Re: Blood and Iron

Chapter 751: Run Through the Jungle

The jungle was too quiet.

Oberstleutnant Erich von Zehntner felt it in his teeth before he heard it in his ears, the kind of silence that swallowed machinery.

His convoy crawled along the narrow provincial road, a column of twelve vehicles: two infantry fighting vehicles, six armored personnel carriers, a pair of light scout tanks, and two logistics trucks heavy with ammunition and fuel.

The morning heat was thick and wet, and the scent of burning palm oil drifted from the east. His men sat rigid in their seats, rifles between their knees, eyes fixed on the trees.

They had been told San Pablo was pacified by other battalions in the division. The airfields secured, the villages cooperative.

Yet every kilometer felt heavier than the one before. The dirt shoulders were scored with blast craters, old ones, they’d said.

Erich didn’t believe in old craters. Not in this war.

“Advance at forty,” he ordered over the intercom. “Maintain spacing. Eyes open, safeties off.”

The lead IFV rolled forward, its turret scanning the dense foliage that pressed in on both sides.

On the map it was just a green blotch, a strip of road connecting two hamlets. In truth, it was a killing field.

The explosion hit without warning.

A thunderclap of pressure threw dirt and flame ten meters into the air. The lead vehicle lifted like a toy, its hull split clean down the center.

The shockwave hammered the column, slamming Erich’s transport against the embankment.

“Front vehicle down!” his driver shouted. “IED… massive!”

“Smoke! Deploy smoke!” Erich barked, slamming his hatch open.

The world beyond was chaos, men staggering, one screaming, a turret burning white-hot.

The second blast came seconds later, this one buried beneath the third transport. The rear wheels sheared off; shrapnel scythed through a dismount squad before they could reach the ditch.

Erich jumped down, boots sinking into black mud. His rifle was already up, safety off.

The palms ahead trembled, not from wind, but movement.

“Contact! Treeline, eleven o’clock!”

The jungle erupted. Muzzle flashes flared among the fronds. Bullets cracked through the smoke, ricocheting off wrecks and armor plates.

One of the logistics trucks ignited, its fuel drums turning it into a torch.

Erich’s battalion reacted instinctively. The training they had received was drilled into every one of them. Fire teams bounded left and right, returning fire with short, disciplined bursts.

The IFV behind him rotated its 30mm auto-cannon toward the treeline and unleashed a sweeping barrage.

The jungle answered with rifle and machine-gun fire, and grenades taped together for greater effect.

“Driver, reverse ten meters! Keep that gun running!” Erich shouted into the radio.

The cannon chattered again, stitching the forest with tungsten. Screams echoed back.

“Bravo, flank west! Cut them off before they circle behind us!”

His adjutant, Leutnant Mertens, ran up through the haze, headset half-torn from his ear.

“They’ve hit us from three directions! Left ridge, road ahead, and the paddies to the south!”

Erich grabbed his arm. “Then we dig in and kill them where they stand.”

They set perimeter fire, using the disabled transports as cover.

Self-propelled mortars deployed behind the smoke screen, dropping shells blindly into the jungle. Each detonation shredded more foliage, raining leaves and dirt over the road.

The rebels fought like ghosts, unseen, uncoordinated, but relentless. They struck, vanished, and struck again. Somewhere in the chaos, a soldier screamed for a medic.

Erich ducked behind a wreck, reloading with practiced calm. His breathing slowed.

The noise around him blurred into rhythm, gunfire, shouts, the whine of ricochets, all pulsing in measured tempo.

He lifted his radio. “Thunder Two-One to all units: form fire arc, push them back toward the riverbed. IFVs, suppress north treeline; mortars, walk fire south by fifty.”

“Copy, Two-One.”

The counterfire rolled out like thunder. Tracers carved bright lines through the canopy, and the jungle itself seemed to catch fire.

Within minutes, the return volleys faded, replaced by the distant pop of rifles retreating into the hills.

When it was over, the road was littered with bodies, some theirs, more not.

Erich stood in the middle of the ruined convoy, sweat and ash streaking his face. The air stank of cordite and burning diesel. Smoke drifted through the palms like low fog.

“Report,” he ordered quietly.

Mertens approached, helmet tucked under his arm. His eyes were hollow.

“Fifty-three dead. Twenty-seven wounded. Two supply vehicles lost. Our comms are still intact, but we’ll need a medevac for some of these men, they won’t make it as is.”

Erich nodded slowly. He’d already memorized the numbers before hearing them.

“Call in a chopper to have the wounded extracted to the nearest field hospital. As for the enemy, did we get them all?”

The Leutnant shook his head and sighed. “Most appear to be dead, but there are footprints leading north. Locals claim a few escaped into the mountains.”

“Of course they did,” Erich muttered.

He crouched beside the wreck of the lead IFV, gazing upon the smoldering hull as the pouring rain began to douse its flames.

The dead inside were unrecognizable, young men, some barely out of training. The thought flickered in his mind: his grandfather’s lessons about sacrifice, about steel and will.

Then it vanished just as quickly. He straightened, voice steady. “Secure the wounded. Salvage what we can. We’re not done here.”

Mertens hesitated. “Sir, command will want us to fall back and reassess the situation. We’re not the only ones who’ve been hit. It appears the locals—”

“They can want whatever they like,” Erich cut him off. “After an attack like this, there needs to be some damned reprisal. We can’t let them boast of this cowardice as a victory. Someone’s going to bleed for this.”

Mertens gave a curt nod and left to relay the orders.

Erich turned toward the jungle one last time. The treeline glistened in the heat haze, innocent again.

Somewhere out there, the guerrillas were already rearming, dragging their wounded through the mud, and he intended to hunt them down like a pack of vengeful wolves.

He lit a cigarette with a trembling hand. The flame briefly illuminated his face it too young for the rank he held but too old for mercy.

When he exhaled, the smoke mingled with the rising steam of the battlefield.

“Let’s go hunting…” he whispered.