France was a lovely country. Was. Years of war tore the once idyllic landscape to shreds, burnt out wrecks, craters from artillery bombardment, and crisscrossing tracks from treads and tires.
"All units! Konigstiger sieben is under heavy fire! Requesting assistance at once!" Echoes around the hull of the panzer, with the radio operator responding that we are halfway across the battlefield, support from us was unavailable.
"Pershing on the ridge!" The gunner calls, and I grab the sights. His word is true. A lone M26 Pershing is cresting the ridge. It's now target number one, that gun will chew through our Tiger's and Tiger B's, which we need for the push. "Sight target! On my signal!" I call out, letting the gunner swing the 12.8 centimetre cannon into position, one of the largest guns on the battlefield. The Pershing fires at us, the round bouncing harmlessly off the frontal plate of our Panzer, not even a scratch left behind. The engine hums as we slow down to let the gunner sight in the american tank, and he nods at me.
I am Maximilian Müller, commander of Maus Panzer Zwei-Sechs-Sieben. And I am leading the assault.
"FIRE!" I call out, and the cannon next to me roars, the tank rocking as the gun sings its song of death and destruction. The shell rockets across the field, slamming through the front of the pershing's hull and striking the ammunition reserves, chaining an explosion together so powerful it causes the turret to get forced out of its mounting, flying a short distance and landing with a thud, smoke whispering from the bottom.
"Target destroyed, load another Armour Piercing. Driver, advance!" I command, listening as the tank roars forwards to push onwards.
I am Maximilian Müllar, and this is the story of how we won the war.
YOU ARE READING
Maus
ActionIn what should have been post WW2 France, the Allies are getting pushed back inch by bloody inch. How it happened nobody is sure, but Germany somehow pulled off a production boom. The Bismark never sunk, the Tiger B entered mainstream production, an...
