Berlin or Bust

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The front dissolved under the onslaught.

The great German winter offensive, involving half a million fighting men, died and rose again to fight the living. Hordes of dark figures materialized from the fog. Pickets sounded the alarm. Machine-guns rattled. The gunfire rose to a constant rolling roar. Officers shouted, Hold the line! Pour it on, boys! Keep it hot!

They had no idea what they were fighting.

The dead staggered under the gunfire, shrugged at the impacts of dozens of rounds, and kept coming. Grenades tossed them like ragdolls. They got back up smoking. As they neared their prey, they broke into a lurching jog.

Swarms overran the trenches at a dozen points. Grinning under their steel helmets, they poured through the gaps. The survivors fell back, fighting as they moved. One by one, the guns fell silent. The retreat became a rout.

The roads choked with panicked soldiers and screaming civilians. Vehicles moved at a crawl in the endless jam. The dead right behind, never tiring, never stopping. The rout became a slaughter.

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