, mouthing the words. "Vive la France!"
Chapter Twenty-Eight
New
ChrisNuttall
Well-known member
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Occupied France, 1949
Hans hit the ground before his conscious mind quite realised what was happening.
Combat instincts took over as he rolled under the table, one hand drawing his pistol. One explosion ... no, more than one. Three at least ... no, five or six, all to the north. The shooting broke out a moment later, a combination of submachine gun fire and pistols ... he winced as he heard the first mortar round flying through the air, the howl abruptly terminating with another explosion. Others followed, shaking the ground. His mind reeled. The base was under attack!
Keitel stumbled to his feet. "Wos is los?"
"Get down, you fool," Hans snarled. The power failed a moment later, plunging the room into darkness. The emergency generator should take over, but if that had somehow been taken out ... he told himself it was powering up. It had to be. If the emergency generator was gone, the base had already fallen. "We're under attack!"
He crawled forward and slipped up to the window, risking a peek into the gloom. The northern half of the base was burning brightly, the fires spreading rapidly as they consumed the armoury and the barracks. Given the lack of warning ... Hans cursed under his breath as he realised the defenders were in serious trouble. The troops were allowed to wear their sidearms on base, but rifles and other heavy weapons were supposed to be stacked and stored in the armoury. Whoever had planned the attack had done a very good job. They'd not only crippled the defenders, they'd probably killed the duty officer too. His post was far too close to the north gate, if the gate still existed, for Hans's peace of mind.
The emergency generator came online. Hans ducked down. The lights weren't very bright, not now, but they were brighter than the surrounding area. If he was in charge of the attacking force, he'd make a point of hammering every lit window he saw ... he forced himself to crawl towards the door, thinking hard. If the barracks had been taken out, most of the garrison's troops were already dead. There weren't many left ... the only units that hadn't been billeted in the barracks complex was Hans's own squad and the Luftwaffe ground combat unit. The latter might well be worthless, the peacocks a testament to Göring's ego and his desire to match his rivals rather than a bid to improve the Reich's combat power. Some units had performed well in Russia, where the penalty for performing poorly was being slaughtered by the partisans, but this unit had been based in France for the last year, drinking French wine and screwing French girls. If they were anything close to a front-line combat unit, Hans would eat his Sigrunen.
But they were all he had. "Get a messenger to the airfield hub," he snapped at a passing stormtrooper. Panic was spreading, threatening to render the defence worse than useless. "Tell the peacocks I want them ready to head north to repel intruders!"
The shooting grew louder as they hurried down to the control room, such as it was. The SS hadn't seen any need to fortify their complex, not when they were in the middle of a much bigger garrison ... Hans promised himself heads would roll as he charged into the room. Half the duty officers were missing and the remainder looked on the verge of panic as they screamed into their phones. Hans cursed under his breath, then pointed his pistol at the ceiling and fired a single shot. The shouting and screaming died away sharply. Hans tried not to scream himself, scream in frustration. They hadn't even tried to draw their pistols before realising who'd fired the shot. Idiots. They'd spent so long in a safe billet that they'd forgotten a situation could shift from safe to dangerous in the blink of an eye. And the enemy had taken full advantage of it.
"Report," he barked.
"Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, I have been unable to reach the duty office or the barracks," an operator managed. He stammered so much that Hans had to fight to keep from slapping the idiot as hard as he could. "I ..."
"They're gone, dummkopf," Hans snarled. If the duty officer was still alive, hopefully the man would have the wit to eat his own pistol before the SS caught up with him. A strong man in his position could have accomplished much, if he'd had the time to act. "Try to call the nearest base outside the wire!"
The shooting grew louder. Hans silently took stock of the situation. He had twelve men under his command, counting the wretched Keitel. None were armed with anything heavier than sidearms ... he cursed under his breath. The enemy wouldn't be shooting so heavily if they didn't have something to shoot at, which suggested they knew they hadn't won yet, but ...
"No response, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," the operator said. "They cut the lines!"
"Obviously," Hans snarled. It was a simple trick, and very effective. "Get on the radio. Get in touch with whoever you can and order them to send reinforcements to the base. Now!"
He forced himself to think. The attack was bigger than anything the French Resistance had ever mounted, which suggested it wasn't the French. A British paratrooper unit? It would be an act of war, but if they knew how badly the balance of power was tilting against them they might take the chance. Or ... it might be the start of a full-scale invasion. The Reich had always known the war would resume one day, and it had plenty of examples of Anglo-American perfidy, and for all he knew the British and Americans were restarting the war. They would lose, of course, but he wasn't fool enough to dismiss their prowess. It was quite possible their bombers were hitting bases right across the Reich even now, making any sort of coordinated response to the invasion impossible. They might even be landing along the west coast of France. It would be a logistics nightmare, but the Americans had managed to invade Japan ... without a giant unsinkable aircraft carrier anywhere so near the front lines.
The messenger he'd sent returned, his face pale with sweat. "Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, the Flakkorps are moving into position."
Hans nodded, curtly. Finally, something was going right. "Order their commander to deploy to the north of this building, and hold the line," he said. He knew nothing about what was going on to the north, or what the enemy commandos were doing, and he dared not send the Flakkorps in blind. The enemy might be heading for the guest worker pens, perhaps assuming Von Braun was amongst them ... if they even knew Von Braun was on the base. No, they had to know. The attack could not possibly be a coincidence. "We'll move out in support."
He ignored their shocked looks as weapons were handed out and checked. The attack wouldn't last forever. Reinforcements would be on the way soon, if they weren't already, and daylight would bring illumination to the scene. And then ... he shook his head. The attack had to be beaten off, and quickly. His career and his life, so safe only an hour ago, were in jeopardy again. He wasn't in the base's formal chain of command, Himmler's orders notwithstanding, but if he wound up being the senior surviving officer ...
His lips twisted as he led his men outside, leaving only one man in place to make contact with the outside world. At this rate, they're going to have trouble deciding what to put on the execution warrant.
"Two men are heading down to the command post," Jean-Luc said. "They'll keep the operators from sounding the alarm."
Too late, Kathleen thought. The explosions would have been heard – and seen - for miles around. If the Germans weren't already scrambling reinforcements, she'd be astonished. The only upside was that their deployments would make it hard to concentrate their forces before going in, giving the French time to complete their mission and vanish into the countryside. They already know we're here.
She heard windows shattering up ahead and grimaced. The resistance fighters didn't know who they were looking for, or why ... it was quite possible Von Braun had already been killed in the crossfire, or murdered by his captors to keep him out of British hands She told herself it couldn't have happened, that God could not be so cruel, as she made her way into the cell block and opened the first cell. A young woman looked up from the bed, her eyes blinking in shock. Kathleen stared. Greta?
"Come with us or stay here," she snapped. What the hell was Greta doing here? The SS must have realised that Gudrun had been replaced, somewhere along the line, after she'd vanished from the troop. Greta looked unharmed, but Kathleen would sooner have received six of the best than spend two nights in SS custody. There were plenty of ways to weaken someone's resistance without open brutality and the SS knew them all. "Either way, choose now."
The building shook, violently. The shooting grew louder. Kathleen suspected the defenders were rallying, getting organised ... she ignored Jean-Luc's incredulous stare as Greta tottered forward to join them, her face pale. Kathleen caught her arm and pulled her down the corridor as the other cells were opened one by one, revealing a number of Frenchmen and Werner Von Braun. Kathleen could have kissed him, as he looked up at her. The mission hadn't failed, and the lives she'd spent had not been wasted. The affair wasn't over yet.
Jean-Luc's men rejoined them. "The operator is dead," the leader said. "We put a few bullets in the radio too."
Kathleen nodded, curtly, as they hurried down the stairs towards the rear entrance. The enemy had focused on the northern attack and hopefully missed the attack coming in from the south, the truly dangerous one. She heard Jean-Luc passing out weapons to the liberated Frenchmen, telling them to head through the southern gap in the fence and keep heading south. Most would be recaptured very quickly, once the Germans threw up a cordon, but they'd buy time for Kathleen and Von Brain – and Greta – to make their escape.
"This way," she said. "Quickly."
The shooting was even louder outside, the crack of bullets snapping through the air contrasting oddly with the mortar rounds and sniper fire. The latter was dangerous as hell – it was hard enough separating friend from foe when they wore different uniforms and here both sides were wearing the same uniforms – but the snipers had orders to avoid firing into the southern side of the base. She hoped they followed orders, that they didn't get carried away as the skirmish flowed out of control. The resistance fighters had kept their heads down for years, rather than fighting for their freedom. And now they finally had a chance to hurt the Germans ...
Two men materialised out of the hangar. "The aircraft is ready," the first reported. "We cleared the ground crews, and rigged the hangar to blow."
Kathleen nodded, her eyes sweeping over the small transport and the handful of propeller fighters. Outdated now, she knew, but the Luftwaffe kept the jet aircraft back to cover Germany itself. Hermann Göring had been deeply embarrassed when the RAF had bombed Berlin – after Göring had promised Hitler the RAF wouldn't get close to Germany, let alone bomb the capital – and he'd made sure it wouldn't happen again. Kathleen had been told it wasn't a bad deployment – the jet aircraft could be surged forward, when the Germans finally mounted their long-feared invasion of Britain, while being assured of plenty of warning if the British tried to bomb Germany instead – but it had bitten them hard. The RAF had refused to allow SOE agents to train on jet aircraft.
She motioned for Von Braun to board the aircraft, then dragged Greta aside. "I owe you a favour," she said, although it wasn't strictly true. "We're going to Britain. If you want to come with us, you can" – she knew SOE would be delighted to get their hands on a native German, one who could teach their agents how to pass in the developing Reich – "and if not, we can tie you up here and you can tell the SS you tried to resist."
Greta hesitated, visibly. Kathleen waited, all too aware of what must be going through the young girl's mind. Her mother and grandmother had admitted they'd struggled to leave Germany, even though they'd known darkness was already falling over their homeland. It hadn't been easy to leave ... Greta had it even worse, Kathleen supposed. She wasn't an Untermensch, not by Hitler's absurd standards. And yet, the fact she'd been in the cell was clear proof she'd never be allowed to return to her previous life. The best she could hope for was being sent east, to marry some settler-farmer, and never being allowed west again.
The shooting seemed to flag, just for a second. Jean-Luc twitched. "We need to move ..."
"I'm coming with you," Greta said.
Kathleen nodded, and dragged her towards the plane. The shooting was getting closer ... she made a mental note to keep an eye on Greta as she boarded the aircraft, just in case. Greta had nothing to look forward too, in the Reich, but she might not have realised it yet. If she did something stupid, Kathleen would have bare seconds to deal with it.
The slammed the hatch closed. Kathleen shoved Greta to the nearest seat and motioned for Von Braun to show her how to buckle herself in, then hurried to the cockpit. The French had offered a pilot, but their flight training was even more out of date than hers. Vichy's air force was a joke, barely capable of terrorising tribesmen in Africa, and it wouldn't last an hour if the Luftwaffe came calling. She breathed a sigh of relief as she checked the cockpit – the Luftwaffe, thankfully, standardised its designs as much as possible – and started the engine. The plane drove forward, onto the runway ...
Kathleen allowed herself a tight smile. The base was burning brightly ... the resistance fighters had orders to fall back, as soon as they started to run low on ammunition, but some had apparently decided to stay and fight to the end. Whatever happened, she promised herself, the Germans would not forget this day. And nor would the rest of the world.
"Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, Hauptscharfuehrer Johan is dead!"
He swore out loud, and to hell with discipline. He'd been tricked. He'd thought the block was secure, in the rear of the base, and instead the enemy had somehow gotten around him and assaulted the SS block. Von Braun was either dead or on the run again and either way Hans was thoroughly fucked. There was no going back now. The only upside – they were out of touch with higher authority – wasn't enough to salvage the situation.
His mind raced as they ran back to the complex too late. The prisoners were gone. The enemy bitch – he knew it was her – had outthought him. Again. She'd snatched Von Braun from under his nose and that meant ... she had to have a plan to get him out. Somehow. Hans forced himself to think, suddenly sure Keitel was laughing at him. She had to know his reinforcements were already on the way and this time they'd be no mercy, no light hand to avoid revealing just who was trying to flee the Reich. The whole region would be sewn up tighter than a nun's ...
He knew the answer, again too late. He led his men to the airfield, just in time to see a small aircraft – the transport he'd arranged for Von Braun, of all the things – head down the runway, picking up speed. Hans knew, with absolute certainty, that Von Braun was on that aircraft, with a transponder code that guaranteed the radar stations would let it go without interception. The Englishwoman might not know to use the code, but ... if she flew west she might pass unhindered anyway. The radar operators would assume the transport was on an insertion mission and let her go, for fear of winding up in the camps. And Hans couldn't get the word out any longer.
Hans swore again, then levelled his submachine gun. The aircraft was vulnerable as long as it was on the ground. He pulled the trigger, then staggered as Keitel accidentally bumped into him. The bullets went wide, missing their target as the aircraft took off and ... Hans swung around and shot Keitel in the head, watching his brains splatter the tarmac. The other troopers stared in horror. Field executions were rare, even in the SS, and Hans would find himself in hot water if word got back to Berlin. His earlier thoughts returned to mock him. Berlin would have great trouble trying to decide just what to put on his execution warrant.
"Join the remaining defenders and drive the attackers out of the complex," he ordered, as he ran to the nearest aircraft. "Hurry."
It wasn't over yet, he told himself. Himmler, in his wisdom, insisted his stormtroopers cross train and Hans had earned his aviation wings. He knew he wasn't the most capable fighter pilot in the world, and any real fighter ace would make mincemeat out of him, but there was no one else. The Luftwaffe wouldn't scramble in time to make a difference, not now. It was up to him.
"I'm coming for you," he growled, as he started the engine and hurled the plane down the runway. He no longer cared to recapture Von Braun. He just wanted the traitor dead. His career had died when the base had come under attack, leaving him with nothing to lose. "This time, you won't escape me."
The first glimmering of dawn could be seen in the distance. He promised himself it would be the last dawn Von Braun would ever see.
Hans hit the ground before his conscious mind quite realised what was happening.
Combat instincts took over as he rolled under the table, one hand drawing his pistol. One explosion ... no, more than one. Three at least ... no, five or six, all to the north. The shooting broke out a moment later, a combination of submachine gun fire and pistols ... he winced as he heard the first mortar round flying through the air, the howl abruptly terminating with another explosion. Others followed, shaking the ground. His mind reeled. The base was under attack!
Keitel stumbled to his feet. "Wos is los?"
"Get down, you fool," Hans snarled. The power failed a moment later, plunging the room into darkness. The emergency generator should take over, but if that had somehow been taken out ... he told himself it was powering up. It had to be. If the emergency generator was gone, the base had already fallen. "We're under attack!"
He crawled forward and slipped up to the window, risking a peek into the gloom. The northern half of the base was burning brightly, the fires spreading rapidly as they consumed the armoury and the barracks. Given the lack of warning ... Hans cursed under his breath as he realised the defenders were in serious trouble. The troops were allowed to wear their sidearms on base, but rifles and other heavy weapons were supposed to be stacked and stored in the armoury. Whoever had planned the attack had done a very good job. They'd not only crippled the defenders, they'd probably killed the duty officer too. His post was far too close to the north gate, if the gate still existed, for Hans's peace of mind.
The emergency generator came online. Hans ducked down. The lights weren't very bright, not now, but they were brighter than the surrounding area. If he was in charge of the attacking force, he'd make a point of hammering every lit window he saw ... he forced himself to crawl towards the door, thinking hard. If the barracks had been taken out, most of the garrison's troops were already dead. There weren't many left ... the only units that hadn't been billeted in the barracks complex was Hans's own squad and the Luftwaffe ground combat unit. The latter might well be worthless, the peacocks a testament to Göring's ego and his desire to match his rivals rather than a bid to improve the Reich's combat power. Some units had performed well in Russia, where the penalty for performing poorly was being slaughtered by the partisans, but this unit had been based in France for the last year, drinking French wine and screwing French girls. If they were anything close to a front-line combat unit, Hans would eat his Sigrunen.
But they were all he had. "Get a messenger to the airfield hub," he snapped at a passing stormtrooper. Panic was spreading, threatening to render the defence worse than useless. "Tell the peacocks I want them ready to head north to repel intruders!"
The shooting grew louder as they hurried down to the control room, such as it was. The SS hadn't seen any need to fortify their complex, not when they were in the middle of a much bigger garrison ... Hans promised himself heads would roll as he charged into the room. Half the duty officers were missing and the remainder looked on the verge of panic as they screamed into their phones. Hans cursed under his breath, then pointed his pistol at the ceiling and fired a single shot. The shouting and screaming died away sharply. Hans tried not to scream himself, scream in frustration. They hadn't even tried to draw their pistols before realising who'd fired the shot. Idiots. They'd spent so long in a safe billet that they'd forgotten a situation could shift from safe to dangerous in the blink of an eye. And the enemy had taken full advantage of it.
"Report," he barked.
"Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, I have been unable to reach the duty office or the barracks," an operator managed. He stammered so much that Hans had to fight to keep from slapping the idiot as hard as he could. "I ..."
"They're gone, dummkopf," Hans snarled. If the duty officer was still alive, hopefully the man would have the wit to eat his own pistol before the SS caught up with him. A strong man in his position could have accomplished much, if he'd had the time to act. "Try to call the nearest base outside the wire!"
The shooting grew louder. Hans silently took stock of the situation. He had twelve men under his command, counting the wretched Keitel. None were armed with anything heavier than sidearms ... he cursed under his breath. The enemy wouldn't be shooting so heavily if they didn't have something to shoot at, which suggested they knew they hadn't won yet, but ...
"No response, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer," the operator said. "They cut the lines!"
"Obviously," Hans snarled. It was a simple trick, and very effective. "Get on the radio. Get in touch with whoever you can and order them to send reinforcements to the base. Now!"
He forced himself to think. The attack was bigger than anything the French Resistance had ever mounted, which suggested it wasn't the French. A British paratrooper unit? It would be an act of war, but if they knew how badly the balance of power was tilting against them they might take the chance. Or ... it might be the start of a full-scale invasion. The Reich had always known the war would resume one day, and it had plenty of examples of Anglo-American perfidy, and for all he knew the British and Americans were restarting the war. They would lose, of course, but he wasn't fool enough to dismiss their prowess. It was quite possible their bombers were hitting bases right across the Reich even now, making any sort of coordinated response to the invasion impossible. They might even be landing along the west coast of France. It would be a logistics nightmare, but the Americans had managed to invade Japan ... without a giant unsinkable aircraft carrier anywhere so near the front lines.
The messenger he'd sent returned, his face pale with sweat. "Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, the Flakkorps are moving into position."
Hans nodded, curtly. Finally, something was going right. "Order their commander to deploy to the north of this building, and hold the line," he said. He knew nothing about what was going on to the north, or what the enemy commandos were doing, and he dared not send the Flakkorps in blind. The enemy might be heading for the guest worker pens, perhaps assuming Von Braun was amongst them ... if they even knew Von Braun was on the base. No, they had to know. The attack could not possibly be a coincidence. "We'll move out in support."
He ignored their shocked looks as weapons were handed out and checked. The attack wouldn't last forever. Reinforcements would be on the way soon, if they weren't already, and daylight would bring illumination to the scene. And then ... he shook his head. The attack had to be beaten off, and quickly. His career and his life, so safe only an hour ago, were in jeopardy again. He wasn't in the base's formal chain of command, Himmler's orders notwithstanding, but if he wound up being the senior surviving officer ...
His lips twisted as he led his men outside, leaving only one man in place to make contact with the outside world. At this rate, they're going to have trouble deciding what to put on the execution warrant.
***
Kathleen felt cold as they hurried through the corridors, despite the night warmth and the fires burning brightly nearby. The SS complex was so ... normal, a drab office block that was neither as grandiose as the giant buildings in Berlin nor a chamber of horrors like the ones she'd seen in other parts of the Reich. She could pretend, if she wished, that it was just a simple office, no different from the offices built in Cardiff or Glasgow to house the resettled British Civil Service. But the true horror lay in just how mundane it truly was. It was easy to forget that the office building belonged to the SS, or that decisions made within its walls would destroy the lives of millions, or ...
"Two men are heading down to the command post," Jean-Luc said. "They'll keep the operators from sounding the alarm."
Too late, Kathleen thought. The explosions would have been heard – and seen - for miles around. If the Germans weren't already scrambling reinforcements, she'd be astonished. The only upside was that their deployments would make it hard to concentrate their forces before going in, giving the French time to complete their mission and vanish into the countryside. They already know we're here.
She heard windows shattering up ahead and grimaced. The resistance fighters didn't know who they were looking for, or why ... it was quite possible Von Braun had already been killed in the crossfire, or murdered by his captors to keep him out of British hands She told herself it couldn't have happened, that God could not be so cruel, as she made her way into the cell block and opened the first cell. A young woman looked up from the bed, her eyes blinking in shock. Kathleen stared. Greta?
"Come with us or stay here," she snapped. What the hell was Greta doing here? The SS must have realised that Gudrun had been replaced, somewhere along the line, after she'd vanished from the troop. Greta looked unharmed, but Kathleen would sooner have received six of the best than spend two nights in SS custody. There were plenty of ways to weaken someone's resistance without open brutality and the SS knew them all. "Either way, choose now."
The building shook, violently. The shooting grew louder. Kathleen suspected the defenders were rallying, getting organised ... she ignored Jean-Luc's incredulous stare as Greta tottered forward to join them, her face pale. Kathleen caught her arm and pulled her down the corridor as the other cells were opened one by one, revealing a number of Frenchmen and Werner Von Braun. Kathleen could have kissed him, as he looked up at her. The mission hadn't failed, and the lives she'd spent had not been wasted. The affair wasn't over yet.
Jean-Luc's men rejoined them. "The operator is dead," the leader said. "We put a few bullets in the radio too."
Kathleen nodded, curtly, as they hurried down the stairs towards the rear entrance. The enemy had focused on the northern attack and hopefully missed the attack coming in from the south, the truly dangerous one. She heard Jean-Luc passing out weapons to the liberated Frenchmen, telling them to head through the southern gap in the fence and keep heading south. Most would be recaptured very quickly, once the Germans threw up a cordon, but they'd buy time for Kathleen and Von Brain – and Greta – to make their escape.
"This way," she said. "Quickly."
The shooting was even louder outside, the crack of bullets snapping through the air contrasting oddly with the mortar rounds and sniper fire. The latter was dangerous as hell – it was hard enough separating friend from foe when they wore different uniforms and here both sides were wearing the same uniforms – but the snipers had orders to avoid firing into the southern side of the base. She hoped they followed orders, that they didn't get carried away as the skirmish flowed out of control. The resistance fighters had kept their heads down for years, rather than fighting for their freedom. And now they finally had a chance to hurt the Germans ...
Two men materialised out of the hangar. "The aircraft is ready," the first reported. "We cleared the ground crews, and rigged the hangar to blow."
Kathleen nodded, her eyes sweeping over the small transport and the handful of propeller fighters. Outdated now, she knew, but the Luftwaffe kept the jet aircraft back to cover Germany itself. Hermann Göring had been deeply embarrassed when the RAF had bombed Berlin – after Göring had promised Hitler the RAF wouldn't get close to Germany, let alone bomb the capital – and he'd made sure it wouldn't happen again. Kathleen had been told it wasn't a bad deployment – the jet aircraft could be surged forward, when the Germans finally mounted their long-feared invasion of Britain, while being assured of plenty of warning if the British tried to bomb Germany instead – but it had bitten them hard. The RAF had refused to allow SOE agents to train on jet aircraft.
She motioned for Von Braun to board the aircraft, then dragged Greta aside. "I owe you a favour," she said, although it wasn't strictly true. "We're going to Britain. If you want to come with us, you can" – she knew SOE would be delighted to get their hands on a native German, one who could teach their agents how to pass in the developing Reich – "and if not, we can tie you up here and you can tell the SS you tried to resist."
Greta hesitated, visibly. Kathleen waited, all too aware of what must be going through the young girl's mind. Her mother and grandmother had admitted they'd struggled to leave Germany, even though they'd known darkness was already falling over their homeland. It hadn't been easy to leave ... Greta had it even worse, Kathleen supposed. She wasn't an Untermensch, not by Hitler's absurd standards. And yet, the fact she'd been in the cell was clear proof she'd never be allowed to return to her previous life. The best she could hope for was being sent east, to marry some settler-farmer, and never being allowed west again.
The shooting seemed to flag, just for a second. Jean-Luc twitched. "We need to move ..."
"I'm coming with you," Greta said.
Kathleen nodded, and dragged her towards the plane. The shooting was getting closer ... she made a mental note to keep an eye on Greta as she boarded the aircraft, just in case. Greta had nothing to look forward too, in the Reich, but she might not have realised it yet. If she did something stupid, Kathleen would have bare seconds to deal with it.
The slammed the hatch closed. Kathleen shoved Greta to the nearest seat and motioned for Von Braun to show her how to buckle herself in, then hurried to the cockpit. The French had offered a pilot, but their flight training was even more out of date than hers. Vichy's air force was a joke, barely capable of terrorising tribesmen in Africa, and it wouldn't last an hour if the Luftwaffe came calling. She breathed a sigh of relief as she checked the cockpit – the Luftwaffe, thankfully, standardised its designs as much as possible – and started the engine. The plane drove forward, onto the runway ...
Kathleen allowed herself a tight smile. The base was burning brightly ... the resistance fighters had orders to fall back, as soon as they started to run low on ammunition, but some had apparently decided to stay and fight to the end. Whatever happened, she promised herself, the Germans would not forget this day. And nor would the rest of the world.
***
Hans realised his mistake, too late, the moment the messenger returned from the SS block.
"Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, Hauptscharfuehrer Johan is dead!"
He swore out loud, and to hell with discipline. He'd been tricked. He'd thought the block was secure, in the rear of the base, and instead the enemy had somehow gotten around him and assaulted the SS block. Von Braun was either dead or on the run again and either way Hans was thoroughly fucked. There was no going back now. The only upside – they were out of touch with higher authority – wasn't enough to salvage the situation.
His mind raced as they ran back to the complex too late. The prisoners were gone. The enemy bitch – he knew it was her – had outthought him. Again. She'd snatched Von Braun from under his nose and that meant ... she had to have a plan to get him out. Somehow. Hans forced himself to think, suddenly sure Keitel was laughing at him. She had to know his reinforcements were already on the way and this time they'd be no mercy, no light hand to avoid revealing just who was trying to flee the Reich. The whole region would be sewn up tighter than a nun's ...
He knew the answer, again too late. He led his men to the airfield, just in time to see a small aircraft – the transport he'd arranged for Von Braun, of all the things – head down the runway, picking up speed. Hans knew, with absolute certainty, that Von Braun was on that aircraft, with a transponder code that guaranteed the radar stations would let it go without interception. The Englishwoman might not know to use the code, but ... if she flew west she might pass unhindered anyway. The radar operators would assume the transport was on an insertion mission and let her go, for fear of winding up in the camps. And Hans couldn't get the word out any longer.
Hans swore again, then levelled his submachine gun. The aircraft was vulnerable as long as it was on the ground. He pulled the trigger, then staggered as Keitel accidentally bumped into him. The bullets went wide, missing their target as the aircraft took off and ... Hans swung around and shot Keitel in the head, watching his brains splatter the tarmac. The other troopers stared in horror. Field executions were rare, even in the SS, and Hans would find himself in hot water if word got back to Berlin. His earlier thoughts returned to mock him. Berlin would have great trouble trying to decide just what to put on his execution warrant.
"Join the remaining defenders and drive the attackers out of the complex," he ordered, as he ran to the nearest aircraft. "Hurry."
It wasn't over yet, he told himself. Himmler, in his wisdom, insisted his stormtroopers cross train and Hans had earned his aviation wings. He knew he wasn't the most capable fighter pilot in the world, and any real fighter ace would make mincemeat out of him, but there was no one else. The Luftwaffe wouldn't scramble in time to make a difference, not now. It was up to him.
"I'm coming for you," he growled, as he started the engine and hurled the plane down the runway. He no longer cared to recapture Von Braun. He just wanted the traitor dead. His career had died when the base had come under attack, leaving him with nothing to lose. "This time, you won't escape me."
The first glimmering of dawn could be seen in the distance. He promised himself it would be the last dawn Von Braun would ever see.
Well,first scientist murdered were actually poles.Germans murdered our elites from 1939,when jew was mass-murdered from beginning of 1942.
And,they should pretend to be soviets - it was common tactic for polish partisants to cosplay as soviet bandits and shout "long live sralin" ,becouse germans usually do not genocide next polish village then.
Which happened after each action of polish partisants.Here,where we would have notching to lost? i bet,that in 1949 germans killed no more then 6M of us,and there was still at least 100.000 polish partisants still fighting.
All in all - good and funny Deux ex,but considering how little power De Gaulle have in France,impossible.
If she meet french commies instead...they could still have some units there.
And,they should pretend to be soviets - it was common tactic for polish partisants to cosplay as soviet bandits and shout "long live sralin" ,becouse germans usually do not genocide next polish village then.
Which happened after each action of polish partisants.Here,where we would have notching to lost? i bet,that in 1949 germans killed no more then 6M of us,and there was still at least 100.000 polish partisants still fighting.
All in all - good and funny Deux ex,but considering how little power De Gaulle have in France,impossible.
If she meet french commies instead...they could still have some units there.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
New
ChrisNuttall
Well-known member
Chapter Twenty-Nine: English Channel, 1949
Kathleen didn't relax until they were well-clear of the burning garrison, heading west.
"They'll see us on radar," Von Braun said. "Won't they send aircraft after us?"
"I doubt it," Kathleen said. She certainly hoped not. She wasn't a skilled enough pilot to fly low enough to evade radar detection. "They'll see us heading west and unless they have been warned to look out for us, they'll assume we're SS and let us go."
Her lips twisted, grimly. A young radar operator – his name was Goldfarb, a distant relation of hers – had been scolded for doing his job too well, when he'd vectored RAF aircraft to intercept an SOE insertion mission. She hoped he hadn't gotten in real trouble – better safe than sorry – but if there was some German version of him watching the skies over Occupied France he could still save Germany from a very embarrassing disaster. She eyed the map thoughtfully as she set course for Britain, hoping and praying they could get over the English Channel before the Nazis managed to decide what to do. If they scrambled interceptors, the transport was a sitting duck.
She tried not to think about the other possibility. The RAF might try to force down a lone aircraft, rather than simply putting cannon shells through the winds and watching her plummet to the ground, but it was impossible to be sure. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to communicate with the British pilots – she checked the radio, making sure she knew how to use it – and if they thought she was carrying a super-bomb they might open fire first and ask questions later. She raised her eyes and peered into the darkness, watching the first glimmer of sunlight appear in the distance. They wouldn't know they were being pursued until the enemy opened fire and by then it would be too late. The transport was surprisingly luxurious, but there was no onboard radar set or anything else she could use to monitor the surrounding airspace. The Luftwaffe hadn't managed to make the concept of airborne radar work properly. Not yet.
Greta rubbed her ears. "Who are you?"
Kathleen locked the controls, then unbuckled herself and stood. The aircraft felt reassuringly solid, compared to SOE's small fleet of insertion aircraft, although she knew the airframe wouldn't stand up to anything heavier than a slingshot. They'd been lucky the guards below had been distracted, or they might have put bullets though the hull. The Germans built good aircraft – Kathleen had to give the Luftwaffe credit for that – but she had no idea how well the plane would fly if there were bullet holes in the airframe. They might crash well before they crossed the coastline, or ...
"We're on the run," she said, looking for the parachutes she knew had to be stored at the rear of the aircraft. She wondered, suddenly, if they'd stolen the aircraft that had been intended to fly Von Braun back to Berlin. It was quite possible. The Germans built good parachutes too, but – from what she'd heard – they rarely bothered to outfit transport aircraft with more than a handful of lifesaving supplies. "Unbuckle yourself, then put this on."
Greta stood and took the parachute. Kathleen checked and rechecked, wishing they had a proper jumpmaster, then gave her a handful of brief instructions. "If we have to bail, jump out of the hatch and let yourself fall, counting to twenty before you pull the cord," she said, curtly. "Don't pull it any earlier. The parachute might strike the plane and tear."
Greta swallowed. "What happens if we're too low to pull the cord before we hit the ground?"
"We die," Kathleen told her. There was no point in hiding the truth. The Luftwaffe - and the RAF – was committed to saving the lives of its pilots, when they had to bail out, but parachuting out of a burning aircraft was incredibly dangerous, to be done only if there was no other choice. She'd done some parachute training, years ago, but she'd never actually had to jump out of a plane into enemy territory. "The parachute will give you a better chance at surviving, yet ..."
She shrugged and checked Von Braun's parachute – he knew how to use it, although she'd be astonished if he'd ever been allowed to jump out of a plane – and then returned to the cockpit. The aircraft was flying steadily west – she took a moment to calculate their position, all too aware it was little more than an educated guess – and was heading over the English Channel. She peered down, seeing Occupied France vanishing into the distance. Her heart felt cold, even though she knew she'd given the Germans a bloody nose they'd never forget. The occupation authorities would know what had happened now, if she was any judge, and they'd already be dispatching troops to teach the French a lesson. It sounded so bloodless, but it was anything but. Towns would be raided and razed to the ground, Frenchmen would be lined up and shot and Frenchwomen would be dispatched to the brothels, to be worked to death until they could work no more. She wondered if Jean-Luc had survived, wondered if he'd curse her name in the weeks and months to come. His resistance troop had fought well, but they were no match for the full might of the Heer and the Waffen-SS and that was what they were going to be facing.
But at least they gave the Germans a bloody nose, she thought, grimly. And taught them they couldn't assume the French would remain submissive forever ...
She looked down, silently counting the moments. The flight shouldn't take that long. She didn't need to fly directly to London, just put the aircraft down somewhere past Dover and hope the local Home Guard wasn't in a mood to open fire first and ask questions later. The RAF wouldn't let her get any closer to London, and they might have her on radar already. She didn't know the exact capabilities of the radar network – her instructors had been very vague about certain things – but she understood enough to know they would be intercepted shortly. A single aircraft wasn't a major threat, and yet ...
... And then she saw the tracers.
He gunned the engine, cursing the ground crew – again – as he realised he was low on fuel. There was no time to be clever as he crossed the coastline, no time to wait for assistance ... if anyone even tried to help. The wretched transport had an SS transponder – it was how he was shadowing the aircraft, even in the dark sky – and that practically guaranteed the Luftwaffe would stay on the ground, rather than get involved. Hans ground his teeth at the thought. Air defence procedures would have to be tightened up, once the Reich put the full story together and worked out what had happened. If nothing else, they needed a better notification system ...
The thought mocked him as he closed with the transport, all too aware he was far too close to Britain for comfort. The RAF would be scrambling, Spitfires and Hurricanes and even Meteors piloted by men who knew what they were doing. Hans knew how to fly, but he was no match for a proper fighter pilot and there was no point in pretending otherwise. He braced himself, gritting his teeth, and aimed a warning shot. The tracers spat through the air, clearly visible in the dawn. He thought he saw the transport flinch, even though he knew it was his imagination. They knew they were being hunted now.
Hans smiled, and fired again.
"Shoot back," Von Braun snapped.
"With what?" Kathleen threw the transport into a series of evasive manoeuvres, catching a glimpse of their pursuer as they dodged another burst of trader fire. A lone propeller fighter ... probably from the base they'd raided and escaped. There might be more, holding back to make sure she didn't see them until it was too late. "This crate doesn't have any guns!"
She forced herself to think. They were close to Britain now, but not close enough. The enemy fighter could easily follow them through any manoeuvres she made, and she had no way to know if the RAF would arrive in time to save them. The flyboys were almost as good as they thought they were, but the iron laws of time and distance worked against them. Even a jet might not reach them in time, and she'd been warned that propeller aircraft were not as helpless against jets as both the RAF and the Luftwaffe insisted. And besides, with what looked like one German aircraft chasing another, it was just possible the flyboys would hesitate to open fire. It would be an act of war, and the Luftwaffe had hundreds of squadrons on the far side of the English Channel, itching to refight the Battle of Britain. It could end very badly ...
Another round of tracer fire struck the left engine. The German pilot had clearly run out of patience. Kathleen gritted her teeth. She knew what he wanted – her to reverse course and fly back to France – and she also knew she couldn't do it. Her mind raced, considering options. They could fly on one engine, but not for very long ... they might have to bail out, the moment they crossed the coastline, rather than try to land the aircraft. She was already too badly damaged for anyone's peace of mind.
"Get to the hatch," she ordered. She flew level, hoping the enemy pilot would think they were surrendering. "Hurry!"
She waited, judging the situation carefully as the enemy plane flew up beside her. She could see a man in the cockpit, his face hidden behind a mask. Her lips twitched in relief. He wasn't a Luftwaffe fighter ace, thankfully. A pilot who knew what he was doing would never have made such an elementary mistake. It didn't mean he wasn't dangerous – her instructors had cautioned her that the world's best swordsman didn't fear the second-best, but the worst ... because it was impossible to predict what the idiot would do – but it gave her a chance to strike back. Bracing herself, she guided the wingtip until it crashed into the fighter plane ...
Metal howled in protest. Kathleen stood and ran to the hatch, hoping and praying Von Braun and Greta hadn't fiddled with their parachutes. There was no time to check. She blew the hatch open and shoved them out, then followed. The aircraft spun away from them, heading downwards at terrifying speed. Kathleen allowed herself a moment of relief as she counted to ten and then pulled the cord. Whatever else happened, the aircraft wouldn't crash on British soil.
And then she saw the fourth parachute.
He slammed the canopy back and started to clamber out of the cockpit. The plane kept spinning, gravity picking him up and hurling him away from the aircraft as she corkscrewed towards the ground. Hans had a brief moment of triumph when he saw the transport heading down too – she was clearly badly damaged, flames pouring from her rear as she plunged towards the water – and then he saw the parachutes. Three parachutes ... he cursed under his breath. Von Braun, his escort, and ... he shrugged a moment later, as his parachute deployed. There wasn't any time to wonder, to do anything more than cut their throats before the British arrived. They'd have aircraft on the way already, if he was any judge, and fast boats right behind them.
His fall slowed rapidly, but not enough to keep the breath from being knocked out of him when he hit the water. Training asserted itself; he unhooked the parachute and dived underneath, kicking off his boots as he felt water flooding into his uniform, the weight threatening to drag him down into the darkness. There were horror stories of pilots who fell into the English Channel ... the British, to do them credit, did try to rescue fallen pilots from both sides, but the tides and currents made it difficult to get a man out if there wasn't a rescue aircraft already on the way. He surfaced, his lungs burning as he gasped for breath, then looked around. Three heads were bobbling in the distance, two clearly female. Greta? Hans blinked, wondering if she'd lied to him, then decided it didn't matter. It was just another failure, one that was going to get him killed. His life was over.
He drew his pistol, then cursed. The weapon was waterlogged, more dangerous to him than his targets. He let go of the pistol, then reached for his dagger. It would have to suffice.
She heard a sound and looked up. The German was swimming towards them, his face riven with a strange mixture of determination and fanaticism. Kathleen stared, recognising the man who had nearly captured her ... and only been deterred by Von Braun's threat to kill himself. The man was mad ... no, no matter what happened, the man was doomed. Kathleen knew her superiors would not be forgiving, if she lost the man in her charge – twice – and the SS would be even less forbidding. She saw the glint of a knife, half-hidden in the water, and cursed under her breath. Her clothes were already waterlogged, making swimming difficult, and the odds were good the bastard was both stronger and a better swimmer than her.
"Get away," Von Braun shouted. Kathleen couldn't tell if he was trying to deter the SS officer or if he was panicking. Greta really was panicking, splashing water as she struggled to remain afloat. The BDM insisted girls needed to know how to swim, but Kathleen doubted they'd forced the girls to practice while fully clothed. "Get away ..."
Kathleen slipped her blade back into her belt then caught hold of Greta, allowing the younger girl to push her down. It was hard to swim under the water, but between the shouting and the splashing it was just possible the German wouldn't notice her. He was bent on Von Braun, bent on killing him before it was too late ... bent on beating her at the very last second. She fought for breath as she angled upwards, hoping she'd judged it right ...
And then a hand grabbed her hair and pulled.
He was too weak to punch her, so he wrapped his hand around her throat instead. Her eyes were hard, burning with defiance ... the cold was getting to her too, if all she could do was splash water into his face. He wanted to hurt her, to beat her into complete submission, but he didn't have time. And besides, she had fought like a man and so she could die like a man.
Von Braun shouted something. Hans looked up ...
... And then he felt the knife entering his heart.
Von Braun shouted something. The SS stormtrooper loosened his grip, just enough for her to draw the blade and stab him through the heart. He convulsed, giving her a bare second to pull free before it was too late. Blood tainted the water as she drew the knife back, meeting his eyes. A surge of hatred ran through her as she saw his collar, the SS runes clearly visible. The bastard was everything she hated, everything that had driven her family away from Germany when it had turned into a nightmare, all wrapped up in a single body. She didn't just want him dead. She wanted him to suffer.
"You ..."
She met his eyes. "My family were German," she hissed. It felt good to finally say it, even though she knew he'd never take it home. She could hear an aircraft approaching from the west – a flying boat, if she was any judge – and she knew he would be dead before the pilot managed to put her down. "And I am a Jew!"
And she rammed the knife home as hard as she could.
Kathleen didn't relax until they were well-clear of the burning garrison, heading west.
"They'll see us on radar," Von Braun said. "Won't they send aircraft after us?"
"I doubt it," Kathleen said. She certainly hoped not. She wasn't a skilled enough pilot to fly low enough to evade radar detection. "They'll see us heading west and unless they have been warned to look out for us, they'll assume we're SS and let us go."
Her lips twisted, grimly. A young radar operator – his name was Goldfarb, a distant relation of hers – had been scolded for doing his job too well, when he'd vectored RAF aircraft to intercept an SOE insertion mission. She hoped he hadn't gotten in real trouble – better safe than sorry – but if there was some German version of him watching the skies over Occupied France he could still save Germany from a very embarrassing disaster. She eyed the map thoughtfully as she set course for Britain, hoping and praying they could get over the English Channel before the Nazis managed to decide what to do. If they scrambled interceptors, the transport was a sitting duck.
She tried not to think about the other possibility. The RAF might try to force down a lone aircraft, rather than simply putting cannon shells through the winds and watching her plummet to the ground, but it was impossible to be sure. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to communicate with the British pilots – she checked the radio, making sure she knew how to use it – and if they thought she was carrying a super-bomb they might open fire first and ask questions later. She raised her eyes and peered into the darkness, watching the first glimmer of sunlight appear in the distance. They wouldn't know they were being pursued until the enemy opened fire and by then it would be too late. The transport was surprisingly luxurious, but there was no onboard radar set or anything else she could use to monitor the surrounding airspace. The Luftwaffe hadn't managed to make the concept of airborne radar work properly. Not yet.
Greta rubbed her ears. "Who are you?"
Kathleen locked the controls, then unbuckled herself and stood. The aircraft felt reassuringly solid, compared to SOE's small fleet of insertion aircraft, although she knew the airframe wouldn't stand up to anything heavier than a slingshot. They'd been lucky the guards below had been distracted, or they might have put bullets though the hull. The Germans built good aircraft – Kathleen had to give the Luftwaffe credit for that – but she had no idea how well the plane would fly if there were bullet holes in the airframe. They might crash well before they crossed the coastline, or ...
"We're on the run," she said, looking for the parachutes she knew had to be stored at the rear of the aircraft. She wondered, suddenly, if they'd stolen the aircraft that had been intended to fly Von Braun back to Berlin. It was quite possible. The Germans built good parachutes too, but – from what she'd heard – they rarely bothered to outfit transport aircraft with more than a handful of lifesaving supplies. "Unbuckle yourself, then put this on."
Greta stood and took the parachute. Kathleen checked and rechecked, wishing they had a proper jumpmaster, then gave her a handful of brief instructions. "If we have to bail, jump out of the hatch and let yourself fall, counting to twenty before you pull the cord," she said, curtly. "Don't pull it any earlier. The parachute might strike the plane and tear."
Greta swallowed. "What happens if we're too low to pull the cord before we hit the ground?"
"We die," Kathleen told her. There was no point in hiding the truth. The Luftwaffe - and the RAF – was committed to saving the lives of its pilots, when they had to bail out, but parachuting out of a burning aircraft was incredibly dangerous, to be done only if there was no other choice. She'd done some parachute training, years ago, but she'd never actually had to jump out of a plane into enemy territory. "The parachute will give you a better chance at surviving, yet ..."
She shrugged and checked Von Braun's parachute – he knew how to use it, although she'd be astonished if he'd ever been allowed to jump out of a plane – and then returned to the cockpit. The aircraft was flying steadily west – she took a moment to calculate their position, all too aware it was little more than an educated guess – and was heading over the English Channel. She peered down, seeing Occupied France vanishing into the distance. Her heart felt cold, even though she knew she'd given the Germans a bloody nose they'd never forget. The occupation authorities would know what had happened now, if she was any judge, and they'd already be dispatching troops to teach the French a lesson. It sounded so bloodless, but it was anything but. Towns would be raided and razed to the ground, Frenchmen would be lined up and shot and Frenchwomen would be dispatched to the brothels, to be worked to death until they could work no more. She wondered if Jean-Luc had survived, wondered if he'd curse her name in the weeks and months to come. His resistance troop had fought well, but they were no match for the full might of the Heer and the Waffen-SS and that was what they were going to be facing.
But at least they gave the Germans a bloody nose, she thought, grimly. And taught them they couldn't assume the French would remain submissive forever ...
She looked down, silently counting the moments. The flight shouldn't take that long. She didn't need to fly directly to London, just put the aircraft down somewhere past Dover and hope the local Home Guard wasn't in a mood to open fire first and ask questions later. The RAF wouldn't let her get any closer to London, and they might have her on radar already. She didn't know the exact capabilities of the radar network – her instructors had been very vague about certain things – but she understood enough to know they would be intercepted shortly. A single aircraft wasn't a major threat, and yet ...
... And then she saw the tracers.
***
Hans swore out loud, time and time again, as he tried to work the radio while following the transponder beacon. The system was useless, damaged by the British or Luftwaffe maintenance or ... he promised himself he'd have the ground crew shot the moment he returned to German soil, although he was all too aware he was unlikely to ever return. He'd seen the burning remains of the garrison as he'd steered his commandeered fighter into the air, the fires grim proof that he'd failed spectacularly. The attack – British commandos, he was sure – had worked like a charm, taking out the entire garrison and leaving countless dead bodies strewn on the ground. They'd never be sure the guest workers and prisoners hadn't escaped ... the only thing he knew for sure was that he'd be blamed for the disaster and shot himself. The thought gave him an odd sense of freedom. There was no going back now.
He gunned the engine, cursing the ground crew – again – as he realised he was low on fuel. There was no time to be clever as he crossed the coastline, no time to wait for assistance ... if anyone even tried to help. The wretched transport had an SS transponder – it was how he was shadowing the aircraft, even in the dark sky – and that practically guaranteed the Luftwaffe would stay on the ground, rather than get involved. Hans ground his teeth at the thought. Air defence procedures would have to be tightened up, once the Reich put the full story together and worked out what had happened. If nothing else, they needed a better notification system ...
The thought mocked him as he closed with the transport, all too aware he was far too close to Britain for comfort. The RAF would be scrambling, Spitfires and Hurricanes and even Meteors piloted by men who knew what they were doing. Hans knew how to fly, but he was no match for a proper fighter pilot and there was no point in pretending otherwise. He braced himself, gritting his teeth, and aimed a warning shot. The tracers spat through the air, clearly visible in the dawn. He thought he saw the transport flinch, even though he knew it was his imagination. They knew they were being hunted now.
Hans smiled, and fired again.
***
Greta screamed.
"Shoot back," Von Braun snapped.
"With what?" Kathleen threw the transport into a series of evasive manoeuvres, catching a glimpse of their pursuer as they dodged another burst of trader fire. A lone propeller fighter ... probably from the base they'd raided and escaped. There might be more, holding back to make sure she didn't see them until it was too late. "This crate doesn't have any guns!"
She forced herself to think. They were close to Britain now, but not close enough. The enemy fighter could easily follow them through any manoeuvres she made, and she had no way to know if the RAF would arrive in time to save them. The flyboys were almost as good as they thought they were, but the iron laws of time and distance worked against them. Even a jet might not reach them in time, and she'd been warned that propeller aircraft were not as helpless against jets as both the RAF and the Luftwaffe insisted. And besides, with what looked like one German aircraft chasing another, it was just possible the flyboys would hesitate to open fire. It would be an act of war, and the Luftwaffe had hundreds of squadrons on the far side of the English Channel, itching to refight the Battle of Britain. It could end very badly ...
Another round of tracer fire struck the left engine. The German pilot had clearly run out of patience. Kathleen gritted her teeth. She knew what he wanted – her to reverse course and fly back to France – and she also knew she couldn't do it. Her mind raced, considering options. They could fly on one engine, but not for very long ... they might have to bail out, the moment they crossed the coastline, rather than try to land the aircraft. She was already too badly damaged for anyone's peace of mind.
"Get to the hatch," she ordered. She flew level, hoping the enemy pilot would think they were surrendering. "Hurry!"
She waited, judging the situation carefully as the enemy plane flew up beside her. She could see a man in the cockpit, his face hidden behind a mask. Her lips twitched in relief. He wasn't a Luftwaffe fighter ace, thankfully. A pilot who knew what he was doing would never have made such an elementary mistake. It didn't mean he wasn't dangerous – her instructors had cautioned her that the world's best swordsman didn't fear the second-best, but the worst ... because it was impossible to predict what the idiot would do – but it gave her a chance to strike back. Bracing herself, she guided the wingtip until it crashed into the fighter plane ...
Metal howled in protest. Kathleen stood and ran to the hatch, hoping and praying Von Braun and Greta hadn't fiddled with their parachutes. There was no time to check. She blew the hatch open and shoved them out, then followed. The aircraft spun away from them, heading downwards at terrifying speed. Kathleen allowed herself a moment of relief as she counted to ten and then pulled the cord. Whatever else happened, the aircraft wouldn't crash on British soil.
And then she saw the fourth parachute.
***
Hans realised his mistake, a moment too late. The transport was unarmed, but that didn't mean it wasn't dangerous. The Japanese had pioneered the concept of turning aircraft into makeshift missiles – the Americans had lost a handful of carriers to aircraft crammed with explosives – and the enemy pilot had clearly studied the Pacific War. He – no, she – brought her wing into contact with his, crumpling the metal and sending his aircraft careening over and over, plummeting down with terrifying speed. Hans knew, without question, that his aircraft was doomed. The rear had already caught fire.
He slammed the canopy back and started to clamber out of the cockpit. The plane kept spinning, gravity picking him up and hurling him away from the aircraft as she corkscrewed towards the ground. Hans had a brief moment of triumph when he saw the transport heading down too – she was clearly badly damaged, flames pouring from her rear as she plunged towards the water – and then he saw the parachutes. Three parachutes ... he cursed under his breath. Von Braun, his escort, and ... he shrugged a moment later, as his parachute deployed. There wasn't any time to wonder, to do anything more than cut their throats before the British arrived. They'd have aircraft on the way already, if he was any judge, and fast boats right behind them.
His fall slowed rapidly, but not enough to keep the breath from being knocked out of him when he hit the water. Training asserted itself; he unhooked the parachute and dived underneath, kicking off his boots as he felt water flooding into his uniform, the weight threatening to drag him down into the darkness. There were horror stories of pilots who fell into the English Channel ... the British, to do them credit, did try to rescue fallen pilots from both sides, but the tides and currents made it difficult to get a man out if there wasn't a rescue aircraft already on the way. He surfaced, his lungs burning as he gasped for breath, then looked around. Three heads were bobbling in the distance, two clearly female. Greta? Hans blinked, wondering if she'd lied to him, then decided it didn't matter. It was just another failure, one that was going to get him killed. His life was over.
He drew his pistol, then cursed. The weapon was waterlogged, more dangerous to him than his targets. He let go of the pistol, then reached for his dagger. It would have to suffice.
***
"Get out of the parachute," Kathleen shouted. It wasn't easy. She had nearly drowned, the sole time she'd practiced trying to get out of a waterlogged parachute, and that had been under controlled conditions. Greta was panicking ... Kathleen swam to her, drew her knife and used it to cut the parachute free. Von Braun, thankfully, had already freed himself. "Kick off your shoes and ..."
She heard a sound and looked up. The German was swimming towards them, his face riven with a strange mixture of determination and fanaticism. Kathleen stared, recognising the man who had nearly captured her ... and only been deterred by Von Braun's threat to kill himself. The man was mad ... no, no matter what happened, the man was doomed. Kathleen knew her superiors would not be forgiving, if she lost the man in her charge – twice – and the SS would be even less forbidding. She saw the glint of a knife, half-hidden in the water, and cursed under her breath. Her clothes were already waterlogged, making swimming difficult, and the odds were good the bastard was both stronger and a better swimmer than her.
"Get away," Von Braun shouted. Kathleen couldn't tell if he was trying to deter the SS officer or if he was panicking. Greta really was panicking, splashing water as she struggled to remain afloat. The BDM insisted girls needed to know how to swim, but Kathleen doubted they'd forced the girls to practice while fully clothed. "Get away ..."
Kathleen slipped her blade back into her belt then caught hold of Greta, allowing the younger girl to push her down. It was hard to swim under the water, but between the shouting and the splashing it was just possible the German wouldn't notice her. He was bent on Von Braun, bent on killing him before it was too late ... bent on beating her at the very last second. She fought for breath as she angled upwards, hoping she'd judged it right ...
And then a hand grabbed her hair and pulled.
***
Hans had never practiced any sort of water combat, but he refused to believe the Englishwoman who'd led him on a merry chase across Europe could possibly drown. He'd seen a glimpse of her swimming under the water and grabbed hold, yanking her upwards. Up close, water running out of her sodden hair and flowing down her face, she was strikingly pretty, even if she was indecently dressed. Her waterlogged outfit left absolutely nothing to the imagination ... Hans felt an odd surge of respect, mingled with resentment. If only she'd been German! Her children would have reshaped the world.
He was too weak to punch her, so he wrapped his hand around her throat instead. Her eyes were hard, burning with defiance ... the cold was getting to her too, if all she could do was splash water into his face. He wanted to hurt her, to beat her into complete submission, but he didn't have time. And besides, she had fought like a man and so she could die like a man.
Von Braun shouted something. Hans looked up ...
... And then he felt the knife entering his heart.
***
Kathleen knew she was dead, the moment he wrapped his hand around her throat. He was strong – she could feel his body pressing against her, his muscles hard – and it was all she could do to splash water at him, while she tried to draw her blade. It would be enough to kill him, she told herself. Help was already on the way ... or so she hoped. And ... his grip was tightening, her vision starting to dim ...
Von Braun shouted something. The SS stormtrooper loosened his grip, just enough for her to draw the blade and stab him through the heart. He convulsed, giving her a bare second to pull free before it was too late. Blood tainted the water as she drew the knife back, meeting his eyes. A surge of hatred ran through her as she saw his collar, the SS runes clearly visible. The bastard was everything she hated, everything that had driven her family away from Germany when it had turned into a nightmare, all wrapped up in a single body. She didn't just want him dead. She wanted him to suffer.
"You ..."
She met his eyes. "My family were German," she hissed. It felt good to finally say it, even though she knew he'd never take it home. She could hear an aircraft approaching from the west – a flying boat, if she was any judge – and she knew he would be dead before the pilot managed to put her down. "And I am a Jew!"
And she rammed the knife home as hard as she could.
Good on ya' lass.
Chapter Thirty
New
ChrisNuttall
Well-known member
Chapter Thirty: London, England/Berlin, Germany, 1949
"It's good to see you again, sir," Kathleen said, as she was shown into Campion Holmes's new office. The older man smiled back at her, then leaned forward and gave her a very unprofessional hug. "Did you have any trouble getting out of Germany?"
"I was declared persona non grata," Holmes said, motioning for her to take a seat. "Sir Cuthbert and I were given our papers, and twenty-four hours to get out, once they were fairly certain we weren't hiding Von Braun in the embassy. Not a comfortable departure, I'm afraid, but hardly unpleasant compared to yours."
Kathleen nodded. The RAF had fished the three refugees out of the water and flown them directly to Dover, where she'd used a handful of codes to alert her superiors to their arrival and arrange for transport to London. Von Braun had been swept away at once – she wasn't sure what had happened to him, and she doubted she'd see him again – while Greta had been held in a comfortable, but very secure, holding centre outside London. Kathleen had barely had a chance to call her, over the last week, and she had no idea what would happen to the young girl. Greta was technically a defector, yet she had nothing to offer beyond insight into the Third Reich that would grow increasingly outdated as time wore on.
"We has a spot of bother," she agreed with commendable understatement, "but we made it home."
She leaned forward. "And the French?"
Holmes made a face. "They're taking a beating," he said. "The general theory in Berlin appears to be that they timed the attack to coincide with Hitler's death, although that would have required precognition as Hitler's death wasn't officially announced until after you recovered and ..."
Kathleen felt her head swim. Hitler was dead? The monster who had driven her family into exile, who had slaughtered every Jew foolish enough to remain in the Reich, who had invaded France and North Africa and driven the Russians into the Urals, turning Europe into a prison camp above ground and a mass grave below ... he was dead? She felt a surge of vindictive glee at the thought she might have contributed to his death, in at least some small way, even though she knew it was unlikely. Himmler wouldn't have admitted who he'd lost to his master, at least as long as he'd been able to hold out hope Von Braun would be recovered and the whole affair hushed up before the truth got out. The last reports she'd heard had suggested Hitler had been ill for some time, even though he had only been in his sixties.
"Hell is fouler now," she said, finally. "Who's going to be the next Führer?"
"We don't know yet," Holmes told her. "There's apparently going to be a period of state mourning, with power resting in the hands of a triumvirate until they sort out who'll take Hitler's place. There was apparently no nominated successor, although" – he shrugged – "it's quite possible someone checked the will, discovered he wasn't on the list, and quietly made the whole document disappear. MI6 thinks Himmler will come out ahead, but the fact he lost Von Braun – and choose to ignore Frenchmen who proved to be dangerous after all – may prove his undoing. We'll just have to wait and see."
"Yeah," Kathleen said. She felt her body slump, her determination fading as it sank in that she'd completed her mission. There'd be a prolonged period of debriefing, and then a holiday, and then ... she had no idea. "What now?"
Holmes met her gaze, evenly. "Your cover has been thoroughly blown," he said. "The Nazis may not know precisely who you are – the dossier we supplied them when you posed as Sir Cuthbert's aide was an elaborate work of fiction – but you won't be going back to the Third Reich. Or to Occupied Europe."
"That wasn't what I meant," Kathleen said, although it bothered her to know she wouldn't be going back. She had hurt the Third Reich, but it wasn't enough. How could it be? "I meant, what about Von Braun?"
"Sir Bernard and the British Rocket Group will take care of him," Holmes said. "We may have to bring in the cousins" – the Americans – "at some point, once word spreads we've got him, but for the moment he'll be working with us. Beyond that" – he met her eyes – "I haven't been encouraged to ask questions. And you shouldn't either."
"Yes, sir," Kathleen said. "And Greta?"
"We will provide for her," Holmes said. "No defector can ever be trusted completely, as you know, but I am sure SOE will find a use for her. Or send her further west, if she wishes. We don't know if the Reich knows we have her, or if it would care if it did, but ..."
He shrugged. Kathleen nodded. It wasn't going to be easy for Greta to adapt, even if the Reich made it very clear she'd be dead if she ever set foot on German soil again. Hopefully, they thought she'd died in France, without being suspected of anything other than overlooking clues to Gudrun's true identity. Kathleen's lips quirked at the thought. The Reich would have to turn everything upside down, just to patch up all the holes in their security state she'd exploited. Hell, they might wonder if Gudrun had been a British agent all along. It was quite possible they hadn't found her body yet ...
Which will cause problems for her SS husband, Kathleen thoughts, mischievously. Whoops!
She allowed herself a moment of dark humour. General Mühlenkamp had a splendid record, as far as the SS was concerned, which meant his hands were stained with the blood of countless innocents, but it wouldn't save his career if his superiors decided his wife had been a spy. They'd killed Oskar Schindler when they'd realised he'd been saving Jews and he had been a very capable industrialist, his career a net gain for the Reich. She made a mental note to see if they could play with it, to plant evidence Gudrun really had been a spy. Mühlenkamp deserved to end his days like so many of his victims, screaming and pleading for a mercy that would never come.
"You can take care of Greta, for the moment," Holmes said. "We do owe you several weeks holiday, so take it and think about what you want to do with your life. I dare say you'd be welcome as an instructor, once the debriefing is over, or we can find a way to send you elsewhere. We need agents in Turkey or Iran these days, even Russia."
"Anything, as long as it allows me to hurt the Reich," Kathleen said.
"I'll see what I can find you," Holmes said.
He paused. "For the record, I have been told to inform you that you really did make a difference. You might have saved us from inevitable defeat, if certain weapons had remained unknown until they were deployed into battle. The Prime Minister himself has ordered that you are to receive formal honours, although there won't be any public announcement until you retire. You deserve much more, to be frank. You may have saved us all."
Kathleen felt herself flush. Holmes might well be right. Von Braun hadn't told her much about the super-bomb, but if half of what he'd told her was true the weapon could win the next war in moments. She had heard that prediction before, about other weapons, yet a super-bomb might truly be as dangerous as Von Braun had said. And if she really had saved Britain and America from certain defeat ...
Her lips quirked as she took her leave. Britain would remain free, as would America, and someday France and Russia and even Germany would be free too. And if she'd brought that day a little closer, it was worth everything she'd done. The Nazis couldn't hold an entire continent in bondage forever. One day, the world would be free.
He'd come too far to be balked, laying his plans for the inevitable moment when his friend and comrade breathed his last, but he'd been brought up short at the very last moment. Hitler had died too soon for Himmler to secure Hitler's blessing as his successor, yet too late to keep the Von Braun affair from uniting Göring and Speer against him. The SS would not be allowed complete control of the Reich, folding the other military arms into a united force that would carry the Reich all the way to Vladivostok and beyond. Instead, the triumvirate would remain in power indefinitely. There would be no second Führer.
Himmler was not given to displays of emotion – he believed the great task required cold logic rather than anger and rage – but even he found it hard to think coldly when he contemplated the scale of the disaster. Von Braun knew far too much to be allowed to go free, and yet he'd escaped ... even if he never built another rocket, which was a very real possibility, he could tell the British everything they wanted to know and then some. He'd been cleared for all sorts of information, from the latest in biological experiments to atomic weapons research, and knew the timetable for the first German atomic bomb. The SS was still working to put together a picture of how much Von Braun knew, but ... Himmler was almost painfully aware of just how much had crossed Von Braun's death. It was impossible to say for sure just how much he knew ... too much.
He calmed himself with an effort, thinking coldly. His contingency plans had worked, after a fashion. Sturmbannfuehrer Hans Schneider was no longer alive to defend himself, ensuring he could take the blame for the first disaster. His family were already on their way to their camps, his protégées being scrutinised for hints of moral weakness and disloyalty that could easily lead to a second high-profile defection. Others would shoulder their share of the blame, from the university's supervisors and minders to the BDM and the incompetent fools who'd garrisoned Occupied France. A great many men were about to die, some probably innocent, to ensure the blame slipped from his shoulders. He had too much to do to allow himself to be dragged down now.
He opened the drawer and studied the contingency plans. The Reich needed a short victorious war, to deflect attention from Von Braun's deflection and prove that Hitler's death wouldn't bring down the Reich, and he knew where he could find one. Stalin thought he was safe, on the far side of the armistice line, but Himmler knew better. Starved of oil and other raw materials, the Red Army would be unable to stand up to a renewed onslaught from the west and would fall before the might of the Waffen-SS, opening up vast new territories for German settlement. The local Untermenschen would serve, or die. And the lands would belong to the SS, to be shaped as Himmler pleased. They would serve as the cradle for a whole new generation of the Herrenvolk ...
... And no one, no one at all, would be able to stop the Reich from lasting a thousand years.
"It's good to see you again, sir," Kathleen said, as she was shown into Campion Holmes's new office. The older man smiled back at her, then leaned forward and gave her a very unprofessional hug. "Did you have any trouble getting out of Germany?"
"I was declared persona non grata," Holmes said, motioning for her to take a seat. "Sir Cuthbert and I were given our papers, and twenty-four hours to get out, once they were fairly certain we weren't hiding Von Braun in the embassy. Not a comfortable departure, I'm afraid, but hardly unpleasant compared to yours."
Kathleen nodded. The RAF had fished the three refugees out of the water and flown them directly to Dover, where she'd used a handful of codes to alert her superiors to their arrival and arrange for transport to London. Von Braun had been swept away at once – she wasn't sure what had happened to him, and she doubted she'd see him again – while Greta had been held in a comfortable, but very secure, holding centre outside London. Kathleen had barely had a chance to call her, over the last week, and she had no idea what would happen to the young girl. Greta was technically a defector, yet she had nothing to offer beyond insight into the Third Reich that would grow increasingly outdated as time wore on.
"We has a spot of bother," she agreed with commendable understatement, "but we made it home."
She leaned forward. "And the French?"
Holmes made a face. "They're taking a beating," he said. "The general theory in Berlin appears to be that they timed the attack to coincide with Hitler's death, although that would have required precognition as Hitler's death wasn't officially announced until after you recovered and ..."
Kathleen felt her head swim. Hitler was dead? The monster who had driven her family into exile, who had slaughtered every Jew foolish enough to remain in the Reich, who had invaded France and North Africa and driven the Russians into the Urals, turning Europe into a prison camp above ground and a mass grave below ... he was dead? She felt a surge of vindictive glee at the thought she might have contributed to his death, in at least some small way, even though she knew it was unlikely. Himmler wouldn't have admitted who he'd lost to his master, at least as long as he'd been able to hold out hope Von Braun would be recovered and the whole affair hushed up before the truth got out. The last reports she'd heard had suggested Hitler had been ill for some time, even though he had only been in his sixties.
"Hell is fouler now," she said, finally. "Who's going to be the next Führer?"
"We don't know yet," Holmes told her. "There's apparently going to be a period of state mourning, with power resting in the hands of a triumvirate until they sort out who'll take Hitler's place. There was apparently no nominated successor, although" – he shrugged – "it's quite possible someone checked the will, discovered he wasn't on the list, and quietly made the whole document disappear. MI6 thinks Himmler will come out ahead, but the fact he lost Von Braun – and choose to ignore Frenchmen who proved to be dangerous after all – may prove his undoing. We'll just have to wait and see."
"Yeah," Kathleen said. She felt her body slump, her determination fading as it sank in that she'd completed her mission. There'd be a prolonged period of debriefing, and then a holiday, and then ... she had no idea. "What now?"
Holmes met her gaze, evenly. "Your cover has been thoroughly blown," he said. "The Nazis may not know precisely who you are – the dossier we supplied them when you posed as Sir Cuthbert's aide was an elaborate work of fiction – but you won't be going back to the Third Reich. Or to Occupied Europe."
"That wasn't what I meant," Kathleen said, although it bothered her to know she wouldn't be going back. She had hurt the Third Reich, but it wasn't enough. How could it be? "I meant, what about Von Braun?"
"Sir Bernard and the British Rocket Group will take care of him," Holmes said. "We may have to bring in the cousins" – the Americans – "at some point, once word spreads we've got him, but for the moment he'll be working with us. Beyond that" – he met her eyes – "I haven't been encouraged to ask questions. And you shouldn't either."
"Yes, sir," Kathleen said. "And Greta?"
"We will provide for her," Holmes said. "No defector can ever be trusted completely, as you know, but I am sure SOE will find a use for her. Or send her further west, if she wishes. We don't know if the Reich knows we have her, or if it would care if it did, but ..."
He shrugged. Kathleen nodded. It wasn't going to be easy for Greta to adapt, even if the Reich made it very clear she'd be dead if she ever set foot on German soil again. Hopefully, they thought she'd died in France, without being suspected of anything other than overlooking clues to Gudrun's true identity. Kathleen's lips quirked at the thought. The Reich would have to turn everything upside down, just to patch up all the holes in their security state she'd exploited. Hell, they might wonder if Gudrun had been a British agent all along. It was quite possible they hadn't found her body yet ...
Which will cause problems for her SS husband, Kathleen thoughts, mischievously. Whoops!
She allowed herself a moment of dark humour. General Mühlenkamp had a splendid record, as far as the SS was concerned, which meant his hands were stained with the blood of countless innocents, but it wouldn't save his career if his superiors decided his wife had been a spy. They'd killed Oskar Schindler when they'd realised he'd been saving Jews and he had been a very capable industrialist, his career a net gain for the Reich. She made a mental note to see if they could play with it, to plant evidence Gudrun really had been a spy. Mühlenkamp deserved to end his days like so many of his victims, screaming and pleading for a mercy that would never come.
"You can take care of Greta, for the moment," Holmes said. "We do owe you several weeks holiday, so take it and think about what you want to do with your life. I dare say you'd be welcome as an instructor, once the debriefing is over, or we can find a way to send you elsewhere. We need agents in Turkey or Iran these days, even Russia."
"Anything, as long as it allows me to hurt the Reich," Kathleen said.
"I'll see what I can find you," Holmes said.
He paused. "For the record, I have been told to inform you that you really did make a difference. You might have saved us from inevitable defeat, if certain weapons had remained unknown until they were deployed into battle. The Prime Minister himself has ordered that you are to receive formal honours, although there won't be any public announcement until you retire. You deserve much more, to be frank. You may have saved us all."
Kathleen felt herself flush. Holmes might well be right. Von Braun hadn't told her much about the super-bomb, but if half of what he'd told her was true the weapon could win the next war in moments. She had heard that prediction before, about other weapons, yet a super-bomb might truly be as dangerous as Von Braun had said. And if she really had saved Britain and America from certain defeat ...
Her lips quirked as she took her leave. Britain would remain free, as would America, and someday France and Russia and even Germany would be free too. And if she'd brought that day a little closer, it was worth everything she'd done. The Nazis couldn't hold an entire continent in bondage forever. One day, the world would be free.
***
Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer-SS, sat in his office and brooded.
He'd come too far to be balked, laying his plans for the inevitable moment when his friend and comrade breathed his last, but he'd been brought up short at the very last moment. Hitler had died too soon for Himmler to secure Hitler's blessing as his successor, yet too late to keep the Von Braun affair from uniting Göring and Speer against him. The SS would not be allowed complete control of the Reich, folding the other military arms into a united force that would carry the Reich all the way to Vladivostok and beyond. Instead, the triumvirate would remain in power indefinitely. There would be no second Führer.
Himmler was not given to displays of emotion – he believed the great task required cold logic rather than anger and rage – but even he found it hard to think coldly when he contemplated the scale of the disaster. Von Braun knew far too much to be allowed to go free, and yet he'd escaped ... even if he never built another rocket, which was a very real possibility, he could tell the British everything they wanted to know and then some. He'd been cleared for all sorts of information, from the latest in biological experiments to atomic weapons research, and knew the timetable for the first German atomic bomb. The SS was still working to put together a picture of how much Von Braun knew, but ... Himmler was almost painfully aware of just how much had crossed Von Braun's death. It was impossible to say for sure just how much he knew ... too much.
He calmed himself with an effort, thinking coldly. His contingency plans had worked, after a fashion. Sturmbannfuehrer Hans Schneider was no longer alive to defend himself, ensuring he could take the blame for the first disaster. His family were already on their way to their camps, his protégées being scrutinised for hints of moral weakness and disloyalty that could easily lead to a second high-profile defection. Others would shoulder their share of the blame, from the university's supervisors and minders to the BDM and the incompetent fools who'd garrisoned Occupied France. A great many men were about to die, some probably innocent, to ensure the blame slipped from his shoulders. He had too much to do to allow himself to be dragged down now.
He opened the drawer and studied the contingency plans. The Reich needed a short victorious war, to deflect attention from Von Braun's deflection and prove that Hitler's death wouldn't bring down the Reich, and he knew where he could find one. Stalin thought he was safe, on the far side of the armistice line, but Himmler knew better. Starved of oil and other raw materials, the Red Army would be unable to stand up to a renewed onslaught from the west and would fall before the might of the Waffen-SS, opening up vast new territories for German settlement. The local Untermenschen would serve, or die. And the lands would belong to the SS, to be shaped as Himmler pleased. They would serve as the cradle for a whole new generation of the Herrenvolk ...
... And no one, no one at all, would be able to stop the Reich from lasting a thousand years.
The End
ChrisNuttall
Well-known member
As always, i hope you enjoyed reading the story. Please feel free to comment (hint, hint) with anything from spelling corrections and german words to ... well, anything. If you want to follow my work, please sign up to my mailing list - new releases and suchlike only - below.
Thank you for reading.
Chris
chrishanger.simplelists.com
Thank you for reading.
Chris
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chrishanger.simplelists.com
Good story,with few mistakes:As always, i hope you enjoyed reading the story. Please feel free to comment (hint, hint) with anything from spelling corrections and german words to ... well, anything. If you want to follow my work, please sign up to my mailing list - new releases and suchlike only - below.
Thank you for reading.
Chris
List information - chrishanger@chrishanger.simplelists.com - Simplelists
List information webpage for chrishanger@chrishanger.simplelists.com
1.Nazis - nobody named germans as such till 1956,when they decide to create myth about "nazi death camps" which later become "polish death camps" - but,it happened in world when they lost war.
Here they win - and do not have reasons pretend ,that they are not germans.
2.Otto Schindler was opportunist who hide jews who gave him money/or,in case of attractive womans,bodies/ when germans arleady started loosing war.Here? he would simply do not hide them.
He worked for himself,not justice or even germany.
3.If Sralin survived on Ural,then who get Siberia and Kolyma here? i hope,that americans liberated it - Siberian gulags usually mean deaths,but Kolyma was death sentence.I read memories of poles who survived thanks to sralin making deal with London - they would die,if they must be there for another year.
And,it was only place,when soviet prisoners waited for death,in other gulags they tried to survive.
4.Why germans do not show some captured soviet gulag to the world? in OTL soviets did the same with germans,and hence they win the war,world forget about soviet crimes.
Here,the same should happen to german crimes - they win,so world would think about soviets crimes only.
Now,few questions about your world:
1.What about Italy,Hungary and other german allies here? are they become puppets,or they are partially independent?
2.What about Catholic Church? Hitler planned to destroy us.Did it happened,or not?
3.What about occupied Poland? in OTL Home Army do not attacked germans,except killing SS and gestapo members - becouse germans knightly executed 100 poles for one german.Here,when they start genocide us anyway,you would get full war with 500.000 poles in conspiracy.
I bet,that germans could kill arleady 5-6M of us,but still do not control occupied Poland.
Commies in OTL win,becouse they were patient - first they killed partisants/but after amnesty for those who want come from woods/
then they take manufactures and small bussines,then started to taking lands and churches - but Sralin died,and they stopped.
Here,with germans killing us all? there would be no majority which want to survive,becouse they would knew,that they do not survive.
We were not jews,who mostly die without foght,or helping germans kill other jews.
Appendix One
New
ChrisNuttall
Well-known member
Appendix: Where They Went, Afterwards
WERNER VON BRAUN, after a long period of debriefing, formally joined the British Rocket Group in 1950 and worked closely with both British and American scientists to develop the first ICBM and the boosters that would eventually put the North Atlantic Alliance into space to stay. He also played a major role in developing the post-1950 scientific consensus that scientists had a moral responsibility to govern how their innovations were used in the field, a far less successful program. He died in 1971, both feted for his moral courage and condemned for his failure to defect earlier. He was less than pleased, according to his closest colleagues, to be lampooned by Tom Lehrer, but apparently believed the song was amusing and requested it be played at his funeral. The BRG saw fit to comply with his request. In later years, the song would go on to be the BRG's unofficial anthem.
KATHLEEN O'BRIAN was never able to return to Occupied France or the Third Reich, as it became clear the Germans were cracking down hard on the gaps in their security edifice she turned against them. The risk of being captured was too great. Instead, she spent two years as a station sub-commander in Turkey and India, then returned home to become the first female SOE director, a role in which she excelled. She lived long enough to see the Reich collapse into civil war in 1985, and write her memoirs, and died in 1990. She was rather amused to note a fictional version of herself, Janet Bond (sister to James), was crafted by Ian Fleming and set against both Nazis and Der Gespenst Bund, but went to her grave insisting the stories (and later films) were thoroughly absurd.
GRETA DARMSTADT was never able to return to Germany until the end of the civil war, but showed no inclination to try. Instead, she worked for SOE as an expert in German street-level culture and society, then became a consultant for MI6 until her retirement in 1955. In her later years, she wrote both a detailed account of growing up as a young woman in the Third Reich and a number of fictional novels, the later often cited for being based on true stories from her time in the BDM. Her lampooning of the movement became a surprising hit in Nazi Germany, to the point it was formally banned by name, and made her a senior member of the anti-fascist literally scene, where she became close friends with Anne Frank. Greta returned to the Reich in 1987 to look for her family, but found nothing. She died in 1995, leaving behind two illegitimate children and a literately legacy that will live on for hundreds of years to come.
SIR CUTHBERT DUDLEY and CAMPION HOLMES might have been declared persona non grata in the Third Reich, but this didn't hamper their careers. Sir Cuthbert served as the British Ambassador to Turkey (1950-54) while Campion Holmes – his cover thoroughly blown – went on to liaise with the Americans and only returned to Britain in 1950, when he retired and went into politics. Suggestions the two men might have been unnaturally close – homosexuality was only decriminalised in Britain in 1965 – were largely rejected by both families, although they remained friends for the rest of their lives.
ANNE FRANK'S diary established her as both a literary genius and a person capable of putting a human face on the countless millions slaughtered by the Third Reich, and was later credited with ensuring the North Atlantic Alliance never let down its guard during the Second German-Russian War and the later South African Crisis. She went on to write numerous other novels and gather witness reports of the Holocaust, which made her the most hatred woman in Nazi Germany and target of a number of assassination plots. She married Peter van Pels, a fellow escapee from the Holocaust, but the marriage didn't last. It is testament to how effective she was, as an anti-fascist campaigner, that the Reich spent years trying to discredit her. They were unsuccessful, and she remains honoured to this day.
HEINRICH HIMMLER might have suffered a black eye from the Von Braun Affair, but a combination of carefully-chosen scapegoats and the urgency of sorting out the post-Hitler balance of power allowed him to retain most of his positions and remain one of the three triumvirs. (The position of Führer und Reichskanzler was determined to be one only Adolf Hitler could bear, and was effectively retired after 1949). Himmler went on to orchestrate the conquest of the rump Soviet Union, and devise the settlement that put the SS in charge of Germany East, which allowed him to test his ideas on a far larger scale. He died in 1960 and was given a state funeral, despite which nearly every German outside the SS believed his death had come too late. His legacy would not be properly assessed until after the civil war, and remains controversial in Germany to this day. Outsiders have far fewer doubts – Himmler was a monster who should never have been allowed to exist, let alone gain power over uncounted millions of innocent people.
GENERAL GÜNTER MÜHLENKAMPF knew nothing of his wife's supposed (and in fact non-existent) treason, but that didn't save him from Himmler's wrath. He was summarily demoted after the formal inquiry turned him into the main scapegoat for the disaster and reassigned to the penal battalions that spearheaded diversionary attacks into Russian territory, performing remarkably well until his death in 1952. His family remained disgraced until 1987, when notes were compared between the British and Germans and it was discovered that Mühlenkampf had been innocent of any involvement. By then, it was far too late to regain what the family had lost. Mühlenkampf, a loyal SS officer if ever there was one, would not have been amused to discover future alternate history writers turned him into the 'One Good Nazi' who rebelled against Himmler in various alternate timelines. That practice dwindled, although it never died out completely, after the truth was revealed. He remains both a victim of the regime and one of its foremost victimisers, and few tears were shed for his death.
WERNER VON BRAUN, after a long period of debriefing, formally joined the British Rocket Group in 1950 and worked closely with both British and American scientists to develop the first ICBM and the boosters that would eventually put the North Atlantic Alliance into space to stay. He also played a major role in developing the post-1950 scientific consensus that scientists had a moral responsibility to govern how their innovations were used in the field, a far less successful program. He died in 1971, both feted for his moral courage and condemned for his failure to defect earlier. He was less than pleased, according to his closest colleagues, to be lampooned by Tom Lehrer, but apparently believed the song was amusing and requested it be played at his funeral. The BRG saw fit to comply with his request. In later years, the song would go on to be the BRG's unofficial anthem.
KATHLEEN O'BRIAN was never able to return to Occupied France or the Third Reich, as it became clear the Germans were cracking down hard on the gaps in their security edifice she turned against them. The risk of being captured was too great. Instead, she spent two years as a station sub-commander in Turkey and India, then returned home to become the first female SOE director, a role in which she excelled. She lived long enough to see the Reich collapse into civil war in 1985, and write her memoirs, and died in 1990. She was rather amused to note a fictional version of herself, Janet Bond (sister to James), was crafted by Ian Fleming and set against both Nazis and Der Gespenst Bund, but went to her grave insisting the stories (and later films) were thoroughly absurd.
GRETA DARMSTADT was never able to return to Germany until the end of the civil war, but showed no inclination to try. Instead, she worked for SOE as an expert in German street-level culture and society, then became a consultant for MI6 until her retirement in 1955. In her later years, she wrote both a detailed account of growing up as a young woman in the Third Reich and a number of fictional novels, the later often cited for being based on true stories from her time in the BDM. Her lampooning of the movement became a surprising hit in Nazi Germany, to the point it was formally banned by name, and made her a senior member of the anti-fascist literally scene, where she became close friends with Anne Frank. Greta returned to the Reich in 1987 to look for her family, but found nothing. She died in 1995, leaving behind two illegitimate children and a literately legacy that will live on for hundreds of years to come.
SIR CUTHBERT DUDLEY and CAMPION HOLMES might have been declared persona non grata in the Third Reich, but this didn't hamper their careers. Sir Cuthbert served as the British Ambassador to Turkey (1950-54) while Campion Holmes – his cover thoroughly blown – went on to liaise with the Americans and only returned to Britain in 1950, when he retired and went into politics. Suggestions the two men might have been unnaturally close – homosexuality was only decriminalised in Britain in 1965 – were largely rejected by both families, although they remained friends for the rest of their lives.
ANNE FRANK'S diary established her as both a literary genius and a person capable of putting a human face on the countless millions slaughtered by the Third Reich, and was later credited with ensuring the North Atlantic Alliance never let down its guard during the Second German-Russian War and the later South African Crisis. She went on to write numerous other novels and gather witness reports of the Holocaust, which made her the most hatred woman in Nazi Germany and target of a number of assassination plots. She married Peter van Pels, a fellow escapee from the Holocaust, but the marriage didn't last. It is testament to how effective she was, as an anti-fascist campaigner, that the Reich spent years trying to discredit her. They were unsuccessful, and she remains honoured to this day.
HEINRICH HIMMLER might have suffered a black eye from the Von Braun Affair, but a combination of carefully-chosen scapegoats and the urgency of sorting out the post-Hitler balance of power allowed him to retain most of his positions and remain one of the three triumvirs. (The position of Führer und Reichskanzler was determined to be one only Adolf Hitler could bear, and was effectively retired after 1949). Himmler went on to orchestrate the conquest of the rump Soviet Union, and devise the settlement that put the SS in charge of Germany East, which allowed him to test his ideas on a far larger scale. He died in 1960 and was given a state funeral, despite which nearly every German outside the SS believed his death had come too late. His legacy would not be properly assessed until after the civil war, and remains controversial in Germany to this day. Outsiders have far fewer doubts – Himmler was a monster who should never have been allowed to exist, let alone gain power over uncounted millions of innocent people.
GENERAL GÜNTER MÜHLENKAMPF knew nothing of his wife's supposed (and in fact non-existent) treason, but that didn't save him from Himmler's wrath. He was summarily demoted after the formal inquiry turned him into the main scapegoat for the disaster and reassigned to the penal battalions that spearheaded diversionary attacks into Russian territory, performing remarkably well until his death in 1952. His family remained disgraced until 1987, when notes were compared between the British and Germans and it was discovered that Mühlenkampf had been innocent of any involvement. By then, it was far too late to regain what the family had lost. Mühlenkampf, a loyal SS officer if ever there was one, would not have been amused to discover future alternate history writers turned him into the 'One Good Nazi' who rebelled against Himmler in various alternate timelines. That practice dwindled, although it never died out completely, after the truth was revealed. He remains both a victim of the regime and one of its foremost victimisers, and few tears were shed for his death.
Why Greta wrote anything? it was obvious,that her family would be killed.She should pretend,that she died there, body could burn after all.
For exactle the same reason,people who had families in occupied countries rarely wrote about commie atrocities as long as sralin lived.
Speaking about memories - War Memories of Karolina Lanckorońska would be better then Frank,becouse it covered crimes of both genociders.
Here,wiki:
By the way,it is still faked - she tried to publish it in USA after WW2,but 4 publishers refused her - 2 becouse they loved germans,and another becouse they loved sralin.
by the way,what happened to Siberia after soviet fall here? i hope,that americans take it,not let soviet genociders run their death camps there.
For exactle the same reason,people who had families in occupied countries rarely wrote about commie atrocities as long as sralin lived.
Speaking about memories - War Memories of Karolina Lanckorońska would be better then Frank,becouse it covered crimes of both genociders.
Here,wiki:
By the way,it is still faked - she tried to publish it in USA after WW2,but 4 publishers refused her - 2 becouse they loved germans,and another becouse they loved sralin.
by the way,what happened to Siberia after soviet fall here? i hope,that americans take it,not let soviet genociders run their death camps there.
Appendix Two
New
ChrisNuttall
Well-known member
Appendix Two: The Third Reich in 1949
In hindsight, Hitler's decision not to declare war on the United States after Pearl Harbour – a decision opposed by many of his military and diplomatic personnel – saved the Reich from a humiliating and disastrous defeat. The American counterattack which sank a Japanese carrier convinced Hitler that he was underestimating the Americans – and his racist view of the world led him to underestimate the Japanese – and gave him political cover for not honouring his commitments to Japan. As America mobilised, the wisdom of that decision became all the more apparent. In fact, as the Americans were not at war with Germany, it was extremely hard for FDR to justify sending lend-lease to the USSR (a problem made harder by the discovery of murdered Polish officers, killed by the NKVD on Stalin's orders. A sizable amount of supplies were sent, but as they had to be moved in British hulls – and were very exposed to German air and sea attacks – this was not as effective as FDR might have hoped.
The consequences rapidly manifested themselves. The Germans pushed through Stalingrad in late 1942, as shortages of everything from fuel oil to rubber crippled the Red Army, and – after securing Baku – drove on Moscow in 1943. Stalin, convinced he had been abandoned by Churchill and Roosevelt, made a separate peace after Moscow fell. The USSR surrendered all territory taken by the Germans during the war – the armistice line was set just past Moscow – and exited the war. Worse, from the point of view of Britain and America, Hitler's realisation that America was not a paper tiger spurred a massive program of economic consolidation and research and development, the latter aided and abetted by captured Russian scientists and bureaucrats. With Britain increasingly exhausted by the war, and FDR unable to guarantee re-election in 1944, Churchill was removed from office and Britain sought terms with the Reich. They appeared remarkably mild, but – as Churchill kept pointing out until he was packed off to India to serve as Viceroy – they ensured Germany would be in position to resume the war, either against Britain or Russia, whenever the Reich saw fit.
It is now 1949.
The Third Reich stretches from the western coastline of France to the Moscow line in Russia. It has annexed Alsace–Lorraine, and is seriously considering doing the same to Occupied France and the Benelux countries. Poland and Western Russia no longer exist, to all intents and purposes, and the remaining 'independent' nations in Europe are all too aware that their independence will only last as long as Hitler wills it so. Vichy France has sunk into outright collaboration, while Italy, Finland, and the Balkan allies are being brought closer and closer into the Reich's orbit. Switzerland, Sweden, Turkey, Spain and Portugal have more freedom, of a sort, but they are careful not to press the Reich too hard. Hitler is not known for tolerating anyone trying to stand up to him, a fact of which his 'allies' are all too aware.
Indeed, none of the allies have a hope of standing up to the Reich. Vichy has allowed its mobile and aerial forces to rot away, save for units 'pacifying' Algeria for later French settlement. (Resistance cells continue to exist in Occupied France, with support from the British SOE, but far too many are collapsing into banditry.) Italy has almost no respect from the Germans – ironically, the Italians have managed to learn from their early disasters and bring their army into the modern era – while the Spanish and Turkeys are seen as doughty fighters, yet unable to defend their territory if the Reich invades. There is no other force on the continent capable of challenging the Reich. The British remain dominant at sea – backed up by the United States – but are unable to take the war into Germany, while the Russians are simply unable to rebuild their armies after the disasters of 1941-43. The Reich appears supreme, and is currently building up forces to invade Britain or push the border further east into Russia. No one expects the uneasy peace to last long.
This appearance of strength masks considerable weaknesses. The Germans launched a crash program to rationalise their economy after they discovered the United States was far ahead of them, when it came to generating and supporting military force, and the repercussions continue to haunt the Reich. Speer was granted vast power by Hitler, but he found himself facing opposition from both the military and the SS, which had laid claim to vast parts of Germany's industrial sector. Hitler's inability to set priorities – and sometimes change his mind, seemingly at random – didn't help. The Germans are uneasily aware they are dangerously reliant on slave labour, with many labourers doing what they can to sabotage their work.
The aftermath of the war has led to demands for demobilisation, which has led to further problems for the Reich. Speer chose to experiment with female labourers, for example, despite strong opposition from the regime, and those labourers do not intend to let themselves be shoved out of jobs they worked hard to obtain. This clashes sharply with the regime's intention of putting women firmly in their place – as mothers, daughters and wives – and has led, ironically, to the only real opposition to the regime being female. The Nazis are reluctant to crack down hard on women, but that is likely to change. They have already started targeting particularly daring women, sending them east (where they become wives for settlers, willing or no) or dispatching them to the camps. They have also encouraged returning husbands to keep their wives in check, granting them near-complete authority over their womenfolk.
The Reich is also heading for a prolonged period of political chaos. The formal organisational chart is meaningless, with the major figures in the regime wielding power behind the scenes and making it difficult to tell who'll jump which way when Hitler finally dies. Speer attempted to rationalise the political system too, perhaps even to allow for a degree of democracy, but he was firmly blocked by the military and SS factions.
Put simply, with Hitler on death's door power has effectively devolved to a triumvirate of Himmler (SS), Göring (military) and Speer (industry). The factions are, in turn, composed of smaller factions, which do not always agree with each other. (The Luftwaffe and the Kriegsmarine are competing for the same resources, but neither wants the SS to have supreme power over the military and/or government.) The SS want to reshape Germany in line with Hitler and Himmler's mad dreams, while the industrialists want to rationalise the country and the military are more intent on building up a powerful force than concentrating on how the country can support it. It is not clear who will win the coming power struggle for the future of the regime.
For ordinary Germans, life is always precarious. The influx of 'guest workers' – slaves, in all but name – has been liberating, yet is also a drag on the economy. The state works hard to ensure that good Germans receive workers – for example, mothers of more than two children can apply for a slave girl as an assistant – but this also limits economic opportunities for younger Germans, unless they're members of the party. Rationing is still a thing – although rations have been increasing over the last two years, as more and more farmland is brought online – and it is difficult to live unless you have good connections. Indeed, the black market has proven practically impossible to eradicate (not least because many black marketers have close ties to the regime).
The regime does try to extend its reach into the lives of each and every citizen. A young boy will be welcomed into the Hitler Youth from the moment he goes to school and a young girl inducted into the BDM (while membership is technically voluntary, failing to join will lead to investigation and possible blacklisting, even arrest); the former transferring to the army when he turns eighteen and the latter being pushed to marry a good German, set up a home and bear his children. A handful of women – mainly well-connected party aristocracy – become BDM matrons, charged with supervising the younger girls – but there are few other opportunities for a woman to live a life on her own. The children are fed a steady diet of propaganda, including encouragement to betray their parents if they'd doing something illegal. Far too many do.
There is no such thing as free speech in Nazi Germany. The party vets newspapers and broadcasters carefully, making sure they toe the party line. Some papers are considered obscene even by the regime's standards - Der Stürmer has been banned and unbanned repeatedly – while others are banned for daring to practice actual journalism or publishing pornography (which the regime considers a French vice). A handful of underground newspapers do exist, but most rarely spread far before they're discovered. The Reich is very good at hunting the presses down and stopping them.
The greatest danger for the average German is being denounced for having Untermensch blood. No one speaks openly of what happened to the Jews, and millions of other undesirables, but everyone knows what'll happen if they are found to have Jewish blood or the (mythical) homosexual gene. There is a roaring trade in fake papers, ensuring that anyone with enough money can purchase a pedigree that would make Hitler and Himmler green with envy, despite the SS's best efforts. It is also quite easy, if you know the right person, to get travel passes that will let you go from one end of the Reich to the other, although – again – the SS is trying to crack down.
And with Hitler's death all but inevitable, it is impossible to tell how the Reich will develop in the future ...
In hindsight, Hitler's decision not to declare war on the United States after Pearl Harbour – a decision opposed by many of his military and diplomatic personnel – saved the Reich from a humiliating and disastrous defeat. The American counterattack which sank a Japanese carrier convinced Hitler that he was underestimating the Americans – and his racist view of the world led him to underestimate the Japanese – and gave him political cover for not honouring his commitments to Japan. As America mobilised, the wisdom of that decision became all the more apparent. In fact, as the Americans were not at war with Germany, it was extremely hard for FDR to justify sending lend-lease to the USSR (a problem made harder by the discovery of murdered Polish officers, killed by the NKVD on Stalin's orders. A sizable amount of supplies were sent, but as they had to be moved in British hulls – and were very exposed to German air and sea attacks – this was not as effective as FDR might have hoped.
The consequences rapidly manifested themselves. The Germans pushed through Stalingrad in late 1942, as shortages of everything from fuel oil to rubber crippled the Red Army, and – after securing Baku – drove on Moscow in 1943. Stalin, convinced he had been abandoned by Churchill and Roosevelt, made a separate peace after Moscow fell. The USSR surrendered all territory taken by the Germans during the war – the armistice line was set just past Moscow – and exited the war. Worse, from the point of view of Britain and America, Hitler's realisation that America was not a paper tiger spurred a massive program of economic consolidation and research and development, the latter aided and abetted by captured Russian scientists and bureaucrats. With Britain increasingly exhausted by the war, and FDR unable to guarantee re-election in 1944, Churchill was removed from office and Britain sought terms with the Reich. They appeared remarkably mild, but – as Churchill kept pointing out until he was packed off to India to serve as Viceroy – they ensured Germany would be in position to resume the war, either against Britain or Russia, whenever the Reich saw fit.
It is now 1949.
The Third Reich stretches from the western coastline of France to the Moscow line in Russia. It has annexed Alsace–Lorraine, and is seriously considering doing the same to Occupied France and the Benelux countries. Poland and Western Russia no longer exist, to all intents and purposes, and the remaining 'independent' nations in Europe are all too aware that their independence will only last as long as Hitler wills it so. Vichy France has sunk into outright collaboration, while Italy, Finland, and the Balkan allies are being brought closer and closer into the Reich's orbit. Switzerland, Sweden, Turkey, Spain and Portugal have more freedom, of a sort, but they are careful not to press the Reich too hard. Hitler is not known for tolerating anyone trying to stand up to him, a fact of which his 'allies' are all too aware.
Indeed, none of the allies have a hope of standing up to the Reich. Vichy has allowed its mobile and aerial forces to rot away, save for units 'pacifying' Algeria for later French settlement. (Resistance cells continue to exist in Occupied France, with support from the British SOE, but far too many are collapsing into banditry.) Italy has almost no respect from the Germans – ironically, the Italians have managed to learn from their early disasters and bring their army into the modern era – while the Spanish and Turkeys are seen as doughty fighters, yet unable to defend their territory if the Reich invades. There is no other force on the continent capable of challenging the Reich. The British remain dominant at sea – backed up by the United States – but are unable to take the war into Germany, while the Russians are simply unable to rebuild their armies after the disasters of 1941-43. The Reich appears supreme, and is currently building up forces to invade Britain or push the border further east into Russia. No one expects the uneasy peace to last long.
This appearance of strength masks considerable weaknesses. The Germans launched a crash program to rationalise their economy after they discovered the United States was far ahead of them, when it came to generating and supporting military force, and the repercussions continue to haunt the Reich. Speer was granted vast power by Hitler, but he found himself facing opposition from both the military and the SS, which had laid claim to vast parts of Germany's industrial sector. Hitler's inability to set priorities – and sometimes change his mind, seemingly at random – didn't help. The Germans are uneasily aware they are dangerously reliant on slave labour, with many labourers doing what they can to sabotage their work.
The aftermath of the war has led to demands for demobilisation, which has led to further problems for the Reich. Speer chose to experiment with female labourers, for example, despite strong opposition from the regime, and those labourers do not intend to let themselves be shoved out of jobs they worked hard to obtain. This clashes sharply with the regime's intention of putting women firmly in their place – as mothers, daughters and wives – and has led, ironically, to the only real opposition to the regime being female. The Nazis are reluctant to crack down hard on women, but that is likely to change. They have already started targeting particularly daring women, sending them east (where they become wives for settlers, willing or no) or dispatching them to the camps. They have also encouraged returning husbands to keep their wives in check, granting them near-complete authority over their womenfolk.
The Reich is also heading for a prolonged period of political chaos. The formal organisational chart is meaningless, with the major figures in the regime wielding power behind the scenes and making it difficult to tell who'll jump which way when Hitler finally dies. Speer attempted to rationalise the political system too, perhaps even to allow for a degree of democracy, but he was firmly blocked by the military and SS factions.
Put simply, with Hitler on death's door power has effectively devolved to a triumvirate of Himmler (SS), Göring (military) and Speer (industry). The factions are, in turn, composed of smaller factions, which do not always agree with each other. (The Luftwaffe and the Kriegsmarine are competing for the same resources, but neither wants the SS to have supreme power over the military and/or government.) The SS want to reshape Germany in line with Hitler and Himmler's mad dreams, while the industrialists want to rationalise the country and the military are more intent on building up a powerful force than concentrating on how the country can support it. It is not clear who will win the coming power struggle for the future of the regime.
For ordinary Germans, life is always precarious. The influx of 'guest workers' – slaves, in all but name – has been liberating, yet is also a drag on the economy. The state works hard to ensure that good Germans receive workers – for example, mothers of more than two children can apply for a slave girl as an assistant – but this also limits economic opportunities for younger Germans, unless they're members of the party. Rationing is still a thing – although rations have been increasing over the last two years, as more and more farmland is brought online – and it is difficult to live unless you have good connections. Indeed, the black market has proven practically impossible to eradicate (not least because many black marketers have close ties to the regime).
The regime does try to extend its reach into the lives of each and every citizen. A young boy will be welcomed into the Hitler Youth from the moment he goes to school and a young girl inducted into the BDM (while membership is technically voluntary, failing to join will lead to investigation and possible blacklisting, even arrest); the former transferring to the army when he turns eighteen and the latter being pushed to marry a good German, set up a home and bear his children. A handful of women – mainly well-connected party aristocracy – become BDM matrons, charged with supervising the younger girls – but there are few other opportunities for a woman to live a life on her own. The children are fed a steady diet of propaganda, including encouragement to betray their parents if they'd doing something illegal. Far too many do.
There is no such thing as free speech in Nazi Germany. The party vets newspapers and broadcasters carefully, making sure they toe the party line. Some papers are considered obscene even by the regime's standards - Der Stürmer has been banned and unbanned repeatedly – while others are banned for daring to practice actual journalism or publishing pornography (which the regime considers a French vice). A handful of underground newspapers do exist, but most rarely spread far before they're discovered. The Reich is very good at hunting the presses down and stopping them.
The greatest danger for the average German is being denounced for having Untermensch blood. No one speaks openly of what happened to the Jews, and millions of other undesirables, but everyone knows what'll happen if they are found to have Jewish blood or the (mythical) homosexual gene. There is a roaring trade in fake papers, ensuring that anyone with enough money can purchase a pedigree that would make Hitler and Himmler green with envy, despite the SS's best efforts. It is also quite easy, if you know the right person, to get travel passes that will let you go from one end of the Reich to the other, although – again – the SS is trying to crack down.
And with Hitler's death all but inevitable, it is impossible to tell how the Reich will develop in the future ...