Location: Street Fighting, Prague
Time: 0600 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The air was thick with smoke and gunpowder. The moment Erich's boots hit the cobblestones outside the barracks, the war found him. Screams echoed off stone walls, mingled with the sharp staccato of automatic fire and the deeper thud of rifle rounds punching through brick and flesh alike.
His unit had been ordered to secure a chokepoint near the Old Town—standard procedure, or so they'd thought. But this wasn't a minor flare-up. It was coordinated. Calculated. A wave of fire met them the moment they crossed the square: homemade Molotovs, stolen Mausers, even a few Czech ZK-383 submachine guns—more than enough to cause havoc.
A civilian force, masked and feral, burst from a side alley without warning. They moved like they had rehearsed this. And maybe they had. In the last few days, paranoia had infected the barracks, but most had laughed off the idea that Prague's civilians were preparing for war.
They weren't laughing now.
"Take cover! Left side!" barked Unteroffizier Weber, already dragging one man behind a low wall.
Erich ducked behind a fallen cart, his rifle up, hands steady despite the adrenaline. He scanned the windows and rooftops, instincts sharp. Not fear—focus. The kind that came from knowing what gunfire felt like from a past life lived in another war, another century.
A shot cracked past his head, and he pulled back just in time. He caught sight of a teenager, couldn't have been older than sixteen, reloading behind a market stall with trembling hands. And still, he kept fighting. They all did. Men, women—barely trained, yet fearless. Prague was done waiting.
"Flank them—use the buildings!" Weber ordered, motioning to a nearby doorway.
Erich nodded and moved with Klaus and Helmut on his heels. They pushed through the narrow entry of an old bakery, the glass long since shattered, and emerged on the side street just in time to catch two resistance fighters trying to reposition. Erich didn't hesitate. Two quick bursts—one dropped, the other crawled away bleeding.
A heartbeat later, a deafening blast went off down the street. An explosion—probably homemade—tossed rubble across the intersection and slammed Klaus into the wall. Erich grabbed him by the collar and pulled him upright, yelling something he couldn't hear over the ringing in his ears.
"Where's Helmut?" Erich shouted, voice raw.
"I—he was just behind me!" Klaus coughed, trying to clear the dust from his lungs. His expression said everything. He hadn't seen their friend since the last street over, and by now, it could mean anything.
There was no time to go back.
"We hold this position!" Erich ordered. "No one passes through!"
Klaus raised his rifle beside him. No questions. No complaints. That was what it meant to be a soldier here—not by loyalty, but by survival.
---
Location: Gestapo Headquarters, Prague
Time: 0800 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Obersturmführer Schwarz, Sicherheitsdienst (SD)
Inside the stone-gray headquarters on Bartolomějská Street, the Gestapo was unraveling.
The operation files that had once outlined controlled infiltration and quiet arrests now lay buried under a growing pile of casualty reports. Resistance cells were striking faster than they could be tracked, and worse—civilians were aiding them openly.
"Obersturmführer Schwarz," a junior officer reported breathlessly, sweat slicking his brow. "The west quarter has fallen. A communications post was seized an hour ago—we lost contact with three entire squads."
Schwarz didn't respond at first. He was staring at a large map pinned to the far wall, colored pins denoting outposts, supply routes, suspected resistance hubs. Too many of the pins had fallen.
"They waited for the right moment," he said finally, mostly to himself. "They let us build our checkpoints, map the city, move freely. And then they bled us from within."
He slammed his hand down on the edge of the table, hard enough to draw blood.
"We underestimated them," Schwarz hissed. "And now the city's in open revolt."
"Reinforcements are en route from the SS barracks near Hradčany, sir," the officer offered.
"Not fast enough," Schwarz muttered. His mind was racing—he needed control. He needed results.
"Find Krüger. Tell him I want every informant reactivated. Every dossier rechecked. No more shadows—we burn them out."
"Yes, sir."
As the officer rushed out, Schwarz turned back to the window. Outside, another plume of smoke rose from the east quarter. A dull explosion followed a second later.
This wasn't suppression anymore.
This was war. And the Gestapo had been caught flat-footed.
Location: Prague, Czechoslovakia
Time: 1000 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The city bled smoke. What had begun as scattered resistance had evolved into full-scale urban warfare. Every street was contested, every window a potential sniper's perch. Erich moved cautiously alongside Klaus and Helmut, rifles at the ready, eyes scanning the broken skyline for movement.
Civilians no longer begged or hid behind shutters—they fought. Not all of them, but enough to change the calculus. This wasn't a clean occupation anymore. This was insurgency.
He could see it in their eyes—young men clutching hunting rifles, elderly shopkeepers with Molotov cocktails, even women with pistols tucked into apron pockets. Prague was on fire, and every street corner was another ambush waiting to happen.
"Hold here," Erich said quietly, pressing a hand against Klaus's shoulder. They ducked behind the wreck of a delivery truck, its sides scorched black by earlier fighting. He pulled a small shard of glass from his pocket and angled it to peek around the corner.
Movement—three, maybe four fighters. One had a stolen Kar98k, another a Czech ZB-26 machine gun. Too organized for mere civilians. Former army? Police defectors?
Erich's breath steadied. He'd been here before—in Fallujah, in Warsaw, in Kyiv. The years and uniforms had changed, but the feel was the same. Urban warfare was intimate, brutal, personal. You saw the whites of their eyes before you killed them.
"Suppressing fire, west side. We'll flank from the right—Helmut, keep low. Short bursts only," he ordered.
Helmut nodded, his face pale but determined.
They moved as a unit, coordinated and deliberate. Erich led them through the back alleys like a surgeon working around arteries. The past bled into the present—his training from another war, another life, guiding every step.
Gunfire erupted. Klaus fired two quick bursts from the MG34 they'd mounted behind cover. Screams answered. Erich moved in from the side, rifle raised. He didn't hesitate.
Two shots, two kills.
One man tried to surrender. Erich hesitated for a fraction of a second—then lowered his rifle.
"Run. Don't look back."
The man didn't need to be told twice.
Helmut gave him a bewildered glance, but said nothing.
They secured the position. For now. Erich checked his ammo. Fifteen rounds left. He whispered the number like a mantra. Fifteen rounds and no resupply in sight. This wasn't sustainable.
Location: Gestapo Headquarters, Prague
Time: 1300 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Obersturmführer Schwarz
The map of Prague was pinned across the wall, markers scattered like broken teeth across districts that should've been pacified. Instead, they were bleeding red.
Obersturmführer Schwarz clenched the latest dispatch in his gloved hand. Resistance cells had cut phone lines, hit ammunition depots, and even assassinated two junior officers near the train yard.
"The city is turning on us," he growled.
A junior officer stiffened beside him. "Should we implement the collective punishment protocols, sir?"
"No. Not yet. That would only pour gasoline on the fire." Schwarz turned slowly toward the window, his reflection fragmented in the cracked pane. "Find out who's coordinating them. Someone's pulling the strings—and I want that hand cut off."
Location: Street Fighting, Prague
Time: 1400 Hours, 23 March 1939
The intersection of Křížovnická and Karoliny Světlé was a warzone. Sandbags, overturned carts, shattered glass. The German positions were holding, but barely. The resistance had shifted tactics—hit-and-run, constant pressure, always testing the line.
Erich knelt beside a fallen radio operator, checking the man's pulse. Dead. Another one gone. He searched the body quickly, grabbing extra rifle clips and a flare pistol.
He turned to Klaus. "We're blind. No comms. We pull back to the eastern flank, then find high ground. I need eyes on this sector."
Klaus grimaced. "You think they'll overrun the square?"
"They already have, we just don't know it yet." Erich's voice was calm, clinical. He wasn't trying to inspire. He was trying to survive—and keep as many of them alive as he could.
They moved again, two blocks east. A brief firefight in an open courtyard left another soldier—Markus—bleeding out from a chest wound. Helmut dragged him into cover while Erich laid down suppressing fire. The future-soldier in him wanted to scream for a CASEVAC, for air support, for anything other than this primitive nightmare.
But that didn't exist here. Not in 1939.
So he fought on.
They reached an abandoned tenement with a second-story view over the whole intersection. Erich set up a crude observation post, using a stolen Czech field scope. From here, he could track resistance movement—five-man cells shifting between buildings, using civilians as cover, disguising themselves in stolen Wehrmacht gear.
"They're baiting us," he muttered. "Pulling us in, then bleeding us dry."
Helmut sat down beside him, panting. "So what do we do?"
Erich looked out over the city. Smoke. Movement. A flash of red cloth—someone marking targets?
"We adapt," he said. "Like they do. Like I did."
He chambered a fresh round and prepared for the next push.
Location: Eastern Outskirts, Prague
Time: 1600 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The outskirts of Prague had become a grinding front of attrition. German forces held scattered positions in the industrial district, but the Czech resistance was no longer just harassing. They were organized, coordinated, and increasingly aggressive. Booby traps, sniper fire, and hit-and-run tactics had turned every alley and cellar into a potential death trap.
Schütze Erich Stahl stood at a fortified checkpoint beside a blown-out textile mill—his squad's temporary holdfast. Sandbags stacked at the windows. Crates of empty ammo boxes shoved into corners. A Czech corpse was still crumpled in the street outside, untouched for hours. No one wanted to risk dragging him in case the resistance had wired it.
"Southern sector's clear. For now." Klaus's voice was low and flat as he checked over his Karabiner. "North is still active. We lost contact with Schulze's fireteam twenty minutes ago."
Erich kept his eyes on the smoke column rising from the next block over. "He was scouting the tram depot, right?"
Klaus nodded. "Yeah. I don't like this. They've got Molotovs, short-range arms—homeground advantage."
Erich shifted the strap on his Mauser and took a breath. He'd been through cities before—twenty-first century cities, with UAV support and thermal sweeps. This wasn't that. This was smoke and stone and a creeping sense of dread in every hallway. Still, his instincts ran sharp and calculating. The resistance wasn't just resisting. They were stalling. Holding back. Planning something bigger.
"We need resupply," Klaus added. "Ammo's at half, rations low. I've got one man with shrapnel, and morphine's out."
"I'll speak to command," Erich said, already turning toward the rear. "If we're going to finish this, we need more than grit."
---
Location: German Forward Command Post, Eastern Outskirts, Prague
Time: 1615 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Oberleutnant Braun, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The warehouse had been stripped of its purpose. Now it was maps on crates, field phones buzzing, and officers hunched over messily drawn diagrams. The walls still smelled like old oil and burned cloth.
Oberleutnant Braun barely looked up as Erich entered. "Stahl. Report."
Erich didn't salute—there wasn't time. "Eastern industrial sector's holding, but we're stretched thin. Pockets of resistance remain active near the tram depot. One fireteam missing. Ammo, rations, and medical supplies are critical. We need resupply before we can continue any offensive movement."
Braun exhaled slowly, rubbing his forehead. "You'll get a supply run. But nothing heavy. The trucks are being rerouted—resistance sabotaged the main road west of here."
"Then we hold, clear, and wait?" Erich asked carefully.
"No," Braun said, voice sharp. "You hold, clear, and push. Reinforcements are tied up near Náměstí Republiky. If we don't clear the eastern end, we'll be flanked before nightfall."
Erich absorbed that with a short nod. "Then we'll secure the northern sector and reinforce the central street line. We can flank the resistance pockets once we collapse their position."
Braun snapped the map closed. "Exactly. Move fast. You've got until dusk. Dismissed."
---
Location: Eastern Outskirts, Prague
Time: 1645 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
They moved like ghosts through shattered streets—just six men, shadowed by smoke and echoing gunshots. Erich led them toward a three-story structure rumored to house resistance scouts. It had once been a tailor's shop. Now its windows were black holes, its signage scorched.
"Same plan," Erich murmured. "Stack right, two to entry. Klaus—watch rear lanes for runners. We don't clear this building, they'll hit our flank by night."
As they approached, he raised his fist. Stillness. One of the windows shifted—just enough to catch. Resistance was inside.
"Contact, top floor," he hissed.
Gunfire barked down from the second story—wild and fast. But Erich's squad didn't panic. He'd drilled them over the past few days, even in exhaustion. Jonas and Meier laid down suppressive fire while Erich and Klaus flanked left, pushing through a side alley into the building's rear entrance.
Inside, it was hell. Glass and wood splinters littered the floor. A young Czech barely older than Erich charged from behind a cabinet with a kitchen knife. Klaus shot him once in the chest without a word.
"Keep going," Erich said, stepping over the boy's body. "Don't stop."
They cleared the lower level fast—then moved up. The gunman upstairs had dug in with two more, using stacked furniture as cover.
Erich's past-life training kicked in—angles, rhythm, coordination. He tossed a grenade, waited for the blast, then surged up with Klaus. Bullets screamed past, but they kept low and fast, sweeping the hallway with practiced fire. It was over in seconds.
When the dust settled, three bodies lay bleeding on the floor. No survivors.
"Clear!" Klaus called.
"Secure the roof," Erich said. "Then we move. Resistance isn't broken yet."
Klaus leaned against a doorframe, wiping his brow. "We're thinning them out. But they're not running scared. Not yet."
"No. They're buying time," Erich muttered. "We stabilize here, then move to the center. Flank the strongholds before they tighten their grip."
He looked around the room—scattered Czech newspapers, half-eaten food, an old transistor radio still faintly buzzing. These weren't soldiers. Not all of them. But they fought like people with nothing left to lose.
Erich turned away before the guilt caught up with him. There wasn't time for that. Not yet
Location: German Resupply Drop, Eastern Outskirts, Prague
Time: 1700 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The resupply truck groaned to a halt near a cratered intersection, its engine rattling like it had taken as much punishment as the men it came to serve. The canvas flaps were thrown back, and soldiers scrambled to unload crates—7.92mm rounds, stick grenades, medical satchels, hard bread and tins of meat paste.
Erich stood back a moment, scanning the street before helping lift a box of ammunition. Smoke drifted lazily over the rooftops, stained with the sharp tang of burning oil and gunpowder. There was no real silence—just the absence of immediate gunfire. That kind of quiet made him more uneasy than the noise.
"Check your weapons and load up. You won't get a second chance once we move," Erich said, voice clipped as he yanked open a crate and pulled out fresh stripper clips.
Klaus cracked a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Beats dying with an empty magazine."
"Only barely," Erich muttered.
The squad rearmed in silence, each man moving with tired efficiency. Their uniforms were sweat-streaked, boots caked in dust and blood. They looked like they'd been dragged out of a furnace—and in a way, they had. But now, with full pouches and fresh bandages, they were being sent back into it.
The word came down: the resistance had fortified the factory sector. The eastern line couldn't hold unless those positions were cleared. The order was simple—flank and destroy. No backup, no artillery support. Just rifles, grenades, and the will to fight.
---
Location: Eastern Outskirts, Prague
Time: 1800 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
They advanced street by street, hugging walls and keeping low. The light was fading, turning Prague's ruins into jagged silhouettes. The wind had picked up, stirring dust and ash into ghostlike swirls across the road.
Ahead lay the factory compound—three low buildings and a larger one in the center with shattered windows and a collapsed roof. Resistance fighters had turned it into a kill zone: sandbagged windows, improvised barricades, overlapping fields of fire. No direct approach would work. They'd have to go in hard and fast from the side.
"We'll breach from the southwest alley," Erich said, pointing to the map spread on the side of a burned-out car. "There's scaffolding there—should give us an angle on the rear entrance."
"Assuming they haven't rigged it with explosives," Klaus said.
"They probably have. But we go anyway."
They crossed under cover of falling dusk, sticking close to the rubble. Every step was measured. A single misstep could mean triggering a tripwire or drawing fire from an unseen sniper. One of the men, Weber, knelt to examine a broken doorframe.
"Wire here—trip line," he whispered.
Erich followed the line with his eyes, saw it led to a cluster of grenades wired crudely but effectively to a beam overhead. One tug and the whole entryway would come down in a cloud of shrapnel.
"Bypass it. We go through the window," Erich ordered.
Klaus and another man lifted a crate against the wall, giving Erich the height to climb up and slip into the upper floor. His boots landed with a dull thud on concrete. Inside, the air was stifling and hot, reeking of cordite and sweat. He raised his rifle.
Footsteps. Two men. He turned the corner and fired.
The first shot hit the lead resistance fighter in the shoulder, spinning him. The second caught the one behind him in the chest. They dropped without a word. Erich advanced, signaling the others to follow.
The firefight erupted without warning downstairs—automatic fire echoing off the walls, followed by shouted orders in Czech. Erich and Klaus split off, clearing the upper rooms one by one. Each door was a gamble. Sometimes empty. Sometimes not.
In one room, a teenage boy lunged at Erich with a bayonet. Erich sidestepped, slamming the rifle stock into the boy's jaw, then driving his knee into his stomach. The boy crumpled. Erich hesitated—just for a second—but the moment passed. He left him alive but unconscious. No time for morality. Not here.
They regrouped at the stairwell, watching as the lower squad pressed forward under fire. Two grenades went in. One man—Dietrich—was hit in the leg by return fire. He screamed, crawling behind a pillar, blood pooling fast.
"Drag him back!" Klaus yelled.
Erich covered them, firing down the hallway. The rounds slammed into a desk someone had flipped for cover, splinters exploding. Return fire chewed into the wall beside him.
One resistance fighter popped up to throw a grenade. Erich didn't think—he aimed and fired. The man collapsed mid-throw, the grenade clattering to the ground and exploding harmlessly against the far wall.
"Room's clear!" someone shouted.
The quiet returned. Ragged breathing. The moan of the wounded.
Erich stepped over a body, lowering his weapon. His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from the adrenaline burning through his system. He glanced back. Three men wounded. One dead—Keller. Shot in the throat.
Klaus was crouched beside Dietrich, wrapping a bandage. "It's not deep. He'll live."
"We've secured the flank," Erich said. "Let's finish sweeping the main floor and move to support the northern post. They'll need us."
Klaus nodded, but his face was drawn. "One block at a time, huh?"
Erich looked out the shattered window at the city still shrouded in smoke. "That's all we've got."
Location: Northern Outskirts, Prague
Time: 1900 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The sharp staccato of rifle fire cracked across the shattered skyline as Erich's squad moved at a crouch through the blown-out alleys of the northern sector. Smoke curled from burning buildings, and the bitter stench of cordite clung to the air like a second skin.
The resupply had come just in time—new magazines slapped into pouches, grenades clipped tight against belts, but their legs were still lead from the last engagement. There were no clean slates in this kind of war. You just carried the weight forward, hoping your luck held.
A runner from headquarters had passed word only minutes ago: the resistance had regrouped in force. They were preparing a counteroffensive to push the Germans out of the northern sector before defenses could be fortified.
The squad halted at a corner, ducking behind the crumbling shell of what had once been a butcher shop. Klaus wiped sweat from his brow with a dirty sleeve, then pointed ahead. "Barricades up ahead. Cart frames, sandbags, even fucking dining tables. They're dug in hard."
Erich nodded, squinting through the grime caked on his eyelashes. Makeshift barricades. Elevated windows covered by blankets, perfect for sniper hides. Civilians-turned-fighters with nothing to lose. They weren't just stalling. They were planning to bleed the Germans every meter.
"This isn't an insurgent cell," Erich muttered, mostly to himself. "They're fighting like trained militia. Maybe ex-military."
He turned to Klaus. "You and Dieter's fireteam hit them from the west—draw their fire. We'll breach from the side entrance here."
Klaus didn't argue. He just slapped the side of his helmet and moved his men into position. That was the unspoken rhythm now. No one asked why. You just acted, hoping you wouldn't be the next to drop.
Gunfire erupted as Klaus's team opened up from behind cover, laying down suppression fire in short, deliberate bursts. Muzzle flashes lit the dusk as return fire answered from resistance rifles dug in along the second floor of a half-demolished warehouse.
Erich motioned with two fingers. He, Weber, and young Hans moved in fast, hugging the wall and advancing in short bursts—sprint, cover, sprint.
As they approached the side door, a bullet whined off the concrete next to Erich's head, carving a chunk from the wall and peppering his face with dust. He hit the ground hard.
"Sniper's adjusting—two o'clock, third floor!" Hans shouted, but the kid's voice was high with panic.
"Smoke out!" Erich barked. Weber rolled a grenade overhand. It hissed as it popped, thick smoke billowing into the alley.
In the cover of white and grey, Erich kicked the door in. The wood splintered easily. They moved in fast, boots heavy on the tile floor.
Inside, the building was dim and stinking of gun oil and mold. Someone had been here recently. A cough from above confirmed it.
They took the stairs slowly—no rush, just lethal intent. Hans covered their six. Erich led the stack, rifle tight to shoulder.
A shadow moved at the landing.
"Contact!" Weber hissed.
Two shots cracked out from Erich's Karabiner. One resistance fighter dropped, another scrambled behind cover, firing wildly and hitting nothing. A grenade bounced down the stairwell.
"Back!" Erich yelled, grabbing Hans by the collar and pulling him into the hallway. The explosion shook the narrow building. Weber coughed, blood dribbling from his ear, but he was still on his feet.
They pushed through the smoke and splinters, returning fire in short, practiced bursts. Erich took down the second fighter with a shot to the chest—clean, fast.
"Clear!"
"Building secure!"
But it wasn't over. Outside, Klaus's team was pinned.
Erich moved to the shattered window and scanned the street. Klaus was crouched behind an overturned wagon, yelling something that was lost under the chaos. Dieter wasn't moving. Blood pooled beneath his shoulder.
"Covering fire!" Erich barked. Hans and Weber laid into the resistance positions with suppressing volleys as Erich sprinted out, low and fast, grabbing Dieter by the back of his collar. He dragged him behind cover, grunting with the effort.
"Shoulder's hit clean through," Erich said, pressing gauze into the wound. "Lucky bastard."
By 2000 hours, the German squads had stormed three more buildings and forced the remaining resistance to fall back into the city center. Smoke lingered in the alleys. Bodies—some German, mostly resistance—littered the street.
Location: Eastern Outskirts, Prague
Time: 2000 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The ad-hoc command post had been built into a wrecked bakery. Bullet holes marked the front counter, and flour mixed with blood on the tiled floor.
Klaus was leaned over a map, marking strongpoints with charcoal. "They'll come again, soon. Tonight or tomorrow. They're regrouping west. I saw smoke signals—organized movement."
"They're not amateurs," Erich replied, eyes scanning the interior. "They've done this before. Someone's training them."
Outside, stretcher-bearers moved the wounded. Weber sat on a crate, ears still ringing, silent and pale. Hans clutched his rifle too tightly, knuckles white.
The war was burning them all out, inch by inch.
Location: Eastern Outskirts, Prague
Time: 2200 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
Campfires flickered behind hastily erected sandbags. The wounded moaned in their sleep, and no one talked above a whisper.
Erich sat beside a broken stone wall, arms resting on his knees. His sleeves were caked in dried blood that wasn't his.
Klaus approached with a metal cup of lukewarm coffee and a can of hard rations. "Here. Won't taste good, but it'll keep you upright."
Erich took it, nodding in gratitude. "Heard we've got tanks coming?"
"Yeah," Klaus said. "A couple of Panzer IIIs, and a prototype. High command thinks it'll break through whatever they've got in the center."
Erich didn't say anything for a moment. He stared into the flickering firelight.
"I've seen prototypes before. Shiny paint doesn't stop bullets."
Klaus chuckled darkly. "No, but it draws them."
Erich sipped the coffee. It was bitter, stale. But warm.
"Tomorrow," he said quietly, "we push again."
And around them, Prague waited.
Location: Eastern Outskirts, Prague – Rear Command Post
Time: 2300 Hours, 23 March 1939
Rank: Schütze Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The engine hum of the approaching convoy was the first sign of the reinforcements. A small group of German vehicles made their way through the dim light, flanked by two tanks—a familiar Pz II and a much-anticipated Pz III prototype. The latter's turret swiveled slightly, indicating the crew was already making final adjustments.
Erich stood alongside his squad, forming up with the other infantry units near the rear command post. His eyes narrowed as the two tanks rumbled toward the camp. The Pz II was a workhorse of reconnaissance and infantry support, its 20mm cannon barely able to scratch heavier targets. But the Pz III was different. With its long-barreled 37mm gun and reinforced armor, it was supposed to be a breakthrough asset. The question remained whether it was as reliable as the higher-ups believed—or if it would be another technical nightmare.
As the convoy came to a halt, infantry quickly moved into position around the tanks, and the crews disembarked. Hauptmann Schröder, a grizzled officer with an air of authority, approached Erich's group.
"Schütze Stahl," the Hauptmann barked over the clatter of the tanks, his voice hoarse from engine noise. "We'll be moving out at first light. The Pz III will provide fire support for your push into the city center. Keep close contact with us during the operation—these tanks won't engage without proper coordination."
Erich snapped to attention, saluting crisply. "Understood, Herr Hauptmann. We'll keep you informed of any developments."
Schröder nodded sharply and returned to his crew, giving final orders. The Pz II remained further back, ready to follow if needed, but it was clear the main focus was on the Pz III. Erich wasn't sure what to think about the new tank, but there was no time for hesitation. The mission was set.
As the crews prepared the tanks, Erich turned to Klaus, who had been observing from a distance. "Think they'll hold up?" Erich asked, a hint of skepticism in his voice.
Klaus shrugged. "It's a prototype—who knows? They've been in development for months, but this is their first real test. It could be the game-changer we need, or it could be a disaster."
Erich's gaze drifted toward the Pz III. The tank's sleek design and heavier armor were promising, but Erich wasn't convinced yet. The tank's reliability could very well make or break their chances in the days ahead.
"Get some rest while you can," Erich said, watching the men and women of his squad gather their gear. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
Klaus gave a grim nod and walked off to find a quiet corner, while Erich remained in place. His eyes stayed locked on the tanks, his thoughts racing. He had seen enough of war to know that new technology didn't always equate to success on the battlefield. The resistance was fierce, dug in, and relentless. The tanks would be useful, but it was still the infantry that had to clear the streets.
As the camp grew quieter and the men prepared for the battle ahead, Erich allowed himself a moment of reflection. He wasn't sure how long he could keep this up, but as long as he was in charge, he would continue to push forward. The storm wasn't over, not by a long shot.
---
Location: Eastern Outskirts of Prague
Time: 0600 Hours, 24 March 1939
Rank: Temporary Gefreiter Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The first light of dawn cast a pale glow over the horizon as Erich stood with his squad, boots heavy in the mud, staring down the path to the city center. The calm before the storm. The previous night had been a brief lull in the chaos, but now the day would bring more fighting—more bloodshed.
Erich's promotion to Gefreiter had come as a surprise. In this brutal war, promotions were often given based on battlefield experience rather than seniority. His quick thinking in previous operations had earned him this temporary rank. It came with new responsibilities—he wasn't just a soldier now, but a leader. His small squad had been tasked with pushing deeper into the city, clearing pockets of resistance and securing critical routes for the tanks. He was also expected to coordinate closely with the Pz III and the Pz II, ensuring they didn't get bogged down by the urban terrain or enemy ambushes.
The tanks, their engines humming as they warmed up, would provide fire support, while Erich's men cleared the streets, building by building. The resistance had entrenched itself deeply, and the Germans had only gained a small foothold. The real fight was just beginning.
Klaus appeared at Erich's side, now wearing the rank of Obergefreiter. He slapped Erich on the back, a grin on his face despite the grim situation. "Not bad for someone who was just trying to survive."
Erich returned the smile with a weary nod. "Let's hope I don't screw it up."
Klaus chuckled. "As long as you don't get us all killed, we'll be fine."
The rest of the squad gathered their gear, checking their rifles and ammunition as the tanks began to move forward. Erich's squad would follow behind, ready to clear any enemy positions that the tanks couldn't engage directly.
The streets ahead were a mix of rubble and destroyed buildings, remnants of a city once vibrant and alive. Now it was a battlefield, the stench of death and smoke hanging heavy in the air. The sounds of distant artillery and sporadic gunfire echoed through the morning fog, but it was the quiet before the storm that unsettled Erich the most. He knew the resistance wouldn't back down easily.
"Ready?" Erich asked, his voice low.
The men around him gave terse nods. They were ready, even if they didn't feel ready.
Erich took a deep breath, adjusting his gear and checking his rifle one last time. The next few hours would decide whether this would be another day of progress or a costly failure. The Pz III had to hold up. The infantry had to clear the streets. And Erich had to lead them through it.
With a final glance at the darkened city ahead, Erich gave the signal to move out. The operation had begun.
Location: Inside the German Convoy, Prague City Center
Time: 0700 Hours, 24 March 1939
Rank: Gefreiter Erich Stahl, 2. Zug, 9. Kompanie, Infanterie-Regiment 45, 4. Armee
The convoy advanced at a crawling pace, engines growling low as the steel beasts rolled through the cobbled streets of Prague. Morning light cut through the rising haze, catching on shattered glass and scarred stone. The buildings loomed on either side—silent, gutted husks that had once housed shops and families. Now they were just cover for whoever still had the will to fight.
Erich crouched behind the hulking form of the Pz III, his rifle gripped tightly in both hands. His squad moved with him, rifles at the ready, boots crunching glass and debris with each measured step. The Pz II clanked along on the opposite side of the narrow avenue, both turrets scanning for threats. The tanks weren't fast, and they weren't subtle—but they were protection. At least, they were supposed to be.
Each corner they passed made Erich's stomach twist tighter. The resistance had faded in the last forty-eight hours, pulled back into defensive pockets, but that only made them more dangerous. They'd stopped fighting in the open. Now, they waited. They watched. They chose their moments.
The radio on Klaus's back popped once with static—then a voice, tense and clipped:
"Feindpanzer—enemy armor—sighted. At the intersection ahead, looks like T-26s. Repeat: Soviet models."
Erich froze. For a second, the world narrowed.
Soviet tanks?
No way. Not here. Not now.
He looked to Klaus, whose jaw tightened like a vice.
"That's not possible," he muttered. "They're not in this fight. Not yet."
"Tell that to whoever's sitting behind those turrets," Erich snapped, adjusting his helmet and crouch-running to the base of a low wall. "We've got contact. Doesn't matter who it is."
The Hauptmann's voice came next, cutting through the radio:
"Infanterie! Flank and suppress. Tanks, advance by fire. No retreat. We clear this sector now."
No time to argue.
The German tanks gunned forward, the Pz III's engine roaring louder as it rolled into firing position. The turret swiveled left, then barked—
BOOM
—the recoil rattled the windows above them. A shell streaked forward, disappearing down the street. Seconds later, an explosion cracked the silence like a whip. Smoke and sparks lit up an intersection a hundred meters ahead.
Return fire came fast.
A Soviet 45mm shell screamed past, missing the Pz II by inches and slamming into a second-story balcony. The structure exploded in a spray of brick and steel, showering the infantry below with rubble. Erich ducked instinctively, feeling dust and shards clatter off his helmet.
"Move! Go!" he shouted, gesturing his men toward the flanking alley.
Klaus led two others into a side street, rifles raised. The squad split—three pushing left with Klaus, three with Erich cutting right to circle around the armor's exposed side.
Gunfire erupted—short, desperate bursts. Erich raised his Karabiner 98k and fired up at a flicker of movement in a window. The glass shattered, and the figure disappeared.
Across the main avenue, the Pz II engaged—its 20mm autocannon chattered loudly, sending a rapid stream of rounds into the intersection. They ricocheted off the enemy tank's armor, barely leaving a mark. Too light.
The Pz III lined up again and fired.
BOOM
Another hit—but not a kill. The Soviet armor kept coming, clanking into view through the smoke like some resurrected beast from a different war. Rusted but not dead.
"Anti-tank!" Erich shouted. "Where the hell is our AT?"
A young soldier to his left, Weber, scrambled to set up the squad's rifle grenade launcher, loading a shaped charge and taking aim.
Erich covered him, firing twice at another moving shadow. "You get one shot," he said through gritted teeth. "Make it count."
Weber fired. The grenade arced and struck the tank's track—
BOOM
—it shredded the treads, finally halting the Soviet machine in place. The turret still swiveled, but the beast had been crippled.
The Pz III took the opportunity, driving forward and planting a direct hit into the side armor.
CRACK
A flash—then fire. Internal detonation. The T-26 went up in a plume of smoke and flame, turret half-lifting from the chassis. The crew inside never stood a chance.
But there were more.
Another T-26 rolled into the gap, flanked by infantry—local resistance fighters armed with stolen Czech rifles and Molotovs. One of them tossed a flaming bottle toward the Pz II. The glass shattered against the tank's side, igniting into a sheet of flame.
"Scheiße!" Klaus's voice cut in over the din. "We're getting overrun! Right flank—falling back!"
"No!" Erich shouted. "We hold the line! That tank can't be alone!"
He leapt behind a concrete planter and fired again, hitting a resistance fighter square in the chest. The man went down in a heap, but bullets pinged off the wall beside Erich in response.
His breath was ragged now. His lungs burned. Dirt coated his uniform. His fingers were raw from clutching the rifle.
But they were winning. Slowly. Inch by bloody inch.
The second Soviet tank was still firing when the Germans brought up a Panzerbüchse—an anti-tank rifle hastily mounted behind a truck. The first shot cracked through the morning air—
THUMP
—striking the turret base. The second punctured the crew compartment.
Fire licked from the hatches. The turret ceased turning.
Silence didn't come immediately. It was broken by groans, by the whimpering of a wounded soldier, by the hiss of burning oil. The acrid smell of cordite and cooked metal filled the street.
Erich slumped behind cover, wiping blood from his cheek—he wasn't sure if it was his.
Klaus returned from the flank, limping slightly. "Sector's clear," he said, breathing hard. "For now."
Erich nodded, chest heaving.
"Not bad," he muttered. "For a morning stroll."
Time: 0800 Hours, 24 March 1939
Location: City Center, Prague
The tank battle was no longer a skirmish. It had escalated into a grinding slugfest through narrow boulevards and shattered intersections. Erich's squad, part of the infantry screen ahead of the armor, had now become the thin line between the German advance and whatever the hell these Russian tanks were doing in Prague.
These weren't modern T-26s or BT-series fast tanks—Erich recognized the silhouette of an old MS-1, maybe even a few Renault FT variants bastardized with Soviet guns. Clunky, yes. Outdated, certainly. But that didn't make them harmless. Their armor, primitive but thick in the right places, was proving more resilient than expected. More than once, he'd seen 37mm rounds from the Pz III bounce off or explode ineffectively on the sloped plating.
"Shit," Erich muttered as a Russian shell slammed into a tram post just ahead, sending splinters of brick and steel flying. One shard clipped his helmet hard enough to make his ears ring.
They were caught in the perfect kill zone—tanks to the front, sniper fire from the upper windows, and now, reports of anti-tank teams moving in from the flanks.
"Covering fire! Right side!" Klaus shouted, dropping to one knee and squeezing off three shots at a window above a bakery. The muzzle flashes vanished. A moment later, a body slumped out of the shattered glass frame and fell two stories to the pavement below.
Erich ducked behind a delivery truck riddled with holes, switching mags. His fingers worked quickly, trained by instinct and muscle memory from a different war, a different life. A flash of motion to his left—he swung his Karabiner 98k up and fired without thinking. A man collapsed behind a stack of crates.
The squad moved as a unit, darting from cover to cover in the space between tank volleys. The Pz III loomed ahead, barking fire and inching forward. The Pz II trailed, leaking coolant, its track damaged from a near miss.
"Feldwebel, we've got armor flanking us!" someone shouted from the rear.
Klaus didn't flinch. "Erich! You and Koch get eyes on it. Now!"
Erich nodded and signaled to Koch, a lean, quiet man from Hamburg. The two darted across the alleyway and climbed a crumbling staircase in a tenement building, rifle barrels leading the way.
From the second floor, Erich spotted the flanker—a squat, low-profile tank, maybe a T-18 or some heavily modified FT. It was crawling between two buildings, trying to cut off the German armor's rear.
"Shit," he breathed, leveling his rifle. Koch pulled out a flare pistol and fired a red signal.
The Pz III caught the hint. Its turret swiveled, corrected, and fired. The round missed, punching a hole in the corner of the building. The Russian tank kept moving.
"Again!" Erich shouted.
A second shot. This one caught the Russian tank near the tracks. A plume of smoke burst from the impact point, but it kept crawling, grinding metal-on-metal.
Suddenly, a crewman climbed out of the hatch with a Molotov. Erich didn't hesitate. One clean shot dropped the man. The bottle rolled off the hull and shattered harmlessly on the cobblestones.
"Nice shot," Koch muttered, already moving down the stairs.
---
Time: 0900 Hours, 24 March 1939
Location: City Center – Forward Advance Sector
The streets were now a battlefield in every direction. Explosions rolled down the boulevards like thunderclaps. Fires flickered in upper floors of old buildings. Erich's boots crunched over broken tile and spent casings.
The Pz II had fallen back, engine coughing black smoke. Its crew was dragging the wounded driver out as medics scrambled to reach them.
"Cover the crew!" Klaus ordered. "I want that intersection locked down!"
Erich took point, his rifle up as they pressed into a deeper sector of the city. Smoke hung low, and visibility was down to less than thirty meters in some places. That was dangerous. Ambush country.
Then came the sound no infantryman wanted to hear—a low, rumbling engine, close, too close.
"Back! Back!" Erich yelled just as a shell tore through the corner of a warehouse, raining brick and plaster. The tank wasn't where they expected—it had taken a back route, cutting them off from their own armor.
Gunfire erupted from the flanks. Resistance fighters—some in uniforms, some not—opened up with rifles and Czech-made SMGs.
Bullets whizzed past Erich's ear. He dropped to the ground, crawling behind an overturned cart. One of their men, Werner, went down with a scream, blood spraying from his thigh.
"Medic!" someone shouted, but it was drowned in the sound of an engine revving.
Erich turned just in time to see the Russian tank pivot its gun toward their position.
The Pz III fired—missed.
"Koch! With me!" Erich grabbed the man and sprinted toward the side of the tank, weaving between rubble piles. They reached a side alley, dodging fire. Koch unslung his grenade, an older stick-type.
"Wait!" Erich called out, yanking the pin on his own. "On my mark—"
The Russian tank's turret hesitated, trying to track them.
"Now!"
Two grenades arced through the smoke. One clanged off the engine deck. The second bounced and landed square behind the turret. A muffled thump. Then a roaring detonation.
Flames burst from the tank's hatches. It didn't explode outright—but the crew never came out.
---
Time: 1000 Hours, 24 March 1939
Location: City Center – German Forward Command Point
By the time they regrouped, only one Russian tank remained operational. The rest were gutted husks, smoking carcasses of steel.
Erich sat with his back to a wall, helmet off, running a hand through his sweat-drenched hair. Around him, wounded were being treated, rifles reloaded, and tank crews checked damage.
Klaus stood over a map spread across the hood of a staff car. "We hold this position until the next wave arrives. No more advances until we get word from battalion HQ."
He looked at Erich. "You did good, Stahl. You kept your men alive."
Erich nodded. His knuckles were scraped, his uniform torn and caked in soot. But he was alive.
And now he knew something was wrong.
Those tanks weren't Czech. They weren't even part of any known local militia. He couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a resistance operation.
It was a message