How cowardly it would be. Krueger, for all he was a bastard, made me tougher than that. And Oberst Brasche, too, showed me the way of duty and courage that comes from inside. Krueger would despise me for taking the easy way. But Brasche would be disappointed in me and that would be worse.
Dieter looked Harz directly in the eye. “You are right friend. We have much suffering to do yet before we earn our freedom and our rest. Lead on to the north.”
“Very well then, Sergeant Major, you have certainly earned your reward. You may go and claim it.”
In a flash Krueger was out of the driver’s chair and grabbing at his pack. He began stuffing some extra necessities into it.
Anna announced, “We have enemy ships coming this way, Herr Oberst.”
“I am sure we must, Anna. Well, this won’t take long. You had best hurry, Sergeant Major.”
Krueger stopped stuffing the pack and began to walk the row between the battle station chairs lining both sides of the battle cocoon. Krueger stopped, taken aback, at seeing a square black cloth rectangle lying on the tank’s metal deck. A similar rectangle graced Krueger’s own lapel, though on his the SS showed.
Krueger looked up to where Hans sat. He saw that Hans’ right lapel was bare where the silver SS had once stood. “Why?” Krueger asked.
“I told you, Sergeant Major. I am free now… well… almost free. I still have my restrictions. And I never wanted to wear that symbol again. For the rest, it was fine. It meant something good. To me it did not. But I felt I had to wear it and try to bring honor again to it for the others.”
Hans reached into his tunic’s left breast pocket and withdrew a little package. A thin folded cloth something or other he set aside on his chair’s armrest, as he did a small folded paper. The last item, a picture, he handed to Krueger.
“Does she look familiar, Sergeant Major?”
“Maybe,” he answered with a shrug. “Pretty girl. Your wife?”
“Yes, she was. Look carefully,” Hans insisted. “See if you can’t remember seeing her before.”
“I don’t have time for…” And then Krueger saw that Brasche had his pistol drawn.
“What the hell is this?”
“I told you to look carefully.”
Heart beating fast, Krueger looked down at the picture again. “Okay, yes, I have probably met the girl. I don’t know who she is though.”
Brasche smiled then and said, “I didn’t expect you would know her name, Sergeant Major. My wife was called ‘Anna.’ This tank is named for her.
A set of memories tugged at Krueger, memories of a little, emaciated Jewess being used by a squad of men. He dropped the picture and began to reach for his own pistol.
Hans’ pistol spoke and then spoke again. Krueger was spun to the floor. He lay there on his back, going into shock, bleeding to death.
Krueger’s eyes lost focus for a moment. When focus returned he saw a broadly smiling Brasche standing over him, pistol pointed directly at Krueger’s head.
“This is for my wife, Anna, whose name you never asked, you NAZI SON OF A BITCH!”
Beaten in war or not, the Germans were still thorough. Several miles up the road, Harz and Schultz were met by busses, just returning from dropping off one load of refugees to pick up another. The loading was orderly and soon the two were in line on an asphalt parking lot awaiting boarding. Their route, so they were told, would take them into Denmark, across several bridges, and even underwater, before they reached Sweden.
Dieter stopped before joining a line to board a bus. He looked around at a homeland he did not expect ever to see again. Suddenly, without a word, Dieter began walking off the asphalt to the nearest patch of bare earth. There, while Harz looked on without comprehension, Dieter started digging at the earth with his helmet. Soon he had the helmet half filled and another pile of dirt beside the little hole. Dieter reached into his pocket and removed a plastic bag. This he placed onto the dirt in the helmet. Then he filled the helmet with the remainder, tamping it down carefully. He walked back to Harz and the forming line carrying the helmet by its strap.
“And what was that in aid of?” asked Harz.
“At first, when I was digging, I just wanted to bury Gudrun, the only part of her I have to bury anyway, as a human should have been buried. But then I thought that someday, children will ask us, ‘What is Germany?’ And I thought I might be able to point to this helmet, filled with the rich soil of home and the last remains of as pure a spirit and heart as Germany ever produced, and encased in and protected by a helmet of war as only soldiers ever could have protected Germany. And with that, maybe I will be able to explain.”
Anna’s picture was retrieved from the floor where Krueger had discarded it. Safe in Hans’ pocket again, it was joined by his little packet of her hair. He smiled at the nearness, warmly, and thought, Soon, love, soon.
“Anna, full automation. Prepare for continuous antilander fire. Close-in defense weapons under your control. Engagement parameters Posleen flyers and infantry.”
“Yes, Herr Oberst,” the tank answered.
“Anna, call me Hans, can’t you?”
“Yes, Hans, I can call you by your given name. Hans, those Posleen ships are almost in range, and there are more of them than I thought. I am loading DU-AM now.”
“Thank you, Anna. How much time?”
“Two minutes, Hans.”
“Very good.”
Hans took the small folded cloth something, and began to open it into a yarmulke. “Commander’s gun,” he announced. His gunner’s controls descended around him.
As the first Posleen ship appeared in his sight, Hans began to recite, “Hear, O Israel… the Lord is God… the Lord is One…”
Epilogue: In a further future…
The Heavens twisted. Normal star patterns were distorted and covered as the battle cruiser Derflinger, leading the human fleet, began to emerge from hyperspace. Derflinger was followed by Kaiser and Kaiserin, the latest supermonitors Bismarck and, the heavy cruisers Scharnhorst, Gneisenau, Scheer and Hipper. A parsec away materialized a similar fleet, containing Musashi and Yamato, Kongo, Akagi, Kaga, Soryu and Hiryu. In between, led by escorts, emerged the combined transport fleet.
Slowly and majestically, the three sub-fleets closed on their target, a major world of the hated Darhel. From below, semirobotic defenses attempted to hold the avenging humans at bay. These were semirobotic in the sense that they required a living operator to release them to fight, but fought on their own. Only this roundabout method saved the Darhel “operators” from lintatai, the catatonia and death that came from actively using violence.
Aboard the transport fleet’s flagship, a special vessel on loan from the Americans and named the “Chesty Puller,” the landing force’s chain of command met in the orders room. They met not so much to consult or plan or even to order as it was to share a few hours conviviality before the landing.