Blood Red Sand

by Damien Larkin

  Through blurry eyes, he spied a dozen figures charging towards him.

  COMMAND AND CONTROL BUILDING, GOVERNMENT DISTRICT

  21.01 MST

  DAY 2

  The intensity of the explosion threw Private Jenkins and what remained of his platoon against the corridor walls. A series of crashes followed, as if entire floors within the Command and Control building were collapsing in on one another. For a moment, the sound of gunfire died off.

  Within seconds, it returned, albeit far quieter than earlier. After dusting himself off, Jenkins extended a hand down and pulled Junior Sergeant Alexeev to his feet. The Soviet NCO nodded his thanks before checking on the soldiers under his command. Taking point again, Jenkins raised his Lee-Enfield and continued his quick pace ahead.

  After rounding the corner of the corridor, Jenkins saw several figures rolling and crawling around on the ground. He tightened his finger on his rifle trigger as he worked his way around the crashed ceiling tiles and lumps of concrete. His finger loosened when he noted the familiar design and colourings of British battledress. He swung his rifle behind him, dashed ahead, and helped Sergeant McCabe to his feet.

  “Jenkins, is that you lad?”

  Sergeant McCabe had certainly seen better days. A bandage covered his shoulder, and the rest of his battledress was stained with blood, dirt, and scorch marks. A stream of crimson flowed down his grimy face from gashes dotting his forehead.

  Jenkins helped the senior NCO lean against the nearby wall. “It is, Sarge.”

  “Where’s Corporal Brown?”

  “Wounded, Sarge. Damn near got his leg blown off. Medics reckon he’ll make it, though.”

  Sergeant McCabe winced as his fingers probed his ribcage. After he coughed into his hand, he reached for his pocket and pulled out a crushed packet of cigarettes. With trembling hands, he struck a match and took a few rapid puffs.

  McCabe struggled to stay upright. “Who’s in charge?”

  “I am, Sergeant,” Junior Sergeant Alexeev said from behind Jenkins. He stepped into view and helped Sergeant McCabe to straighten his posture.

  “Thank you for looking out for my men,” McCabe grunted.

  “They fight well for imperialist capitalists.”

  “It must’ve been the fear of that harsh Soviet discipline.”

  They flashed a rare smile at each another and Sergeant McCabe pushed himself off the wall. Around them, British, French, and West German soldiers tended to each other’s wounds and shared flasks of water and cigarettes.

  McCabe finished his own cigarette and tossed the butt to the ground He grimaced as he straightened his spine. “What are our orders, Junior Sergeant?”

  Junior Sergeant Alexeev pressed on his left arm console and brought up a grainy image of the Command and Control structure. He pointed at it to indicate their position. Then he moved his finger to the far side of the building, a few levels above them.

  “Colonel Henke and Major Wellesley have reported a secondary command outpost here. They believe there could be several companies’ worth of SS inside preparing to make a last stand. Maybe even a battalion. Every available unit in the area has been ordered to converge there.”

  “Then let’s not waste any more time, Junior Sergeant. Get the men moving.”

  Junior Sergeant Alexeev let out a series of bellows, which jolted the platoon into action. Jenkins moved forward with his platoon at a quick pace, searching for any signs of the enemy. He led them into the first stairwell they came across and scurried five levels up without incident. As he pushed ahead, signs of brutal fighting came into view. Shell casings covered the ground, and bullet holes marked every wall. The bodies of MEF and SS soldiers littered the corridors, sporting knife and bayonet wounds that gaped across their bodies. Some of their allies had died with their hands wrapped around their enemy’s throat.

  Jenkins continued to lead the way as his barrel covered every possible place an enemy could conceal himself. Several times he had to slow the platoon to check that mangled lumps of steel and concrete didn’t conceal mines or explosives. As he surveyed the carnage, the MEF soldiers checked their fallen in the hopes of finding someone alive but discovered none. At times, they came across wounded SS men, who still breathed despite their wounds. They finished each of them off with their bayonets, murmuring “Kill them all” as they went.

  At the end of the corridor, Jenkins spotted a pair of MEF sentries and made his presence known. The sentries waved the platoon on and pointed them towards a hallway on the left. As they turned, Jenkins saw countless wounded MEF soldiers waiting along the sides of the corridors. Each of them looked as stained and as bloodied as the next, but fire raged in their eyes. As they sharpened bayonets and loaded ammo clips, they appeared determined to finish SS resistance in one final battle.

  Sergeant McCabe took the lead and pushed his way through the crowds of wounded filing away from the upcoming battle zone. Jenkins sauntered close behind, glad to have his sergeant back, and even more so to be a part of the last thrust against the fanatical SS. Whatever those die-hard Nazis had in store for their final stand, it would be brutal. Although Jenkins had no wish to die, the idea of someone taking his place at the front bothered him.

  Major Wellesley stood just out of reach of a gaping hole in the corridor on the right. Sergeant McCabe signalled them to stop and wait for his return. As he walked on, Jenkins and the platoon scrambled for what free space they could find on the floors. They shared cigarettes, guzzled water, or scoffed food if they had any. From somewhere beyond Jenkins’s line of sight, a shot rang out. Although the faint sounds of the battle raging outside continued to leak through the walls, this shot sounded much sharper, but distorted.

  Glancing around at the MEF soldiers already gathered in the corridor, Jenkins noted two leaning up against the wall, peering through a gap. He strolled up behind them and tried to see what they were focusing on. Unable to gain a view, he cleared his throat to make his presence known.

  “Evening, lads. What’s all the commotion about?”

  One of the soldiers flashed a look back at him. He blinked a few times before stepping away from his spot and gesturing at Jenkins to see for himself. Jenkins accepted the invitation, took the soldier’s place, and peered through the hole in the wall. A part of him expected to see an enemy position or SS soldiers scurrying about, readying themselves for the battle to come. Instead, his eyes drank in the sight of a lush green forest.

  Huge trees dominated his vision. Their sturdy branches spread out and mixed with others. Dark green grass carpeted the floor of the area, and wildflowers dotted the landscape. A cool breeze kissed Jenkins’s face, carrying with it primal scents that relaxed him and sharpened his senses. Although he couldn’t spot them, birds chittered from the branches above.

  Surprised by the surreal sight in the heart of the Nazi compound, Jenkins moved away and looked at the MEF private beside him.

  “Beautiful, innit?” the private said as he retook his place.

  Jenkins murmured his thanks and re-joined his platoon just as Sergeant McCabe returned. After a quick chat with Junior Sergeant Alexeev, Sergeant McCabe called the entire platoon together and pulled out a roughly drawn sketch of the forest area. The target looked to be a three-story housing complex at the far end of the forest. Already, the surviving members of the West German company had cleared the area ahead and posted themselves on the left flank. A jumble of soldiers from various gutted companies and battalions manned the centre and right flank. Under Major Wellesley’s control, Sergeant McCabe and his platoon were to bolster the centre and search for a way to breach the enemy compound.

  Jenkins grabbed what spare ammunition he could beg, borrow, or steal before Sergeant McCabe ordered the platoon to the hole in the wall. He passed bullets around to his platoon mates who were running low as they waited for Major Wellesley.

  The major ordered them to enter. Fanning out, the platoon stepped into another world. A sharp, c
old breeze cut through Jenkins, sending a welcome shiver through his body. While searching for any signs of a hidden enemy, he marvelled at the huge, ancient trees that reached towards the artificial sky above. Twigs crunched beneath his worn boots, and woodland creatures scarpered away.

  The platoon moved as quietly as they could, wary of an unexpected ambush. When they approached the MEF positions, Sergeant McCabe stopped them. Ducking low, he crept ahead to scout out the area. After a minute or two, he called them forward and directed them into firing lines. They ducked behind thick trees and natural dips in the ground for cover.

  Jenkins manoeuvred into one of the forward positions and hunkered behind a tall oak tree. Fifty metres ahead, sitting in a clearing, the massive three-story manor waited for them to seize it.

  Outside the manor, sandbags protected six enemy machine gun emplacements. A solitary sniper perched from the roof above, but aside from that, no other SS units were visible. Although the building looked big enough, Jenkins couldn’t imagine an entire battalion squeezing into the structure.

  Major Wellesley ordered units to scout the area to the flanks and the rear of the building, but they too noted no other signs of enemy activity. The major called some of the officers and senior NCOs to form a plan when Jenkins spotted movement.

  The front door of the manor swung open and an SS officer stepped out. With a white handkerchief in his hand, he held it above his head and moved towards the forest filled with MEF soldiers. He paced several metres away from the building and stopped to look about. Jenkins and his platoon focused their guns on him.

  “I am Oberst-Gruppenführer Fuchs,” he called out. “Who is in command here?”

  Images of children strapped with bombs rushed through Jenkins’s mind. He saw them running towards his lines and detonating themselves. He heard the screams of the wounded, the splatters of blood, and saw their broken, tiny limbs around him. A moment later, the white flags of truce slipped from the panzers roaring towards the MEF lines, replaced by menacing swastika flags. He blinked again, and the faces of Jewish civilians stared back at him as they hung from lampposts. He witnessed their bloated and battered faces. Blood dripped from the swastikas cut into their flesh. Their vacant eyes demanded vengeance.

  “Drop your weapon, you stupid kraut bastard!” Jenkins barely recognised his own voice as the words escaped his lips.

  Without any thought, he jumped from his position and dashed forward, aiming his Lee-Enfield square at the SS officer. The oberst-gruppenführer waved his handkerchief again, as if seeking some divine protection from the bullets eager to burst from Jenkins’s weapon.

  “Are you in command?” Oberst-Gruppenführer Fuchs said in a shaky tone as he studied Jenkins for any sign of rank markings.

  “Jenkins, stand down!” Sergeant McCabe shouted.

  The sights of murdered Jewish men, women, and children—tortured and tormented before being hung—stayed at the forefront of his thoughts. Jenkins closed the distance until he stood directly in front of the oberst-gruppenführer. The SS officer looked from Jenkins back towards the forest, unsure of what was happening under a flag of truce.

  “I said drop your weapon, you lying kraut tosspot,” Jenkins roared again, jabbing his bayonet in the direction of the SS officer’s sidearm.

  “Jenkins,” Sergeant McCabe called out again. “Get your arse back here before I have you up in front of a firing squad.”

  The anger that bubbled under Jenkins’s surface spilled over. The constant death, the loss of so many friends and colleagues, the sheer level of pain inflicted on helpless civilians; it all overwhelmed him. Even the fear of the repercussions was nothing compared to the suffering Jenkins had witnessed over the last two days.

  The oberst-gruppenführer stood frozen, his face blanketed in terror as he glanced down the barrel of the Lee-Enfield. Seeing that he was too terrified to move, Jenkins stretched out a hand and spun the SS officer about. He snatched the officer’s pistol from its holster and tossed it to the ground. Keeping the bayonet pressed into his back, Jenkins nudged at him.

  “Order your men to surrender now, or I swear to God, I’ll kill every last one of them.” Rage dripped from Jenkins’s words, but he meant every syllable.

  The oberst-gruppenführer turned his head to speak, but Jenkins pressed the tip of his bayonet into his back in warning. “I…I’m ordered to open discussions with a senior officer—”

  “I’ve seen what you scum do under a white flag,” Jenkins hissed. “Order your men to stand down now. Last warning.”

  In his peripheral vision, Jenkins noted movement from the MEF lines. Sergeant McCabe kept roaring at him, demanding he stand down with immediate effect. He glanced from side to side and then up at the roof. On both flanks, the SS defenders lowered their gazes to the sights on their weapons. Laying on the roof, the lone sniper turned his weapon towards the small group of MEF soldiers flocking behind Sergeant McCabe for support.

  “Stand down,” Oberst-Gruppenführer Fuchs shouted.

  His words disappeared beneath the sounds of the SS machine guns exploding to life. Bullets blazed into the forest and were answered in kind. Jenkins lifted his Lee-Enfield to the back of the oberst-gruppenführer’s skull and fired. A thick mist of red blasted from a crater in his face as the SS officer’s lifeless carcass crashed to the ground.

  Bullets snapped around him, but time ground to a snail’s pace. Jenkins raised his rifle and aimed at the sniper on the roof. For a moment, the soldiers made eye contact. Jenkins acted first. The bullet from his rifle burst free and struck the sniper square in the forehead. The SS soldier hurtled off the roof to the ground.

  Surging ahead, Jenkins made straight for the opened front door of the manor. He levelled his Lee-Enfield at the nearest machine gun nest on the right and squeezed the trigger. The SS soldiers flailed as bullets tore through their chests, sending them flopping to the ground. He grabbed a grenade, pulled the pin out with his teeth, and flung it at the machine gun position to his left. By the time he reached the door frame of the manor, the machine gun nest exploded, throwing wounded soldiers onto the ground around it.

  Pausing at the doorway, Jenkins slipped in a fresh clip. MEF units had overwhelmed the remaining machine gun nests, striking them from the flanks and showering them with grenades until they fell silent. He spied a furious Sergeant McCabe storming towards him, but Jenkins didn’t care about the repercussions. The enemy had broken the white flag of truce already. They deserved no mercy.

  Alone, Jenkins pushed into the main hallway of the manor. A winding, elaborate staircase led to the second and third floors. To his left and right were high-ceilinged walls adorned with huge oil-paintings of heroic images.

  A soldier in SS garb burst from the room to the right. A look of surprise filled his face. He was unarmed, but Jenkins contained no sympathy in his heart for people who utilised children as weapons of war and strung up the innocent.

  He fired once, catching the soldier in the chest, and drove forward. He buried the tip of his bayonet into the Nazi’s stomach and twisted. Leaving the SS soldier to bleed to death, Jenkins ran into the room on the right, knocking over a table with an ornamental vase as he did. Two men dressed like butlers emerged from a hallway on the other side of the room and froze at the sight of him. Seeing nothing more than SS soldiers in disguise, Jenkins fired twice, dropping them to the floor.

  “Jenkins!” someone shouted.

  Sergeant McCabe reached to grab Jenkins’s Lee-Enfield, but he pulled it away.

  “Jesus Christ, lad, what are you doing? What’s gotten into you?”

  The rage, the hatred, the vicious ugliness of it all exploded from Jenkins like a volcano.

  “Kill them all!” he screamed as loud as he could. “Kill them all! Kill them all! Kill them all! All of them, Sergeant. Every last one. They all need to die!”

  Raising his hands as if in surrender, the sergeant took a careful step towards him. Frustration and anger continued
to pump through Jenkins’s veins, but his outburst eased the corrosive hatred that sloshed about in his gut.

  Sergeant McCabe rested a hand on Jenkin’s shoulder. He side-stepped him and extended it to his far shoulder. It wasn’t an embrace or any form of affection, but a protective movement to show him that he didn’t stand alone. “Easy, lad, easy,” he said, in an unusually soft voice. “It’s been a long couple of days. Just breathe.”

  The sound of gunfire erupted from one of the upper levels. Major Wellesley burst through the opened front door and glared at them. His eyes burned with fury, although Jenkins sensed none of it directed at him, which surprised him.

  “Is your man okay, Sergeant?” the major asked, and then his eyes sparkled with recognition. “Ah, young Jenkins. Fancy that drink?”

  “Not while I’m on duty, sir.”

  “Good, good. Sergeant?”

  “He’s fine, sir. Just got a bit rambunctious. Didn’t hear me over the shooting.”

  Major Wellesley turned his gaze to the SS soldier at his feet and the two fallen civilians on the far side of the room. Gesturing with his pistol, he signalled for them and some nearby soldiers to move up the stairs while Junior Sergeant Alexeev cleared the bottom floor.

  Leading the way, the major raced up the winding stairwell, and the soldiers scanned for any signs of SS defenders. A series of shots rang out from the corridor to their right, halting Major Wellesley’s advance. He peeked his head around the corner but sprang back.

  A bullet smashed into the wall near him.

  “One that I can see,” the major said to Sergeant McCabe.

  “I have this,” Jenkins said and, without waiting for orders, threw himself into the open corridor.

  Bullets belched out at him, but they all missed as he hit the carpeted ground and rolled. In a firing position, he spotted a single silhouette standing against the bright light of a window. The figure aimed his weapon again, but Jenkins pulled on the trigger until his clip emptied. At least three of the bullets hit their mark, sending the SS soldier stumbling towards the window. Glass shattered, and he tumbled backwards onto the grounds below.