General Schulz took his place at Seidel’s side. “Herr Feldmarschall, it is entirely possible that the SS are staging a coup against the Führer. It would certainly explain their actions and why he and the other ranking party members stay silent on the matter.”
“Possibly,” Seidel said with a sad nod of his head, “but it doesn’t change the fact that we are in a hopeless situation. Our forces are being hacked to pieces. Our civilians are suffering. Any prolongation of the fighting merely draws out the inevitable. New Berlin is lost to us.”
Another round of blasts erupted from outside their command post, as if bolstering his words. The lights flashed on and off as the officers exchanged uneasy glances. From their faces, Seidel could see most of them agreed with him, even if they refused to say so publicly. The junior ones, and Oberst Brandt in particular, trembled in rage at his words. Their faces burned red in anger at his admission.
Seidel slid a hand into his trench coat and produced two sheets of paper with neatly typed text. With a shaking hand, he fumbled for a pen in his pocket. Finally locating it, he looked down at the words in front of him. He took a deep breath and scrawled his name across the bottom of both documents.
“General Schulz.”
“Yes, Herr Feldmarschall,” the man said with a click of his boots.
Seidel picked up one of the papers and, extending a hand, passed it to his subordinate.
“As ranking officer of the Wehrmacht and my second-in-command, this document confirms your authority in my absence. I and I alone accept full responsibility for any questionable actions carried out under my leadership.”
General Schulz threw his gaze over the paper in his hand.
“This document,” Seidel continued and lifted the second paper, “orders all units within the New Berlin defensive zone to ceasefire with immediate effect and to obey all orders issued by you to surrender to the Allies.”
A series of gasps broke out from around the room. Some of the younger officers forgot themselves and banged the table in frustration, seething that such words could leave a German officer’s mouth.
Seidel ignored the ruckus as he took his pistol from the table in front of him. “History will not remember my deeds on the eastern front, nor my defence of the fatherland. Instead, I will forever be remembered as the man who lost New Berlin within a single day. Such is the will of Providence, gentlemen. Heil Hitler!”
Without hesitation, Seidel raised his gun, placed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
MITTE DISTRICT COMMAND POST, CITY CENTRE
06.48 MST
DAY 2
A single shot rang out, blasting brain and skull fragments across the wall behind Generalfeldmarschall Seidel’s chair, and his lifeless body flopped backwards.
A surreal calmness enveloped the room as everyone stood transfixed at the sight.
After a few heartbeats, General Schulz pocketed the documents. Dazed at the sight of his commanding officer slumped awkwardly across the chair, he grabbed a tablecloth draped from a nearby table and placed it over the generalfeldmarschall’s head.
He turned about to see Oberst Brandt and some of the younger officers storm out of the room, slamming the door behind them. Some of the senior officers fumbled for their pistols and made to stop them when Schulz halted them.
“Let them go,” he said and sighed. “General Franke. Assist me.”
Schulz turned and stood over Generalfeldmarschall Seidel’s corpse and waited for Franke to join him. He cast his gaze over the bloodstained tablecloth and nodded at Franke to take the generalfeldmarschall’s feet. Schulz shook his head in disgust as he eased his hands under his superior’s shoulders.
“We lift on three,” he said to Franke. “We’ll take him to the basement.”
“Yes, Herr General.”
After counting down, the two men lifted the body. Blood and brain matter from the generalfeldmarschall’s gaping wound poured onto the floor, splattering Schulz’s boots. The senior officers flocked around their deceased commanding officer and threw their arms under his body, keeping him steady. A sombre-faced captain standing at the door swung it open, snapped to attention, and saluted. The grim funeral procession slowly made their way into the corridor and marched in time through the command post. Officers and adjutants stood up from behind their desks and put down their radio headsets. The room fell quiet as they watched Schulz and the other generals plod past them.
A series of explosions from outside the command post nearly caused Schulz to lose his footing. He steadied himself at the last minute and nodded at his subordinates. They eased their way down the basement stairs, careful to keep their grip on their fallen commander.
Once they reached the basement floor, General Franke led the way towards an unoccupied corner. Schulz cast his gaze over the three dozen civilians sheltering there, along with the hundred or so soldiers too wounded to continue the fight. A priest and a blood-stained nurse walked between the rows of the wounded offering what little assistance they could. Both came to a halt as their gaze fell on the Schulz and the officers before resting on the body they carried.
With all eyes on them, Schulz and the procession lowered Generalfeldmarschall Seidel’s body onto the dusty floor. On Schulz’s order, they came to attention and saluted their commanding officer one last time.
General Franke leaned in close to Schulz and whispered. “Perhaps you should say something, Herr General.”
“There is nothing left to say,” Schulz said with a sad shake of his head. “He was a soldier. Now he is dead. If we are lucky, we will meet him again in Valhalla.”
After allowing another few seconds to pass in silence, Schulz glanced over at Major Roth.
“Major Roth.”
“Yes, Herr General.”
“Find a white flag and the nearest group of Allied soldiers. Discover who the ranking officer is and tell them it is our desire to secure a ceasefire, with the intention of ending hostilities within the colony.”
“Yes, Herr General.” Roth clicked his boots and after raising his arm in salute, he exited the room.
With a casual wave of his hand, Schulz dismissed the lingering officers and glanced down at the lifeless body of the generalfeldmarschall. He had spoken truth in his final words. Despite his best efforts, Generalfeldmarschall Seidel would always be the German officer who lost New Berlin in less than a day.
Unfortunately, Schulz would bare the same fate. He may not have been responsible for losing New Berlin, but he would forever be known as the man who surrendered it.
PART 4:
WOE TO THE VANQUISHED
2KM FROM THE CITY CENTRE – EASTERN SECTOR
10.04 MST
DAY 2
Despite weakened bodies and tired minds, Private Jenkins and the remaining members of the Second Battalion marched through the battered streets. In the hours that followed the Nazis’ use of child suicide bombers, vengeance had walked closely with the men of the Mars Expeditionary Force. Immediately after the enemy’s cowardly offensive, non-stop mortar and artillery strikes against the Nazis had begun. The sound of bombs and shells whizzing overhead filled the air, as did the thunderous crash of those explosives smashing the city centre. With hardened hearts, Jenkins and the MEF maintained their offensive against the Nazis, determined to make them pay for the losses of so many friends and colleagues.
Leaving the outer districts and moving closer to the city centre, Jenkins saw more signs of civilians caught in the crossfire. The bodies of men, women, and children lay where they had fallen, often mangled alongside defending Wehrmacht or Volkssturm soldiers. Rows of houses lined the streets, riddled with bullet holes from the brutal fighting. Medics continued to pull the corpses of MEF soldiers from the piles of charred wood and brick that littered the streets, mainly those of the Fifth Battalion who had spearheaded the recent offensive. But while they marched, something far more sinister spurred on Jenkins and his colleagues.
&n
bsp; As the companies of Second Battalion pushed through the tattered German streets, more and more Jenkins witnessed bodies swinging from lampposts. Most of them looked like old, haggard men and elderly women. All bore bruises and cuts, giving a glimpse into the pain they suffered in the moments leading up to the nooses wrapping around their necks. Some had swastikas cut into their flesh. Hand-written signs hung from their lifeless bodies with a single word written on it.
Judenrein.
“Cleansed of Jews,” Junior Sergeant Alexeev mumbled from beside Jenkins as the endless stream of the dead swung in a light breeze.
To his left and right, small teams of soldiers in Polish uniforms worked their way methodically up the street. They smashed open house windows, and lobbed grenades into them before kicking the doors in and spraying the house with machinegun fire. Several groups of German civilians who had survived the recent battle found themselves herded together by battle-weary MEF soldiers. Jabbing at them with bayonets, the soldiers of the Fifth Battalion urged on the wailing civilian population.
When a transport swung into sight in the far distance, Jenkins turned away from the bodies swaying on either side of his path. He closed his eyes, wishing to unsee everything he had experienced over the last twenty-four hours. The faces of his fallen comrades raced in his mind. Some killed aboard the USAF North Carolina in the cold, darkness of space. Others by Nazi bullets, bombs, bayonets, and knives.
Forcing his eyelids open, he saw the corpse of a young girl dangling from one of the lampposts ahead. Her vacant eyes stared into the anger and horror that built inside him. For a heartbeat, he thought he heard the young girl’s final pleas as she begged her tormentors to set her free. In a million years, Jenkins couldn’t imagine any circumstance where he’d kill a child. Yet the brutes who built and ran New Berlin had sent her and hundreds of others to the gallows with ease. As the anger continued to boil deep within him, his gaze sank to the sign strung around her tiny neck.
Judenrein. Cleansed of Jews.
As the Second Battalion reached an intersection in the street, the sounds and sights of fierce fighting grew sharper. A platoon of Fifth Battalion soldiers covered defensive points along the crossroads, their rifles raised. Some positioned themselves behind the twisted husks of destroyed panzers. Others used the bodies of dead Nazis like sandbags, propping them across one another to create a savage defensive wall.
Following Junior Sergeant Alexeev’s orders, Jenkins and the rest of the company darted across the street. They slowed when they reached the relative safety of the houses flanking them on either side. Fewer bodies swung from the lampposts this close to the frontlines, but macabre figures rocked gently in New Berlin’s man-made breeze for as far as the eye could see. Marching on, Jenkins passed small groups of Fifth Battalion soldiers clustered outside the bullet-riddled houses. Each of them wore uniforms stained with blood and dirt. They puffed on cigarettes and sipped on tea atop piles of stone and broken bricks. Several of them lounged up against dead German soldiers, their vacant stares looking through the Second Battalion reinforcements.
Towards the middle of the street, commotion rang out long before Jenkins could locate the ruckus. A small group of MEF soldiers surrounded a much larger group of German POWs. The captured Nazis held up their hands in surrender, and the MEF corralled them towards the front of a burnt-out, roofless house. A dozen of the younger captives looked like boys, many younger than Jenkins. Tears streamed down their faces as MEF bayonets prodded the air in front of them. Four of the older men in Volkssturm uniforms spoke in rapid bouts of German. Jenkins couldn’t decipher their words, but from the tone of their voices and the expressions on their faces, he guessed their words as pleadings for mercy.
Standing on top of a small pile of rubble in front of the POWs, a British sergeant kept pointing towards the stream of bodies hanging along the street. His face burned red and spittle flew from his every word.
“Judenrein!? Judenrein?” he screeched like a madman. “I’m a Jew. How does it feel now, you German cockroaches? We’re going to cleanse Mars of you.”
Despite the shouts and pleas of the captives, the sergeant leapt down from his perch. With hatred engraved across his face, he moved to a waiting private and snatched up a flame-thrower. Hoisting the pack onto his back, he aimed the nozzle at the group of POWs and urged the MEF soldiers back. Cries of panic broke out as most of the Germans fell to their knees in terror, begging for mercy in broken English.
Unsure of what to do, Jenkins opened his mouth to say something. Before he could even think of what words to use, a hand as hard as steel clasped his shoulder. He turned to see Junior Sergeant Alexeev towering over him. His granite-cool eyes pierced through Jenkins, and he shook his head at the captured POWs. Then he released his grip from Jenkins’s shoulder without uttering a single word, but Jenkins understood the unspoken order and said nothing.
The tear-filled pleadings of the Nazi POWs reached a crescendo, and the sergeant with the flame-thrower squeezed the trigger. A cloud of fire spurted from the weapon, enveloping the screaming POWs. The sergeant waved the hell storm of flame from side to side, ensuring he bathed every one of the prisoners in his vengeance. Figures covered in a flare of red and orange unleashed soul-piercing screeches as they collapsed and writhed on the ground.
Satisfied, the British sergeant released the trigger and basked in his handiwork. Most of the Nazis lay motionless as the flames devoured their flesh. One or two thrashed in the fires as their organs cooked and boiled. A nearby soldier aimed his weapon to put them out of their misery, but the grim-faced British sergeant shook his head.
Jenkins said nothing as he passed the sight of roasting prisoners.
Chatter broke out amongst the lead platoons as soldiers commented on the grotesque sight. Officers within earshot repeated Major Wellesley’s words, stifling any further discussion on the treatment of Nazi POWs.
“There’s no Geneva Convention on Mars, lads. They kill civvies and murder our boys, and we’ll reap our pound of flesh. Kill them all!”
“Kill them all!” Jenkins and the Second Battalion mumbled back in what was becoming their new, unofficial motto.
At the end of the street, Jenkins halted in their designated staging area for the up-and-coming offensive. The rallying point looked to be blanketed in rubble, as if the houses that once stood there had been pounded into oblivion. On all sides, mammoth apartment blocks towered over Jenkins. Many had British, French, Soviet, and American flags dangling from them, showing their occupation by the Mars Expeditionary Force. White flags of surrender flew from hundreds of apartments as the civilian population abandoned their former masters in the hopes of leniency from the new overlords of New Berlin.
Standing in the middle of the staging area, a solitary woman leaned a rifle against her shoulder. Junior Sergeant Alexeev signalled Jenkins and his platoon to move towards her while the various companies formed up into all-round cover. To Jenkins’s surprise, Major Wellesley trotted along beside them, falling into the right of Junior Sergeant Alexeev. The two men spoke in hushed tones.
The woman slung her rifle and paced towards them. She wove through the stacks of debris, her skinny fingers gripping the strap of the weapon slung across her back. Pulling her soiled, tattered jacket tight with her free hand, she halted a few metres away. Wisps of auburn hair escaped the confines of her cap and danced in the breeze over her gaunt face. With a hard stare, she cast her gaze over the assembled MEF soldiers until she spotted Major Wellesley.
“You British certainly took your time,” she said in a heavy Polish accent.
“These are extraordinary times, Miss…?” Major Wellesley prompted.
“Zofia.”
“Miss Zofia, my name is Major Wellesley. Allow me to introduce—”
“We have no time for pleasantries,” Zofia snapped. “The Army of David stands ready to strike at the heart of the Nazi pigs.” She turned her left arm for all to see, showing a handmade flag of Isra
el wrapped around her coat’s sleeve. “Those of us who have survived this hell have yearned for this moment since before the start of the war. No more talk. Action.”
Several of the platoon members threw each other various looks. Junior Sergeant Alexeev sent a watchful gaze across the platoon, quieting everyone it came upon.
Major Wellesley brought his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. Lowering it, he wiped some imaginary dust off his arm and spoke again. “Miss Zofia, Major General Hamilton has asked for me to extend his personal gratitude for the effort your fighters have put in to distract our mutual enemy. Your Jewish insurgents have fought bravely against an enemy many times your number, but now is the time to let us do our jobs. If your fighters can step aside and let us—”
“No.”
The word reverberated off the walls of the surrounding apartments. Jenkins found himself leaning to the side, eager to get a better look at the Jewish freedom fighter.
Her steely eyes refused to break contact with the major as she stared him down. She raised her right hand to her mouth, and inserting two fingers, she let out a shrill whistle that cut over the machinegun fire.
In a single co-ordinated movement, rows of fighters streamed out of doorways and underground cellars hidden amongst the wreckage.
Jenkins and the Second Battalion soldiers turned their weapons on the unexpected arrivals but lowered them at Major Wellesley’s command. From all sides, hundreds of armed men, women, and children trudged through the cracked bricks and wood.
Jenkins was most struck by how scrawny they stood in appearance, especially the children. Their clothes looked rag-like and handmade, in most cases using sackcloth. Many of them didn’t have shoes, and their faces were caked in a thick layer of grime. Their gazes blazed with unbroken determination as they fell in behind Zofia.
Blood Red Sand Page 16