A Bloody Struggle for Freedom

[Genseric]

Wow, its been ages since setting virtual foot into this great forum, late 2006 methinks...very quiet I see. Not many 'new' stories around, 'Pax Romana' is still floating around though sadly not updated for some time. Looks like everyone has buggered off to Civ 4 stories...oh well.

This story here is based on a good but error riddled WW1 scenario that came with vanilla...or was that PTW??...yes, its quite old and I started it way back in 2006. I havent played the game since then but have a stack of game related info down in Word. There are no pics, I dont like doing them and its a bit late now. I'll update this when I have the chance. Ive got two other stories that havent finished, "Rise of Germany" and "Immortal Persia" that are floating somewhere here...

It starts in 1923 in the aftermath of WW1 with France launching a massive invasion of a badly undermanned and demoralised Russia...


Moscow Barracks

A biting wind froze young enlisted soldier Dimitry’s bones. The harsh early winter brought an icy northerly. Some snow lay on the dirt before him. The problem was, it was only going to get worse as Russia felt the full force of a frigid northern winter as storms laden with ice, snow and gale force winds swept in from the Arctic circle.

Of all the times to join the army, this was definitely the worst, he thought. This is crazy. No matter how many layers of warm clothes he had on, and that was very little, he just could not fight off the cold. A big bear of man next to him outside his barracks laughed at the youngster, shaking his head with mock despair. He had seen it before with the young troopers that passed through here. “You’ll get used to it” chuckled Oleg, a sergeant of ten years experience, the leader of his platoon within A Company of the 23rd Infantry regiment. “You all feel like . .. .. .. . in the first year”. Dimitry placed his hands close to the fire in the 44-gallon drum that warmed his hands in a token manner. At least this spot was partially sheltered from the cold. “That’s easy for you to say, you are from Archangelsk. Your breath turns to ice there”. Oleg laughed again. “Yes, you southern boys are all mush. You don’t know cold from your backside. It’s the wind that’s bad. A still day is ok but come arctic storms, it turns into an icy hell”.

A decent man Oleg, though Dimitry, unlike some of the other men. These were men who had been stuck in the army for god knows how long, bitter at the crap pay and even more turgid state of the army. The Czar, Nicolas, seemed indifferent towards his army. He rarely made inspections of the barracks around the country, which would have taken months. Hell, even the top officers scarcely were seen. They were warm and snug inside the officer’s quarters enjoying the high life, at least as far as the enlisted men were concerned with their wild out of control gossip about such things. There was talk of a creation of an elite regiment of soldiers, a build of heavy guns, the improvement of supply lines. All talk, lies and rubbish, said the older men who had dealt with old rifles, inadequate clothing and poor facilities for as long as they could recall.

“Where exactly are you from private?”

“Chisnau sir, its along the Romanian border. Quiet sort of place. Not much happens there”

“More than Archangelsk I would think. Arse end of a frozen hell”

“Perhaps. You can travel into Romania, even Austria. You can go down to the Dnestr River, perhaps travel and enjoy the sights of the Caspian”

“Mmm, sounds picturesque. All you have in Archangelsk is snow and icy water. Why did you join the Army?”

“Well, I had nothing going for me apart from perhaps being a laborer. Filthy pay, irregular work. There I was thinking that the Army had to be better. What a fool I was”

Oleg laughed bitterly. “Yes, we are all fools. Those Cossacks knew what they were doing when they quit the army. We only have one cavalry regiment but what good are they these day? The Czar looks after the Navy better than he does us. He has bought these new destroyers. What a waste! Who is he going to sink? Penguins? What threat is there in the Black Sea? For far too long have the army been looked over by those who think they know best, which they don’t because they know nothing! We will pay the price one day private and that price will be high, let me tell you.” Oleg leaned in close to Dimitry. “ France has been moving at least nine regiments through Romania. I suspect these are no war games. This may be the high price”

Dimitry scoffed. “Come on. France attacking us? Our governments, as far as an ignorant peasant like me can tell, are on good terms. What possibly could they gain from war on us? The country is enormous, the distances between towns are vast, and winter would bog them down. Madness old man, you are too cynical. Time to get out of the army before it eats you up ”

“And you my friend are young and naïve, unwary of the wider world around you. Listen to what an old pessimistic soldier who has seen too much crap. As it is, Russia is ripe for conquering by an ambitious leader, we would be too unprepared. Our Czar is weak, he would bow as a sniveling coward to the first nation that imposed itself on us”

A couple more men had crowded around, listening in to the conversation. Their beards were thick, shielding their face somewhat from the weather. “Da, he may be right. But who would want to fight us? Our rifles cannot fire past our nose…it would like been stung by a bee if you got hit. The French would give up in disgust and go home” Petr grinned. His companion roared with delight. This was Private Petr Kerensky, old and weary of life in the armed forces with seemingly little else left in him. Still, his days in the army were numbered. He was soon to be discharged. “Your head is firmly up your backside Sergeant. France would not spit at us. Russia is cold, miserable, poor, well us at least and poor. Did I say that before?”

“Da, you buffoon. Go back to your rocking chair. Even that’s ready to give up on you old man” mocked Oleg. Miserable and poor was too accurate a description. The average Russian would be starving as they spoke, at the least the enlisted men would get a square meal every day. The Czarist government was an oppressive one, stifling opposing voices, treading down the peasants and other lowly Russians. There was growing unrest at the poverty and the government, fanned by the Bolsheviks. Still even the people hated them. There appeared to bee no alternative.

“They wouldn’t find anything to eat here. France is along way home,” jested Dimitry.

“Lukewarm watery stew with stale bread” said Oleg

“Frost bitten plants” ventured Petr half heartedly, the talk of the conditions they endured having a sobering effect on the men.

It was almost true. The food was moderately better in Moscow where they were currently. It had the better facilities on the account of been close to the capital city so supplies got there without been subject to “sticky” fingers. The furthermost bases to the east and north were dreaded as insufferable hellholes for those unfortunately posted there. Moscow had two artillery battalions. Jaroslavl had the other two. That was the extent of the big guns. On top of that it was mostly horse drawn due to the critical oil shortage. Russia had some oil fields within its borders but not the means to get them on line. Trains ran infrequently due to maintenance cost, not a lack of coal so it would be a disaster to southern towns if they were attacked first and trains couldn’t get the guns down. Dimitry heard a 105 mm cannon go off, firing the very few shells it got for the field artillery range.

“They must have stolen the shell from somewhere” muttered Dimitry idly, staring at the thin layer of snow on the ground that he casually brushed away with his boot.

“Don’t you know?” queried Oleg in mock astonishment. “They fire bags of manure instead of live ammunition here” The others chuckled.

“If the French are attacking then they are in for a rotten surprise,” said Dimitry. Deep within him, the talk of war nagged at Dimitry as he tried to shake of the remarks of Oleg. Completely bored, been a Sunday, he gave up on warming his hands and the miserable chitchat and headed back to his unit and started to stare at his decrepit rifle. It was a podgy bolt-action rifle that jammed too frequently. He took it apart without thought and cleaned it just for something to pass the dreary time. After a short while he placed his rifle back in its rack and lay down, stared at the ceiling and attempted to drift off the best he could.

 

[Vengashii]

Looking forward to more!

 

[Genseric]

The next few days passed with torture, amid the customary field drills, short rifle practice, mess duties and general cleaning about the large base. Dimitry had a rest day during the week and took the opportunity to catch up on sleep. He was awoken by Private Petr, who shook him with urgency. “Dimitry, wake up, come on wake up. Its urgent!” Clearing the fog of deep sleep from his mind, he responded. “Petr, unless it is a new porn book, then its no matter to me” as he rolled over. “You would hope so you sex fiend. But this does matter. Its bad news, the place is a mess” Dimitry rolled back over, propping himself up on his elbows. “It is always a mess Petr. What are you babbling about?”

“Do you recall Oleg and his rather cynical remark about the French possibly attacking us? Well…they just begun” Petr’s face was ashen, more so that it normally was. Dimitry was momentarily stunned. “What? When did they begin?”

“Just a few days ago. I don’t know all of it. There is an important assembly in an hour for all the N.C.O’s. For now we must report in company formations. Get up!”

-------------------------------------------------

That afternoon, Dimitry felt sick. He wanted to crawl into a little hole and die. Pounded by an artillery barrage, thrown from a cliff, shot dead, tied to the railway tracks and run over, whatever, he just wanted to end it all. The private had heard Tjernovstsy had been the first Russian town that was attacked. French shells devastated the town, leveling much of the buildings, causing fires that burnt the town beyond livability. Many citizens died. He had friends and a few relatives living in the town.

When he heard that the French had just overrun Chisnau that was the sledgehammer between the eyes. His mother, his father, his brother and sisters. What happened to them? Did they die in the bombardments? Were they killed in the conflagration that gutted the town? He barely felt the train rocking on the tracks from Moscow as his division was moved en masse to Beltsy, along with many other conscript divisions. Dimitry didn’t even recall gathering his pack and embarking on a dilapidated carriage that usually moved the citizenry between towns.

The mood on the train appeared to be rather jovial, as the full implication of what had happened had yet to sink in. All except for the young baby faced private, suddenly alone except for his army friends but they could do nothing for him. He barely even noticed his name called from across the carriage, “Dimitry! Dimitry! Are you awake? Look at this, you haven’t seen this one yet!” the ginger soldier grinned. Dimitry cast a half interested glance as the other private brandished an open pornography book. A roar of approval went up from those who saw it and they begun to call out profanities and suggestive remarks, as if the women in the picture was alive. Dimitry looked away and out the window. The ginger soldier shrugged his shoulders and leered with his comrades over the pictures.

Smoke could be seen in the distance as the train rolled over the Dnestr. It was mainly green plains with wooded expanses here and there on both sides of the river. The smoke, the smoke was coming from Chinsau. It filled the horizon, ominously, like a malevolent shroud smothering all in its path. His mind cried out for his family. As the train rolled on, he noticed a sad spectacle, fleeing Russian civilians, heading the other way as the train slowed to an excruciating crawl.

Pandemonium reigned supreme as civilians milled around, crossing the track to get away, anywhere away from the approaching calamity. Dimitry immediately slid the window open and thrust his head out, frantically looking for any sign of his family. He called out the names of his family several times but all he got were vacant stares from some of the citizens. A military base had been hastily established to the east of Beltsy to receive incoming troops. Some were stationed here to move towards the frontlines, others where sent as part of the garrison. This was the main disembarking point.

The frenetic pace bewildered the green troops, fresh from the farms, mines and factories through out the country. In the panic of the moment of the attack, Czar Nicolas ordered a wide spread conscription of all available men. This meant most people were drafted into the army regardless of physical or mental condition, excepting the most incapable of people. “Insanity!” breathed Petr, as he surveyed horse drawn guns, company drills, ambulances ferrying wounded troops who had been totally unprepared for the sudden attack. Russia fully paid the price for her criminal neglect of its armed forces.

Some of the men on the stretchers howled in pain, others were feeble in their protests. Some screamed out unintelligible words as if they spoke in tongues, others cried out for their mothers. Dimitry was stunned at the sheer weight of it all. He continued along the dirt tracks with Petr in front and the ginger haired soldier André trailing behind. They didn’t know where exactly they were heading, only that they were moving into the reserve area for fitting out. Andrie cast mournful stares at the madness. “We are all going to die!” he whispered fearfully to Dimitry.

Dimitry turned around startled. “Don’t say such things. We may be stationed in reserve at the base; we may not head to the front. Maybe it will finish soon perhaps”. Andrie stared at Dimitry as if he was a six-headed monster from the depths of hell “They are not going to stop! It’s just the beginning! Look at those poor fools, they are missing legs, they have head wounds, some are blown to pieces! It’s not going to finish!” André, his voice raising and starting to shake, had not yet been anywhere near the fighting but was starting to crack just at the sight of the end result of combat.

Dimitry did not know what to say and was about to mumble some token words of comfort when thankfully Petr stepped in and begun consoling the young man. Dependable Petr thought Dimitry, he knows what to say. He begun to hear the shrill voice of one of the Company’s captain, directing them to their places.

 

[Genseric]

A long convoy of trucks snaked along a dusty road out of the military station. The road traveled along the train tracks for some distance before veering to the west towards Beltsy. The odd train moved along the lines, carrying refugees away from the town or moving scarce ammunition into the town to the feeble garrison there. The slow moving procession watched as a train carrying five 105 mm artillery pieces thundered along the tracks. It was a good sign, there was finally some heavy guns thrown in for support. It was likely those would be heading to the front line by horse. The men didn’t know where they were heading. Some would move to the hot zone not far out of Beltsy, others would move to the town itself and take up positions. Unfortunately for Dimitry and his company, they were moving towards the fiery hell of the frontline.

Occasional thick ‘booms’ could be heard and narrow columns of smoke filled the sky where shells landed and buildings burned. The French had taken up position and had been attacking the last day or two to no avail. Dimitry could not comprehend his situation. He could not find words for it, there was no comparison. There had been nothing in his life that could even measure up. No one on the trucks spoke at the lorries ran the gauntlet of French artillery. The undulating terrain offered some protection but several trucks scored direct hits, blasting its human quarry into pieces.

After what seemed an eternity after having cleared the grisly wreckage of destroyed metal and flesh, the men disembarked, glad to have their feet on the ground and able to move to somewhat safer locations within the trench. Behind their lines, Dimitry could see Beltsy in the distance. Smoke rose in parts around the town. He turned to Petr who lifted his pack with ease and begun moving as fast as possible towards the trenches. “I don’t know what would be worse, buried in a trench or under concrete in the town” Dimitry mused. “I have no idea. Id prefer not to think about it” said Petr hurriedly.

They moved quickly through the maze of trenches, past some troopers that huddled against the trench timber supports, ducking occasionally as French shells shot over the main fortified positions and hit the rear areas. Dimitry, although a rather well built man, started to struggle with his overloaded pack. He hugged his new American made Springfield rifle, scared to drop it into the mud of the trench. Not far to go to the main command area, he thought, when the earth shook and shrapnel, mud and rock reacted to the landing of a shell. The carnage reigned down on the company in the trench. Timber beams that supported the walls of the trench fell away on top of the soldiers, along with the dirt and mud. Shaken beyond belief, Dimitry opened his eyes to find himself half buried in rubble, with a large wooden plank across him.

Here he lay, struggling to break free, scared to death that another shell would finish him off. Others didn’t move, their helmets not protecting them adequately from catastrophic blows to the head. Im going to die before even firing a shot! He called out for Petr. “Petr! Peter! Where are you? Are you okay?” He got no response but saw a familiar figure get up from the trench mud. He looked like some hideous monster from a swamp. Others came from behind him to help, even as the shells fell down around them. Thankfully none added to the chaos.

“Hang on Dimitry!” Petr threw off his gear and begin to free his friend. With urgency he begun with almost super human strength to remove the heavy timber support as shells continued to rain down nearby. With one supreme effort, he lifted the object clear, rested it against the mangled trench wall and helped dig Dimitry out. A Luitenant in the distance yelled out. “Get to the front now! Hurry! There is going to be an attack! MOVE!”

Those that were relatively unhurt managed to climb their way over the rubble, exposing themselves in the process and move forward to the command post. Dimitry’s company moved straight into the center of the action. This was where the French were expected to come forward in a bid to overrun the trenches. This would pave the way to attack Beltsy. The main frontline trench was massive, enough to support men moving six a breast. Whilst it was not entirely finished and also hastily constructed, it looked safe enough from French artillery barrages. It contained dugouts for the troops to rest and hide.

As they spread out, the French shells still fell. Some whistled, some roared, others were deadly quiet in their approach and were not detected until right on top. The French were giving it everything they had. A far superior and better-equipped army surely would overrun the pitiful efforts of a under trained and starving army. Petr did not seem too flustered by the shelling but the fear was evident in the faces of the younger men. A Luitenant quickly passed by and popped his head into the dugout.

“Once the shelling has lifted, take up positions and wait for the French to begin moving across the field. Then open fire. Pick your marks. Someone will have to man the machine guns. You can’t expect much from artillery support. Whatever you do, just throw those French pigs back!” With that, he was off to the next position.

“Just throw them back? Don’t they have designated machine gunners?” queried Dimitry, a little worried. “Normally yes” replied Petr “but I suppose there was little time to train up individual squads” Company Sergeant Oleg came forward. Thankfully, someone who would know what to do, thought Dimitry, someone to guide them through the quagmire. Oleg looked around and pointed out four young men. He didn’t know their names. In fact he had no idea who half of them were, given the hodge podge nature of the company that was hastily fitted out. A couple appeared not to even belong to A company, mostly likely stragglers who got lost and ended here in the confusion.

“You two and you two, man the machine guns. You are to provide interlocking fire across the field” Dimitry didn’t envy the gunners. Their position was fairly exposed and enemy guns were attempting to put them out of action. Then there were grenades hurled from advancing soldiers and the whine of bullets. Besides, the machine guns were hardly the epitome of heavy weapon support. Still in their infancy, they fired slowly, were a nightmare to reload and overheated quickly due to ordinary assembly where the moving parts caused too great a friction. Veterans of the weapons would remark that at times it was like firing a peashooter. Yet, in this nightmare it was better than nothing.

A high-pitched shrill whistle filled the air repeatedly. Oleg looked up “Crap! They are now attacking” They had barely seemed to notice that the shells had stopped landing. “Get out! Get to positions now, this is an attack!” Some got up reluctantly, others eagerly barged their way outside the dugout, all too eager to fire their weapons and be heroes. Dimitry came back out of the gloom and stopped momentarily to adjust to the glare of the midday sun. He ran along the trench as Russian troops took up their positions along the trench wall facing the front line. Some got off a few shots before they themselves were hit. Others did not fire anything in anger. The situation was becoming perilous very quickly.

Dimitry stood himself on a wooden box, lifted up his rifle and begun to place his shots over the trench wall, ever mindful of having his brains blown out the back of his head. There seemed to be an unending wave of French soldiers charging forward firing their weapons and hurling grenades; to the young Russian it seemed like the minions of hell were swarming upon him. He took aim and could make out the faces of those that were attempting to kill him. If the awful reality of the situation had not hit him when he was nearly pulverized by shellfire, it hit him hard between the eyes.

Here he was right in the middle of a war zone, a raging conflagration that threatened to burn all of Russia to the ground. The crucial theatre that was the assault on Beltsy; he was playing his part in it. Snapping out of his thoughts, he started to fire at anything that moved in front of him. He emptied his first clip in record time after having watched with some satisfaction and a little bit of revulsion, never having killed anyone before, several of the French soldiers drop dead into the barren fields before him.

As he went to reload he noticed that some French soldiers had made it to the barbed wire stretched out the front of trench and had begun, in a suicidal move, to cut it to hopefully clear a path for their fellow soldiers. Invariably they were shot to pieces. Others entertained no such thoughts and just simply barged their way through the entanglement. Bodies started to snag in the sharp rending wire yet they came on and on, hundreds and hundreds of them prepared to overwhelm the defenders with their numbers. French command sought to win this decisive battle by sheer weight of numbers, throwing forth their men with little thoughts of the casualties that would ensue.

Dimitry had just about reloaded his rifle from the safety of the bottom of the trench. He looked to his right and could see a whole heap of dead Russians. The thinly stretched Russians put more men in place of the fallen. Whilst looking across at the despairing sight, he noticed in horror out of the corner of his eye that French troops appeared at the top of the trench. They had no idea because of terrible communications but French had penetrated the defenses just before Beltsy and now the garrison there became engaged. They had been flanked by the sheer weight of numbers. It appeared that they were overrun and it was all over. Only death awaited them.

There was only a handful at first and for their efforts in navigating the barbed wire death trap their reward was to be shot by desperate Russians. Yet more French filled the void of those dead. Dimitry swung around to face those that had surely gotten through in his sector. He was caught totally unawares when a French soldier leapt intrepidly into the trench, slamming into the young Russian. He fell sprawling into the trench, letting go of his rifle and his helmet flew off his head. He blacked out.

 

[tdawg82]

can't wait to read future posts!

 

[Genseric]

Heres a bit more...I havent forgotten


Dimitry had no idea how long he was out for. In reality it had been only for ten seconds. Upon returning to conciousness he found he was soaking wet. The bright midday sun had given way to low cloud. It had begun to rain just as Dimitry was knocked out cold and now he was wet, cold and muddy on the trench floor and extremely vulnerable. Despite feeling extremely groggy, he sprung to his feet unsteadily, wildly looking around. Dead Russians lined the trenches, French bodies were piled on top of them. It was utter chaos.


Dimitry made a move for his rifle that was probably now useless that it was covered in mud. Instinctively he spun around and was faced by a lunging Frenchmen intent on killing him. As he was about to thrust his bayonet, his forehead exploded in a torrent of red and grey and he fell towards Dimitry who had to side step quickly to avoid been stabbed. He looked behind him to see a most wonderful sight; Russian re-enforcements. He had never felt so elated in his life. They surged into the main trench even as desperate Frenchman still attempted to overrun the Russian position but they were paying a shocking price in men dead.

He could hear something that also filled him with joy; the resounding ‘boom’ of Russian artillery going off several miles in the rear. Six pieces, a puny amount, but still something, had been brought up by rail. The train had stalled just outside Beltsy with its cargo and no means of unloading it, along with troops and it seemed it may never get there. Yet some heroic efforts from the troops who worked frantically to get the engine going again saved the situation. Most of the troops set out on foot to the war zone. They had to dodge some wildly inaccurate fire from French artillery but they got there with little incident.

Hand to hand combat ensued; a sign the situation was desperate and one that every soldier dreaded encountering. Dimitry faced off against one young French soldier who looked just as frightened as Dimitry himself. The Frenchman had just a knife, having lost his rifle as he somehow negotiated the barbed wire. He didn’t know how to use his knife; he slashed wildly in a wide arc with his left arm. Dimitry was a bit slow but grabbed at his wrist just at the knifes blade was about to come into contact with his skull. The Frenchman struck out with his right arm, planting a neat little jab on Dimitry’s nose with made him stumble but not fall.

Dimitry lashed out with his right foot; his solid soldier boots slamming hard into the Frenchman’s groin. It looked as if his eyes would bulge out of his head; he dropped his knife and clutched at his damaged manhood. Dimitry picked up the bayonet from the other dead Frenchman and drove it through his chest. His eyes bulged some more, blood trickled from his mouth and he expired with several short, sharp gurgling rasps. The Russian fell to his knees, chest heaving from the exertion. He felt a big beefy hand grab his collar and yank him up. “Dimitry!” spluttered Oleg appearing suddenly from behind, “I thought you had died when they came over the wall…” In between breaths, Dimitry spoke, “So did…I…but…here I…am”, managing a tight smile as well.

“The bastards are been repulsed! I heard from another officer that Beltsy was collapsing and we were going to be hit from behind but thank God for those re-inforcements!” Oleg had a maniacal look about him; adrenaline surged through his body, he was caught up fully in the madness. Dimitry in contrast felt like he had been stampeded over by an angry mob.

The mustachoid sergeant clasped Dimitry by the shoulders. “Orders have come in from command that we are to go on the offensive” his eyes boring into him. Dimitry looked around at the steady stream of Russians sloshing through the muck, looking out of place with their neat and tidy uniforms. That would soon change. “What? Now?” stammered Dimitry.

“Yes…the French have suffered badly…command wants to press the advantage and take the French positions” The French lines were only 500 meters away, separated by torn up fields with craters and trunks of trees blasted into nothingness. Yet those 500 meteres seemed like 500 miles; it would be a nightmare situation having to cross through the upturned earth, barbed wire and countless dead. There would have been easily a thousand dead Frenchmen littering the fields; all slaughtered in two mad, terrifying hours.

“There is little time to assemble company’s and units…its every man over the wall” Oleg shouted over the din of battle “When the whistle is blown its all or nothing…the French are crumbling Dimitry, this is it! God speed Private” Oleg quickly set off. Dimitry felt sick. He looked around for a weapon and found one in the cold, dead hands of another Russian. You wont need this anymore he said to himself.

He checked his weapon, shaking as he did so. He then heard the shrill of a Captains whistle and several more along the length of the trench. “Over the walls! Show them no mercy!” one cried enthusiastically. There were French fleeing back across the fields as best they could. One captain leapt up the walls and stood up, firing his pistol and blowing his whistle. He jesticulated wildly with his right arm. This brave display emboldened the reticent; they begun surging up and over into the wiry maze of their own defences and onwards into upturned wasteland…onwards rushed the tired and downtrodden Russians through bomb craters, over dead Frenchman and assorted body parts and through debilitating mud. Then with an almighty ferocity, the French recovered and opened fire…