“I have no stomach for killing Germans, even in the middle of a civil war,” Hans-Ulrich said. “I told that to Steinbrenner. I told Keller the same thing.”
“Your father raised you the right way.” Had Dieselhorst said it mockingly, Hans-Ulrich would have tried to deck him. But he sounded as if he meant it.
“Thank you,” Hans-Ulrich said, acknowledging that. “Thank you very much. Plenty of other Germans don’t seem to have any trouble with it at all. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be where we are.”
“No, we wouldn’t. We’d be gurgling down that stinking shitter instead. Everybody would goose-step after the Führer till he led us right over the cliff. And that’s where we would have gone. This way, maybe, just maybe, we get another chance.”
“A chance to do what? We’re supposed to be the masters of Europe-”
“Says who?” Sergeant Dieselhorst broke in.
Hans-Ulrich gaped at him. He’d taken the idea for granted for so long, he had no idea where he’d got it. It was all over Mein Kampf, of course, but that wouldn’t impress Dieselhorst.
And the sergeant repeated, “Says who? We’ve tried to conquer the damn thing twice now in my lifetime, and look what it’s got us. If we snag a peace without reparations and without sanctions, we can make like an ordinary country for a change. I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll be damned if I can get a hard-on about being part of the Herrenvolk. I’d sooner go to a tavern and drink beer.”
“But what about the Bolsheviks?” Hans-Ulrich asked.
“Christ, what about ’em? They’re in Russia, and they’re welcome to the goddamn place, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t want to go back there again-I’ll tell you that,” Dieselhorst said. “The Bolsheviks in Germany and the ones in Hungary and the ones everywhere else but Russia got stomped after the last war, and just what they deserved, too.”
“There’s Spain. Spain’s turned as red as a baboon’s behind.”
“And it’s fucked up the same way Russia was: a few rich people on top and a big old swarm of hungry ones on the bottom.” Dieselhorst paused a moment before adding, “You ask me, the Nazis were taking Germany down that road.”
Rudel automatically looked around to see who might have heard the dangerous crack. He shook his head in wonder. If the Salvation Committee won, you wouldn’t have to worry about speaking your mind … for a while, anyhow. That might make the change worthwhile.
Or, of course, it might not. But he was sure of one thing. He didn’t need to worry about standing in a bread line. Even if peace broke out, whoever ran the Reich would need bomber pilots. Like security men, bomber pilots were a vital part of the modern state.
Arno Baatz peered out a second-story window in Münster’s Rathaus. Just the quickest of glances, and then he pulled away. The soldiers out there wanted to kill him-and the rest of the Wehrmacht men and Waffen-SS soldiers and prison guards and secret policemen still holding this part of town against the traitors and bandits who’d murdered the Führer.
Somewhere out there was Adam Pfaff, with his goddamn gray-painted Mauser. The stinking son of a bitch sneaked away even before everybody knew for sure Hitler had died. So did two other men from Baatz’s squad. He wanted to kill them, and he didn’t want them to kill him.
He glanced down at the swastika armband he wore. Part of him wished he could take it off and slip away himself. Things didn’t look good for National Socialist supporters in Münster. The perimeter kept shrinking. Arno had always backed authority. Now, though, he looked to have guessed wrong about who authority was going to be.
A 105 fired not far away. The shell slammed into a building his side still held. Part of the stonework front fell in. But an MG-42 kept snarling from the ruins. A lot of the people who still wore the swastika were stubborn indeed.
Which looked to mean they would wind up stubborn and dead. No reinforcements had come in; the other side held all the territory around Münster. Arno glanced down at the armband again. If he took it off so he looked as if he could belong to either side …
If he did that and the SS caught him, they would shoot him out of hand. One redheaded bastard with a Schmeisser specialized in executing anyone suspected of halfheartedness. The way he shot people, they took a long time to die.
So if you were going to do a bunk, you had to make sure you made it. Otherwise, you were better off sticking tight. The traitors were out to kill the people still loyal to the Party, yes, but they weren’t especially out to kill them slowly.
That 105 blasted the nearby building again. More of it collapsed. A fire sent black smoke into the sky. The MG-42 barked more defiance at the men who’d chosen the Committee for the Salvation of the German Nation.
An SS top sergeant stomped into the room where Arno sheltered. “Come on with me,” he said. “We’re going to counterattack. We’ve got to take out that 105. It’s slaughtering us.”
Arno gulped. If the traitors had two brain cells to rub together, they’d protect their artillery with machine guns and machine pistols. Any try at taking it out would be suicidal. He couldn’t say that, not unless he wanted to meet his own side’s redheaded executioner. He did ask, “How good do you think our chances are?”
The SS man just looked at him. With those gray eyes and rocky cheekbones, the fellow might have stepped straight off one of Mjölnir’s recruiting posters. “We’ve got to try,” he said, which told Baatz everything he needed to know. “They’ll kill us for sure if we don’t get rid of it. If we do, we can hold out a while longer.”
Worst of it was, he was right. Arno fell in behind him. They went through the Rathaus, combing out men who could join in the assault. When they had a couple of squads’ worth, the SS noncom seemed satisfied. Arno still didn’t think the force was big enough. He kept his mouth shut. He had no more idea than the soldier from the Waffen-SS about where they could scrape up more fighters.
They were about to move out when two shells from the 105 slammed into the Rathaus’ upper floors, one after the other. Debris thundered down in front of the doorway through which they’d go. A great cloud of dust and grit rose. Arno coughed and rubbed at his eyes. He suddenly felt grateful to the SS man. He was pretty sure one of those rounds had burst on or in the room where he’d sheltered. If he hadn’t vacated, he’d probably be chopped meat right now.
“Come on! Follow me!” Himmler’s superman charged out through the dust. The others poured after him. No matter how solid the Rathaus was, it seemed more a trap than a shelter now.
Bullets sparked off paving stones and cracked by as the Germans on the other side spotted them on the move. One man from the strike force went down with a horrible screech. The rest kept running for the nearest pile of rubble behind which they could throw themselves.
Arno belly-flopped down in back of some bricks that had belonged to a chimney. The explosion that knocked them off their building hadn’t blasted them all apart. They might even keep gunfire off of him … till he had to move again, anyhow.
He glanced over his shoulder. Yes, that was fresh smoke he smelled. The Rathaus was burning. Whatever happened to him out here, it wouldn’t be so bad as roasting back there.
All the same, he felt as naked as a de-shelled snail in a Frenchman’s garden. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw motion ahead. That had to be an enemy. He snapped off a couple of quick shots. The other guy went down, either hit or diving for cover.
Schmeissers and a couple of captured Russian PPDs chattered. While the men with them made the traitors keep their heads down, the others, Arno among them, scurried ahead. He’d just found new rubbish to shelter him when the 105 started smashing up some more of the Rathaus. Whichever side won this fight, Münster would have some rebuilding to do when it ended.