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Forged in Iron and Ambition (Web Novel) - Chapter 781: Hell’s Bells
Chapter 781: Hell’s Bells
This chapter is updated by JustRead.pl
Church bells rang, but no choir could be heard to welcome an absent parish. The rain was heavy over the island of Mindanao, and the fog even thicker.If not for the fact that his helmet was fully covered, the condensation would no doubt be dripping from its aramid brow onto his regal nose at this very moment.
Yet, Erich didn’t seem to care. A cigarette lay in his mouth, its infantile embers shielded by the ridge of his helmet.
He moved slowly, and slightly through the brush, along with a squad of men towards the objective.
With each ring echoing across the town, its defenders rushed into position, quickly rushing towards anti-tank guns, and whatever cover they could find to protect them from the coming onslaught.
The armored column pushed down the road, headed straight for the town, while Erich had already disembarked from his command vehicle, and was leading a small cohort of the Brigade’s most veteran members.
The men hid well within the brush, weapons in hand, safeties off, and optics aimed towards the high-profile targets just ahead.
Their alabaster skin concealed beneath paint that matched the thick jungle canopy around them.
The mud sucked at their boots as they crawled to the outer treeline.
Erich tilted his head, listening as only a man who has walked too long with ghosts can listen.
Another bell rang.
Dong.
"That makes seven," one of the grenadiers whispered.
"It’s the hour for evening mass," Erich murmured back without turning. "But God isn’t coming."
He flicked the cigarette into the sludge without ceremony and raised his fist. The squad froze instantly.
Shapes moved in the mist, Philippine scouts, barefoot, rifles wrapped in burlap, slipping between the huts with the reflexive grace of men who knew every stone and root of their home.
They were lean and hungry-eyed, the kind who fought not for nations but because the alternative was starvation.
One scout stopped. Looked up. For a heartbeat, Erich thought the man had seen them.
Then the bell rang again, masking the faint metallic clack as Erich’s safety came fully off. The scout turned to shout a warning.
A suppressed round snapped through the fog and entered the man’s temple, quiet as a cough.
The body hit the mud with no more sound than a dropped sack of rice.
The squad moved forward another meter.
Beyond the first line of houses, the road split the village in two. On the north end, sandbags were being piled by frantic hands.
On the south end, the Americans had fixed their anti-tank gun in place, its muzzle pointed down the road where Bruno’s armor would be pushing any minute now.
Erich wiped a bead of condensation from his scope with a gloved thumb. His voice was low, flat, clinical.
"Three targets on the gun, two on the sandbags, one runner. Take the runner first. He screams, they shoot early. Understood?"
The men silently nodded in response.
"And remember..." Erich added as he settled into firing position, "No survivors...."
The squad went still; only the jungle moved. Rain pattered on the leaves. A dog barked, then went silent, dragged away by someone who realized barking could get them all killed.
The first shot came from Erich; the runner dropped mid-stride, the warning on his lips dying with him. The rest of the squad followed.
The gun crew toppled before their hands could swing the breech shut. One of the sandbag defenders fell backward into the mud with a geyser of dirt.
Another slumped forward, arms hanging over the barrier like laundry.
"Forwards," Erich ordered.
They crossed the open ground in a crouch, boots splashing through puddles.
A mortar round arced overhead, American, panicked, blind,and slammed harmlessly into the rice fields behind them.
"Idiots," one of the grenadiers muttered. "Wasting shells."
"No," Erich corrected. "They’re marking the road."
As if summoned by his words, the low rumble of engines echoed from beyond the village.
German armor fanned out like steel sharks through the mist.
Erich checked his watch.
"Right on time," he said.
The squad flowed into the first row of houses, clearing them with precision.
A grandmother hid behind a loom, clutching three children to her chest. A man crouched behind her with a long machete, eyes shining with terrified resolve.
Erich raised his hand.
"Don’t shoot!"
His men lowered their rifles, the family trembled but did not move. Erich nodded once, an acknowledgement of the tragedy that war forced on civilians.
"Stay low," he said in German, then repeated it in simple Spanish. "Stay inside. Don’t run."
The man nodded, though it was clear he understood little. But the machete lowered.
Outside, the German armor had reached the edge of town. The Americans fired a second mortar round, wild, desperate.
It struck the church roof in a spray of shattered tiles. The bell rope snapped, and the tower produced one last broken toll, a cracked.
Erich stepped into the street. A burst of.30-caliber Machine-gun fire tore into a nearby hut, sending splinters flying. His men ducked, but Erich simply walked forward, unhurried, a specter in the rain.
He raised his rifle and fired once. The American gunner pitched backward off his emplacement as if jerked by an invisible hook. The rest of the American position dissolved under a coordinated sweep from two German vehicles.
The firefight lasted maybe forty seconds. Then it was quiet except for the rain. Thunder muttered overhead. A lieutenant jogged up, helmet low, soaked to the bone.
"Sir!" he saluted. "Town secure. Resistance light. Armor ready to proceed."
Erich looked over the smoking, subdued village.
"Casualties?"
"Two wounded. No dead."
"Good."
He lit a new cigarette, letting the flame briefly illuminate his pale features beneath the shadow of his helmet.
"Signal Taskforce Rhine. Tell them Mindanao’s eastern corridor is open and is ready for amphibious insertion."
The lieutenant nodded sharply and sprinted off.
Erich took one more moment, listening to the wind, the rain, the faint whimper of a distant child, the soft groan of collapsing sandbags.
Then he turned toward the advancing armored column.
"Move out," he ordered.
The jungle swallowed his voice, but the men heard him just fine.
