Twenty metres ahead and to his left, Junior Sergeant Alexeev sheltered in the remains of another disembowelled building flanked by four other MEF soldiers. To his hard right, Private Byrd from D-Company stumbled around in a daze, carrying his detached left arm in his right hand. Jenkins watched in horror as blood squirted from the stump, leaving behind a crimson trail. He opened his mouth to call to the wounded soldier right when enemy bullets battered Byrd’s chest.
Shouts from the rear caught Jenkins’ attention. He risked a glance back and spotted reinforcements advancing from behind his crater, refilling the foxholes and defences they had seized from the German forces. Medics raced under constant enemy fire, tending to the wounded and dragging them to any shelter they could find.
A sudden movement from the edge of his vision took Jenkins by surprise. Fearing the enemy had flanked him, he spun about, ready to strike with his bayonet. He stopped as soon as he spotted the familiar patterns of British battledress. It took a further moment for him to recognise the soldier who leapt into his foxhole. Major Wellesley!
Stunned at seeing a senior officer so close to the action, Jenkins opened his mouth to speak. The major placed his hand on Jenkins’s shoulder and pushed him back into a firing position.
“The enemy’s that way,” Major Wellesley said, while studying the enemy lines in front of him. “There’s a good lad.”
An unnerving silence blanketed the battlefield, interrupted by sporadic shots from the surrounding areas. The wounded muffled their cries of pain, desperate not to be picked off by a sniper in the unexpected lull in fighting. Jenkins scanned the enemy lines. German soldiers darted back and forth behind their defences.
“They’re trying to buy time for their panzers, the cheeky buggers,” Major Wellesley mumbled.
Jenkins tried to control his breathing as he tracked the actions of the Nazi soldiers ahead. His entire body shook, but strangely enough, he didn’t experience fear. His heart went numb to the death and destruction he had witnessed over the last few hours. The ache of his limbs and the exhaustion that crept up on him in waves told him he was alive.
“Right,” Major Wellesley said aloud. “We’ll need a lot more armour piercing grenades and anti-tank rounds. Can’t let Fritz get too cocky now, can we?”
Unsure if he was expected to answer, Jenkins risked a quick glance up at his superior officer. The major stared at the Germans ahead of them. Rows of MEF soldiers continued to mass behind whatever protection they could find as they prepared for their own moves against the defending Germans.
“You there,” the major said in an abrupt tone.
After a long moment’s pause, Jenkins fired another glance at the major. This time, Major Wellesley gazed down at him. He held his left hand extended out towards Jenkins, holding a polished metal flask. “Drop of scotch?”
Caught off guard by the gesture, Jenkins shook his head. “No, thank you, sir.”
“Good lad,” Major Wellesley said and slipped the hip flask back into his pocket. “Can’t have a dull head while fighting the enemy. What’s your name, young man?”
“Private Jenkins, sir.”
“Ah, Jenkins. I knew a Sergeant Jenkins once. Bought it at Normandy. Fine fellow. Salt of the earth. Any relation?”
“No, sir,” Jenkins said with a shake of his head.
“Good, good,” the major replied and returned his attention to the German lines.
To their left and right, groups of soldiers moved forward under the cover of dozens of guns. Jenkins observed one group running to join Junior Sergeant Alexeev in the smouldering ruins of the German building. He didn’t recognise who led the platoon on the right, but he spotted anti-tank grenade attachments fixed to some of the soldier’s Lee-Enfield’s.
“Right.” Major Wellesley pulled out his Smith and Wesson revolver. “We’re about to go over the top, young Jenkins. Ready to take the fight to Jerry?”
“Yes, sir.”
The major reached for a chain around his neck and placed a whistle between his lips. Giving a final glance at the soldiers on both flanks, he blew hard into the instrument. A long, shrill tone rang out, repeated throughout the area by other officers.
Dozens of Bren light machine guns blared to life, showering the enemy lines with lead. Volleys of Lee-Enfield rounds pounded the Nazi defenders as the MEF stormed forward, hurling grenades as they ran. Without so much as another word, Major Wellesley leapt up and threw himself into the firefight.
Surprised at his actions, Jenkins followed close at his heels, stumbling over the dead that littered the ground around his foxhole. The smell of sulphur, burning hair, and excrement filled his nostrils as he shoved ahead. Pushing the stench from his mind, he made his way towards the crumbling buildings on the left. Major Wellesley appeared oblivious to the bullets that sliced through the air, cutting down the MEF soldiers by the dozen.
Against all odds, the soldiers of the Mars Expeditionary Force thrust deeper into New Berlin.
EASTERN SECTOR - NEW BERLIN COLONY
20.43 MST
DAY 1
“Get down!” Sergeant McCabe yelled and pushed Private Wallace to the ground.
The German panzer wheeled towards them with a seemingly unstoppable fury. Before it could bring its guns fully on them, Privates Messi and Donaldson leaned out of their hideaways. They fired the anti-tank rounds from their modified Lee-Enfield’s and ducked back down. The grenades struck the side of the panzer, grinding it to a halt. Hatches opened, allowing dense black smoke to seep from the panzer as its crew tried to escape. All were gunned down by the waiting MEF soldiers.
The news of German reinforcements arriving had spread like wildfire. After seizing the eastern entrance and key strategic points in the surrounding area, the soldiers of the Mars Expeditionary Force had made quick progress in gaining a toehold in the colony. While reinforcements continued to gush in, the forward units made a cautious advance, moving in strength to seize control of the adjacent streets. In haste they established command posts, sniper nests, mortar positions, field hospitals, and make-shift defences. With minimal Nazi resistance, the jokes started spreading that the end was nigh for the last remnants of the Third Reich. The rank-and-file genuinely believed the Wehrmacht to be on the verge of surrender.
Then the panzers struck.
The merciless German tanks and the waves of Wehrmacht soldiers that sheltered behind them pummelled the MEF lines on the left and right flanks. For a horrifying period, it looked like the German pincer movement could wrest control of the eastern entrance from the Allies. Such an action held the potential of leaving thousands of British and French troops isolated, cut off from reinforcements, and surrounded. Dread hung as heavy in the New Berlin air as the raw and pungent smell of death.
The quick deployment of every single anti-tank weapon they could find, steal, or pilfer saved the day. While most of the MEF armour had been destroyed in orbit, they held a numerical advantage on the Nazi forces within New Berlin. The MEF also held one ace up their sleeve that McCabe guessed the Germans hadn’t anticipated: air superiority within the colony itself.
Too big to fit through the main entrance, the MEF units outside had moved against the external landing pad in a bid to get the transports inside. Along with support from MEF divisions within New Berlin, they seized the hangar bays beneath the colony, allowing them to bring in the transports. From what McCabe heard, it remained a time-consuming process just to get one of the craft into the domed city, but it struck him as well-worth the effort. Even one of those transports could annihilate an entire enemy platoon or battery with the push of a button.
As if on cue, one of the atmospheric troop transports jetted overhead to the cheers of the MEF soldiers hiding in the battle-damaged street. The transport rolled about as it avoided enemy anti-aircraft fire before launching two of its own missiles in reply. A heavy line of smoke rose from whatever the transport had struck. Checking that no other panzers approached, McCabe duste
d himself off. Keeping his head down, he sprinted from his position.
He twisted between the large chunks of concrete that covered the street and leapt into a nearby crater. He nodded at Private Swift as he slid down the side of the pit, skidding to a halt at the bottom. McCabe turned his gaze towards the officer in the unusual uniform speaking into the long-range transmitter. He had anticipated seeing a lot of strange things in the battle for Mars. Never in a million years did he expect to be placed under the command of a West German officer.
Like every other British, French, and American soldier, McCabe had been surprised to learn of the presence of a West German delegation back in the Atacama Desert base in Chile. Seeing Germans in military uniforms, when West Germany had no official military, caused concern amongst the rank-and-file. Even more so considering the end of World War Two was less than a decade ago. Although the fresh-faced enlisted men were most likely young boys when the war ended, all the NCOs and officers looked old enough to have served in Hitler’s Wehrmacht. Military discipline, the obvious need for German translators, and the fact that the West German delegation were to remain unarmed kept the simmering tensions at bay.
Yet, Nazi guns showed no discrimination when gunning down British, French, American, or West Germans alike. Like everyone else, the West German contingent had come under relentless attack since crash landing on Mars and stood side by side with their MEF allies. With every soldier needed in the fight to destroy the last fragments of the Third Reich, the MEF leadership not only turned a blind eye to the West Germans arming themselves from the Nazi dead, they utilised their experience and eagerness to atone for their country’s past sins.
McCabe kept his distance from the West German officer until he finished his transmission. It bothered him to be so close to someone who probably had British blood on his hands from the last war. Yet, he took his orders like everyone else. Mad Jack had instructed him and a small group of MEF soldiers to bolster the strength of the company-sized West German contingent. Like it or not, McCabe had a job to do.
The West German officer put down his handset. “Ah, Sergeant McCabe, report.”
“Oberst Henke,” McCabe said, trying not to grit his teeth as he spoke.
The West German officer held up his hand, stopping him from proceeding. “I appreciate the gesture, Sergeant, but you may refer to me as Colonel. Please instruct your soldiers to refer to the men under my command by their English ranks, where applicable. Continue please, Sergeant.”
“Very well, Colonel,” McCabe said with a slight nod. “We took out the last panzer. It looks like the transports are taking care of the rest. Recces have confirmed there’s several companies’ worth of Wehrmacht and Volkssturm in the surrounding areas. They’re not advancing, but we are cut off. If we are to attempt a breakout to re-join the MEF lines, I’d recommend we do it sooner rather than later and before the enemy strengthens their defences. What are your orders…sir?”
Colonel Henke motioned for McCabe to follow him. They climbed to the top of the crater and glanced around. Dozens of MEF positions guarded their area of control, and there were no signs of enemy activity. However, the sounds of missile strikes continued to rock the colony from MEF transports pummelling the Nazi defences and their panzers. With no enemy in sight, Colonel Henke signalled for McCabe to sit back down at the edge of the crater. He studied McCabe a moment as he slid a hand into his trench coat pocket. He whipped out a packet of crumpled cigarettes and, holding his hand aloft, offered one. For a heartbeat, McCabe considered refusing but unsure of when he could restock his own supply, he accepted one. Colonel Henke lit their cigarettes with a match, took a few rapid puffs of his own and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
“Orders from Major General Hamilton. We are not to return to MEF lines. Instead, we are to proceed to the tram station in the Potsdam district west of here.” After placing the tip of his cigarette between his lips, Colonel Henke reached inside his trench coat again. He slipped out a map, unfolded it, and pointed out their current location before tracing his finger towards their objective.
McCabe examined the map in detail and glanced at the crumbling buildings that surrounded them to orientate himself.
“It’s roughly a kilometre ahead,” Colonel Henke said as he tapped ash from his cigarette. “The Major General advised he will provide as much aerial support as possible, but as you said, Sergeant, we’re surrounded on all sides, so we may need to fight our way through.”
“Understood, sir. What are our orders once we reach this tram station?”
Colonel Henke grimaced as he stubbed out his cigarette on the ground.
“Our orders are to hold the station and render any assistance needed to a small group of MJ-12 operatives currently located there.”
“The Black Visors,” McCabe said with a frustrated sigh.
Colonel Henke nodded. “The Black Visors, Sergeant.”
Although McCabe couldn’t help but begrudgingly admire the Black Visors’ ruthless determination in achieving their goals, he still didn’t trust them. As soon as they had seized control of the command complex at the eastern entrance, the small group of masked MJ-12 operatives had melted away like ghosts without so much as a word. Even thinking about them caused his suspicions to rise. He couldn’t put his finger on what bothered him, but more lay to this secretive group than met the eye.
After a short meeting with the other NCOs and officers, the understrength company of MEF and West German soldiers prepared to move. McCabe took control of the mostly MEF-filled lead platoon and laid out their plans and objectives. While the noise of battle raged around them like a brutal thunderstorm, the West German contingent and their MEF allies pushed deeper into the colony.
PERIMETER OF THE CITY CENTRE – EASTERN SECTOR
21.52 MST
DAY 1
As New Berlin’s artificial weather system cast the dark shadows of night across the colony, Oberst Brandt thought over the events of the last few hours. The savagery of battle made him feel alive; years had passed since he had engaged in a real life-or-death struggle. The simmering anger that burned within him since evacuating Berlin a decade ago had boiled over. Although he would have enjoyed exacting his revenge against the Red Asiatic hordes instead, the rebelling Jews and the British soldiers made just as good targets.
Carving a swathe through the perimeter of the Jewish district, he had authorised his forces to fire indiscriminately. Entire buildings lay obliterated in their wake as his panzers rammed volleys of shells into the already dilapidated structures. At any other time, he would have allowed his panzers to steamroll over the area to drive home the message of National Socialist hegemony, but he had his orders. Moving beyond the Jewish ghetto, he led the vanguard of the attack on the British right flank. At one point, he could taste success as he pushed the invaders from the colony. Then their desperate, near-suicidal counterattacks began.
As much as he’d never admit it in public, he admired the Allied fighting spirit. Even in the face of superior German armour, the Allies fought for every inch of ground. They hurled wave after wave of their soldiers at the panzers and ground the German advance to a halt with frantic anti-tank grenades and missiles from their heavily armed aerial transport vessels. It had been a good fight, pitting German against Britisher in close-quarter combat while his panzers showered them with shells and bullets. Even with the Allied aerial craft bombing them in endless waves, he remained positive that the force of National Socialist convictions could deliver victory to them.
And then that fool Generalfeldmarschall Seidel intervened.
Rather than let him achieve glory and bring honour to the Führer, that dithering dotard ordered Brandt to not only halt his attacks, but to withdraw his forces to defend the centre of New Berlin. To make matters worse, Generalfeldmarschall Seidel split up his panzer divisions to use them for static defence rather than utilising them for steamrolling through the enemy lines. Sitting atop his panzer, camouflaged amongst the rubble of
his blazing city, Brandt studied the group of advancing enemy soldiers through the lens of his binoculars.
“It looks like a few platoon’s worth of soldiers, Herr Oberst,” Captain Fischer said, lowering his own binoculars momentarily. “Perhaps an under-sized company. They must be cut off.”
“Indeed,” Brandt said as he tracked their movements.
Away from the prying eyes of the aerial craft that dominated the New Berlin skyline, the Wehrmacht units under his command sheltered in abandoned shops and factories. Those who had lived through their first battle with the British remained impatient to avenge their fallen. Under any other circumstances, he would have granted them their wish, but the generalfeldmarschall’s orders stood explicitly clear. Brandt was to hold his position and engage the enemy only if fired upon.
“It looks like they’re heading in the direction of the Potsdam district,” Captain Fischer continued. “I’ve received reports of other groups moving in that direction. We have several evacuation centres there for our civilians. Perhaps they mean to avenge themselves on our citizenry, Herr Oberst? Surely, Generalfeldmarschall Seidel will allow us to intervene on such grounds.”
“You would think,” Brandt grumbled.
He rested his binoculars on the panzer hull and reached for his radio’s handset. He switched the frequency to the generalfeldmarschall’s command post, relayed his findings and requested orders. Static interference crackled and popped until a shaky, distorted voice appeared on the other end. In the background, an explosion from an Allied missile attack temporarily cut the transmission. When the signal returned, the terrified officer at the command post relayed Generalfeldmarschall Seidel’s orders. They were to do nothing more than continue to protect the defensive lines around the centre of the city until the Allied airborne attacks could be halted. The civilian population evacuated into the colony’s centre needed to be safeguarded at all costs. The counterattack being planned was to be led by Brandt’s rival—Oberst Weber.
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