Blood Red Sand

by Damien Larkin

  “Second door is up,” Corporal Brown called out. “Last door is coming up now. Everyone, stay down and don’t move until ordered to do so.”

  Jenkins murmured his understanding and gazed down at the sandy ground, mentally preparing himself. His hands trembled at the thought of what lay ahead.

  Several more seconds passed until the sand outside the opened main entrance door whipped about as if dancing in a gentle gust. Scraps of paper and small pieces of debris floated past when New Berlin’s atmosphere seeped out of the open entrance. Alarms wailed, heralding that all three airlock doors sat open.

  Without warning, the heavy machine guns on either side of the transport exploded to life. Jenkins shuddered at the ferocity of the guns as they pelted continuous waves of rounds into the colony. The transport fired off two of its missiles, causing chucks of concrete and scraps of metal to escape the colony on the back of the venting atmosphere. The Allied vessel swung from side to side, spewing non-stop death into the German lines. The pings of enemy bullets scratched the thick armour of the transport, but the craft remained undamaged. It fired off two more missiles, quickly followed by another two until its guns went quiet. Then it backed slowly away from the main entrance before beginning its ascent to the skies above.

  “Third door is down,” Corporal Brown called out. “Prepare to move.”

  Jenkins rose to his feet.

  “Fix bayonets.”

  Jenkins unsheathed his bayonet and attached it to the end of his Lee-Enfield rifle in a smooth, well-practiced movement.

  “Second Battalion,” Major Wellesley cried out over the battalion comm channel. “Advance!”

  With a roar, Jenkins and the first wave of attackers rushed from their positions and spilled into the tunnel connecting the three airlock doors that led to the colony. He burst into a sprint, hurrying as fast as he could towards the one airlock door that remained down. Rubble and torn scraps of metal blanketed the floor giving him a taste of the devastation unleashed upon their enemy. When they reached the final airlock door, Jenkins studied the splatters of blood and torn pieces of flesh strewn across the ground. He shivered at the thought of experiencing such a violent death.

  When the soldiers of the Second Battalion reached their destination, Jenkins took his place in the front rank with the rest of his company. As the second airlock lowered behind them to pressurise the room with breathable atmosphere, he primed himself for an impending attack. Along with everyone else in the front rank, he lowered himself to the ground and took up a firing stance. Those behind him lowered a knee. They rammed their rifle butts into their shoulders and raised their barrels. What heavy guns and RPG’s they had with them, they cocked and flicked off safeties.

  The second airlock thumped shut. With a hiss, the atmosphere pressurised into the compartment. Jenkins studied the read-out on his EVA suit’s left arm consoles and confirmed the presence of breathable air right as the final airlock door began rising.

  With bated breath, Jenkins looked on in anticipation as a gap of light appeared from under the final airlock door. He prepared himself for an immediate attack, but no bullets rang out at the first rank. No grenades lashed out. When the airlock reached waist height, Jenkins and the rest of the first rank of soldiers, led by their NCOs, hurried in to seize what defendable positions they could find.

  Jenkins followed his comrades and surged into the open. As soon as his boot touched the cracked concrete ground, he found himself mesmerised by the huge buildings that dominated the skyline.

  “Move it, Jenkins, you soft headed twat,” Woodward shouted as he shouldered into him.

  Without retorting, Jenkins pushed on and surveyed the scene around him. Hundreds of German soldiers lay slumped over lumps of twisted debris that looked like it had once been a series of defences. Their bodies were hacked to pieces by the transport’s machine guns and torn off limbs and clumps of bloodied flesh stained make-shift barricades.

  His stomach churned at the barbaric horror and bloodshed. He experienced little remorse for what those enemy soldiers represented, yet he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sadness from the looks of horror stretched across their contorted faces. They had died watching their colleagues being carved apart by high-calibre rounds, powerless to do anything about it until they fell to the same onslaught.

  “Serves the silly buggers right,” Helms said and signalled at Jenkins.

  On the corporal’s command, Jenkins jumped into a small crater. He pushed the splattered remains of an enemy soldier out of his line of sight and taking up a firing position aimed towards the street directly ahead. Another road lay behind and to either side, seemingly following the perimeter of the dome. Several worn buildings with German words scrawled outside them sat on their immediate flanks.

  When the airlock door slammed shut behind them to allow in the next batch of MEF invaders, the Second Battalion created overlapping arcs of fire, covering every possible direction the enemy could attack them from. Smaller groups of soldiers stormed into the derelict buildings, while mortar teams began setting up their 60mm and 81mm mortars.

  The barren street ahead lay devoid of activity. Jenkins shifted his gaze across his field of vision but saw no signs of enemy soldiers. The silence that engulfed this section of the massive city hung heavy, although, in the distance, pillars of smoke rose and the sound of small arms fire continued from the Jewish insurgency.

  After checking his left arm console and confirming the breathable atmosphere, Jenkins unclasped his helmet and removed it. He took a careful breath of air and found himself surprised at the sweet-smelling fragrances. During the absence of enemy counterattacks, Jenkins removed the cumbersome EVA equipment. He grinned at finally getting to relieve himself of its burdens.

  “Contact front!” a voice called out.

  Jenkins focused his gaze on the street ahead. In the distance, working its way towards them, he spotted what looked to be an armoured vehicle. Rows of Wehrmacht soldiers clung to its side or jogged alongside it, ready to throw themselves into battle against the Mars Expeditionary Force.

  A wave of nervousness tingled through Jenkins’s stomach as he lowered his gaze to his rifle’s sight and took a deep breath. The sound of roars echoed from arriving reinforcements, further bolstering the MEF lines on both of Jenkins’ flanks.

  The battle for control of New Berlin colony was about to begin.

  2KM NORTH OF NEW BERLIN COLONY

  18.14 MST

  DAY 1

  Oberst Wilhelm Brandt stood atop his panzer and looked towards New Berlin as they crossed the track across the northern mountains. Tapping at the side of his streamlined EVA suit’s helmet, he increased the magnification of his view for a closer look at the invading Allies. Several of their aerial craft hovered over the colony’s dome, doing close flybys or no doubt collecting intelligence on troop movements. Others flew in a near-continuous loop, likely unloading supplies or men before setting off again. Two of the enemy craft paused from doing a standard patrol around the colony and made a beeline for his convoy.

  Behind him lay the remnants of New Berlin’s Second and Fourth Panzer Divisions. Like everyone else, he thought it had been a misunderstanding, or even an ill-timed joke about the Allies’ arrival. Hours away from the nearest colony, the magnitude of what was happening struck when the reports started flowing in.

  In a vain attempt to make better time, General Vogel had ordered them to abandon their heavier, sluggish vehicles and equipment. They piled as many soldiers as they could into the faster troop transports and set off to defend their home. Then the Allied air attacks began.

  From out of nowhere, the highly manoeuvrable Allied craft launched blistering attacks on the German forces. Tanks and transports packed with men burst into fiery infernos under enemy missiles. The general’s skilful direction of the anti-aircraft weapons on some of the modified panzers had been enough to stave off complete destruction. And for that defence, General Vogel had paid with his
life.

  Pressing his helmet’s controls again, Brandt signalled Major Huber.

  “Yes, Herr Oberst,” the major said.

  “Detach your task force. Tear out the enemy’s throat.”

  “Yes, Herr Oberst,” Major Huber replied. “Germany above all!”

  One of the columns of panzers on the left flank of the convoy immediately broke off. Rows of panzers peeled away and made for the open ground, heading on a direct course for the Allied positions east of the colony. Cheers went up from the soldiers hanging from the transports attached to the main convey. They shouted and urged on their brethren who marched with pride to their own destruction.

  Brandt hardened his heart to any swell of emotion. He took no joy in sending men of the Wehrmacht to their deaths, let alone men he had trained and led for a decade. Yet, their sacrifice stood as a necessary one. If the main convoy had any chance of stepping foot in the colony and bolstering their besieged comrades there, a blood sacrifice was required.

  “Commence anti-aircraft fire,” he commanded.

  The rows of modified panzers with anti-aircraft weapons blared to life. Shells burst into the air towards the approaching Allied craft. Anti-aircraft flak flew across the Martian sky, causing the Allied vessels to break into evasive actions. One of them peeled off and headed towards the smaller taskforce. The other ship spun about, executing reckless manoeuvres in a bid to target the main convoy.

  Even as anti-aircraft shells exploded around it, the enemy craft dove towards them. Standing on top of the lead tank, Brandt held his nerve as the Allied vessel pounded towards his lead panzer. From behind him, high-calibre machine guns roared to life, unleashing torrents of furious bullets at the oncoming craft.

  He gritted his teeth as he watched, smiling as the enemy craft turned after being hit. It spun about like a lame duck, eager to make an escape, but the German guns showed no mercy. They kept firing until smoke burst from the flailing craft and it finally exploded in a flash of flame and burning metal.

  The anti-aircraft guns continued to fire in support of the task force, even as the main convoy turned away from them. Brandt’s group made a beeline for the northern entrance to New Berlin, but Brandt’s gaze remained focused on his brothers-in-arms. The task force had fended off the Allied craft and managed to inflict enough damage, forcing the vessel to withdraw. No doubt panic would be spilling through the Allied lines when they saw dozens of panzers on a direct course for their exposed soldiers. What Allied craft lingered in the area, descended like birds of prey on the task force, missiles and guns firing, and the German weaponry responded in kind.

  “Germany above all!” Major Huber cried out over the comm channel again.

  The men of the Second and Fourth panzer divisions cheered as their colleagues disappeared behind the dome’s perimeter. After vowing to honour the memory of the brave soldiers he had sent to their deaths, Brandt turned his thoughts to the task at hand.

  Just like every other senior Wehrmacht officer, his suspicions of the activities of the SS grew with every passing second. He had listened to the reports of the SS-dominated fleet’s suicidal actions in stunned silence. Even more worryingly, he heard that in some theatres of the conflict, the SS had withdrawn their forces entirely. He had fought alongside the SS in the last war and although he didn’t share their ideological extremes, he held a grudging admiration for their fighting abilities and their attitude towards the Jews.

  As the northern entrance of the colony came into view, the cries of the panzer task force reverberated through his ears. With luck, they could fight off the Allied craft and drive right into the heart of their soldiers. Every invader who died at the steps of New Berlin brought the colony what it needed most—time. Time to deploy his reinforcements, time to dig in their defences, and time to mobilise a massive counterattack.

  The reinforced outer metal doors of New Berlin’s northern entrance ascended slowly as the convoy grew closer. A sense of relief washed over Brandt, even as the last of the task force fought on. Against all odds, against Allied air attacks, the Second and Fourth panzer divisions and thousands of infantry soldiers had arrived home.

  They would never again leave New Berlin, one way or another.

  PART 3:

  KILL THEM ALL

  OUTER DISTRICT – EASTERN SECTOR, NEW BERLIN COLONY

  19.21 MST

  DAY 1

  Private Jenkins snarled when a German soldier vaulted into the crater he and Private Helms used as a foxhole. He tried to raise his Lee-Enfield to fire, but the Nazi jumped on him and grabbed at his face, pushing him backwards. Lifting his knife, the Nazi struggled to bury it into Jenkins’s flesh. Screaming, Jenkins shoved back, creating space between them. The German growled and threw himself forwards again, but Jenkins reacted first. He levelled his Lee-Enfield at the advancing enemy and thrust the bayonet into his chest.

  The Nazi soldier cried out in pain, but he still tried to lunge at Jenkins. The two men struggled and fought for control of the Lee-Enfield.

  Lashing out with his knee, Jenkins caught the Nazi square in the groin. He snatched back his rifle and swung the butt of the weapon as hard as he could, knocking the wounded German to the floor of the foxhole. Without even a moment’s thought, Jenkins stabbed the bayonet tip into the chest of his enemy repeatedly until the life drained from his eyes.

  To his right, Helms pinned another Nazi against the side of the crater. He raised his entrenching tool and smashed the edge of the instrument against the German’s skull, causing him to drop dead at his feet. Helms struck again and again, splashing chunks of skull and brain matter across his face. Between them, Private Woodward lay unmoving. His vacant gaze looked off into the distance, and his guts hung across his lap from where the grenade fragments caught him.

  Somewhere to his left, Junior Sergeant Boris Alexeev cursed in Russian, long before the hulking Red Army NCO appeared. Cracks of gunfire and explosions enveloped the struggling MEF soldiers as they withstood yet another German counterattack. One of the buildings ahead of Jenkins’s foxhole split apart and tumbled to the ground from another volley of MEF mortar bombs. The entire scene in front of him showed dozens of advancing Germans blanketed in a cloud of concrete and shrapnel. Men, allied and enemy alike, wailed.

  “That’ll show you,” Helms shouted as he pulled his entrenching tool from the shattered skull of the dead Nazi. “That’s for Woodward, you stupid kraut wanker.” Helms buried the entrenching tool into the soft ground of the foxhole, and grabbing his rifle, took careful aim ahead.

  Catching his breath, Jenkins dragged the fallen body of the enemy soldier at his feet and pushed it out of their make-shift defensive position. He took up his Lee-Enfield and looking on as the cloud of debris ahead cleared, saw a half-dozen silhouettes charging towards them.

  Jenkins clicked in a fresh clip, and peering down his rifle’s sight, he fired. A Volkssturm soldier tumbled to his knees, clutching his chest. Jenkins pulled the trigger again and caught him right in the jaw, and the soldier flopped back onto the ground. Shots rang back at him from the other Volkssturm soldiers, determined to avenge their fallen comrade. Ignoring the hailstorm of lead slicing the air, Jenkins steadied himself and pulled on the trigger. He butchered the Volkssturm when they tried to rush his foxhole, clearing enemy activity around the immediate vicinity of his position. While scanning for another target, he caught a blur of motion in his peripheral vision. Junior Sergeant Alexeev appeared for a moment to Jenkins’s left, seeking shelter behind the bullet-riddled ruins of a gutted building. The Soviet NCO pressed a fresh magazine into his AK-47 and raised his weapon to fire. The muzzle of his AK-47 flashed in the dimming light, casting an eerie glare across the Russian’s grim face. Swearing loudly in his native language, he charged ahead, fearless in the face of the advancing Wehrmacht soldiers.

  The sound of German artillery shells whistling overhead forced Jenkins to duck. The ground rocked and shook from the sheer quantity of the enemy rounds.
Men shrieked as shrapnel sliced through their bodies. Forcing his head up, Jenkins spied four Volkssturm soldiers in their mismatched uniforms move against his position. He lifted his weapon in time to drop one, but the remaining three attackers opened up on him. Beside him, Helms screamed when a bullet caught him in the face. Grasping at his bloodied jaw, he stumbled backwards and hit the ground.

  Slipping another clip into his Lee-Enfield, Jenkins pushed himself back into a firing position.

  The three advancing Germans continued to crack bullets at him as they took turns covering one another. The ground around him pinged, forcing Jenkins to act. Controlling his breathing to steady himself, he took careful aim at the lead soldier. He squeezed the trigger and watched the bullet fly wide.

  With a bloodied face, Helms scrambled back beside Jenkins and began firing.

  The lead Volkssturm soldier crashed to the ground, clasping at a hole in his stomach. The remaining two braved the blizzard of MEF lead and surged towards the crater in a suicidal bid.

  “Crazy pricks!” Helms shouted like a wild man as he hammered on his weapon’s trigger. With bullets whizzing and grenades exploding around him, he stood like a heroic monument, defiant in the face of impending death.

  Jenkins witnessed Helms’s relentless trigger pulls drop German soldiers, and then Helms’s chest exploded in crimson. He opened his mouth to scream, but by the time his body hit the floor of the foxhole, the life in his eyes had evaporated.

  Another series of whistles streaked over the foxhole, forcing Jenkins back down. Even with a full-blown battle raging around him, the sound of his breathing filled his ears moments before the artillery shells struck. Mounds of dirt spewed into the air as the enemy artillery strike pounded the ground around him. The deafening sound of buildings bursting apart thumped against his eardrums, punctured only by the high-pitched screams of the wounded. Trembling from the sheer ferocity of the sustained enemy assault, Jenkins drove himself to get back up again.