I: Rattle of the Night Bones [Open]

[Nona Maximyevna Vasilyeva]

It was always cold in the winter. It always snowed in the winter. Bones in the night rattled and clacked beneath stiff muscle, frostbitten skin and cold breath, shivering men and women huddled near crackling fires, breathing steam and staring into the heavens. Their eyes ringed, their feet sore, their stomachs gnawing on tough rations, the smell of blood and disturbed earth was as familiar as wind and rain. Trees rose into the sky as branched skeletons and plumed fingers, and in the distance, the howls of wolves also rose. Beyond them, the Germans, hiding somewhere in the Russian woods, waiting and watching. Or at least, so thought the nerves of some of the Russian soldiers, their fingers twitching at every sound, their ears perked, their reflexes itching in anticipation at anything.

Newly-promoted Mladshii Serzheant Vasilyeva was among these men and women. She, too, felt the pull of nerves and paranoia, exhausted from a long and grueling march. Through waist-deep snow she had carried Tsaritsa, her beloved rifle, and cold snow had found its way down her boots and into other places. Her body heat had melted the snow, making her freezing and wet, and that had been followed by a grueling haul uphill. Over a ridge of forested hills, it was said that several parties of Germans were establishing camps and digging in. They had bunked down in the nooks and crannies between the crests and in the valleys, well-hidden and observing their Russian prey. So many snipers had they already found, and so many more had been lost to those snipers. Vasilyeva was tired, and was ready to throw her rifle on the ground in surrender. From the looks of her men, they fared not much better.

Sitting near the fire, together but separate from the others, Vasilyeva's mind danced with the writhing of the flames. With the paranoia came boredom, which only aggravated it, like scratching at the bites of flies; an empty mind seemed to make the world emptier, fuller of shadow and suggestion. The Serzheant had found herself turning her head at every little crick and crack, fingers drumming her sore knees nervously. The trees looked so foreboding, looming over her like her superiors, glaring down with invisble eyes as hidden creatures roosted in their branches. Every minute that passed was just another minute waiting for the sniper to strike, or a German scout, or a wild animal. One of their own had been killed by a bear, of all things, just a few days before; they had heard screaming, and found a corpse. The soldiers could only assume the poor soul had somehow disturbed the bear's hibernation. Her hand ran over the muzzle of Tsaritsa like Vasilyeva was petting a dog, confirming to her tired mind that the gun was still there, waiting without complaint to be used. Her mind threatened to drift, her eyes to fall closed, but Vasilyeva would have done of it. She would not allow her exhaustion to make her the next to fall to the German war machine, or worse.

[☭Yaroslava Zolnyernova]

A gust of wind sent a jolt of cold through Yaroslava's body, a less than subtle reminder of the Russian winter's power over its inhabitants. She was alone in the Russian camp, having just returned from her tour of duty in Britain, she came to Russia and was transferred into a unit that had been completely destroyed in battle with the Germans and disbanded. In all the paperwork, Yaroslava's transfer to a new unit had been missed. She was now stranded in the Soviet camp with no unit, no commanders, nothing. She had made her way to the camp after going through a nearby deserted town. Before the evening was out, she would need to report to a commissar and get a new unit assignment.

In the camp, there were numerous soldiers standing around small fires in empty oil barrels, burning wood that had been collected from the village Yaroslava had just walked through. It was a tired-looking group of soldier who had gathered themselves in this camp. As she walked in between the groups around the barrels, she could feel the exhaustion in the atmosphere. She too was tired and hungry; she still had some of her rations, but had only eaten half as much as she was supposed to. She was also lacking in winter clothing, instead wrapping herself in a heavy wool blanket that worked well enough. Once she had the time and materials, she might be able to fashion the blanket into something more than a haphazard cloak.

As Yarolslava approached the center of the camp, she saw a group with more women in it, a welcome sight. It had been so long since Yaro had been with Russian-speakers of the same sex. The Englishwomen she had lived with for months were not appreciative of her eastern nationality. In the group was a woman, a Mladshii Serzhant. Her rank was lower than that of Yaro, but she had surely had more combat experience and hopefully more information.

"Здраствуйте, товарищ младшйи сержант," Yaroslava said as she approached the other woman. She waited a moment for acknowledgement. At the same time, another gust of wind shivered the bones of the entire camp with its frigid voice. Yaro tightened the grip on her rifle as the wind blew, as if to keep the cold from taking it from her. She had grown up with these sorts of winters, but they never failed to impress even the hardiest people. She returned her thoughts to the woman she had spoken to before. "Я разу в коммиссары."

Translations:
"Здраствуйте, товарищ младшйи сержант,"
-Hello, comrade mladshii serzhant

"Я разу в коммиссары."
-I am looking for the commissar.

[Nona Maximyevna Vasilyeva]

OOC: Nona speaks in Russian using "<angled brackets and quotes>". Nona thinks in Russian using <angled brackets and italics>. Other Russians in my post will do the same.

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"<Mladshii Serzhant?>"

"<Yes, Ryadovoi Petrova?>"

"<How much wood could a> woodchuck <chuck if a> woodchuck <could chuck wood?>"

Vasilyeva stared at the Ryadovoi like she had grown a second head. Petrova only stared back, blinking sleepily, as if she had not just uttered the strangest thing Vasilyeva had ever heard. "<...Where on Earth did you get that from?>"

"<A British man, a little while ago,>" said Petrova. "<Do you know what a> woodchuck <might be, Mladshii Serzhant?>"

"<No,>" Nona replied flatly, giving Petrova a look. "<Do not waste my time with stupid rhymes, Petrova. I'm thinking.>"

"<Thinking about what?>" piped up Ryadovoi Kyznetsova, looking over at the two. "<You look half ready to fall asleep, comrade.>" The Serzhant scowled at the lower-ranking soldier, crossing her arms and holding them tight to her chest. They were cold, and Vasilyeva wasn't too happy about being called "comrade" by Kyznetsova. The young woman had been only with Vasilyeva for a few days, but Nona had made it very, very clear that she did not like being called "comrade" outside of a formal setting in front of higher ranks. Though she had not made it that obvious to the platoon, for morale and safety reasons, Nona was not the best supporter of the current communist government. The only reason she was fighting in the first place was for her own moral code, not Stalin's.

The three women, as well as those also around the barrel, suddenly turned their heads towards the sound of cruncing footsteps. Another woman was approaching, one Vasilyeva had not seen before; her arms loosened, hands instinctively holding the rifle so that she'd be ready to shoot. "<Hello, comrade Mladshii Serzhant,>" said the stranger, Nona grunting in return, trying to avoid giving the newcomer a look next. "<I am looking for the commissar.>"

"<There is no commissar,>" answered Nona. "<He was eaten by a bear a few days ago. Don't ask how he woke it up; we assume it was because he did something particularly stupid to the bear. I am the highest ranking woman here.>" She stepped, begrudgingly, away from the fire a little so that the other woman could see Nona better.

[Deleted]

The cold wind on the grounds paled in comparison to the icy gales that battered the damaged fuselage of Sam’s C47. He had been struggling with the controls for the last half an hour trying to keep the place in the air after being blasted by a German Messerschmitt that had dropped out of the sun. He had taken a nasty strafing run before his escort fighter, a Russian LaGG-3 no less, was able to engage it and give Sam the chance to make a break for it and so far he had been lucky. He looked over to his co-pilot, whose arms were hanging limply at his sides, his head hanging from his neck as if wanting to fall off. He had not been so lucky in the strafing run.
Sam only knew the man as “Gone”, a nickname he had picked up due to his ability to disappear from wherever he was meant to be, and whenever someone asked where he was or where he had been, the answer was always gone.

He really was gone now. Sam thought to himself as he continued to battle with the jerky controls. He was shaking from the cold so much that thought he might actually freeze to death before he could land. Looking around at the smashed cockpit he believed it would be a crash landing. He glanced back at his cargo, most of the crate had been smashed in the strafing run and their contents lay scattered on the floor, he didn’t even know what he was transporting until now. The shredded remains of warm weather clothing blew about like leafs in the wind. There where some crates that hadn’t been hit but they looked like they carried something different. Turning back to face the wind he found himself thinking that life just wasn’t fair. Here he was, sitting in his flight jacket that was all but failing to keep him warm, while not even five feet from him were crates of nice warm clothing.

The controls shuddered violently in his hands and he fought to keep them stable. He found himself wondering why the Russians had sent an escort fighter for him, if all he had was some crates of warm clothes, unless those bigger crates at the back had something important in them. He looked back again; glaring at the reinforced crates and noticed they had two large locks on their lids. Suddenly he wanted to know what was in those crates, if he was going to die out in the middle of an icy waist land, he at least wanted to know what he was dieing for. He looked over at his co-pilot, if only he had survived he would have been able to go back and try to open them.

As he was looking at the corpse beside him something caught his eye out in the frigid blue sky. A fighter was closing in on him, Sam watched it for a moment and guessed that it was on an intercept course with him, still too far away for him to tell wether it was his escort or the Messerschmitt, he held his course as best he could. It only took a few minutes for the fighter to come close enough for Sam to identify it as the Messerschmitt; he noticed that the fighter was trailing black smoke, which meant the LaGG-3 had damaged it. A cold shudder ran up his already cold spine as he watched it bearing down on him, a damaged fighter would still be able to knock him out of the sky with ease, but be damned if he was going to just sit here and let it.

He pulled on the controls, trying to get the bulky C47 to go into evasive manoeuvres, but a loud crack sounded through the aircraft and the controls jerked in his hands before going loose. Sam looked in horror at the limp controls as his plane began to loose altitude; he let go of the useless controls and gripped his seat, unable to do anything except ride the plane to the ground. The Messerschmitt opened fire on him as he descended, the bullets ripping into an engine and increasing his rate of decent, now he was also trailing smoke and dropping like a rock. A mountain loomed up ahead of him and, unable to do anything else, Sam glared and swore at it.

The wing clipped the side of a rocky outcrop and shredded, the C47 tumbled into the snow, breaking apart as the fuselage collided with rocks and boulders, scattered debris out into the snow. The cockpit broke away from the main hull and began to slide down the side of the mountain, bouncing off the various trees that dotted the side of the mountain. It came to a sudden and violent halt as it collided head on with a large group of trees, the cockpit caved in under the impact; the twisted bits of metal impaled the already dead co-pilot.

Sam hung loosely in his seat, his knuckles white as he gripped the belt. He realised he had been holding his breathe and let it out in a long whoosh while his mind worked over the fact that he was still alive. He looked over himself, finding only small cuts from the glass shattering; he let out a quick laugh. He had survived! The cold air reminded him that while he was indeed alive, he wouldn’t be for much longer if he didn’t get some warm clothing on, Sam thought about the crates of warm clothes that had been in the hull and turned around in his seat to see that the hull was scattered in various sized chunks all over the side of the mountain. Maybe some warm clothing had survived? Sam ripped at his buckle, intent on getting out and searching, but the buckle wouldn’t budge, it had been crushed in the crash and Sam was now pinned into his seat. He struggled to get himself free and let out a cry of frustration.

[☭Yaroslava Zolnyernova]

At exactly the moment Yaroslava heard the answer to her question, she heard the loud buzz of a plane’s propellers in the distance. It was an unusual sound considering that as far as Yarolsava had been informed, Soviet air support was non-existent this far out beyond the majority of the front. As a rule, units that broke the German lines and moved forward were not able to get as much support, unless the Party was informed and they had decided that moving forward was worthwhile. For the time being, the party had not decided that this breakthrough fulfilled the requirements.

Yaroslava looked toward the south west, the direction from which the plane seemed to be flying. The sound was getting louder as each second passed. As the highest-ranking soldier there, Yaroslava had a responsibility to take command. If the plane was not Soviet, it was most certainly German, which meant a strafing might ensue. She turned to the women next to her and bark out her orders “Спешите! Прикрывайте! Они будут обстреливать нас.” Most of the soldiers in the area began rushing off to the woods while others, the machine-gunners, prepared to fire on any plane that flew over.

As soon as they gunners had prepared themselves, the silhouette of a plane could be seen in the sky toward the west. Yaroslava had stayed with the machine-guns, and when she saw the plane she immediately recognized the sound and shape of an American C47. After months in England, she knew the signs like second nature. As the plane drew nearer, a spout of smoke was visible, coming from the engines; it was crashing.

Just as the plane crashed into the hill over the woods where the rest of the Soviet soldiers were hiding, Yaroslava could see a Messerschmitt. She turned to the gunners and yelled, “стреляйте!” As soon as the order was given, the soldiers at the guns started firing bursts of bullets at the German fighter, which fired back. The rounds planted themselves in the snow next to one of the machine guns and two of the men jumped in the other direction. The second machine gun hit the enemy fighter, which lost its port-side wing and began to spin out of control.

Yaroslava turned her attention to the smoldering crash site up the hill just as the German fighter produced a crash site, all its own, in the distance. The machine gunners kept their sights up, watching for another fighter. In the woods, the Soviet infantrymen were collecting themselves and watching out for another German fighter. Yaroslava walked carefully over them and kept her rifle at the ready. “товарищество, мы обыскиваем американском самолёт.”

She stepped forward toward the plane and a pair of riflemen followed her with their Mosins at the ready. Smoke continued to rise from the crash and fill the air in the woods as the group of Soviet soldiers made their way up the hill.

Translations:
“Спешите! Прикрывайте! Они будут обстреливать нас.”
-Hurry! Get cover! They’re going to strafe us.

“стреляйте!”
-Fire!

“товарищество, мы обыскиваем американском самолёт.”
-Comrades, we’re going to search the American plane.