Phagocytosis

Berlin, Rheingauviertel neighbourhood, October 2037

Although the city has yet to regain its pre-war population, the school where Anneliese Bauer teaches is bustling. Children rush out to meet their waiting parents or board the buses. Most of their parents now work in the newly constructed automated factories built over the ruins of the Lichterfelde stadium and its surrounding area, which had been flattened by multiple thermobaric bombs during the opening stages of the battle for Berlin.

Just 25, she is slender and tall, with sharp blue eyes that seem to carry both warmth and a hardened resolve. Her blonde hair is usually pulled back into a practical braid, a habit from her days in the tank crew. A faint scar near her left temple marks the place where her head struck a sharp piece of metal when her driver braked too hard. I was amazed to learn she set foot in a tank at the age of 19.

Her state apartment looked like it had for decades, solid and classic, with rich wooden paneling that gave the rooms a warm, timless feel. The floors were polished hardwood, elegant beneath a few well-earned scratches. The high ceilings were framed with intricate moldings. It wasn't a cheap place by any means; the craftsmanship was evident in every corner, from the brass door handles to the sturdy window frames that still held tight against the chill. One of millions in the city. One of hundred of thousands still waiting for people.

"Your crew?" I ask as I hold a photo resting on her desk.

"Yeah. There's Emre, our driver. The guy slept like a log, but he was a damn good driver and an even better mechanic. Otto was the gunner. He'd been in the army even before the war. And Felix was my loader."

"Why wasn't Otto the tank commander? If he had that much experience—no offense."

"None taken. His hearing was shot. Even now, you have to scream in his ear for him to catch anything. We had to jerry-rig his headset to double the volume just so he could hear us. So, he couldn't really be trusted with radios and all that," she says as she offers me a Club Mate, a drink I had sworn never to touch again a few months earlier. Yet somehow, I'm unable to refuse.

"So the crew was a mismatch of survivors and new guys?" I ask, settling into one of her sofas.

"Yeah," she says. "The German army had been rebuilt more times than Berlin's Hauptbahnhof. And they're still working on that damn thing."

I grin. "So you were part of the eternal construction project?"

"Basically. Brigades would get mauled, sent off the front line with numbers down to ten or twenty percent effectiveness. Then they'd get rebolstered with fresh conscripts—usually straight out of halfway homes and refugee camps in France or Spain."

"That's where they found you?" I ask.

"Yup. I was working admin at a German affairs office near Lyon. Helping people get jobs, housing, and all that. Then my number got called up. One last dinner and party with my friends and family. Got shit-hammered, and before I could even recover from the hangover, I was in Strasbourg getting my 'schooling'—a month of basic training, three months on the Leopard—and then I was off."

"How was it when you arrived?" I ask.

"I was a driver at first, spring of 2028. We were in a Schnelle Eingreiftruppe. Quick reaction force made up of a tank company and two infantry companies. If a part of the front line collapsed, we'd get sent in, hit it hard, recapture it, and pull out once fresh units arrived. Nasty work. And we were the ones sent after the crabs that made it through everything else,barbed wire, machine gun nests, entrenched infantry, tanks, heavy artillery, even chemical weapons if it came to that. Can't imagine what it would have been to be on the receiving end of that.

"Why is it German units didn't adopt the Abrams or K2 tanks like every other UN force operating there?"

"That's a common misconception, that every new tank sent to the Western Front was one of those two. The truth is, contingency plans for industrial output rivaling World War II factories were already active before the Abrams and K2 were officially selected. So even though three-quarters of the tanks rolling out were either Abrams or K2s, there were still new German Leopards being built in Marseille, and French Leclercs were coming out of factories all over France."

"What was the difference between pre-war models and those?" I ask as I pet her cat, which stretches lazily across the armrest.

"Weight, armor, electronics, basically everything, if you know anything about tanks. Pre-war tanks were built for a different kind of fight. The new ones, depending on the variant, were designed for brutal, short-range battles in shattered cities, contaminated zones, and high-intensity ambushes. We had thicker armor up front, less focused on countering DART shells or ATGMs, but more against high explosive, incendiary, or even laser beams. Extra protection for the tracks, most their blasters couldn't take us out, but they could snipe our tracks easily before we received extra protection.

The fire control systems stayed the same, but instead of carrying mostly DART shells, the new tanks would carry up to three-quarters HE shells and about a quarter DART shells for when we ran into beetles. But in a company, we had one platoon whose entire task was beetles, they carried modified DART shells designed specifically for those. Extra remote controlled .50cal gun on top of the turret as well, do because of logistical issues not allot of us had it.

So it was a team effort. Village full of crabs firing high explosive or incendiary blasters? Alpha Platoon takes care of it! Ten beetles crossing the field? Bravo is on its way." Get it?"

"Yeah. So, they had a focus on modularity?" I ask.

"Variants, yes. Amateurs talk about which tank on its own is the best, "A tiger tank could kill four shermans!" type of deal. But that's not how militaries worked. You'd rarely face a beetle on your own in my position. A tank battailon would have multiple companies, each with their own tasks. Yeah it caused allot of issues on the logistical end, but it saved allot of people."

"Can you tell me more about what things were different?" I ask.

"Sure. The most important tool in our kit was the grounding system. Sensors—or me pushing a button—would alert the tank when we were being targeted by a tripod heat ray. That was by far the worst-case scenario for us. Smoke canisters would be deployed, the ones you couldn't use in normal combat unless you overrid the system. The 'plow' at the rear of the tank would dig into the ground, redirecting the heat ray safely into the earth. The grounding system would then reduce the laser beam's intensity just enough to prevent damage. At the same time, a kind of Faraday cage would activate around the crew compartment. God bless the Brits who came up with that. It saved a tank 20% of the time."

"20%?" I ask, surprised.

"Yeah, sure, 20% doesn't sound like much, but it's a whole lot better than what we had before."

"We had new toys too, one tank per platoon was equipped with a heavy flamethrower system mounted coaxially alongside the main gun. It could unleash a jet of incendiary gel up to thirty meters, perfect for clearing houses, trenches, and narrow urban streets. The fuel tanks were heavily armored but placed outside the turret to minimize risk. Still, it was a risky weapon to use. Often, the crews wouldn't load the gel if we were fighting in open farmland or rural areas. It was strictly reserved for urban centers.

Safety rules required that no infantry or unarmored vehicles come within 100 meters, but as you can imagine, no one ever followed that. There was nothing more effective for protecting the 'diggers'—what we called infantrymen ,or the "19-year-olds" than rolling right up to a target and burning those critters alive with that stuff.No one came running with the rulebook when that flamethrower started spewing liquid fire for up to 20 seconds. It scared the crabs too, you'd sometimes see them rout the moment they spotted it coming.

===============================================================================

We sit on the terrace as Bauer rolls her joint, another gift from the army, thanks to her disability card and PTSD treatment.

As I look down, watching yet another delivery drone being harassed by a gang of cats, much like what I saw happen in Novgorod not long ago, she keeps talking, already taking long, steady drags from her joint.

They wanted us to attack Berlin from the north. Us with the first German armored brigade while a Latin American brigade, supplemented by another American and Canadian brigade, strong-armed the city from the west and south. They had attacked from those sides for two days and one night to feint the crabs into massing in those directions. Blew a lot of them up. All night you heard the sound of MOABs and thermobaric bombs flattening entire neighborhoods, some three or four times over in a span of two days. Talk about danger close. Fuck me if I had any opinion on that. Hitting the city from the north even the Russians in '45 didn't attempt that (editor's note untrue). Lots of forests, lots of bridges and rivers even in the city. But it went surprisingly well. Infantry along with urban tank companies called "Schlosser" or Locksmiths in English. That's what they called it. If the crabs offered too much resistance in some neighborhoods the diggers would ask for locksmiths on the radio to come and break it open.

We had a day, a day to roll into town through the cleared northern suburb then we had to roll first into the northern airport, Tegel Airport. It had been retrofitted into a military airport just before the war. Yet they had evacuated civilians from there. Once the airport was cleared we would start the real fight, fight our way south and capture Mierendorff Island. Whatever happened even if we had to fight barefoot and with our knives it was imperative we captured the canals and the artificial islands north of the town. That way by nightfall we would be able to hold them off at chokepoints. I had overheard just before we left that high command estimated fifty percent casualties. That was a fun drive. Me peeking out map in hand as lead element of my platoon.

The guys knew something was off, they could see it in my face. We had been part of a few fireworks shows before so this wasn't our first rodeo.

"Fireworks shows?" I ask as I take a drag.

"Yeah you know. Have hundreds of thousands of men come head to head with hundreds of thousands or even millions of crabs. You'd have tanks like us fire entire days. Battle of Rathaus, Operation Ramadan, Battle of the Pripyat Marshes, Hamburg. A hill by morning would be a crater in the evening, you know what I mean."

"How were you actually feeling?" I ask.

I think I accepted my death halfway before we arrived at the airport. I popped a Concerta pill. Part of me wanted all of this to be over. And if it meant dying for my country, for my city to be liberated, for my ex-boyfriend to be haunted by regret over my death, then so be it. But I couldn't show it. My boys were counting on me as much as I counted on them to do their job. Just asked Felix if his arms weren't too sour enough to lift heavy shells all day, shouted into Otto's ear to ask if the thermal sight wasn't showing signs of overheating again, asked Emre three times if he was sure the reverse gears were working right. Made sure all of them ate something as we waited in Reinickendorf, neighbourhood north of that airport. We wouldn't have time that day, so as other tank commanders were running around, trying to figure out a way to survive, maybe be posted somewhere else, assault from another position, I just made sure everything was okay, if it meant our survivals odds would go from 50% to 51%. It was a victory in my eyes. If I died I died. But I had no right to be gloomy, to fuck with the morale of my men. Concerta helped me push those thoughts away.

Even as we ran over an abandoned car, I kept my eyes locked on the infantry ahead. Just my head peeking out of the turret. Big no-no in the books. But I needed good eyes while the infantry cleared the north side of the airport. A few of them glanced at me as if they expected me to drive right into the aircraft hangars. I heard a few shots; they took two casualties, just a few crab stragglers. Drones ahead had spotted crabs massing the moment that side of the airport was declared secure. There was just one big runway between us, the airport terminals, and a city that used to house nearly four million people. The thought of how many crabs must have moved in there now, after we'd been evicted, made my stomach turn. We drove around the destroyed A400Ms sitting on the runway and a KLM jet that had been left there for some reason. Each was burned out, the scorched metal left to rust for a couple of years now.

We took position and had our sights set across that sea of asphalt. Eight of our tanks lined up, the infantry behind us, our guys loading up into the Marders and the French-gifted VABs. Waiting for the go-ahead to cross that runway and charge the other side. It got awfully quiet. Even as I scanned the far end with my thermals. Besides the low rumble of the engine, the buzz of fighter jets, and the distant artillery falling, it was still. After a while, you learn to filter those sounds out, if they don't involve you, you have to, or you'll lose your mind.

So there we were. Me and Otto, along with the other tanks in my platoon, scanning and scanning for anything off. I couldn't resist it. Grabbed my vape and went at it. My emotions were all over the place. It had always been like that my whole life. That overthinking, it cost me a lot. Jobs, partners, friends. Even out here, in combat, that same ball and chain around my leg kept messing with me.
I'm ashamed to say it, but I wasn't as resolute as I was a few minutes earlier.

„Zug 3, vorwärts! Halten Sie 50 Meter Abstand!" my lieutenant called out.

"Emre, vorwärts, langsam," I told my driver calmly, but firm.

"Bin unterwegs!" Emre answered.

We hadn't even moved five meters when my entire world jolted. We got hit. Hard. Hard enough for my forehead to smack against the screen in front of me, the one that controls the remote .50 cal on the roof. Not hard enough to stop us or cause real damage, but it sure as hell rattled me.

Talk about a significant emotional event. Felix was shouting, realized later he had hurt his arm pretty bad too. Otto yelled out, asking If I had seen where it came from.

"Zero, Three-Two, we zein getroffen, einsatzbereit"
*Zero, Three-Two, we're hit, still operational*
I yelled into the radio. I realized the rest of the platoon was still moving forward as we all tried to figure out where that came from.

„Emre, vorwärts!"
*Emre, forward!*
I shouted over the intercom. I hadn't even finished the sentence before I was slammed back into my seat.

I knew it was a Blowpipe that hit us when I saw another one fly out from the window of a terminal across the tarmac. Just a pipe. One crab would throw it on its shoulder while another aimed it. Real crackhead construction of a weapon. Crude as hell. Even the way it flew was strange, wobbling through the air like it couldn't decide on a path. I watched it miss Three-One, my platoon leader, by ten meters. Their turret immediately swung toward that terminal and fired a high explosive shell into it.

"Panzerabwehr, drei Uhr, dieser Hangar, da ist ein... Emirates-Werbeschild direkt darunter."
*Anti-tank, three o'clock, that hangar, there's an... Emirates advertisement board just under it,*
I told Otto, trying to string the words together. A thin line of blood was pouring from my temple, trying to push past my eyebrow and into my eye. I remember that moment like it was yesterday.

"on" Otto answered calm as ever as he had his sight on it, I had his sight on my screen, saw the two crabs fumble around as they tried to reload.

"Feuer!"
"Fire!" I yelled out.

"Ja achtung." He answered calmly. The breech jolted back, along with the tank as I saw that heavy shell fly through the air, It hit that billboard I was talking about, not a direct hit but it was on purpose as to not overshoot the shell too far into the terminal. That whole wall shook, no one could survive that."

"volltreffer!"
*Bullseye! Nächstes Ziel!" I shouted, confirming it was down.

''Sprenggranaten laden!!''
*Load high explosive!" Felix was already taking another shell before I finished the sentence. Guy was build like a twig but he had that farmer strength

Our entire platoon, along with another one was crossing across the tarmac.

„Panzerabwehr, zwei Uhr, bei dem orangefarbener Tankwagen!"
*Anti-tank, two o'clock, nextr to the hangar orange fuel truck!"

"on"

"Feuer!"
"Fire!"

"Ja achtung."

The 120mm cannon fired. I guess there was still gasoline in that fuel truck. It erupted in flames as the spot where those two crabs had been waiting for us was completely obliterated.

Our turret took a hit. The entire hull shuddered, metal groaning as if the tank itself had felt pain. The impact hadn't pierced, but it rattled us hard enough to remind everyone inside how close we were to death. Otto cursed, instinctively reaching up to adjust the thermal sight. Sparks rained down from the interior panel where the round had struck, and the smell of scorched rubber filled the air.

"Where was that from!" Otto shouted, squinting through his sight. He was frustrated, maybe even a little shaken, but still sharp. Both of us scanned the edges of the runway, our eyes darting across shadows and broken buildings, trying to catch the faintest sign of movement.

I spotted it first. A small cluster of heat signatures flared across my thermal screen. Without wasting a second, I overrode the turret control. My finger jammed the override button and the whole turret groaned as it responded, swinging in the direction I was looking from my .50 caliber station.

Three crabs. Two crouched behind a shattered baggage cart, one lifting a tube for another shot. Their motions were fast and mechanical, but sloppy. Desperate. They had no idea they had been spotted.

Then came the roar. A thunderous mechanical shriek from above that drowned out even the rumble of our own engine. Rotor blades carved the sky as the Tiger helicopter dropped in low from our left, its 30mm cannon already spinning. The moment the crabs lifted their heads to re-aim, the chain gun opened fire.

The effect was immediate and brutal. The first burst cut the lead crab in half, its torso spinning into the air like a broken doll. The baggage cart was shredded, fragments flying in every direction. The second crab tried to run but didn't make it two steps before a round punched through its midsection, reducing it to a smear of blackened limbs and chitin. The last one turned just in time to see the cannon swivel toward it. One shot was all it took. The body simply ceased to be.

Smoke curled up from the cratered asphalt. The heat signatures vanished. Silence returned for a moment, the kind that never lasts on a battlefield. Otto exhaled, long and hard, like he'd been holding it since the moment we were hit.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Saved our asses," he muttered.

"Yeah remind me to never fucking make fun of an officer again!" I shouted as I saw the Tiger fly over the terminal, popping flares as it circled around and flew back the way it came, north of us.

"Why flares?" I ask.

"Pilots believed it distracted the crabs. I suppose the brass was convinced because they still produced anti missile flares just for them." she answers.

"Scheiße, wir sind getroffen!"

*Shit, we're hit!* I heard someone yell over the radio, panic cutting through the usual chatter. I snapped my head to the right periscope and caught sight of Three-Three, one of our platoon's Leopards, slowing down.

Dust and sparks kicked up violently along their left track. Poor bastards must not have realized how bad the damage was. They didn't stop right away, didn't pop smoke either. Just kept pushing forward like momentum alone could carry them out of the kill zone.

Then the track gave out. The whole tank twisted violently to the left, its hull swinging wide like a wounded animal trying to limp forward. It exposed their side completely—directly toward the terminal, where half a dozen crabs were firing off blowpipes like madmen.

And those bastards didn't miss out on an occasion when they had an easy target.

The first blowpipe round slammed into the side armor with a sharp clang, sparks flying as the reactive plates tried to absorb the impact. But it wasn't just one—at least five or six of those crude, jury-rigged tubes and their crews were aimed at it, their projectiles buzzing through the air like angry hornets.

A sudden roar exploded inside the vehicle as the ammunition ignited instantly. Poor bastards, just like us, had filled their tank to the brim with shells. There were twenty rounds stored in the blow-out section of the turret. If those were hit, survival was still possible on paper. But that was only twenty—what was stored next to the crew compartment was another story. No force on earth could stop what was coming.

I saw the crew hatches explode open as fire spewed out. A few seconds later, the tank detonated, the turret swung up into the air for a few meters before crashing down on its side.

„Drei-Drei ist ausgefallen!"

*Three-Three is down!* I yelled over the radio. Everyone opened fire on the bastards who had given away their position by killing four men, all new recruits, their first battle.

We were close enough to the terminal for the APC's to advance. We had taken out enough targets, us along with the three tigers flying behind us. We popped smokes. We were blinded instantly, a double edged sword.

As they got to their position, the soldiers began unloading swiftly, boots hitting the ground and they sprinted in position. Like napoleonic soldiers. They formed a line left and right of their respective vehicles. Must have been 12 marders and 4 VABs all infront of the terminal. 200 meters left. They advanced on foot through the rising smoke, weapons ready and eyes sharp. The thick haze blurred shapes and sounds, but their training kept them steady. Each man scanned for threats, clearing the way as we prepared to push deeper into the airport complex. The air was tense, thick with the smell of burning fuel and dust, but the soldiers moved with practiced precision, knowing every second counted.

"vorwärts, langsam"

*Forward, slowly* I asked Emre.

"If I run over a 19 year old, it's your ass!" he told me over the intercom.

No choice. I opened my hatch and exposed my head. There was no way I was trusting the cameras and sensors. We rolled through the smoke, slow and steady. We passed the mist and found ourselves right in the thick of it. Our tanks, the diggers, the Marders. We were all waiting for one crab to give us an excuse to blow up that damned airport.

I watched one crab, one pop out of a terminal window, firing its blaster. Either he had mistaken one of those airport golf cars for one of our vehicles, or he was a bad shot. Then the chaos hit. Bullets slammed into the glass with a thunderous rattle. Autocannon from the Marders shredded the metal around the terminal, sparks flying as rounds tore through everything. Saw a grunt hip fire his MG3 and hammering the edges, not even aiming, as if he was pissing on it, ripping jagged holes, tracer rounds slicing through what glass wasn't already shattered. The whole terminal shook violently under the hail of fire, glass cracking and twisting all around me. I kept my eyes locked on it hoping I wouldn't have to tell Otto not to fire. Instead I felt the turret spin. I hadn't had time to shout "Scheiße" before I felt the shock of the cannon firing. From inside it's one thing but with your head out I felt like air was trying to force its way into my skull and eardrums even with my helmet and ear protection.

That was it for the airport, whatever had spooked our recon, it wasn't there. The diggers cleared it as we took position on the bridge over the canal leading south into the city.

======================================================================================================================================================

Dresden, August 2037

It was by pure miracle that I met Julian Krahl. The intercity bus carrying me, Julian, and 12 other passengers broke down less than an hour after leaving Berlin. As we waited in the sun, Dieter and I began to talk while the other passengers attempted to reboot the self-driving system with the help of an operator on the other end of a phone.

The way he sits in the wet grass, smoking and drinking a beer from his kitbag, as if perfectly at ease with waiting, is a clear sign of his past service as a "digger". More specifically, a combat engineer. Despite being 25, his face and body show clear signs of usure. He was sent to the front lines at the age of eighteen. Like many people his age and in his situation, he travels from city to city working as a day labourer.

God, you could see how exhausted we were, even through the gas masks, despite everything we were carrying. It was already hard enough just sitting packed into a Marder with five other guys, crammed together like sardines. Then you'd have to fight your way out, soaked in sweat, stumbling into the chaos.

The MOPP suits made everything worse. They were heavy, suffocating, soaked through with your own sweat within minutes. Every breath through the gas mask felt like dragging air through a clogged filter. Your skin itched, your joints ached, and sweat pooled in your boots until it felt like your feet were rotting inside them. Movement was a struggle. Fighting was almost impossible. Half the time it felt like the suit was choking the life out of you. We used to joke that getting gassed might be better than spending another minute sealed inside.

But the jokes stopped once you saw what the gas actually did.

You would see the crabs gasping for air, twitching in the filth, dying slow. Sometimes you would come across a dog, barely alive, skin and bones, still clinging to life after being left behind. Survivors, somehow, from the first wave. They had made it through the crabs, hiding in the ruins, waiting for us to take the city back.

We put them down faster than we did the crabs. Mercy, plain and simple. Officers on the radio complained the shots gave away our position, but they could go to hell. In one platoon, a lieutenant suggested using bricks or rocks instead of bullets to save ammo. His men beat the life out of him for it. Deserved it too.

None of that was the real problem. Not the crabs. Not the dogs. Not even the gas. The real mistake was fighting through a nerve agent infested area at all.

Jakob Kaiser Platz. A sprawl of old apartment blocks just south of the airport. Packed tight with too many corners and too many blind spots. And someone had decided it was a good idea to drop nerve agents there before the push. The CBRN officers lost it. Screaming over comms, trying to shut the whole thing down. But nobody listened. Not until it was too late.

If they were going to send us in there, then we were going to take our sweet time checking our suits. Every inch. Any scratches, any loose seals, anything that looked even slightly off. We checked the vehicles too. Every hatch, every seal. Nothing got overlooked, because our lives depended on it.

Here is a fun fact. In tanks, the loader would be asked to take off his gas mask first, just to see if the air filters were actually working. No joke. The rest of the crew would just sit there and watch, waiting to see if he started coughing or twitching. Real funny stuff. I never found out if they were doing that under threat or if someone just had to draw the short straw. I always wanted to ask one of the guys or girls in the Leopards if that story was true or just another barracks legend.

Crabs dead, dogs too. Suburb we got a tap on the back a shower for our gear and equipment and a whole four hours of sleep. The brass had decided that giving us a morning to clear a big chunk of Berlin wasn't the most realistic of timelines. We were awake and ready to go again by one in the morning. Sun was still far away, and we had a whole night and day in front of us.

Volkspark, right across the canal was fine, what wasn't was the apartment complexes across from it. Barely any crabs but still I couldn't feel my legs as we were done from climbing up all those stairs. The gunfire, explosions and jets buzzing grew louder and louder as all the units north, west and south of the city converged ever closer. It was like we were being teased. A bridge to cross, our cross to bear. Mine came in the way of a back pack full of explosives, C4 charges if ever we had to blow up some walls to make our way inside. Berlin's amazing, thanks to the iron wall and the constraint of housing so many people in there, most appartments are 5 or 6 floors tall at least. Each one of them had to be cleared, every apartment, every room, every cupboard. That's what went through my mind as I laid there on the grass, looking over the bridge and the wall of buildings on the other side.

"As of 0130, the Americans have captured Kaiserdamm and the nearby highway intersections. However they have suffered tremendous losses. We need to act fast and block any Crab reinforcements moving in from the east. Missiles are inbound. Begin your assault as soon as they hit," the voice crackled over the radio.

There were fifty of us, lying flat in the grass. You'd think the crabs across the field would've spotted us. But they just wandered aimlessly, blind as bats, clutching their blasters like kids playing soldier.

We had a clear line of sight, plus drone coverage overhead. The feed even picked up five beetles a few blocks back, tucked between four apartment towers.

That's why you didn't see them out much anymore.

We would spot them too easily. They were high value targets, as far as those things went. Unlike the tripods, beetles could not hide. They were too big, too loud, so the Air Force treated them like it was open season.

Once the missiles landed, that was our cue. We would get up and run as fast as we could across the bridge, trying to reach the other side before too many Crabs got their bearings back after the shock of all that firepower coming down on them. But until then there was just silence. Just one more minute of peace until all hell broke lose. Gunfire. Jets. Ghetto birds as we called them, don't know where that name came from.

I heard the noise of windows opening right behind me. That apartment block and the ones near it housed our heavy machine guns and sniper teams. They were supposed to be the only ones firing as we sprinted across.

Then came the sound, deep and distant at first like thunder rolling beneath concrete.

The missiles hit. We could not see the impact, not with all the apartment blocks across the bridge blocking our view, but we felt it. The ground gave a short violent shudder. A low boom surged through the air followed by a second sharper blast that echoed off every wall around us. Somewhere beyond the buildings metal screamed and something massive came crashing down.

Dust rolled over the rooftops in a slow creeping wave. Faint orange flickers lit the smoke as the sky above the blocks began to glow.

"Go!" someone shouted.

We were already up. Fifty of us sprinting toward the bridge in a flat out charge. Boots hammering pavement. Hearts pounding. Machine guns and snipers opened up behind us, their fire cutting into the Crabs on the other side.

The Crabs scattered and fired wildly but we did not stop. We ran hard and fast across the bridge, every step a fight for survival.

I heard the cracks of bullets flying right over my head. The Crabs panicked. The few that were not cut down immediately didn't know whether to run toward the bombing or stand and face us.

I saw an MG3 gunner in front of me. Frank was his name. Tough and strong as a bull, but not the brightest. The sergeant veered toward him as we ran and dragged him out of the middle of the road. That reminded me we were supposed to stay to the side of the bridge because of the Marder that was just crossing.

Those brave bastards had strapped wooden pallets and planks to the sides like that could camouflage a thirty-ton steel beast. The Marder fired its autocannon blindly into the buildings across from it.

We rushed like there was no tomorrow. With all the weight dragging on me, my CBRN pack, my shotgun bouncing on its sling, which felt like it was about to snap, I just kept pushing forward.

No one collapsed. No one got hit. Not even a twisted ankle as we ran across that bridge and spilled into the streets we were ordered to take, the moon lighting our back.

When I reached the other end, standing in front of the building my company commander and our team were assigned to take, I did not even bother checking if the door was unlocked.

I raised my shotgun and blew the lock apart with one blast. The echo barely faded before we pourrd in, the command team right behind me.

The stairwell stank of mold and dust. Plaster crunched under our boots. No voices. No movement. Just the noise of gunfire and artillery and the faint rattle of small arms further down the block.

We moved fast, room to room, sweeping each corner like the Crabs might be hiding behind the furniture. No one said a word. Everyone knew the first five minutes were the most dangerous.

I spotted wet marks on the floor. They started near the front door and ran all the way down the hallway to the last room.

Not water. Too dark. Too thick.

I tightened my grip on the shotgun and gave a nod to Bastian, my assistant in all that messq. We stacked up. Someone counted down with fingers. Then we kicked the door in.

Just one leg kick at it from Bastian before I flooded inside. The door slammed against the wall before hitting me back. My attention wasn't on the door do.

There was a Crab inside. Alone. Big. Taller than I expected in such a cramped room. Its blaster was on the floor, a few feet away.

It raised its arms, slowly, deliberately. Not like it was about to fight. I hesitated for half a second, confused. Its posture looked wrong.

Then it made a sound. Not a scream, not a roar. Something softer. A rasping noise, like it was trying to speak or breathe through fluid.

I pulled the trigger.

The slug caught it square in the chest and dropped it like a sack of bricks. It convulsed once, then stopped moving.

Someone behind me cursed under their breath.

Only then did I realize what it had been doing. Hands up. Weapon on the floor.

It was surrendering.

I stood there, staring at the body. My finger still on the trigger. Breathing hard. No one said a word. No one really cared.

We just moved on to the next room. And that was it for that building. Nothing else. No more Crabs. Just silence, dust, and the stench of damp concrete.

As the other squads started flooding the neighborhood, we got more reinforcements. Fireteams poured in from across the bridge, some already dragging crates of ammo and stretchers for casualties that hadn't come yet.

The company commander called it. This place was as good as any. He picked a room on the second floor with decent sightlines and only one staircase to secure. We cleared out some overturned furniture and broken glass. Someone tossed a tarp over the blood pooling near the Crab's body and posted two rifles on the stairwell.

Radios were set up on a desk with one leg missing. Maps got taped to the wall. Antennas unrolled out the windows, cables snaking down the side of the building. The medics took the back room and started prepping gear.

Upstairs, we stood there for a moment, still coming down off the adrenaline. The building wasn't safe, not really, but it was ours now.

And that counted for something.

I made my way up to the second floor and looked outside. It was the first few minutes I had to myself in a long while. Just staring at those Belgian Leopard 1 tanks rolling steadily across the bridge, their tracks crunching on the pavement like thunder in the distance.

Then I heard someone yell from downstairs.

"Courtyard! In the courtyard!"

Bastian and I exchanged a glance that said it all, what now?

Before I could even reach the window leading to the inner courtyard, I heard it. A deep guttural rumble that shook the walls beneath my boots.

Then I felt it, a shuddder through the floor, like the building itself was about to break apart.

Below, in the courtyard we had not even checked properly, a giant beetle was stirring. Massive and armored, how the fuck could we miss that.

It lumbered forward, smashing through debris and tossing wreckage aside like toys. Flames burst out through its mouth when its claws gouged the ground, setting the lower floors of the building and our command post ablaze.

Smoke filled the hallways fast. The heat hit us before the fire did. I swear I could feel the floor below burning through my boots.

And somehow everyone had missed it until now. Bastian fired at it from the window with his G36 but did not even scratch its armour. My buckshot was even less effective. As the men screamed downstairs we kept firing. I later heard that the ones on the street had no idea what happened. One second everything was calm, the next the ground floor was an inferno with the few men surviving jumping outside, doused in fire.

I threw my backpack on the floor as I realized this was it. There was no leaving that building alive, at least not through the stairs. Might as well try and take that thing with me if the currents were going to rise. I took out my pack of C4.

I tore open the pack and pulled out the detonator. My fingers moved fast but steady, setting the timer to twenty seconds the shortest fuse we had. No time to waste.

I peeled back the adhesive cover on the C4 block, ready to stick it when the moment came.

Then I slid open the window right above the courtyard. Fresh air hit my face before the warmth of the fire came back again, but all I could hear was the low rumble of that giant beetle moving below.

One last look at Bastian to my right.

"I suggest you find some cover," that's what I said.

Looking back at the footage from the GoPro on my helmet still looks odd, as if it wasn't me doing all of that.

I climbed out the window as I cursed my fate and stupidity.

Without hesitation I jumped straight onto the beetle's back. Its armored shell was rough under my hands as it twisted and tried to throw me off.

I held on tight and peeled back the adhesive cover on the C4.

Pressing it firmly to the back of its neck where the armor plates flexed the most, I hit the arming switch on the detonator.

The timer started counting down.

I shoved off hard, rolling as I hit the ground and scrambled away just as the beetle let out a furious roar.

Twenty seconds to get clear.

It didn't even turn around as I jumped off. A fucking three meter fall at least. How my knees and ankle survived, I don't know. Probably sheer adrenaline. I didn't even feel my face hit my knee when I landed hard on the cracked concrete. Pain shot through my leg, but I pushed it aside.

I sprinted across the courtyard, heart pounding in my chest like a war drum. Flames roared behind me, and the heat was already licking at my back. The ground shook from the blast that followed just seconds after I reached the door.

I shoved it open with everything I had and threw myself inside. The room was thick with smoke and dust, the acrid smell burning my throat. I coughed but kept moving, looking back at the building as it shuddered and cracked from the explosion.

The beetle was gone, obliterated in a ball of fire and rubble. Good thing its tank must have been empty or the whole neighborhood would have gone up in flames. The screams and chaos outside were drowned out by the ringing in my ears.

I realized I was shouting, screaming even, as someone shook my shoulder. My pants were on fire. I hadn't even felt it until something warm hit dangerously close to my crotch.

Me and that glassy-eyed nerd from the CIS platoon started slapping at my pants like there was no tomorrow.

You can threaten me with being burned alive, crushed under one of those beetle's feet, or blown to pieces by my own ordnance, fine. But surviving all of that only to lose my manhood? No, no thank you.

"They'll give you the Cross of Valour for that shit," he told me, as if I gave a shit.

"They can start by giving me a new pair of pants," I answered.

My MOPP suit was shredded, so were my pants. There I was in my boxer shorts, half-burned and still standing. The burn wounds I'd only feel later, once the adrenaline wore off.

In all those stories people like to tell, yeah, the folks survived. But we all came out with less than what we went in with. Even if you didn't get a medal for it, you still finished the war with joints that barely worked, half your hearing if you were lucky, and nightmares if your brain didn't shut it all out.

My nightmare was that night in Berlin. You'd think the Crabs would have given up by then. But no. They got more desperate.

I looked like hell. All of us did.

There I was, standing in the middle of that ruined street in nothing but my boxer shorts under all my gear. Shotgun bandolier slung across my plate carrier, boots caked in soot and ash, knees scraped raw. I could feel the heat still clinging to my skin, smoke curling off what was left of my shredded MOPP suit.

No one laughed. Not even a smirk. We were past the point of finding anything funny.

We just looked at each other. Eyes bloodshot, faces blackened with sweat and grime, gear hanging loose and broken in places. You could tell who had seen too much by then.

And it wasn't even noon yet.

You'd trip over rubble. You'd catch shrapnel or get hit by debris from an explosion. Someone would fire an MG3 too close and your ears would be ringing for hours.

No one knew who was in charge anymore. A company might enter Berlin in the morning, officers and all, and by noon you'd have corporals acting as company commanders.

No one gave an inch, but we gave everything to that city.

We'd take a crossroad, a park, a building. Only to lose it fifteen minutes later.

The fighting was so brutal we had infantry begging the air force to carpet bomb the very streets they were dug into. Ernst-Reuter-Platz was the worst, you had layers upon layers of destroyed vehicles on it was tried to push through it. It was right where us and the Americans collided. The crabs between us two fighting as if their glorious leader was threatening to shoot their dog. I found some pants before we arrived there. Some jeans a size too big but it did the work better than anything I had wore until then. Just had to hope we wouldn't get gassed. That and some fresh explosives.

No one expected it to be that brutal.

We knew it wouldn't be as easy as the cities we had liberated all through out Germany. But none of it prepared us for what Berlin became. It was even more violent than a year back when it was our turn to hold our ground.

The Crabs had dug in deep. Every hallway, every stairwell, every goddamn basement had been fortified. They were turning it into their and our graveyard.

Apartments were death traps. You'd clear a floor only to have something burst through the wall behind you. T<They hid under piles of rubble, used human corpses as bait.

Every block we took was soaked in sweat and blood. You'd fight for hours to take a single building, and then fight all over again to keep it when the counterattack came.

It wasn't just bullets and bombs. It was fire. Fire everywhere. Napalm strikes, gas leaks, shells igniting whatever they hit. Some nights, the sky glowed orange like the whole city was burning from the inside out. We had expected one week to take it at worst. Took us two.

People didn't scream when they died anymore. They just dropped, or vanished in the dust. As if even in death they were exhausted. Bastian just dropped in front of me as we crossed that one avenue. Just had his brain matter and blood splash against me thanks to that rebar that hit him.

And the worst part? We kept going. Room by room. Street by street. Like it was the only thing keeping us from falling apart.

Because of that little rodeo stunt I pulled on the beetle, they gave me the honor of hoisting the German flag over what was left of the Brandenburger Tor.

But even as I raised it, my eyes never left the skeletons around me, what was left of the men who had fought and died up there way way before. Charred, half-buried under rubble, rifles still clutched in bone-white hands.

It wasn't victory I felt. It was silence. Heavy and cold. A black void.