Blood Red Sand

by Damien Larkin

DAY 2

  “…effective immediately. All Wehrmacht, Volkssturm, Police, and auxiliary defence units are hereby ordered to lay down their arms and return to barracks or report to the nearest Allied position. Hostilities have ended and all military operations must be suspended…”

  “Traitor!” Oberst Brandt screamed at the top of his lungs. “That degenerate, subhuman coward! How dare he betray the Reich and the Führer! Has he no honour left?”

  Brandt bounced his fist off the side of his panzer, wishing it could be General Schulz’s head. He imagined sinking his fingers into the general’s chest, tearing out the man’s black heart, and taking a bite from it as the general watched. Fury pumped through Brandt’s veins, and he swung about to meet the glare of Captain Fischer. The two men stared at each other, reading the other’s thoughts without a word needing to be shared.

  Brandt turned towards the other panzer commanders sitting aloft their battle-scarred behemoths. He sensed the fury of the infantrymen under his command as they focused on him. Aside from periodic bouts of gunfire rattling throughout the colony, General Schulz’s words boomed through the air on a continuous loop. Enemy aerial craft hovered over the burning city, broadcasting the news of the Wehrmacht’s surrender for all to hear.

  Brandt studied the sky to ensure his battered units hadn’t been seen and grabbed onto the side of his panzer. He hauled himself up and standing atop it, he looked at the gaunt and distraught faces of his men. They had fought bravely and deserved better than a stab in the back. He could see the glimmer of anger burning in their eyes. No defeatism had infected them. They stood proud, as true warriors of the Reich, determined to fulfil their oaths and give their lives for the Führer.

  “General Schulz is a moron and a coward,” he shouted and was pleased at the nods of agreement. “He is a deranged traitor, deserving a bullet to the head like the dog he is.”

  Claps rang out from officers and enlisted men alike. Many of them bobbed their heads in agreement, and some banged the butts of their rifles on the ground, adding to the growing din.

  “I swore an oath to the Führer, as have each and every one of you. Perhaps, in his madness, the general may have forgotten the wording of this oath?”

  Captain Fischer cleared his throat and pulled himself up onto the front of Brandt’s panzer. “I swear to God this sacred oath,” he called out.

  Without delay, the voices of the soldiers of the Third Reich chanted as one.

  “That I shall render unconditional obedience to the leader of the German Reich and people, Adolf Hitler, supreme commander of the armed forces, and that as a brave soldier I shall at all times be prepared to give my life for this oath.”

  A wave of pride and patriotism swept through Brandt. His soldiers pulled their shoulders back, lifted their chins, and puffed their chests out. An unquenchable fire shone from their eyes as they stared at Brandt.

  “Unconditional obedience,” Brandt boomed and gazed at each of them. “Where was the general’s unconditional obedience when he surrendered to the Allies? He has made a mockery of our oath. I say, if he will not give his life for his oath, then it is up to us to carry on the mantle of National Socialism. It is up to us to defend our Führer!”

  A cheer rang out from the men of the Wehrmacht. They lifted their weapons above their heads, chanting in unison. An avalanche of energy crashed over Brandt, tearing away the exhaustion, and pain, and replacing it with ice-cold hatred.

  He leapt from his panzer and extended his hands, clasping the shoulders of veterans and replacements alike. He patted faces and shook hands when his men moved closer to him. He listened and nodded as they demanded him to be the instrument of their burning thirst for vengeance. As the NCOs took charge, eager to strike back at the traitors and invaders alike, the surviving officers encircled Brandt.

  “We await your orders, Herr Oberst,” Captain Fischer said with a gleam in his eye.

  Patting his subordinate on the arm, Brandt gave the captain a grateful nod of appreciation. He cast his gaze over the waiting officers, who stared at him, waiting for his word. Many of them had served in the last war. Some younger faces looked barely old enough to have fought in the Battle of Berlin, bleeding the Asiatic hordes for every inch of Reich territory stolen.

  “Ready the men to move,” Brandt ordered. “Get word to our brother officers, the men you trust with your lives. Find out who is with is us and who is prepared to betray the Reich. Have all who are loyal prepare to join us in one, decisive strike.”

  “How will we do it, Herr Oberst?” Captain Fischer asked as he ran a hand over his chin. “Many will follow the general’s word, by virtue of his rank alone.”

  Brandt accepted a map from a lieutenant and took a moment to examine it before glancing up at his second in command.

  “The Allies have made it clear they wish to seize the government district, yet they stay careful not to strike it by missile or artillery shell. As our forces begin to surrender, I predict the invaders will move as many soldiers as possible into the city centre to mass for an attack. We will move along the perimeter of the government district for cover, under the pretext of surrendering to the advancing Allies. Once we are in place, we will strike using surprise and decisive force to push them back.”

  The surrounding officers nodded agreement and worked out how best to accomplish the task with their own units. A few took notes, jotting down names of fellow officers to contact.

  “What of the SS, Herr Oberst?” one of the other lieutenants asked. “What if they are staging a coup against the Führer?”

  Murmurs broke out from several of the officers standing beside the lieutenant. Although many had served with the SS in the last war, and even counted a few of its members as friends, the growing influence of the SS had not gone unnoticed. For years, Brandt had listened when senior officers grumbled at the increasing strength of the SS. Whispers abounded that the Führer sought to disband the Wehrmacht entirely. The possibility of an SS seizure of power had never been far from Brandt’s mind but in these trying times, it remained easy to give in to fantastical rumours.

  “If there is even a hint of truth in this, you have my word, they will be punished,” he said with steel in his voice. “But first, we must deal with General Schulz and his new puppet masters.”

  “Heil Hitler!” Captain Fischer shouted, snapping his arm up in salutation.

  “Heil Hitler!” the surrounding officers roared.

  With a grin, Brandt returned the salute and prepared to drown the traitors and invaders in their own blood.

  APPROACHING ALEXANDERPLATZ, MITTE DISTRICT, CITY CENTRE

  18.35 MST

  DAY 2

  Sitting on the back of one of the trucks stolen from the Wehrmacht, Private Jenkins examined the buildings of New Berlin as they sped past. While most of the outskirts of the colony looked to be warehouses, factories, and dilapidated apartment blocks, the city centre seemed like a world removed. Towers and more pristine apartments dominated the horizon, but the houses morphed from gaudy three-bedroom structures into what could only be described as manors. Expansive parks and public gardens broke up the urban landscape, mixing vibrant greens with polished white marble. Statues, pillars, and colossal monuments dotted the pristine streets, and swastika flags flapped gently in the artificial breeze.

  This entire section of the city centre remained untouched by the fury of war. While the outer districts smouldered from the MEF’s merciless artillery strikes, every one of the buildings Jenkins passed sparkled. To his surprise, he even glimpsed well-dressed civilians wandering the streets, oblivious to the invasion that had steam-rolled through the poorer sections of the colony. Those same civilians stopped and gaped as the convoy of trucks sporting British, French, American, and Soviet flags thundered past them.

  Catcalls rang out from the truck when the men of the MEF spotted a group of women strolling up the street arm in arm. Another woman dressed in a brown uniform and armed with a baton ferr
ied the women along, causing them to scurry down a laneway. Raising her baton, she screamed back in German at the MEF soldiers, her arms waving in frantic motions to display her anger. Her words disappeared beneath a tsunami of whistles, jeers, and graphic descriptions as the soldiers continued their antics. Red-faced, she stomped into a nearby building and banged the door shut to the laughs of the MEF.

  As much as he wanted to, Jenkins couldn’t give into the mood that had enveloped the advance units of their taskforce. Although the news of the German surrender swept the frontlines like wildfire, it felt dreamlike. The faces of those who had died beside him or at his hands haunted him. The idea of laughter at a moment like this struck him as a more alien concept than fighting a war on Mars.

  The convoy of trucks halted at an intersection before chugging forward again. Even in their relaxed state, guns still pointed in every direction and gazes watched the rooftops and windows. In the darkening sky above, a transport tracked their every movement, ready to rain down death on anyone foolhardy enough to ambush them.

  They swung around into another wide street lined with huge, imposing buildings. A roadblock manned by Wehrmacht and Volkssturm soldiers stood waiting for them. They stared at them from behind the thick lengths of barbed wire. The German soldiers held weapons in their hands or slung across their shoulders, but none raised them at the approaching MEF. When the trucks came to a stop, a series of commands rang out from up and down the line, repeated by Junior Sergeant Alexeev on their truck. The rear hatches banged down, and Jenkins and his comrades jumped off. They broke into all-round firing positions. The transport lingered high above them, ready to strike.

  From the corner of his eye, Jenkins watched Major Wellesley approach the barbed wire barricades, flanked by his senior officers. Following a gruff exchange with the German commanding officer, the roadblock was lifted, and the German defenders moved sullenly to the right-hand side. As some of the trucks edged past the former Nazi defences, MEF soldiers moved in closer to the group of Germans. After several curt exchanges in English and German, the Nazis laid down their arms in a pile and formed into a single line. When the German soldiers were patted down to search for concealed weaponry, they were herded towards the outside of a boarded-up structure. With angry and distraught faces, they glared at the British and French soldiers, lit up cigarettes, or sat with their heads in their hands.

  Following Junior Sergeant Alexeev’s orders, Jenkins and his platoon made their way up the street towards the towering Colosseum-like structure. To either side of him, groups of MEF soldiers streamed into the shops and businesses, searching for any holdouts trying to escape. Once cleared, snipers set up crow’s nests, and soldiers moved heavier weapons and equipment into place. They tore down Nazi banners and flags, flung them to the streets below, and replaced them with flags from Britain, France, the U.S.S.R, and the United States.

  At the top of the street, Jenkins spotted rows of barriers and trenches facing the SS lines across from them. From where he stood, he couldn’t make out any SS positions, but a curious sensation of a thousand eyes watching him caused him to shudder. Taking a sip from his water flask, Jenkins looked on as a small group of Army of David fighters leapt from the back of a parked truck.

  Before they departed, Major Wellesley had tried to forbid the Jewish freedom fighters from joining the advance task force. In a calm, concise tone, the major pointed out that the presence of Jewish fighters could dramatically fan tensions amongst the surrendering Nazis. He had pleaded with the Jewish leader Zofia to remain behind. It didn’t go according to plan.

  Jenkins had come across many tough women in his twenty years, but he had never witnessed a woman so fearless. Using a string of colourful expletives that could shock even battle-hardened veterans, Zofia screamed, roared, and cursed at the major. Several times, Major Wellesley tried to escape her foul-mouthed and furious tirade, but the Army of David leader refused to back down. In the end, she calmed down and agreed to a token group in the advance task force, as long as her fighters were prioritised in the second wave. Major Wellesley agreed before scarpering away like a dog with its tail between its legs.

  When the Army of David fighters fanned out, they made a point of walking in the line of sight of the captured Wehrmacht soldiers. Jenkins couldn’t help but smile while they strutted about, flashing their homemade Israeli flags around their arms and brandishing their weapons. Exactly as the major feared, several of the Nazi soldiers became incensed at the sight, and their angered shouts rumbled up and down the street. British and French bayonets kept the POWs in check as the Jewish fighters maintained their victorious march past their former masters.

  After a few minutes, the orders came down for the Second Battalion to commence manning defences along the street closest to the government district. With Junior Sergeant Alexeev leading their platoon, Jenkins and the rest of his comrades plodded up the street. On either side, pockets of German soldiers threw down their weapons as they surrendered to the Allies. The faces of worried civilians glanced down at them from windows before quickly disappearing.

  Jenkins and his platoon took over foxholes on the right flank. Several grimy, blood-stained Nazi soldiers stood at their arrival. They fired filthy looks at the MEF invaders but deferred to their officers, who snapped at them in quick bouts of German. Although Jenkins couldn’t understand their words, from their harsh looks he guessed it wasn’t complimentary. With the Wehrmacht soldiers disarmed under Junior Sergeant Alexeev’s watchful gaze, he delegated a patrol to lead the POWs back towards the end of the street. Jenkins and his platoon seized their light machine guns and grenades and faced the barbed wire perimeter of the government district less than a hundred metres ahead.

  In the street dividing their mutual positions, hundreds of bodies slumped on the concrete as far as the eye could see. Some of the victims wore the grey uniforms of the Wehrmacht, but others donned the grey, black, brown, and green jumble of the Volkssturm. Most of the victims wore civilian attire. Many of them lay face down on the cold concrete, with bullet wounds across their backs and heads. German or not, Jenkins couldn’t fathom how terrifying their last moments must have been as bullets burst through them, cutting them to pieces. A pang of sadness engulfed his stomach, but it quickly faded when his mind replayed images of the Jewish civilians swinging from lampposts. Cold hatred replaced any form of sympathy. He eyed the SS lines again.

  “Perhaps this is it,” Private Moreau of the French contingent said from beside him. “The SS could surrender, and then we can spend the night drinking German piss water beer until we pass out.”

  Jenkins glanced at the Frenchman as the solider sank back into the foxhole and patted his uniform pockets for his cigarettes. Jenkins didn’t know him well, but the French soldier held his own in a firefight.

  “I doubt it, mate,” Jenkins said and waved off the offer of a cigarette. “Seems too good to be true. We haven’t even been here a full two days and nothing has gone according to plan. I doubt we’ll start getting lucky now.”

  “You English always seem so serious about everything. You should be more optimistic. God has guided us here and God will grant us victory. You need to lighten up, my friend.”

  “You Frenchies don’t seem to take anything serious at all,” Jenkins retorted. “We’ve got hundreds of guns aimed at us and you’re sitting there smoking. Get your arse back up here and pick up your weapon.”

  Moreau raised his hand in mock salute, and after tossing his cigarette away, he took up his rifle. Falling in beside Jenkins, he pointed his weapon towards the SS defences and let out a bored sigh. From the far side of the trenches, the sound of a commotion echoed as soldiers called out to each other. Searching for the sound, Jenkins lifted his head up ever so slightly to find the source of the noise. Several MEF soldiers peeked out of their foxholes, gazing at the street to the right past Jenkins’s location.

  Junior Sergeant Alexeev stood in full view of the SS guns, shouting into a radio mouthpiece.r />
  Leaning out of his own foxhole, Jenkins looked towards the street on the right flank. His blood froze when he spotted a stream of panzers rolling towards the newly manned MEF defences. The lead vehicles sported white flags, but the sheer amount of Wehrmacht soldiers racing beside and behind them caused him to worry. None of them bore the gloomy looks of men preparing to surrender. They looked like men spoiling for a fight.

  Jenkins turned his head to look back at Sergeant Alexeev. The Soviet NCO’s face went from its normal stony demeanour to one of outright shock at what he heard on the radio. He looked up towards the panzers before diving back into his trench. Jenkins spun about in time to see Nazi soldiers cut the white flags from the panzers and the flags flapped back onto the blood-slicked street. The soldiers of the Wehrmacht hoisted swastikas in their place, and the tank turrets aimed at the MEF lines.

  “All units! All units! Fire at will!”

  The words cut across the comm channel before panzer shells smashed into MEF lines. Men disappeared in clouds of smoke and mounds of earth as bullets raged across the surviving fragments of the barricades. Jenkins wheeled his captured light machine gun about and pressed on the trigger in controlled bursts to blast at the approaching Wehrmacht.

  German bullets pummelled the lines, knocking MEF soldiers into the dirt. Another volley from the panzers blew craters into the forward lines, and the enemy tanks raced to overrun them.

  MEF reinforcements bounded into the nearby trenches and foxholes. The wounded tried to claw their way to safety, and medics dragged who they could to the doorways of vacant shops. Men filled every crater and foxhole they could find and threw what they had left of their dwindling ammunition at the approaching Wehrmacht forces. When pausing to reload, every one of them Jenkins could see slipped on their bayonets in preparation for the close quarters fighting.

  “Lying kraut tossers!” someone shouted over the comm channel.

  “Christ, contact on the left flank.”