The air, although dampened by the moisture that dropped steadily from the oppressive gunmetal sky, still held the ever-present black ash and acrid tang of burnt meat. But there was a change today—a vibration also hung in the air. It wasn’t necessarily electric in nature, but almost a precursor to a lightning strike, the air before a storm that was already in progress nearby. The vibration hung all around the many trucks that were being loaded hastily with food stores, ammunition, and every manner of weaponry. It hovered over the soldiers’ heads and made them turn and look to the sky to see the force that pressed down upon their shoulders. As they nervously gazed around, they noticed each other’s anxiety, which in turn made the pressure more palpable. The vibration swelled deep into the dark recesses of the long buildings with the many chimneys, and pushed the shambling, emaciated figures further in, adding to the prodding of the machine-gun barrels that brushed their sides and backs like cold reminders.
The man with the SS insignia on his collar walked briskly across the grounds, his hands in black leather gloves swinging at his sides. The soldiers that he passed glanced at him, their eyes darting to the belt and sheaths that hung from his waist. But they didn’t pause in their tasks. The work carried on as though the small army that tarried within the compound was a machine itself—the many minds operating as one when an order was given. Even on this day—so many days, and months, and years into the war—they still moved as one, a hive mind that plowed relentlessly on through the signs and signals of the end that was so near.
Gunshots rang out every so often paired with muffled cries. Sometimes keening or snippets of prayers drifted through the air, but were always cut short by the harsh bark of small-arms fire. A deep rumble shook the ground at different intervals, as though a drunken giant were stumbling aimlessly across the countryside several miles away. The whine of American, British, and German planes could also be heard as the battle that raged to the west began crawling across the rolling hills that were again turning white in the shadow of a recent thaw.
A soldier who was hurrying across the grounds with his head down, his arms folded protectively around a short-barreled machine gun, caught the officer’s eye. The officer recognized his block leader, his Blockwart, and called out to him. The soldier veered from his former course and stopped several feet away from the other man as the sleet continued to fall and began to build upon the already-soaked shoulders of his uniform.
The Blockwart was one of his best men. He didn’t shy away from the work that was being done here. He could never be found in any of the latrines after dark, vomiting a recent supper into the refuse below like so many other soldiers among the ranks. The Blockwart had no trouble meeting his gaze.
“When will disassembly be completed?” The officer’s voice carried across the moisture-laden air as his eyes shifted from building to building and truck to truck.
“We will be ready to move within four hours, Oberführer.”
The officer’s eyes shifted back to the face of the other man, and within the recesses of his mind he was pleased to still see fear there. This soldier had steel, but not the same that ran within his own blood.
“Four hours? We could take each building down brick by brick and haul them away in four hours. Explain why the sons of Germany would need so long to disassemble a camp such as this?”
The soldier’s breathing quickened with the question, but he needed only a moment to form a decisive answer. “We received a large shipment two days ago, Oberführer. We have nearly twice the count we estimated and the processing is going slowly.”
“And why is that?”