The Furred Reich (12 page)

The distant howl of an agonized wolf greeted the SS general as he emerged from the dense woods and into a snowy glade. All the typical landmarks of the Belgian countryside were missing: No fields, no farm houses, and no crossroads anywhere. And there definitely weren’t supposed to be wolves around.

“HALLO?!”

His gruff voice bounced between treelines, but still there was nothing. Certainly no sign of a front anywhere. Just for good measure, he tried calling out in his best French. The only reply was another howl.

“OUUUUUUUUUUUUuuu!”

Canine prints peppered the frosty glade, but they weren’t any pawprints he’d ever seen. This was probably a hallucination.

Maybe one of the Americans slipped far behind the lines and drugged his food. It was the only explanation that made sense. Well, there was one other possible explanation: Dietrich did know of a plot among the generals against the Fuehrer. The Feldmarschall mentioned the plot in passing to him, and Dietrich gave the Feldmarschall an answer in passing. Sepp’s heart sunk at the thought of getting caught in that, not least because that scenario made more sense than some wily American slinking so far behind the lines.

Whoever wanted him, he’d deal with it when he awoke from this. A medic would wake him up soon enough.

Sepp turned back to the location where the ordeal began. Among the various things strewn around the ground was a shovel. He’d have to dig a trench once again.

“Like 1914 all over…”

He chuckled to himself, trying to trick his mind into not thinking about what could really be going on around him. Back in 1914, thirty years ago, Sepp was on the cusp of adulthood. The Freikorps and later the SS had since kept him more than robust. In half an hour he had himself a small foxhole. Food would have to wait for the morning, though he would surely be awoken by then. Sleep came eventually.

The next morning, he felt the cold wind nipping at him, then opened his eyes and found he was in the exact same place. This was getting annoying. Still no phone call from Jochen. No telegraph from Rommel. No orderly to slap him out of all this. Nothing.

“What is this damned place…” The weathered commander said, brushing the snow off his camouflage.

On the good side, mere survival was a matter far simpler than what he faced in the Ardennes.

“Fuck…”

Sepp shouldered his rifle and made for the woods. His stomach growled, and no rations had ‘come over’ with him.

Quite a few deer prints graced the snowy floor of the forest, so this wouldn’t take too long. His stepfather taught him well many years ago, and Sepp had been an avid hunter ever since. Within the hour he’d stalked a fawn to her thicket and pierced her head with a sudden bark from the Mauser that cracked through the morning air. The young fawn crumpled before him, and he stared down at her.

Sepp hoisted her upon his shoulders and began the trek to camp. A frightened scream greeted him before he got there, but what he saw practically knocked him back.

The source was two she wolves, women in every sense, knelt upright, pleading to some dark green monster clad in battle armor.

The beast, whatever the hell it was, took its time toying with one young wolfess while the sister begged for mercy. Sepp watched as the monster’s thick green finger hooked under the she wolf’s chest cloth and plucked it off, freeing her breasts to bounce out into the winter air.

Then the other one spoke out. “No… No please let my sister go…”

Sepp gently set his fawn down in the snow, loaded his Mauser and whistled at the beast. It turned around and he quickly shot it in the heart. The beast reeled in shock and dropped its grip on both women. Yet it remained on its feet. The commander trudged out from behind the tree and blasted several more rounds in the green monster’s body. The monster’s red eyes filled with rage as it unsheathed a hellish ax and ran at Sepp. He grimaced as he cocked the gun upward and shot the plunderer in the helmet, finally knocking it down. And out.

The she wolves knelt in fear at the feet of the approaching human. He stared down at the sister who had been manhandled just a moment ago. She returned the stare for a moment, then backed up against a tree.

Dietrich slung the Mauser back.

“Is there danger nearby…”

The other sister spoke up.

“Y-yes.”

“Lead me in the right direction.”

“…OK. Sir.”

The other clasped her deerskin top back on. Sepp lifted his fawn back onto his shoulders and rejoined the she-wolves, following behind them as they ran through the snow.

“Please sir… Faster!”

Sepp couldn’t go that fast carrying his fawn, but the wolf girls led him westward again and into a forest. He marched as they scurried. And when he got tired, the older sister helped carry the deer.

“We need to stop. I’m starving.”

That would probably be the last he’d see of them. They’d run on while he sat here.

But they didn’t go. Instead, the girls stopped as if to obey him. He sat down, and the wolven sisters sat down next to him.

“What are your names?”

“It’s Valvela, sir.” The first sister replied, “and this is Sabrae.”

Sepp caught his breath.

“And what are we fleeing from?” He asked.

“Raiders, sir. Don’t you know? They showed up in the forests last month.”

“That monster there… Was he a Raider?”

“Yes.”

“And, could you tell me how to get to Koblenz?”

“Ko-huh? No sir I’ve never heard of that place.” Her face remained solemn and serious.

“Paris? Antwerpen? Strauss-burg?”

“No sir I don’t know. Would you like some autumn nuts?”

Sabrae reached in her satchel and pulled out some walnuts and cashews. Sepp took them.

“I need for you both to help me with something.”

The girls both fixed their eyes to the human in silence.

“Lead me to a safe place. Lead me there, and I’ll take care of any Raider who comes for either of you. Could you do that for me?”

The girls nodded in unison, Valvela’s bushy tail swaying behind her. This was the first chance he’d gotten to really look at the girls. Their firm, young bodies took the shape of a human woman, but they were both covered in thick fur. Long, white snouts, pure white hair that cascaded to their shoulders. No, this definitely wasn’t Antwerpen.

Out of the Woods

“Get back here you!”

Hans jogged down the clover-lined dirt path before bolting into the nearby woods and out of the foxens’ sights. If the foxen wanted him, they’d have to pay with several more lives of their own – Hans would make sure of that.

He wasn’t sure how long he ran. Panting, he sat down against a tree. Already he was close to the northern reaches of the map James had given him. The only question now was how to get out of this country and into the Cottonwine Lands, which was north of the lapines. He’d have to go through lapine lands first. At least that was what he had scribbled into the side margins.

The map didn’t show any lapine towns to the east of him. It looked like he’d have to go all through the foxen realm to even get to the lapines, and he could be caught anywhere along the way. But to the west of him were felines, at least that’s what the map said. There were some trade paths from feline lands to other places. That route seemed like the safer one. According to the map, all he had to do was get to the west side of these woods undetected and he’d be out of the foxen’s country.

Hans got up and continued west under the leafy green canopy that covered him. This continent was something he could get more used to. It reminded him more of home, which by now seemed forever out of reach.

Night was about to fall and Hans didn’t want to travel at such a disadvantage to his yellow-eyed adversaries. He wouldn’t make the tent tonight, either. It would be too easy for the foxen to spot.

After chewing another lamb stick he dug a trench, lay down in it and listened to the foreboding calls of nearby owls. It only made him clutch the Mauser that much tighter.

For some time Hans drifted somewhere between unconsciousness and alarm. It was at some point in the night that he heard approaching footsteps. He would have buried himself completely if he could have. His body went into an intense panic as the footsteps neared his dugout and as his thoughts stopped. A supplementary sense took over and told him danger was very near. Suddenly he saw a man no more than five yards from him. He could feel his skin crawling. Then a second man approached behind the first. They both froze for a moment, took a few steps and turned away. Silently, Hans raised his gun from the dugout.

Should he shoot? That would make a huge sound. Let them go? They could just as easily track him down later. Hans pondered it for a split second.

His instincts made the decision for him.

“Stop right there. Hands up. Both of you. Now.”

The foxen both halted and raised their hands. The foxen did understand his language after all, it seemed.

“I know you both have knives. Drop them.”

They both dropped the knives. Hans put the foxes up against the tree while he shouldered his stuff and crawled out of the trench.

“Now how many else of you are out here tonight?”

The foxen didn’t answer. Hans nudged one of them in the back with the steel tube.

“Six or seven.” The vulpine squawked out.

Hans knelt down and picked up both corsairs. They were pretty fine blades.

“You’re going to walk straight west. This is the edge of your race’s country, is it not?”

The lead fox nodded.

“Then once I reach the edge of your forest I’ll let you both go.”

Russian partisans had taught Hans a thing or two. He intended on using the two foxen as a bargaining chip if he ran into more of their kind. He walked behind both of the furres. It would only be a few more hours until they were out. Definitely by morning.

“Have either of you heard of a black ship in the sky?”

The foxen looked at one another.

“…A black ship? No. Nothing like that, sir.”

“Alright.”

The three of them trudged on.

“You aren’t like other humans.” The lead fox warmed up, probably because he knew he wasn’t going to die.

“Yeah. I just want to get home. That’s all.”

“You must be a warrior at your home? I can tell that much.”

Hans never thought of himself as a ‘warrior.’ But of course, these furres didn’t know that Hans had run from the Don all the way to Kharkov.

For the next three hours they marched in silence. He saw the stark orange morning sun as they broke free of the treeline. Hans glanced into the foxens’ bright yellow pupils as he passed them onto the narrow trade road. He wondered how best to part with them. Not even the Wehrmacht manual had a word for etiquette in this situation.

“This is it… Thanks…”

“Uh, sir? May we get our corsairs back? We’ll get in big trouble if we show up without them.”

Hans looked down at the two knives strapped against his waist. He took one and slid it across the dirt road back to them.

“Sorry. I’ll need this one.”

Hans backed away and walked in a nearby ditch until the foxen were out of sight.

Undefeated

May 9th

Jochen stood in front of his tank crews, the gentle spring light glowing all around their blackened faces. He looked into the eyes of each one of them as he stood straight as an arrow before them in tank trousers, a leather jacket and weather-bleached officer’s cap.

“Kamerads. Thank you for everything. For your loyalty. For your years of willingness. Today Germany surrendered to the Allied powers. The… war is over…”

The thickness in Jochen’s voice was mercilessly cut into by the birds’ joyful singing. For the last month, whirling dust kicked-up from the Panzers hid from them the bursting spring. But the Panzers wouldn’t be doing so much longer.

Jochen Peiper’s division, the Leibstandarte, had been fighting almost nonstop since 1939, and after innumerable losses many in the Leibstandarte were just boys: Boys who had grown up during the war and knew little else. Battle was a reflex and the regiment had replaced their families. Everyone was prepared to go on.

Many of them looked on as if in a dream. Some couldn’t hold back their tears. For so long they had all longed for peace with a passion difficult to comprehend. Now it was here.

He watched them and relaxed his stance. This was no longer about combat-readiness. Or even morale.

“Please. Don’t do anything rash. There’s no sense in suicide… Because Germany will need all of you.”

At least Jochen thought so.

Soviet artillery gave its parting shots from the distance. Even after surrender there was a need for haste. Jochen’s Panzer regiment began its retreat through the dandelion-covered meadows and the radiant green grass of the Austrian countryside, away from the Soviets and toward the Americans. Unit after unit crossed the Enns River where they were to go into captivity. Jochen watched their backs disappear forever into the Panzers’ dusty wake. He ordered the men of the last four ‘Tigers’ covering the retreat to blow up the tanks. Only then did Jochen and his staff cross.

On the other side there were no Americans to be seen.

For Jochen, the war was finally over, and he had only place in mind: Home. While most of the crew went north, Jochen’s destination had him going west and into the safety of the mountains. To do so he would finally have to part with his staff and travel in a smaller group further into the mountains. It was hard to imagine that now was the last time they would be together. Everyone had tears in their eyes. One by one he said goodbye to them with a handshake.

Two battalion commanders, Knittel and Rettlinger decided to follow Jochen. So did his adjutant Koechlin. The fourth to follow was Paul Guhl, who now commanded a separate regiment, but was an officer of Jochen’s back in Kharkov with the half-track battalion.

Their collective destination was Bavaria. The group marched over rising mountain paths and crossed through forests and glades. For the first two nights they slept on haystacks. The next day it rained, but that night Jochen found an Austrian farmer who fed all five of them and gave them a sheltered barn for the night. It was the first time in months that they went to sleep without hunger or stress. The SS men graciously accepted a modest meal of chicken and eggs and then trudged off to their temporary refuge.