Brutal war

An explosion echoed in the distance, sending up a billowing cloud of black smoke and scattering countless fragments of stone. A partially collapsed house nearby trembled under the impact but stubbornly refused to succumb to the force of the blast. It remained upright, a testament to desolate endurance in the half-ruined landscape.

In a hastily dug trench on the street, a Republican militia member crept forward until he reached the safety of a barricade. Standing up, he vigorously patted the dust off his clothing and adjusted the skewed helmet on his head.

"How's it looking out there?" asked a Republican officer, seated in a corner of the barricade and meticulously cleaning a small pistol. The area was a critical strategic point, and the Republican forces had stationed 1,000 troops to defend it. Over the past few days, they had repelled several assaults by the Nationalist forces but had also suffered significant losses.

The outskirts of Madrid had become a fierce battleground, with soldiers from both sides engaging in desperate combat within the narrow city blocks. The struggle for control over buildings sometimes resulted in heavy casualties on both sides.

"The German snipers are a serious problem," the returning soldier reported with a heavy sigh. "Most of our snipers sent to counter them have been killed. I just came back from such a squad. We lost two men, and we didn't even catch a glimpse of the Germans."

The officer nodded gravely. "Those snipers are like hunters stalking their prey. They're severely affecting our morale. Many comrades have fallen without a clear shot at the enemy. Now, few of our soldiers dare to even peek over their positions, which is impacting our accuracy. We're wasting a lot of ammunition, and enemy casualties are decreasing."

"I think our biggest issue isn't just the snipers, Major," the soldier interjected, pointing through a narrow firing slit towards the end of the street. "Around the corner, past that building, two German P-3 tanks have been spotted. They're not the older P-2 models; these are the real heavy hitters."

He quickly withdrew his hand from the firing slit, wary of becoming a target for the German snipers. "It looks like they're gearing up for a major push. We're short on anti-tank weaponry, which could spell trouble."

"This time they're going to be in for a surprise," the officer said with a sly grin, gesturing towards the rear of the barricade. "Our Soviet allies have just brought in a T-26 tank. Let's see how those German tanks fare against it."

As he tucked the cleaned pistol into his belt, another shell exploded nearby, sending smoke and debris swirling through the machine gun slits of the barricade. Coughing and beating off the dust, the soldiers inside the barricade braced themselves for more incoming fire.

"Cough, cough. Damn it, their shelling is getting more accurate by the minute," the officer complained as he removed his cap to shake out the dirt. "They always soften us up with a few rounds before launching an attack. It's like they're reminding us not to get too comfortable. Next time, we might not even get a warning."

"I'm going to step out for a smoke. Once they start their assault, there won't be time," he said, grabbing a helmet and ducking out the back of the barricade. He hadn't gone far when a powerful blast struck the barricade, shaking the ground and sending a shockwave through the air. Staggering, he managed to regain his balance and looked back to see the damage. The barricade had partially collapsed, and not far behind, the advancing Nationalist soldiers and the two German P-3 tanks were pressing forward.

It was clear that the position was likely lost without the cover of the barricade, and it was uncertain how long the Soviet T-26 could hold out. The officer hurried towards the rear, dodging debris and incoming bullets. As he ran, a bullet struck his thigh, penetrating the flesh with a sickening crunch of bone and a spray of blood before kicking up dust a short distance away.

The officer fell to the ground with a cry muffled by the ongoing gunfire. Across the battlefield, in a German-occupied trench, officers observed the chaos through the latest scissor periscopes. Beside them, recorders and engineers surveyed the scene and took notes.

"The weapons designed by our Führer are proving quite effective. We should continue to procure these for dealing with enemy fortifications and tanks," one officer remarked, pulling away from the periscope.

"What do you think?" he asked another officer, who nodded in agreement.

"The performance on the battlefield is impressive. If possible, it should be distributed down to the company level for rapid support," the second officer responded, turning to an engineer. "Do you think we could reduce the cost further?"

"It's feasible. Not just the Wehrmacht, but the Nationalist forces are also interested in purchasing this weapon. Increasing production should bring the cost down," the engineer speculated.

At that moment, two German soldiers returned from testing new weaponry. One carried a long metal tube, while the other held a bag and a submachine gun.

"Sir, the test of the Panzerfaust rocket launcher was a success. It's simple to aim and operate, and its power is tremendous," reported the soldier with the launcher, clearly exhilarated by the weapon's potential.

"We need 5,000 of these launchers and 50,000 rounds of ammunition," a Spanish Nationalist officer interjected eagerly, anxious to secure a portion of the production for his forces.

"The Italian military would like to order 15,000 Panzerfausts. We're interested in purchasing the patents and setting up our own production line. Price is negotiable," an Italian observer added quickly, fearing he might miss out.

"Calm down, gentlemen," the senior German general intervened with a placating gesture. "This weapon is still being integrated into our forces and was personally named by the Führer as the 'Iron Fist.' It's a classified asset, and production is limited. If you're interested in purchasing, you'll have to wait."

As they spoke, a distant explosion drew their attention. A German P-3 tank had been hit, its turret blown sky-high as flames and smoke billowed into the air.

"It's the Soviet T-26!" an officer exclaimed, peering through the periscope. Nearby, the smoking remains of the P-3 contrasted starkly with the dark green Soviet tank, which was slowly maneuvering into position.

"Fire!" commanded the crew of the second P-3 tank. The shell struck the T-26, tearing through its armor and igniting a fierce explosion that marked the end of the brief tank duel.

"Let's assess our losses," the German general ordered grimly. A staff officer hurried off, returning shortly with a report of the casualties and the extent of the damage. The battle had been costly, but the Nationalist forces had managed to advance, capturing two blocks from the Republicans.

As another shell struck nearby, shattering windows and leaving a crater in the street, it was clear that the struggle for Madrid would continue for some time. The relentless exchange of fire, the strategic maneuvers, and the constant threat of death from above and all around underscored the brutal reality of war—a reality that seemed destined to persist.