Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 757: The Western Gate

The sea was black glass, rolling under a bruised sky. Rain came in slanting curtains, stinging the men packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the landing craft.

The diesel engine growled like an animal caged beneath steel, its breath mixing with salt and fear.

Private Miller gripped his Garand rifle until his knuckles went white. He could barely hear the sergeant over the roar.

“Two minutes! Check your gear! Keep your heads low when that ramp drops!”

Somewhere out there, beyond the gray haze, Southern Spain waited. Gibraltar’s shadow rising like the fortress of the world itself.

The plan was simple: land, seize the beachhead, push inland. But plans died fast once the bullets started flying.

And fly they did.

Tracers tore the horizon, amber and green, deliberate and spaced. Someone whispered,

“They’re already sighting us.”

Gunfire cut through the mist, red lines whipping across the water.

A moment later came the sound, the deep, rolling scream of MG-38Es opening up from the cliffs.

It was a noise no man could mistake, a symphony of mechanical hatred, sharper and faster than anything the Yanks had faced in Africa.

“Down! Keep down!”

The first wave vanished in seconds. Boats disappeared in columns of spray; men screamed as fragments ripped through helmets and flesh.

Miller’s stomach dropped when the coxswain shouted, “Ramp in five, four, three….”

The ramp clanged open, and daylight came with gunfire.

Men spilled out into waist-deep surf already turning pink. Miller ran, rifle above his head, stumbling over bodies and shattered crates.

The Spaniards held the first line, dug into the dunes with MG-34s clattering like typewriters of death.

Their khaki wool uniforms were soaked dark, steel helmets glinting dull in the drizzle. Behind them, mortar crews shouted in Spanish, their rounds walking across the beach.

“Move! Move!”

He hit the sand and crawled, wet grit filling his mouth. Ahead, a flamethrower team never made it, one burst from the ridge tore through both men, igniting the tanks on their backs.

Fire consumed them and the soldiers beside them in seconds, the smell of burning hair thick enough to taste.

Miller risked a glance upward. On the ridge, dark shapes moved like phantoms, Russians in TTsMKK pattern cotton, their stahlhelms slick with rain.

They fired in pairs, disciplined, relentless. For every man who fell, another stepped forward.

Higher still, above them, the true monsters worked.

Then came the next rhythm: the faster, deeper growl of MG-38Es, the Reich’s newest machine guns, descendants of the Ghosts of Algiers’ design, now refined for infantry use.

The guns stitched through the smoke with perfect cadence, tearing men apart in bursts so short they seemed surgical.

German infantry in Blumentarn uniforms, aramid helmets, and body armor pressed tight to their chests, lay behind interlocking sandbags.

The MG-38Es hammered from tripods while StG-35 rifles barked in polite, efficient bursts.

Through the haze, they looked inhuman, colorless, deliberate, ghosts sculpted from earth and steel.

Miller fired back, his bullets vanishing into the storm. “Jesus Christ, they’ve got armor!”

He saw a round hit a German square in the chest, and do nothing.

“Armor?” the sergeant spat. “What kind of…” His voice vanished with the artillery strike that erased him from existence.

The air itself tore apart.

A tank landing craft made it to shore only to detonate as a Russian 7.5 cm shell found its heart.

The turret cartwheeled fifty feet through the rain.

Miller pressed himself flat, trembling, counting breaths. Around him, men shouted for medics, for ammo, for God.

The beach became a charnel house.

Miller’s squad crawled behind the wreck of a half-track, its hull steaming in the rain. He slapped in a new clip. “Where’s command?”

“Command’s gone,” muttered a corporal, blood streaking his chin. “We’re it now.”

A wave of Spaniards rose from the trenches ahead, bayonets fixed, shouting prayers.

Miller fired until the ping of his rifle’s empty clip snapped in his ears. He drew his sidearm and kept shooting until the charging line folded.

The Spaniards fell, one by one, their courage dragging them twenty feet from the surf before they were cut down.

The rain turned to steam where shells landed. Smoke hung like wet cloth, and Miller could taste copper at the back of his throat.

He tried to crawl toward a crater, but the world erupted beside him. The blast threw him face-first into the sand.

When his hearing returned, all he caught was the dull, steady thunder of the MG-38Es up on the ridge, patient, unwavering.

He looked up and saw them clearly for the first time: German soldiers, deliberate, faces painted in streaks to match the soil.

One stood to adjust his optic, armor slick with rain, pulling a fresh 30-round magazine from the feldgrau harness slung over his plate carrier.

He chambered a round and fired short bursts downrange, each one precise, each one final. The man might as well have been from another century.

By nightfall, the sea was a graveyard of steel. Burning oil drifted on the tide like molten glass.

Here and there, rifle cracks marked where survivors were being hunted down by Spanish patrols or Russian armor moving through the dunes.

Miller crawled toward the surf, dragging what was left of his radio operator. The man was gone before the next wave touched them.

Above, the cliffs flashed with German muzzle fire, controlled, surgical, absolute.

The empire of steel held.

He whispered a prayer he didn’t believe anymore, and pressed his face into the wet sand as another shell screamed overhead.

On the ridge, Generalfeldmarschall Heinrich von Koch watched the battle unfold in its entirety through binoculars, the lenses reflecting fire.

The battle looked almost beautiful from this height, a choreography of flame and futility.

“Alternate batteries,” he ordered. “Keep the illusion of gaps. Draw them into the center.”

A Russian liaison stood beside him, rain slicking his coat. “Your men fight like machines,” the man said in accented German.

Heinrich didn’t answer. He knew every sound: the MG-34s of the Spaniards, chugging and uneven, the sound of effort.

The MG-42s of the Russians, steadier, hungry, old warhorses that refused to die.

But the MG-38Es… those sang with perfect mechanical precision.

Heinrich drew on a cigarette, its ember flickering in the wind. “They’re learning the cost of impatience,” he murmured.

An adjutant jogged up, breathless. “Sir, the Allies are attempting to flank through the dunes!”

Heinrich nodded. “Let them. The mines will greet them properly. And if they survive that, they’ll meet the First Royal Spanish Armored Division.”

The liaison crossed himself as bright plumes leapt along the beachhead.

A rolling chain of detonations erased the American left flank. Bodies and sand rose together in a single, monstrous wave.

“Merciful God,” the Russian whispered.

Heinrich exhaled smoke. “God left this place hours ago.”

Silence followed, broken only by the cooling hiss of weapons. The rain had eased, leaving behind the metallic scent of blood and ozone.

He stepped forward, boots sinking into wet grit, passing a fallen grenadier, armor split open, eyes still staring toward the sea.

“Recover the weapons,” Heinrich said. “The rifles first. The Reich wants every round accounted for.”

The adjutant saluted and moved to obey.

Below, the fires painted the waves in gold and crimson. Across the strait, lightning flickered over Gibraltar, where the next wave was gathering.

Heinrich lit another cigarette, his silhouette framed by the glow of the battlefield.

“Signal to Berlin,” he said softly. “The first wave has been broken. Tell them…” He paused, watching the horizon burn.

“…Tell them the Western Gate holds.”

—

The map room beneath the Chancellery pulsed with the dim light of plotting tables and filtered air. Radios crackled, teleprinters chattered. The war had come west again.

Prince Wilhelm stood before the situation board, hands clasped behind his back.

His eyes followed the red wax markers inching across the Iberian coast.

“Casualty estimates?” he asked.

“Preliminary, your highness… less than expected. The Western Gate holds firm. Generalfeldmarschall von Koch reports enemy losses exceeding sixty percent of the first wave.”

The officer hesitated. “The Americans are still landing.”

“They always are,” Wilhelm replied quietly. “They mistake stubbornness for strategy.”

He turned toward the window where Berlin’s lights shimmered on wet stone. Far beyond the Spree, the thunder of distant artillery rolled like a heartbeat.

From Africa to the Mediterranean, to Spain itself, his world burned in rings of fire.

“How long before they learn?” he asked no one in particular. “Every empire that believes itself eternal meets the same end, on someone else’s shore.”

The room stayed silent. Even the teleprinters seemed to slow.

Wilhelm rested a gloved hand on the table, fingers brushing a small model marker shaped like a fortress.

“Hold the line in Spain,” he said finally. “Send word to Budapest, Moscow, and Madrid. The gate remains closed.”

He looked at the map once more. The rain outside Berlin turned to snow. Thinking about how one day, in the near future he would rule this realm.

“The war continues,” he murmured. “And may god have mercy upon us all….”