Re: Blood and Iron - Chapter 763: The Battle For Manila Part III
Chapter 763: The Battle For Manila Part III
The fires of Manila still burned when Erich von Zehntner pulled himself out of the commander’s hatch.
Smoke curled around the ruined intersection, drifting in slow gray ribbons through the shell-shocked district.
Somewhere to the west a munition dump was still cooking off, each detonation rolling through the city like distant thunder.
It was no longer chaos, it was something colder, more deliberate. A battlefield that had shifted from survival to calculation.
Erich wiped dirt from his eyes and listened. The thump of distant gunfire had thinned into sporadic cracks.
The brigade was stabilizing. Airborne doctrine, drilled, refined, perfected, was taking hold again.
“Sir!”
A Thai officer jogged toward him, helmet askew, uniform scorched, rifle still slung across his chest.
He halted and snapped a sharp salute. His men fanned out behind him, exhausted but standing.
“Major Kiet of the 3rd Thai Airborne Regiment,” he said between breaths. “We landed near the Escolta district. Took contact immediately. No armor support, just rifles and light launchers.”
Erich studied the man’s posture. Bone-tired, adrenaline still humming. A good officer.
“Casualties?” Erich asked.
Kiet swallowed. “Heavy… but we held. Linked with your 2nd Battalion in the alleyways near Quezon Bridge. They said you were coordinating the counter-push.”
“We are,” Erich replied. “And now you’re part of it.”
A flicker of grim humor passed between them. Then Erich motioned toward the cluster of armored vehicles idling nearby, scorched paint, chipped plates, optics still glowing.
“You expected reinforcements, Major?”
The Thai gave a tight, humorless smile.
“Yes.”
Erich clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“You are the reinforcements.”
For the first time that night, Kiet actually exhaled.
Behind them, German paratroopers reloaded magazines, checked comms, dragged captured ammunition crates to the side of the avenue.
A medic knelt beside a wounded soldier whose uniform was shredded from flak; the man winced but waved off help, insisting others needed aid more.
This was no longer the frantic terror of the drop. This was the controlled breath before the kill.
Erich keyed his radio.
“All callsigns, consolidate by platoons. We begin the counteroffensive in ten.”
The men moved accordingly, not with fear, but with that cold, practiced certainty born only of elite units who had bled together on too many continents.
German paratroopers cleaned lenses, scraped mud from weapon seams, tightened slings.
Thai airborne checked each other’s grenade pins and tourniquets, murmuring brief words in their own language, half prayer, half reminder not to die stupidly.
A Filipino girl, no older than thirteen, peeked from a shattered doorway as they passed. Kiet halted, raised a hand, and she vanished into the dark with the sharpness of a feral cat.
No one spoke about it. In this kind of war, civilians were shadows, sometimes frightened, sometimes helpful, sometimes holding a knife.
Erich noted every alley, every balcony, every collapsed textile shop that could hide a PIAT or a stolen American bazooka.
The city stank of dust, rotting fruit, cordite, and seawater blown inland by the night breeze.
This wasn’t a battlefield, it was a maze designed to kill intruders.
But it was his maze now.
He gave a final nod.
The counteroffensive began.
They moved like ghosts through the alleys, German paratroopers with panzerfausts slung over their backs, Thai airborne in staggered formation carrying captured American grenades and locally made blades.
Above the rooftops, the sky pulsed with tracer fire, streaks of red and green carving brief signatures through the haze.
The Liberties were advancing again.
You could always hear them before you saw them, a groaning, metallic thunder, like a foundry walking on steel legs.
Their engines rattled loose glass in the windows. Their treads crushed pavement into powder.
Massive. Primitive. Blind.
Erich crouched behind a blown-out storefront as one crawled into the next boulevard. Its spotlight swept across the street, catching dust but missing the platoon hidden in the skeletal building.
“Infantry escorts?” Erich whispered.
His adjutant raised a scope.
“Two squads, maybe three. Filipinos mixed with Americans. Light gear. Nervous.”
“They know we’re close,” Erich murmured.
He tapped twice on the radio.
“Hunter-teams, prepare. Light armor, hold position. Panzerfausts, take high positions, windows, balconies, upper floors.”
The responses came instantly, clipped and focused.
Meanwhile, two German E-10 light tanks, stripped down, air-droppable, fast as wolves, rolled quietly into the adjacent alleyway, their engines purring at idle.
“Don’t fire unless ordered,” Erich told the tank commander through the mic. “We want the giant in the choke point, not bleeding us dry at range.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Liberty tank rounded the intersection, turret rotating slowly like a great steel eye scanning for prey.
Its coaxial machine gun barked once, chewing a parked car into shrapnel just to force a reaction but none came.
The escorts advanced cautiously, rifles raised. Then the Thai airborne struck first.
A squad leapt from the shadows, firing disciplined bursts into the escorting infantry before melting behind market stalls and shattered walls.
Three Americans went down instantly; two Filipinos scrambled behind a cart.
The Liberty’s turret snapped toward the movement. And that was its mistake.
“Now!” Erich barked.
The two E-10 tanks roared into motion, bursting from the alley at full tilt. Their APDS rounds hissed, two flashes, two sparks, slamming into the Liberty’s angled side armor. Not to penetrate; not yet.
But to turn it.
The tank lurched, its gun jerking away from the Thai airborne.
“Panzerfausts, fire!”
From above, three rockets streaked down like falling stars, two from the left, one from the right. They struck armor seams, weaker joints, the turret ring.
The impact shook the entire boulevard.
The Liberty exploded on the spot. If the 75mm APDS rounds hadn’t managed to find their way through the side plating, then the shaped charges utterly annihilated the metallic behemoth.
No doubt by the size of the explosion, hen the internal ammunition ignited.
A column of fire and steel erupted upward, blowing the turret half a meter off its ring. It crashed back down, smoke belching from every seam.
The escorts froze, stunned.
The German IFVs opened up with disciplined bursts. Thai paratroopers swept the flanks. Within moments, the intersection was a killing field.
Erich walked past the burning Liberty, the heat licking his face, the metal warping under the fire’s hunger.
“That’s one,” he muttered. “There are more.”
By nightfall, the district around the Malacañang Palace had collapsed into German control.
The airborne brigade, scattered just hours earlier, was now forming directed kill-pockets, funneling American and Filipino defenders into crumbling courtyards and abandoned markets where fire superiority favored the paratroopers.
Erich’s boots crunched over shell casings as he climbed onto the charred chassis of the Liberty they’d destroyed earlier. From atop the wreck, he surveyed the battlefield.
Thai airborne were sweeping the riverbanks. German squads were breaching apartments one floor at a time. In the distance, an American truck burned like a funeral pyre.
Mertens jogged up the collapsed steps of a ruined church nearby.
“Sir, message from Captain Kiet, they’ve cut the escape routes from the south district. The Americans are falling back toward the bay. Their cohesion is breaking.”
“And our casualties?” Erich asked without turning.
“Ten dead since the last report. Twenty-two wounded. Light tank company lost two vehicles but destroyed three Liberties in return, confirmed.”
“And in our sector?”
“All Liberty tanks destroyed or immobilized.”
Erich closed his eyes for a brief second, not from fatigue, but calculation.
The sound of the burning Liberty’s engine sputtering its last breath echoed in the street.
“They thought armor would save them,” Erich said quietly. “But armor means nothing when the ground rejects you.”
A pause.
“They fought well,” Mertens offered.
“We fight better.” Erich said as he climbed down from the wreck, boots hitting the cracked asphalt.
Then the radio on his belt crackled.
“Thunder Actual, this is Recon One. Enemy armor detected on the south side of the city… but they’re not Liberties. Repeat, they are not Liberties.”
Erich took the receiver.
“What are they?”
Static hissed.
Then:
“Unknown pattern. Smaller. Faster. Looks like a new American light tank model. Numbers unclear. Twenty? Maybe more. Moving fast.”
Erich felt something cold settle into place.
For a moment he stood there, palm against the scorched plating, feeling the dead heat radiating through his glove.
The Liberty had been meant to scare men like him, to remind the world of American industry, American confidence, American inevitability. Instead, it lay broken like a toy with its guts spilled across the boulevard.
He stepped down from the wreck, boots leaving prints in soot. Thai airborne jogged past carrying captured rockets; Germans dragged bodies into rows for identification.
Every man was moving, reorganizing, adjusting for the next fight. Erich watched them, their resolve, their exhaustion, their discipline. They would hold. They always held.
But something else tugged at him.
New American armor. Unknown pattern. Fast.
That meant someone in Washington was adapting.
That meant the second round would be worse.
And if Washington was adapting, then he would have to become crueler, smarter, faster than ever before.
Otherwise Manila would eat them all alive.
Erich smirked, the flames behind him casting long, jagged shadows across his face.
“Let them come.”
He strapped his helmet back on, chambered a fresh round, and began walking toward the southern district.
Behind him, the Liberty burned like a fallen titan.
Ahead of him, new giants waited.
He welcomed them.
