came next, followed by all of the orchestral grandiosities from the
Der Ring des Nibelungen
:
“Entry of the Gods Into Valhalla,” “Wotan’s Farewell,” “Siegfried’s Funeral March”
and—last but not least—the “Immolation of the Gods.”
When it was over, Frank Jackson sighed with relief. “Good thing they lost World War II,” he growled. “Can you imagine having to listen to that shit forever?”
Mike snorted. “You think
that
was bad?” He glanced at the eastern horizon. The first hint of dawn was appearing in the sky. “Try listening to
Parsifal,
some time.”
He raised the binoculars and studied the battlements. They were still shrouded in darkness, except where the spotlights flashed across the walls. There was not a soldier in sight.
“Becky made me do it, once. All five hours of the damned thing.”
Jackson frowned. “Why? I thought you told me she hated Wagner.”
“She does. She just wanted to prove her point.”
A new, very different strain of music came over the loudspeakers. Mike glanced at his watch. “Perfect timing,” he said softly. “What the French call the ’pièce de résistance.’”
Frank cocked his ear. “What is it?”
“According to Becky, this piece of music captures the heart of war like nothing else ever composed.” Mike stepped out of the tent and strode into the clearing beyond. Seeing Ferrara standing nearby, he signaled with his hand. The former science teacher nodded and turned to his youthful subordinates. Partners in crime, rather.
“Time to start the fireworks, boys.” Grinning, Larry, Eddie and Jimmy scampered off, each headed for one of the catapults—and the rocket stands which stood near them.
Mike returned, walking slowly and pausing at every step. He was listening to the music. By the time he got back to the tent, Frank’s face seemed strained.
As well it might be. Shostakovich’s Symphony no. 8 was well underway now, blasting the horror of a war-ravaged Russia of the future across the war-ravaged land of today’s Germany. Stalin had wanted a triumphalist piece, to celebrate the growing tide of Soviet victory over the Nazis. But Shostakovich, though a Soviet patriot himself, had given the dictator something quite different—the greatest symphony of the twentieth century. And if the piece as a whole transcended the year 1943, the third movement did not. It was a pure, unalloyed, cold-eyed
shriek
. Terror and agony and heartbreak, captured in music.
The first rockets sailed from their launching pads and began exploding over the ramparts. The explosive charges in the warheads were not designed for destruction so much as for show. Instead of splattering the castle with shrapnel, they shrouded the Wartburg with sparkling dazzle. A glaring, flaming accompaniment to the Symphony no. 8—a visual promise, added to a musical one.
This is what awaits you, soldiers of Spain.
Dawn arrived, and the third movement screamed into silence. The last rockets flared in the sky.
Silence. Stillness, at last. Mike waited, studying his watch. He and Rebecca had decided on five minutes of peace. A “tension-builder,” she had called it.
When the five minutes were up, Mike gave the order and the catapults began to fire. An ancient design, coupled to modern materials, hurled cannisters onto the battlements of the Wartburg.
These first missiles, though they contained a small explosive charge, were still part of the psychological campaign. They burst over the castle and showered leaflets onto the thousands of soldiers huddled inside the walls. The leaflets were written in Spanish and German, calling on the soldiers to surrender and promising good treatment to those who did.
Over the loudspeakers, Spanish-speaking soldiers in the U.S. army called out the same terms of surrender.
Food. Water. Good treatment. No atrocities. Recruitment—at good pay—for those who choose to join the army of the United States.
When the catapult barrage ended, the voices calling over the loudspeaker were replaced by more music. Rebecca had selected these pieces also; choosing, this time, for a different purpose. The Spaniards had been given one alternative. Now, the other.
The tranquil strains of “Morning Mood” from Grieg’s
Peer Gynt
filled the dawn. To Mike, and Frank, and Mackay and Lennox, and all the U.S. soldiers surrounding the castle, the music came like a balm. They could well imagine its effect on the Spaniards.
“Morning Mood”
faded away. In its place came music even more serene, spreading with the daylight. Like peace and hope, after the night.
Frank seemed transfixed. Gently, seeing his friend’s face, Mike said: “Becky thinks this is the most beautiful piece of music ever written. Though she admits it’s a matter of taste.”
“She’s got good taste,” whispered Frank. “Makes me think of a bird, soaring through the sky.”
Mike nodded.
The Lark Ascending
, by Ralph Vaughan Williams, had been inspired by the composer’s own beloved English countryside. But it filled the air over central Germany as if it belonged there.
“As it does,” said Mike softly. “As it does. Here—and everywhere.”
He turned his head, looking to the east. There, somewhere under the rising sun less than a hundred miles away, his wife would be in their kitchen. Rebecca was an early riser. Mike knew that she would have already prepared breakfast for her beloved father, even though she was moving more slowly these days due to her pregnancy. The German family which had once lived in Mike’s house had found new lodgings, and Balthazar had moved in with them. He and Mike’s invalid mother got along well, and Balthazar wanted to spend the rest of his days watching his grandchild grow up.
“Here—and everywhere,” Mike repeated. His voice was very soft, and very loving.
The Lark Ascending
faded away. Frank cleared his throat. The sound was regretful. More like a sigh than anything else.
“They won’t surrender,” he said. “Not yet.”
Mike shook his head abruptly, banishing thoughts of love and tranquility.
“No, they won’t,” he said harshly. He turned to face the castle. “But I don’t think it’ll take much. Just a touch of the fire.”
As it happens, Mike had misjudged. Rebecca had risen much earlier than usual, that day. Melissa had asked her to come to the school early that morning, to discuss something before classes started.
So, at the very moment when Mike ordered the catapults to start firing again, Rebecca was walking along Route 250. She had just left the outskirts of the town and was enjoying the solitude and the tranquility of early morning.
Others were
not
enjoying the morning.
When Jeff awoke, he discovered that his fever had broken. But he still felt lousy. His whole body ached.
Gretchen came into the bedroom, carrying a bowl of porridge. She was already dressed, wearing, as always, her beloved blue jeans and sneakers.
“Eat,” she commanded, driving down her husband’s protest. “You will need your strength today.” She smiled. “You’ll have to fend for yourself until evening. I promised Dan Frost I’d help teach his new batch of recruits.”
Gretchen’s smile twisted, became slightly derisive. “German girls! Still don’t really believe a woman can use a gun.”
Jeff had wondered why Gretchen was wearing her bodice and vest. She usually preferred a simple blouse, especially in warm weather. He eyed the heavy garments, looking for the pistol. He couldn’t spot it. Gretchen’s pregnancy was still not showing in her belly. But Jeff thought it was definitely showing itself in her already impressive bust.
It was a happy thought. Gaily, Gretchen slapped his head. “And stop staring at my tits! What a scandal!”
Four hundred West Gothlanders, Finns and Lapps were also not happy that morning. Captain Gars had roused his little army long before daybreak, and driven them ever since. The pace he was setting, on horseback through an unknown forest, varied between recklessness and downright insanity.
But they uttered no protest. There would have been no point. Captain Gars was not one to listen to the voice of caution, and he had a will of iron.
A madman. It was well known.
The car pulled up alongside Rebecca. James leaned out of the window. “Want a ride?”
Smiling, Rebecca turned. “Good morning, James. Melissa.” When she spotted Julie Sims, sitting in the back seat, her smiled widened. Not too much, she hoped. “Julie.” Rebecca shook her head. “No, thank you. I am enjoying the walk.”
James nodded. He had expected the answer. As one of the town’s two doctors who could drive a car, James was exempt from the ban on private motor vehicle operation. He always drove Melissa to school and would spend the morning there attending to the medical needs of the students. Often enough, he had passed Rebecca walking alongside the road, offered a ride, and had the offer declined. Rebecca liked to walk.
“See you later, then.”
As the car pulled away and disappeared around a bend in the road, Rebecca’s smile became a wide grin. Now that Julie could no longer see her, she made no attempt to hide her amusement.
Poor girl! So frantic, when there is so little need.
Julie, she knew, would have spent the night at Melissa’s house. In her anxiety over her unexpected pregnancy, Julie would have gone to Melissa for advice and comfort, talking so late into the night that Melissa would have invited her to sleep over.
Melissa and James’ house, now. The doctor had moved in with her months ago. The prim and proper schoolteacher was making no attempt any longer to disguise their relationship. And if that indiscretion scandalized the town’s more prudish residents—not to mention the bigots—it had the opposite effect on others. Over the months, Melissa Mailey’s status among her students and former students—especially the girls—had undergone a sea change. She had become something of a surrogate mother. Or, perhaps, a beloved aunt. Relaxed, confident, serene—
approachable
, in a way the schoolmarm had never been. Her house had become a haven and a refuge for such.
Rebecca resumed her morning promenade, still smiling. James had grumbled to her, once, that he sometimes felt he was living in a boarding home for wayward girls. But Rebecca had not missed the warmth and affection under the gruffness. Julie, she knew, was a particular favorite of his. Last night was not the first time she had slept on the couch in their living room.
Rebecca made her slow way along the side of the road, full of good cheer. Even her waddle pleased her. She would be glad enough, of course, to resume her former svelte figure when the time came. But for all things there is a season. She was looking forward to being a mother.
She breathed in the clean air. A line from one of her father’s favorite plays came to her. It fit her mood to perfection. So much so that she shouted it gaily to the hills around her:
“
O brave new world, that hath such people in it!”
After he finished his breakfast, Jeff rose from the bed. He was feeling a bit energetic himself. He was sick of being sick, and wanted to
do
something. Anything.
Staring out of the trailer’s kitchen window, his eyes fell on the dirt bike parked outside. Grew thoughtful.
The decision came within seconds. He wasn’t foolish enough to try riding in rough terrain, as poorly as he still felt. But a little spin would do him some good. He scurried about and got dressed for the occasion, not forgetting the leather jacket.
By the time he went out the door, he had already decided on his destination. The school was only two miles away, a quick and easy run on the best road in the world. Jeff thought it would be nice to drop in on Ms. Mailey. Just to say hello, before he came back to his cursed sickbed. Why not? Dr. Nichols had told Gretchen that he wouldn’t be infectious anymore.
He had already straddled the bike when he remembered something. For a moment, scowling, he almost decided to leave it behind. Rules and discipline be damned!
Habit dies hard. The bike was now, officially, the property of the U.S. army. Jeff was a soldier in that army, even if he was usually on detached duty working with Gretchen and her less-than-official underground. But he was still required to carry a firearm when using a military vehicle.
Better safe than sorry. Some busybody might spot him. Jeff hurried back into the trailer, got the shotgun, and stuck it into the bike’s saddle-holster. An instant later he was roaring off, enjoying the breeze.
On the steep slope above Route 250, hidden in the trees, four Croat horsemen stared at the road below. They were the advance scouts for the oncoming imperial cavalry, send ahead to study the approaches. There had been a half dozen of them, in the beginning. But now that the town’s layout and the school had been examined, two had already returned to report. The others had been about to follow. But then, spotting movement on the road, they had moved forward to investigate.
One of the horsemen took his eyes off the woman and scanned the road. “She’s alone,” he murmured.
One of his companions nodded. The gesture was quick, eager. “A Jew bitch too, by the look of her.” His hand fondled the hilt of his saber. “Two for one,” he chuckled savagely. “We can spill her big belly after we’re done.”
Chapter 55
“Light ’em up!”
commanded Ferrara. His words were carried over the radio to all three catapults. Almost simultaneously, three cannisters were flung into the air. Propelled by the relatively gentle motion of the catapults—gentle, at least, compared to a cannon—the cannisters soared through the sky in a looping trajectory. The catapults had been specifically designed for this purpose. The fragile cannisters could not withstand the shock of gunpowder—and nobody wanted to be in the vicinity when their contents were spilled.
The missiles cleared the walls of the castle with no difficulty. The timed fuses went off just before the cannisters landed. Each cannister contained five gallons of napalm. Hellfire erupted across the fortifications and the thousands of soldiers huddled within.
Greek fire was back—with a vengeance.
“Fire at will!”
shouted Ferrara. The next round of napalm was lobbed a bit more raggedly. The three different crews had practiced with the devices, but there was a slight difference in their proficiency. Again, hellfire spread across the battlements of the castle. By now, the upper fortifications were a raging inferno.
A man appeared on the walls, burning like a torch. It was impossible to tell, from the distance, whether he committed suicide or simply stumbled to his death from sheer agony.
Watching, Mike winced. He could already hear the swelling shrieks of the Spanish soldiers burning to death inside the castle.
“That is some nasty shit,” muttered Frank. “Been so long I’d half forgotten.”
A new voice came over the radio, instantly recognizable. Hilda was the only German woman who had so far enlisted in the U.S. army and made it past Frank’s screening. Since her English was good, if heavily accented, she had been assigned to serve as a radio operator.
“The main gate is opening! Main gate is opening!”
Mike raised his binoculars. Sure enough, he could see the heavy gate starting to swing aside. A moment later, waving pikes and arquebuses, a mob of Spanish soldiers surged through.
That gate was the only entrance to the castle from which large bodies of men could issue quickly. For that reason, Frank had positioned the M-60 to cover it. The men manning the machine gun didn’t wait for orders. There was no need. Frank’s instructions had been crystal clear:
If they come out armed, kill ’em.
The M-60 stutter-stutter-stuttered. The packed mob of soldiers were cut down as if by a scythe. Stutter-stutter, stutter-stutter. Stutter-stutter-stutter.
Mike lowered the binoculars and looked away. In less than a minute, the M-60 had left a small hill of bodies. The gate was almost blocked by the corpses. The Spaniards who survived had stumbled back into the castle.
He watched another cannister of napalm explode over the battlements. The entire castle now resembled a bonfire. The resemblance was an illusion, more than a reality. The Wartburg was stone, not wood, and the lower levels of the castle would still be untouched by the flames.
An illusion—so far. Even stone castles will burn, if given enough of a start. Not the walls themselves, of course. But all castles are full of flammable substances. Wooden beams, furniture, tapestries, textiles—with enough napalm, the interior of the castle would be a firestorm within an hour. Nothing at all would survive. Over ten thousand men, thinking they had found a haven, had discovered instead a hideous deathtrap.
Mike opened his mouth, about to issue the command to cease fire. Then, seeing Frank’s cold eyes on him, he fell silent.
No choice.
The Spanish army trapped in the Wartburg still outnumbered the U.S. forces by a large margin. Until they surrendered—marched out, unarmed—Mike could not afford to ease up the pressure. So, tightening his jaws, he said nothing.
Burn and burn and burn. The first men started popping out of the castle; stumbling through a multitude of exits, even scrambling down the walls. Most of them were unarmed. The few who still carried weapons dropped them quickly enough, when they heard the voices shouting at them in Spanish. They had no thought but survival—anything to escape the holocaust which the Wartburg had become.
Now, dozens of unarmed Spaniards started pouring out of the main gate, pushing aside the mound of corpses by sheer weight of numbers. Then hundreds.
“It’s done,” said Frank. Mike nodded and gestured at Ferrara. A moment later, Ferrara passed along the order. The catapults stopped firing.
Mike stared at the burning castle. There was no way to stop the conflagration now. By the next day, the Wartburg would be a gutted ruin.
He tried to find humor somewhere. Whimsy, at least. “You know,” he mused, “that’s probably a historical monument, in the world we came from. Makes you feel a little guilty, doesn’t it?”
“Not me,” snorted Frank. “A castle is a castle is a castle. Just a robbers’ den, far as I’m concerned. Thieves braggin’ about their thievin’ great-grandfathers. Good riddance to the whole lot.”
Mike didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh. In the end, he laughed.
“What can I say? You’re right.”
