//------------------------------// // Chapter 12: The Suicide of Germany // Story: A Great Endeavor // by Rune Soldier Dan //------------------------------// ”It is only through labor and painful effort, by grim energy and resolute courage, that we move on to better things.” -Theodore Roosevelt, US President ---------- She moved mechanically, precisely. Not Rarity, not for now, but part of a greater whole. Blueblood was here, and her, and ten other unicorns. Not dispersed among human squads, but gathered in a tight knot, surrounded by the largest earth ponies in enchanted armor. They tore down the streets of the German village towards their target. A panzer was holding the intersection, fending off the Allied soldiers. Isn’t this what happened in Caen? This would be different. Riflemen shot at the “Equestrian tank.” Between the earth ponies’ armor and the shields of a dozen unicorns, nothing got through. The panzer could’ve destroyed them, but they waited until it was reloading to charge. By the time it was ready to fire, they were already too close. One unicorn couldn’t flip a panzer, not unless she was in a magic frenzy. But a dozen could do it easily. They did have to drop the shield to do so, though. One of the earth ponies fell. At least it wasn’t Stern Glare. There were two halftracks behind the tank, much easier to flip. Eight warlocks rushed forwards, hurling their wild magic. The Equestrians barreled into their midst. Three of the Germans were too slow and were simply trampled. The unicorns paired off against the rest, one countering the warlocks’ magic, the other channeling telekinetic or elemental strikes. Those warlocks who could contend with two unicorns found themselves pummeled by the bodyguards. It was quick. Unbalanced. Eight warlocks, slain in seconds without a single lost Equestrian. The war had changed. Their formation broken, the Equestrians were easier targets for the infantry. Two unicorns and an earth pony were lost before Blueblood barked the order to retreat. They fled rapidly, past the Americans surging forwards. Then they reformed, a new “tank,” albeit a bit smaller. They would charge again, when needed. If not in this village, then the next one. And the next. Rarity was silent. Grim. Proud. The war would end. The Reich would end. And her hooves were helping to end it. ---------- Badley’s aide poked his head in the general’s cabin. “Princess Celestia’s here, Sir.” That earned a smile from the balding commander. The lieutenant had always addressed her as ‘the pony princess’ or ‘her ladyship,’ usually with an unworthy eye-roll. Nice to see the old mare was finally getting the respect she deserved. If anything, though, Celestia was becoming more distant as her reputation grew. She had always been polite, but now there was a briskness about her. She spoke little, wrote much, and sent men to their deaths with all the hardness required of a leader. Maybe Bradley was wrong, but beneath her exterior she felt…irritated, almost angry. Like she was always in a sour mood, but too polite to ever let it show. Again, maybe he was wrong. Celestia greeted him coolly as he stepped out of his tent, but did offer one of those warm smiles she was rationing these days. “Brad,” she said, indulging in his nickname. “You’ll be hearing this officially soon, but I wanted to let you know: We’ve been ordered to strike as quickly as we can into Germany. In three days I will begin a concentrated thrust, and I don’t plan on stopping until we reach the Russian zone.” The general nodded. “Then I’ll have a few divisions watch your right.” Celestia breathed in, and again, a little smile emerged. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” She turned around, facing towards the East. Towards the enemy. Bradley stepped up beside her. He felt – more than heard or saw – the princess release a silent, tired sigh. And he swallowed, feeling a pang of sympathy for the ageless creature. Of course she was tired. She wasn’t a soldier at heart. Just a queen, so devoted to her people that she could naught but lead them herself. Bradley frowned, hating where his thoughts were taking him. America was becoming great by this war, and he was proud. But what would Equestria gain? This wasn’t their fight, not by a long shot. News of the Fascist atrocities had brought them to this, but wasn’t it strange to make war for the sake of morals? To help those who might die at the cost of those who might’ve lived? But if morals didn’t guide a nation to fight, what else was left but cynical self-interest? For rulers to look on war as a cold tool of advancement? Would that really be better than fighting when you believe it is right? Of course she was tired of it, of making very real war for some very vague hopes. From what he knew, it was a frenzy of Equestria’s media that brought her to this. Shocking pictures, sensationalist headlines, petitions circling for her to declare war… Maybe she was regretting it a little. Celestia’s soft words brought him out of his thoughts. “While I winged to your base, I saw four great, grey snakes of men marching westward. They were German prisoners.” Still looking east, she went on. “Recall how elated we were after Falaise? To see them surrender in the thousands? There were hundreds of thousands beneath me as I flew. Marching out of their lines, defeated even before battles began. So many of them starving, coming to us like beggars in search of bread. Whole regiments, colonels leading their men with all the discipline they held in war. Men smiling, laughing, relieved beyond words that they had survived.” One more tiny smile. “I do not think our foe will threaten my flank. Better to throw everything into the attack.” Bradley frowned. “’Afraid I don’t quite agree.” Celestia’s ears flicked up, indicated he had her attention. “I drove…” Bradley swallowed, keeping his own gaze to the east as well. “I drove into one of the villages, right after we entered Germany. I wasn’t needed, but you know how it goes. ‘Pose for the cameras’ and all that. Brought the photographer with me and everything, but I didn’t even remember him two minutes later. Drove into town and every lamppost, every balcony…bodies, hung from all of them. All civilians, with their belongings neatly packed in carts below their feet.” He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “Damned if it didn’t look like a massacre and looting. The major who took the place, I was ready to have his head. But the smoke wasn’t even cleared, the fighting was barely over. I found out that half the village was packing up to run for our lines, but an SS company walked in just as they were moving out. Jerry put two and two together and shot or hung the lot of them. The soldiers dug their heels in then, fighting to the death and dragging down a good half-again of us down with them. Heck of a fight, I’m told: Men dashing between doorways, lobbing grenades from windows, unicorns and warlocks slinging spells…among all those bodies, hanging like fruit.” Celestia said nothing, still looking off as Bradley went on. “I caught up with the major a little later. He said the massacres weren’t too common, but the fights were. The Wehrmacht fought for the next town down the road, and they kept fighting well after they lost the battle. Then the next one after that, held by militia and youth soldiers. And those poor bastards holed up in the bank and fought until there were only eight of them left.” He turned his attention to her. “Your Highness, we all want it to end. But it’s not over yet. So watch your flanks. A lot of people are impressed by you, and I’d hate to see it go bad because you got too eager.” Celestia blinked slowly and nodded, never once turning her gaze to Bradley. The conversation ended abruptly, awkwardly, as the princess silently mulled in her own thoughts. A long moment passed, Bradley uncertain whether to go or stay. He coughed, mind drifting back to his own words. “Militia…and boy soldiers. The Wehmacht, too, and all of them. Why won’t they give up?” Finally, the princess turned to look back at Bradley. Something about that look made him feel very…small. Like he was a boy again, being a fool in front of a forgiving mother. The eyes were kind, and sad. Her hardness was gone, for now. “If it was not Germany, but America…would you surrender?” Her eyes weren’t reproving, but curious. Not a comeback, but an honest question. Bradley glanced away, more unwelcome images springing to mind. The Capitol Building burning, ringed by wrecked Shermans and breached sandbags. A flag bearing the Swastika planted atop the White House. An army of Warlocks driving inland. Tried to hold Philadelphia, then Columbus, all lost. A hasty meeting in Chicago, and a haggard President Roosevelt asking him – Dutiful, dull, Omar Bradley – if they should sue for peace… He could feel her eyes on him, but didn’t meet her gaze. A moment passed, and with it passed the vision. Bradley tilted his head to lock eyes with her, answering with honest humility. “I…don’t think it really bears thinking about.” Perhaps a weak answer, but it was all he had. “I suppose it doesn’t,” Celestia sighed. With a rush of air, her wings swept out from her side, angled for lift-off. “Take care, Brad. At the very least, there will be less evil in the world when we are done.” And she was off, heading north where her own command lay. Bradley shook his head, relieved to see her go. He was happy to bend an ear, but today...too many thoughts. At least he didn’t have time to dwell on it. The war was still on, and he eagerly threw himself to the task of shortening the road to Berlin. ---------- Walter Model opened his eyes, blinked heavily. He was awake. Sleep wouldn’t hurt this much. Forced himself to get up, to stand. That drained, exhausted sort of pain. Hadn’t even taken his boots off the night before. Opened his mouth to call his aide for coffee. Wait…Gunther died in the last air raid. Hadn’t quite gotten around to replacing him. Oh well. A soldier camped nearby had a percolator going, gave him some coffee. Boy couldn’t’ve been more than seventeen. No sugar. Oh well. The boy was grinning. Model was a god to him. The ‘Fuhrer’s Fireman.’ Held the Russians after Kursk. The Westerners after Falaise, then at Arnhem. No fire was too big that he couldn’t put it out. Things looked bad, but Model wouldn’t fail. He never did, not when the stakes were this high. A god. Oh well. Now he commanded Army Group B. Not Arnhem, not an army, but every last man arrayed against the Westerners. So high and mighty, yet begging coffee from a conscript. The caffeine helped. Still sore from too many late nights, but at least his head was clear. He could think. He could look at the maps, the reports, try to make sense of them. The Allies were attacking. No idiotic ‘pencil-thrusts,’ no games with paratroopers anymore. Montgomery, Patton, Hodges, Bradley…and now their toy princess, Celestia. All attacking, driving forwards. The winter spent building supplies and men, while Germany frittered both away. Planes droned overhead. The boy pointed. “Ours or theirs?” “Ours,” Model said automatically. Theirs! Always theirs! How can you not know this? His attention on the planes, Model missed a brighter set of shapes until they sailed directly over his head. A pegasi pair, one cyan and rainbow-maned, the other yellow and blue. They gripped something in a small hammock between them. The pair stopped abruptly and dropped their payload onto his staff car. The tiny bomb ripped the vehicle apart, killing the driver inside. A few belated bullets came at the pegasi, but they were already winging away. Turning his eyes lower in the sky, Model noticed more specks of bright colors, flying low and with purpose. It took a lot to make him angry these days, but this did it. The only outward sign was a clenched, trembling fist. Too fast for planes, too low for anti-aircraft…how do we defend against that?!! Indignation turned to resignation. I suppose we’ll have to make do. Then…grudging respect. It seems even the Equestrians can learn to fight. “Should I call a new car for you, Sir?” The boy asked. “Army HQ is three miles away.” He grunted a negative and began to walk. With all the holes in the highway, this would probably be faster. Would give him a little time to think, think and walk off the rest of the aching. A bomb…on a parked car? They must be running out of targets. Model trod with purpose, feeling the last of the cobwebs fall from his mind. Clarity brought no comfort. Shoulders sagged, head bowed, even as feet marched readily to come-what-may. He would order the counter-blow today. A last few precious divisions, spearheaded by panzers and as many Warlocks as could be found. Ideally, they’d strike the break between Celestia and Bradley’s armies, then turn and encircle the former. Realistically? There wasn’t even a prayer. You weren’t allowed to talk about defeat in this army. That got you shot, and Model approved. Anyone with eyes could see the end coming. Anyone who talked about it would weaken his whole unit. The men had to be silent about their doubts – they would then doubt their doubts, seeing their fellows grim and resolute. Hope would kindle. Hopeful men fought well. There was no choice, really. Least of all for Model. The Allies mentioned him personally in their broadcasts. They found the fields at Driel, where a hundred pegasi lay executed on his orders. He paused, remembering how pretty they looked above Arnhem. Like dancing flowers. Of course he had them killed. This is war. Another memory, from back on the Eastern Front. Fallen trees, stretching off into the distance. Not trees, though, but dead men. Estonians, Latvians, Russians…Model had walked through the slaughtered forest without a sideways glance. He had been talking with divisional commanders, trying to keep the Soviets out of Riga. Didn’t remember much about the bodies. He had more important things to do. Didn’t even remember the exact reason he gave the order. Some military necessity, of course. “Two-hundred thousand,” he said, recalling Gunther’s estimate. “And they’ll have me on trial for a hundred ponies? What a joke!” It was so ridiculous, Model couldn’t help but grin. No matter. Even had his slate been clean, Model would fight on. His duty. The duty of the whole army. For Germany. Until bitter end. They would, they must, see this through. If nothing else, let it be a great suicide of the nation: A race of fanatics fighting on, dying, but causing such losses that their foes despair even unto victory. And when the last German dies, let the Allies divide the rubble! Just as planned, elements of the counterattack were already underway. The skeletal Luftwaffe sortied, suffering losses, but striking crucial bridges. Feints were being made elsewhere, prisoners with false information were being fed to the Allies. It was the German way of war. Carefully mask your intentions, then lunge for the weak link while the foe is disoriented. But where is the weak link in a tidal wave? Model pushed the thought aside. The first hours went well. At its outset, every Blitzkrieg looked destined for greatness. Land seized. Prisoners taken. Enemies retreating, overrun, confused. He smiled. As the advance continued, Model could feel victory in his grasp. The Reich would be saved. Of course it was an illusion. But it felt good to believe again, if only for a while. ---------- The small group crouched low among the trees. A few shells passed high overhead, but nothing came too close. Corporal…Sergeant Jackie turned to Applejack with this weird smile on his face. “Hey AJ…we’re still part of that engineering detachment, right?” “Ah know where you’re going with this…” the mare grunted, glaring down. The wooded hill gave them a fantastic view of the panzer column barreling their way. “So tell me, how do we keep getting into these situations?” Not waiting for a response, he shoved one of the others roughly. “Don’t duck, keep shooting! They couldn’t hit an elephant up here!” While not an entirely accurate statement, the little platoon was in a better spot than they were used to. They were in woods, on a hill. The German soldiers hustling alongside their tanks? Not so much. Applejack shared a glance with her brother, then turned her attention back to the fight. Not much for an earth pony to do here. Not even any casualties for her to pull away. Theirs was one of the platoons dug in on three hills the Germans were attacking towards. One hill had already been bypassed, but the troops on it weren’t sitting idle. Rifle, machine gun, and anti-tank fire were hitting the Germans from above and behind. Two panzers had already been hit from the rear, but all of them kept pushing forwards. It felt…Applejack would never be fool enough to underestimate her foes, but this felt like a mistake. Either the Germans were in too much of a hurry, or they didn’t have the reserves to silence those guns. Both seemed bad for their prospects, especially this early into an attack. Spitfires roared overhead, disgorging rockets further down the road. No immediate help, but any reinforcements the Germans might’ve had would feel it. Applejack flicked an ear – it whistled slightly, air passing through holes chewed by frostbite last winter. It was downright bizarre to be looking at a fight like this. None of that chewing mud, hiding in terror and wishing she could hold a gun. She could stand up if she wanted to, and not be in much more danger. There was time to think about what was going on elsewhere. Death could still happen, of course, but it wasn’t too likely. Their position was good, the enemy’s was not, and the rest would play itself out. There wasn’t even any fire coming at her hill. The Germans had bigger problems. Shermans were streaming out from between the front two hills, drawing the Tigers’ attention. Maybe they were counter-attacking, or maybe they were just moving with the general advance of the army. The Axis tanks wrecked three of them, but the rest were fanning out to hit the column from the front and both flanks. More Shermans kept pouring into the gap, surging past their disabled brethren. Just like that, the German attack ended. The panzers ground to a halt. They knew they would be easily cut off if they continued forward, but proved unwilling to retreat. Two more Tigers were immobilized and a third destroyed as they shook themselves out of the column. Tanks peeled off to the sides, protecting their own and their comrades’ flanks against the enemy guns. A stalemate briefly ensued, pitting German heavy armor against Allied numbers. It may have endured if not for the hill the Germans had bypassed. Applejack had a clear view of the Americans across the battlefield, perching dangerously at the tree line to bring their anti-tank guns to bear. The tops and rears of the panzers remained vulnerable, and with no fire coming at them, the gun crews could aim carefully. Applejack counted five kills against the Tigers before the German infantry made their rush. The men who emerged from the column were…strange. It would have been comical if not for the situation. One arm holding their rifles, the other keeping fedoras and cabbie hats in place as a crowd of men ran from the road and began clambering up the hill. A drab array of greatcoats and hats, striking with little discipline. Some stopped to fire, while others charged, retreated, or clung to the safety of the panzer line. The Volkssturm immediately came under fire: From the defending GI’s, from the newly-minted Sergeant Flynn’s company, and from four Shermans seeking easier targets. None of the mob even made it halfway up. The braver ones had not learned to take cover, and the rest hid or fled. A knot of deep red hair caught her eye. One of the braver ones, a foolish boy lugging a rifle bigger than he was before he fell. Knee-high to a grasshopper, couldn’t’ve been more than twelve. Twelve? By the Stars, Applebloom would be twelve next December… Applejack’s eyes were dry. But she did bite her lip, very hard. It was a distraction, it was all nothing more than a distraction. The Germans were no fools. The real threat came at the guns from a more oblique angle, shielded from the Shermans. Fanatic, skilled SS soldiers… Applejack interrupted a breath with a short, meaningless roar. And still. Damn. CHILDREN! She grit her teeth, staring in horror. Jackie had noticed them too, and was shouting at the men to fire at the new group. The move to shield themselves from the Shermans had placed the youth soldiers in a perfect cross-fire. Applejack released a slow breath and turned her head, walking back several paces. No need to watch. No need to be haunted by something that wasn’t her fault, wasn’t her making. Maybe that made her a coward. Or maybe it was just good ol’ survival instinct. She heard of soldiers who could never escape the horrors, and didn’t plan on joining their number. “Y’okay, Sis?” Mac had stepped back from the tree line, too. Any of the platoon might just see stoic ol’ “Big Red,” but Applejack knew his moods. He was shaken. Fretting over Applejack was a good way for him to push his own feelings down. “No,” she said, a grumble more than anything. “’Reckon I’ll live, though. You?” “’Bout same.” The tree line crackled with gunfire. For once, Applejack was downright thankful she couldn’t hold a rifle. She closed her eyes as heavy machine-guns opened up elsewhere on the hill. The SS soldiers might know how to take cover, but that wouldn’t do them much good with fire coming from two directions. In a fit of emotion, Applejack ran back forward to the edge of the tree line. There was a lot of smoke now, but she and the gunners could still see their young foes below them, still trying to press forward. “YOU FOOLS!” She shouted, voice drowned by the din of cannon and machine gun. Applejack shook her head, stepping back once more. A tear finally came down her face. “You poor, dang fools,” she finished softly. “No one can save you now.” The German soldiers were beaten back, not even having crested the hill. When the Shermans began inching around the flanks, they tried again, and again were defeated. A wind took some of the smoke away, giving Applejack and the riflemen a fine view as the youth soldiers, insanely, launched a third assault moments later. The AT gunners on the hill had never stopped pummeling the panzers. While the third attack collapsed, too few German tanks remained to even hold back the Shermans. Their formation shattered under the fire from front and rear, Tigers now fighting as individuals rather than a unit. Some tried to make a fighting withdrawal; others held their ground to pound their advancing foe. As they were overrun, some of the panzer crews simply abandoned their tanks to surrender. Others kept up the fight until they were immobilized or caught fire. A few didn’t even stop then. Already fought-out, the German infantrymen surrendered as the Allies surged forwards. Tank crews, SS, mostly Volkssturm. Raising their arms, showing that curious mix of fear and relief. The Shermans barely slowed down as they passed them by, pressing ever deeper into the German heartland. ---------- Model leaned over the map, focused, exhausted. Of course it failed. The attack was anemic, ill-considered. What made him think it would work? Hope? Élan? “Is this how the French felt?” he grumbled. A useless thought. It was a defeatist thing to say, and men had been executed for less. A very, very slight cough sounded next to him. A man in a red armband sat there, looking anywhere but towards Model. Schwarz, his Nazi Party ‘handler.’ ’Go ahead,’ Model mentally dared him, but nothing more was said of the matter. Schwarz was an alright sort. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be the one who pulled the trigger on the ‘Fuhrer’s Fireman.’ The man across from Schwarz snorted, glaring daggers at the Party man. Heidrich was Luftwaffe, a member of Goering’s private army. He was blunt, which Model liked, and honest, which he didn’t. A man who didn’t much care anymore. “This is all your fault,” Heidrich growled, leaning towards the slim Schwarz. He was bear-sized and tough, but that mattered little when both parties carried pistols. “You damn Nazis. You brought us to this.” No, he definitely didn’t care anymore. But Schwarz was…odd. He just sat back in his chair, regarding Heidrich with this sad little smile on his face. “It’s true,” he said finally, quietly, shocking the other two men. Schwarz then leaned forward, clasping his hands together. “Tell me then, my friend: Were you ever a Nazi?” “No,” Heidrich said proudly. Model resisted the urge to laugh. Liar. Who wasn’t a Nazi the day we conquered Paris? “Ah.” His hands still clasped, Schwarz looked up at his rival with ice in his eyes. His voice remained deathly quiet. “If that is true, my friend, then you are far, far worse. You’re one of the ones who were against us. Maybe you sympathized with those we killed. Maybe you knew this would end in ashes.” He smiled his silky politician’s smile, utterly devoid of humor. “Maybe you have a Jewish aunt or an Equestrian girlfriend, I really don’t care.” Schwarz gave a tight laugh, ignoring his rival’s bristling denial. “But if Nazism didn’t grab you, then you’re one of those lukewarm souls who knows Evil, sees Evil…and lifts not a finger to stop it.” The smile vanished, and he growled in his own way. “You’re worse, damn you, you’re worthless. I’ve been with the party since its inception, I believed we were right. Your kind knew we were wrong, and joined us nonetheless. ‘Sieg Heil,’ you shouted with us joyously. And thus, the nation died.” Model had to pull the two apart, a charming bit of physical violence that he thoroughly enjoyed. The pair’s enmity did not last long. A week later, Schwarz was killed in one of those damnable Pegasus airstrikes. Two days after that, a Luftwaffe army tried to stop the Allies north of the Ruhr and Heidrich went to oversee them. Depending on who he asked, Model heard he was killed by a sniper or when his tank caught fire. ---------- The end came faster than he feared possible. Helpless for all his power, Model could only watch as the armies of the Reich crumbled. He fortified the Ruhr, and oh, how he made the Allies bleed! Arrogant fools, they never learned. But they simply spilled around, and there wasn’t enough left to keep them back. His own commands fought furiously, but too few proved willing to fight to the death. Defeats grew, both in number and scale, and with them grew the wave of desertions and surrenders. Model was very tired for a helpless man, toiling through the nights to reform hollow armies and order desperate defenses. There was no point anymore. He knew this. If anything, things were even worse on the East Front. There would be no reinforcements. These were the last days. Like giant jaws clamping down, the Allies encircled the Ruhr Valley. The industrial heartland of Germany, surrounded, with 300,000 soldiers and Walter Model inside. Of course he fought on. For Germany. Until bitter end. The perimeter shrunk. Starving men surrendered in droves. Others kept fighting. Model knew he should surrender. This was the end. There was nothing more to accomplish, nothing more to gain or hope for. He could spare the lives of his loyal men – Good German soldiers, who followed orders. Hadn’t they sacrificed enough? Wasn’t honor satisfied? But what then? The Allies would have him, and they would see him tried for war crimes. He would stand before their lawyers – nothing was more contemptible than lawyers! Tweedy, arrogant little men, wielding power they did nothing to earn. Saying ‘justice’ like they knew what it meant. Toting photographs, using words like ‘massacre’ and ‘atrocity’ as if they had any meaning. Talking about the ‘rules’ of conflict while knowing nothing of war. Humiliation, then the gallows. No. ‘Massacre?’ What of the thousands of women and children slain by Allied bombers? Weren’t they ‘massacred?’ Was it really so different than a band of Slavs or Pegasi? No. A hand clenched into a weak fist. His stomach growled. He closed his eyes, forcing back the tears. Until bitter end. Word filtered in, none of it good. The Soviets had seized Konigsberg. Commonwealth troops had overrun Arnhem by ground attack and were spilling into northern Germany. Resistance was disintegrating. Fight on. No hope. No reason. Just fight on. On a cold day in April, the Allies overwhelmed the perimeter in two places, splitting the besieged Germans in two. Model met with his staff immediately. “What is left for a commander in defeat?” He asked them. “In antiquity, they took poison.” Three of them took his words to heart, committing suicide within hours of the meeting. The next day, Model dissolved his command. The Army Group was disbanded. Lesser commanders were freed to decide if they wanted to surrender, to try to break out or to dig in and fight. Mercy? Maybe. Maybe he just didn’t want the responsibility anymore. When they learned of this, Berlin denounced him as a traitor. No matter. Liberated of command, Model walked to the edge of the Ruhr. He barely noticed the journey, paid no mind to the looters and hangings. Maybe he would die in battle, as a defeated soldier should. Perhaps he would surrender, after all. If the Westerners and Soviets went to war, they would need good German officers. Maybe he could make a deal. No. No! No cowardice, no deals. There would be enough of that as the Allies robbed the country. He came to a small patch of woods, well past the German lines. Where the Hell are they? There! Model drew his pistol, but the Equestrian saw him first. The orange mare dove behind a tree as the first bullet shot out. “Surrender, y’darn idiot!” She shouted. Americans emerged from the trees behind her, crouching, taking no chances. Model emptied his clip to no effect, then almost emptied another. He froze. That was his only spare clip. What if he was only injured, or ran out of ammo? Righteous lawyers. The gallows. Never. Never. “You’re not different!” he roared. Some shred of instinct kept him crouched behind a tree. “You’re not better!” It was duty. Everything was for duty! Any soldier among them would do the same! Why ‘War Crimes,’ then?! Why… No more time. “You’re not different. Damn you.” He was finished. Walter Model exhaled sharply, closed his eyes. The pistol’s barrel was hot from being fired so much. It scorched his tongue, but he only felt it for a second. ---------- The Reichstag, Berlin, 1945 “I met a traveler from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.” -“Ozymandias,” by Percy Bysshe Shelley