Briefly Otto closed his eyes, he remembered all too well, the starry black nights, the endless snow and ice, so cold that it caused weapons to jam, anything metallic to shatter, the wind that blew through their threadbare Black Waffen SS Uniforms. His enemy might not have understood much about a tactical withdrawal or any warfare tactics for that matter, but they had bravery and a seemingly endless supply of fresh troops. It had seemed that all his men did was retreat. His unit had retreated all the way from Stalingrad, fighting one rearguard action after another, every skirmish whittled away at his command. They had retreated at every step. No more joking about advancing on Berlin. They began by retreating across the steppe of Mother Russia, into Romania. Soviet forces herded them into the forests of Transylvania, where they were finally destroyed. When there was no diesel for their vehicles, they marched, and then walked, until they finally just stumbled along. When there was no ammunition for their weapons they used knives, bayonets and their trenching tools, even rocks and sharpened sticks. They had no food except what they could steal from local, better armed, civilians. He had originally commanded five companies. When he finally surrendered he alone was able to walk. Of his five hundred soldiers, only five, excluding him were alive. He remembered the prisoner of war stockade, a barren square of an uneven farmer's field, open to the elements, demarcated by rusting; blood encrusted barbed wire.
Vivid flashes of victorious, well fed and clothed drunken Russian troops bellowing with laughter as they shot indiscriminately at or near their helpless prisoners. Then an officer was among them. The shooting stopped. Otto looked out, it was a woman. The royal blue piping along her cavalry like uniform pants, matching arm, and hatband of her peaked cap indicated she was NKVD. The Russian peasant soldiers shrank back; a bullwhip was thrust into her brown leather belt with shoulder-straps and was balanced by a holstered pistol. A PPSh 41 Sub-machine Gun was slung almost casually around her neck and would be instantly accessible, should it be needed. The clearly visible rank tabs on her shoulders indicated she held the rank of first lieutenant, definitely not a person any common Russian soldier liked to trifle with, even though it was plain to see she was a very pretty, slim, young woman.
She pointed at Otto and ordered one of the rabble to bring him to her. The man did as ordered, hastily clubbing Otto to the ground with his rifle but before grabbing him by the neck of his filthy uniform, dragging him towards and throwing him at her feet.
"Are you Sturmbannführer Otto Gunther?" She asked in German.
"Yes." He replied in Russian.
"Come with me." She ordered in the same language, holding out her hand. Her hair was flaxen, with eyes of green, like a cat's, and the same implacable stare. With surprising strength and feline ease she pulled him to his feet.
Otto stumbled after her. His boots had been appropriated upon capture; his bloody feet were bare, and sore. He followed as she walked with catlike grace in knee high laced up brown boots through the filthy rubble towards a muddy, scraped and dented Allied armored troop carrier. The white circled star recognition device had been crudely painted over with a red hammer and sickle. Although American in manufacture, it resembled the famous Mybach Halftracks that he and his Unit had used while serving with Rommel in the Afrika Korps.
She opened the rear door. "Get in!" She ordered.
Otto stumbled and fell into the vehicle, sprawling face first onto a carpeted floor. He looked up. This was no ordinary armored troop carrier. The original canvas roof had been replaced with steel, making the interior dark and gloomy. He could discern that the interior was pristine white; the two rows of seats had been removed and a desk and leather covered chairs had been bolted down in their place, also, to one side, was a large bed and table.
A woman asked in Romanian from the shadows. "You found him Elle?"
"Yes Comrade Colonel." The lieutenant answered in the same language. "Sturmbannführer Otto Gunther: Born 6:00 PM July 6, 1906 in Hanover Germany, to Fritz and Isobel Gunther, both deceased. He joined the SS in 1939, after induction, he transferred to the Waffen SS. He saw service with the Sixth Pioneer Division in Poland, Africa and Stalingrad and of course now, since we are here in Hungary, I mean Romania." She stumbled, grinning slyly, almost impishly at her intentional slip of the tongue before continuing. "He was at Perekop Isthmus, then Sevastopol. As you know their OKW intended to hold Sevastopol as a fortress, as our Glorious Red Army had done during the first battle for the Crimea in 1941/42. The rapid movement of our Army together with their inadequate preparation of the defenses of Sevastopol made this impossible, and on 9 May, not even one month after the start of the battle, Sevastopol fell back into our hands. Like with Stalingrad his SS brigade covered the rearguard of the German retreat.
He was twice promoted for bravery under fire and was awarded Iron Crosses, second and first class, Eastern Front Medal with a Close Combat Bar, Army Parachutist Badge and a Gold Anti-Partisan Badge, which our beloved General Beria will, no doubt have him have him shot for. The Romanian Order of the Star (Officer Class) and a First Class Sniper's badge and Tank Destruction Badge according to his soldbuch, he has numerous wound badges and awards, and has the right to wear both the Crimea Shield and Afrika Cuff title." She continued reading from a slim file and what looked like his confiscated pay-book or soldbuch. "They ran out of ammunition and he was captured last month. Now he is target practice for our Glorious Proletariat Army as it sweeps victoriously towards Berlin. The last message his Unit sent, they would fight to the last bullet, which they did, by the way! Our intelligence leads us to believe the OKW considers him, and his entire Unit, killed in action, he will not be missed, just another of their 97000 casualties of the campaign."
"Good! Bring him to me, let me see!" the woman ordered.
The pretty lieutenant grabbed his collar and half dragged him towards the desk, Otto did not struggle, knowing that this was the end. They had systematically killed every man in his unit, either in battle, or as prisoners, by denying food, and medicine, or by torture and needless executions. He was a member of the SS, there were no delusions, and he understood and expected nothing less. It had been a barbaric war, where atrocities were commonplace on every side. History would be re-written by the victors; only losers would be expected to pay the heavy price for the barbarism and inhumanity that everyone had committed. Any war tribunal would be a futile attempt to mask man's inhumanity to man by pointing the finger at the defeated side. Otto could not make out the woman's features in the shadowy confines of the darkened vehicle, as what little light there was came from directly behind her.
"You have done well my precious, he is indeed handsome." She declared, kissing the blonde with passion on the mouth.
The blonde arched her back, exhibiting sensual pleasure and returning her superior officer's kiss with visible passion, before turning towards Otto and wrinkling her nose while rubbing her hands and arms vigorously, "He stinks! He's filthy and I think he has lice or fleas. Ugh!" She scratched at her arms and wrists, grimacing.
The mysterious woman nodded, "Probably both." She agreed. "Now let's get back to Head Quarters." She ordered. "It will dawn in a few hours."
The lieutenant slid past her superior and sat behind the wheel. The Detroit Diesel's roar coincided with the resuming stutter of gunfire from the stockade, and they moved off, the tracks making the quintessential squeaks and squeals common only to halftracks irrespective of pedigree, as the vehicle plowed its way over the rough track.
