“Go on,” Dub said, his eyes narrowing to slits.
Colonel Henke spun about and waved his hand. A West German private sitting amongst his colleagues jumped to his feet. With a large bag slung over his shoulder, he raced to his commanding officer’s side. Clicking his boots, he placed the bag at the colonel’s feet. He took a step back and saluted before scurrying off.
“God forgive me,” Colonel Henke muttered under his breath. He knelt over the bag and unzipped it. With a heavy sigh, he placed a hand inside and pulled up a Wehrmacht uniform, taken from one of the dead that littered the tram station. “I will order my soldiers to don these uniforms. Should we run into any patrols, we may be able to convince them we are on their side.”
An uneasy silence passed over the MEF and West Germans again, until Dub shattered it.
“Fine. Great plan,” he said. “Grab your gear and let’s move. Time is running out.”
The understrength company sprang into action. Leaving enough soldiers behind to hold the station, the rest piled into the waiting tram.
With tensions momentarily subsided, McCabe, the MEF, the Black Visors, and the West German delegation set off to find Anna Bailey.
CITY CENTRE, WEHRMACHT COMMAND POST
23.27 MST
DAY 1
Generalfeldmarschall Seidel glared out the window of his command post and stared over at the colony blanketed in darkness beneath him. Standing on the roof of the building he had occupied to oversee the battle left him vulnerable to lurking snipers, but he didn’t care. In less than a day, the Allies had not only survived the attacks in orbit but had fought their way into New Berlin. Whether by Allied or SS bullet, he wasn’t long for this world.
In the distance, the flashes of muzzle fire lit up the night as ally and enemy alike battled for ownership of the colony’s streets. Even with panzers and waves of reinforcements, he remained unable to halt the enemy’s momentum, no thanks to their heavily armed aerial craft. High above him, where the dome reached its zenith, one of those craft hung there, no doubt relaying the position of his Wehrmacht forces so they could pound them with mortar, artillery, and missile strikes. Beneath him, his men were dying in their hundreds and he stood powerless to stop their slaughter.
Seidel removed his hat, and rubbing his tired face, he paced over to the far side of the roof. Staring at the iron ring around the government district, he felt the gaze of the SS snipers upon him. He imagined them reporting his appearance to their direct superiors, who in turn would pass the message further up the chain of command.
In his mind’s eye, he pictured Reichsführer Wagner smiling at the news as he sat behind his comfy desk. With a single word, he could order Seidel’s death and put him out of his misery. As if tempting fate, Seidel pulled out a cigarette from his cigarette box and lit it. He puffed on it in contentment, holding the cherry of the cigarette for all the world to see. Even a bad sniper could home in on such a giveaway.
The fatal shot never came. A smirk crossed his face as he again thought of Reichsführer Wagner ordering no action to be taken, knowing full well he’d suffer more alive than dead. Taking a step closer to the ledge, he peered over the edge into the streets below. Hundreds of figures packed the cordoned off streets in front of the government district, wandering aimlessly or hollering for protection. Evacuated civilians from the poorer outer areas of the colony mixed with the slightly more affluent ones driven from their homes by the raging Jewish insurgency. Sobs and wails filled the chilly night air, giving the burning colony a nightmarish feel.
Each of them cried out to their god-like messiah to deliver them from the savagery of the approaching Allies, but their words fell on deaf ears. Hidden behind rows of barbed wired, reinforced concrete, and thousands of fanatics, the Führer refused to hear them. The man who had led their country to destruction before promising a new life on this alien world remained oblivious to his people’s suffering. Like back in the old country, people were nothing more than pawns to him, disposable tools to be utilised and discarded at a whim, useful to further his own delusions.
“We only have ourselves to blame,” Seidel muttered.
At any other point in his life, to say such a thing, let alone think it, would be treason. Yet that didn’t change it from being true. Deep down, he believed everyone in the colony was starting to realise it. They had run from their mistakes once before. Now, their sins had caught up with them, and they would suffer the same fate as their countrymen had a decade ago.
Seidel shook his head, flicked his cigarette to the ground, and then pulled his hat back on. He tightened his trench coat against the chill manufactured from the colony’s artificial weather control system and moved at a brisk pace towards the stairwell. He swung the door open and walked down the steps back towards the hustle and bustle of his command post. When he stepped inside, a dozen hands raised in salute. He casually waved his own hand, allowing them to return to their job of co-ordinating the faltering defence of New Berlin.
Trying his best to appear confident of their final victory, he made his way around the rows of desks and map-laden tables towards his own desk in the corner. He paused to study the various mounted monitors and watched in real-time as the battle raged. So far, the Allies had carved out a salient around the eastern entrance. But with every passing second, their offensive pushed closer and closer to the city centre. Soon, civilians with nowhere to run would find themselves caught in the crossfire between German guns and those of the invaders.
With a heavy heart, Seidel lit up another cigarette as General Schulz approached his desk. He dismissed his salute before the young general even made the attempt and sauntered towards his window to peer down at the crowds below.
“The latest reports, Herr Feldmarschall,” General Schulz said in a despondent tone. “Reinforcements have helped us contain the Jewish rebels, but even with panzer support, they continue to harass our forces. They appear far more organised than we originally suspected.”
“Of course, they are.” Seidel exhaled. “They’ve had a decade to prepare for this. Think about that. A decade under the watchful eye of the SS to not just build but equip an army. What does that say to you?” He turned to see General Schulz’s jaw drop.
“With all due respect, Herr Feldmarschall,” General Schulz choked out. “To say such a thing—”
“And yet I have said it,” Seidel said, cutting across his subordinate. “How else could a group of slaves organise and make such extensive preparations without the SS knowing? Hell, the SS could have armed them, without letting the Jews know, of course. They probably sent some of their agents to pose as wealthy, connected, and sympathetic members of the public eager to free the Jews and overthrow National Socialism. If I were Reichsführer Wagner and wanted the Wehrmacht bled slowly before being gutted by the enemy, that’s how I’d do it.”
General Schulz averted his gaze. He raised his hand to his mouth and coughed into it, as if to break the tension. Lips trembling, he lifted his gaze to Seidel. “If what you say is true, Herr Feldmarschall, then we are truly doomed.”
A dark cloud hung over ahead as they realised the true extent of their downfall. Whether it took hours or days, they stood on the brink of destruction.
Seidel rose to his feet and opened his mouth to speak when an avalanche of machinegun fire ripped through the night. The panicked screams of the civilians in the streets below filled the command post. Thinking it had to be the enemy’s aerial craft on a brazen strafing run, he rushed to the window and searched the night skies. Seeing nothing, he lowered his gaze and saw the muzzle flashes of dozens of SS guns. On the street, hundreds of bodies lay unmoving on the cold concrete.
Seidel was turning to bark orders when the windows of the command post shattered. General Schulz hit the ground with a roar, grabbing at his shoulder, and Seidel dove out of the way. Bullets riddled his desk. Staying out of the shooters’ line of sight, he reached for the wounded general and pulled him to safety.
Officers and radio operators slumped over their desks when bullets blasted across the room, carving them to pieces. Blood spatters stained equipment. Machinery hissed and fizzed from the onslaught. Screams of shock replaced the wails from the civilians below as the SS turned on the Wehrmacht and the citizenry they had sworn to protect.
The SS had unleashed the dogs of war upon their own people.
NEAR THE POTSDAM DISTRICT – EASTERN SECTOR
04.56 MST
DAY 2
“Jenkins. Jenkins. Wake your lazy arse up.”
Blinking his heavy eyelids open, Private Jenkins cradled his Lee-Enfield close to him as his senses flared back to life. Feeling like he had gotten a few minutes sleep, he checked his watch to see that it had been closer to two hours. Looking up at Private Morse, he nodded his head and lifted himself up from leaning against the cold concrete wall. Keeping his head low, he stretched his tired legs. He stepped over the bodies of his sleeping colleagues and crept quietly through the shell of the gutted beerhall.
In the distance, sporadic gunfire echoed throughout the night. The strange chill in the air sharpened his senses as he pushed onwards, passing rows of fatigued soldiers stealing what little sleep they could until the next Nazi attack. Crossing the roofless beerhall, he made his way towards what had once been the front door and paused to look up and down the street.
MEF soldiers sheltered in craters made from artillery shells or behind overturned automobiles. They sat in balconies overlooking the street and behind piles of wreckage from bomb-damaged shops and apartment blocks. In the distance, what looked like muzzle flashes came from the massive ornate building in the centre of the German colony. Jenkins wondered what daredevil MEF outfit had attacked so deep into enemy-controlled territory.
“Jenkins,” Corporal Brown hissed at him in the darkness. “Over here. Double time.”
Keeping his head low, Jenkins darted towards the crater and dove in. He landed beside the corporal, and raising his rifle, he pointed it directly ahead. The street remained deathly quiet, but a curious sensation swept over him that, somewhere in the shroud of night, unseen eyes watched their every movement. He glanced back at the corporal, nodding to show he sat alert and at the ready, Corporal Brown sank back into the crater. Laying his Lee-Enfield across his knee, the corporal fought to supress a tired yawn. He lifted a flask nestled at his feet. He unscrewed the lid, and after pouring himself a cap full of tea, he sank his helmeted head into the concrete wall of the crater. When he raised the tea to his lips, a call cut over the battalion’s comm channel.
“Looks like we got movement,” Private Kelly said from the forward observation post.
“What have you got, Kelly?” Sergeant Richards responded.
“Not sure. Maybe a dozen or so people heading towards our lines. Could be civvies. I can’t see weapons, but it’s fairly dark, Sarge.”
“Sniper One,” the sergeant said. “Have you eyes on them?”
“Confirmed, Sarge,” Lance Corporal Prescott answered. “Looks like a dozen all right. No weapons that I can see, but some of them are in uniform.”
“Could be deserters,” Kelly said with a tint of hope in his voice.
“Wait One,” Sergeant Richards said in reply.
The comm channel fell silent. Jenkins’s gaze shifted from side to side, scanning the blackened street ahead, but he couldn’t see anything.
“All units,” Sergeant Richards spoke again. “We have a flare coming up. Keep your noggins and arses down and don’t move.”
The various Second Battalion units covering the street chimed in their understanding. Anyone with even the remotest possibility of being visible to an enemy froze like a statue and stayed low. Overhead a flare from one of the mortars in the rear erupted in an orange glow. Like a falling star, it streaked through the gloomy New Berlin skyline, casting an eerie hue across their positions and the streets ahead.
“It’s kids,” Kelly exclaimed. “I count fifteen of them. Some of them look young enough. Some of the older ones have Hitler Youth uniforms on, it looks like. Still no weapons that I can see.”
“Definitely bairns all right,” Lance Corporal Prescott confirmed. “No signs of weapons, either. Looks like they’ve spotted our lines, though. They’ve started to pick up the pace.”
From the murky veil covering the end of the street, Jenkins spotted shadows moving towards them. He raised his eye from his sight as he watched them change from ghoulish silhouettes to child-sized figures ranging in height and size. He couldn’t make out their faces or any details about them, but his suspicions grew as to why children would be wandering about in a warzone at this early hour.
“If they see us, why are they running?” Jenkins said aloud, without thinking. “For all they know, we’re a bunch of blood-thirsty murderers. Who runs right at the barrel of a gun?”
“You do, Jenkins, you plonker,” Kelly said.
Muffled laughter crossed the comm channel.
“Knock it off,” Sergeant Richards growled.
Beside Jenkins, Corporal Brown pushed himself up to gain a better view of the approaching children. His brow furrowed when he glanced down at Jenkins, as if dissecting his words. The children kept running. Some of them held their hands over their heads in surrender.
“Halt!” Corporal Brown roared and gestured with his hand.
Jenkins returned his gaze to the sight. “I don’t like this, Corporal.” He moved his weapon from side to side, searching for anything resembling a weapon, but he saw no signs of guns hanging from any of them, only backpacks.
“Does anyone speak German?” Corporal Brown asked with desperation in his voice.
“Halt!” he called out again. “Halt! Stoppen-zei! Stop! Halt!”
The group of German children either didn’t understand the corporal’s words or didn’t care. They made no sign of slowing down as they peeled off into smaller groups, running towards the various foxholes and craters manned by the men of the MEF.
Two young girls wearing mismatched Volkssturm uniforms made straight for Jenkins and Corporal Brown. They held their hands high as they raced closer and closer. When they closed in proximity, Jenkins spotted something in his sights.
“What’s that in their hands?” he asked as his heart pounded. “What are they holding onto? Christ…”
“They’re holding detonators—”
Confused conversations died in balls of fire. The stony faces of the children disappeared in smoke and flame when they detonated the bombs strapped to their backs across the MEF lines. A brief spurt of panic fire erupted before Jenkins found himself thrown back into the side of the crater. His eyes stung and watered from the flash of light. A ringing pounded through his head. Gasping from breath, the pain hit him, and he tried to scream. His mouth opened, and air escaped his lungs, but the ringing remained all he could hear.
Whether seconds or minutes passed, Jenkins couldn’t be sure. His vision returned. He noted the outline of his Lee-Enfield and picked it up. To his right, he spotted Corporal Brown leaning against the side of the crater, cradling a bloodied right hand. Streaks of blood mixed with the dark black soot that crusted his face. His mouth lay opened, as if he was screaming in agony, and his hand shook.
Jenkins tried to say the corporal’s name, but with the ringing in his ears bashing through his skull, he wasn’t sure if the word escaped his lips.
Dazed from the flashes and the pain that reverberated through his body, Jenkins unclipped his water flask from his belt. He grabbed at the stunned corporal’s wrist and poured the water over the wound revealing a long cut. The corporal winced, but the gash didn’t look deep. He unstrapped Corporal Brown’s helmet and splashed more water across his face. He wiped his face gently with his sleeve and uncovered several smaller cuts, thankfully none of which looked serious. After seeing that the corporal happened to be more shocked than wounded, Jenkins forced himself to look over the edge of the crater.
The children n
o longer existed. One of the two girls who had advanced on his position lay motionless on the cold ground in front of him. Her eyes looked upwards at an angle. Blood leaked from a hole in the side of her tiny skull. Scraps of leather boots, pieces of seared meat, and scorch marks were all that remained of her partner.
As the ringing in his ears receded, the anguished howls of men came to him. Shaking from the pain in his limbs, Jenkins turned from side to side to survey the damage. Three of the foxholes that had contained two men apiece lay empty. Thick clumps of bloody matter soaked the piles of debris that had sheltered them hours ago from one of the Wehrmacht’s earlier counterattacks. The singed remains of children and soldier alike smeared the ground. Embers of scorched uniforms fell from the sky like snowflakes.
The stench of burnt hair invaded Jenkins’s nostrils as he clawed out of his foxhole. To his right, Private Griffiths sat with his blood-stained hands resting on his knees, sobbing. All that remained of Private Kelly dribbled from his tattered battledress as Griffiths’ eyes bulged from his head in confusion. Private Roberts stumbled from his position behind Griffiths. A waterfall of crimson seeped from the stumps where his hands used to be. He turned to face Jenkins, revealing a burnt face devoid of a nose and lips. Then he collapsed.
Medics and the soldiers resting in the beerhall streamed out, awakened by the commotion. They rushed to their colleagues, dragged the wounded to safety, and refilled the defensive positions. The sound of explosions swept over the entire eastern district of New Berlin. Jenkins winced at the pops and bangs emanating from streets on both flanks.
Still dazed, he offered no resistance when someone lifted him to his feet. The sound of gunfire increased in tempo until even the roars of the wounded were drowned out. Up above, a transport streaked across the colony’s skyline. It unleashed a payload of furious missiles on an unseen target closer to the city centre.
Blood Red Sand Page 14