Post by Tristan Herman on Jul 3, 2012 19:46:50 GMT
Character Name: Stanimir Zolnerowich
Rank: Captain
Nationality: Russian
History: There is an argument to be had, many will say, over whether a person can be a “natural born killer”. Everyone has the capacity to kill in some fashion. It's a prerequisite to being at the top of the food chain. The argument centers around the ability to kill another man. Mechanically and from the hip, with effortless gut reaction. The infamous “point-two percent” of the human population.
Some will suggest that it is a genetic thing. That you have to be born with the ability, and such people are usually crazed murderers who develop a fetish for their rare skill. On the flip side, the counter argument would be that such people don't exist, and that some individuals simply find a rhyme or reason to kill people.
But very few recognize the facts that may not be entirely apparent:
There are “natural born killers” in this world.
They are very capable of killing.
They come in many flavors.
Yes, you have those who are born with the trait: savages and murderers who would kill the entire human race for a good laugh if they had the capability. And you have the people who simply stumble across it in some life changing event.
And then you have Stanimir. Stanimir Zolnerowich.
His was a childhood that saw little beyond turmoil and struggle; the sob-story of the average human being in the former Russian Empire. Growing up, there was little food, not a lot of running water, deteriorating living conditions, and the familiar bite of the Russian winter to contend with. And, like every other survivor in the early days of the Union, he persevered and overcame; what else is there to do?
One could answer “suicide”, but it was neither a word, nor a concept, in Stanimir's vocabulary. While the world clashed in the West over a few miles of upturned French soil, he found himself, a four year old boy, in the churning, tumultuous tide of the Russian civil war. All at once, the “Bolsheviks”, the “White Army”, the “Finns”, the “Siberians”, everyone determined that his home was all one big meat pie that every last fool had to get their grubby hands on.
But he was only a boy. A boy few in years, and less in experience. And for such a young mind to be flooded with the horrors of war, famine, hardship, and massacre is nothing short of a crime against humanity. It is a fate worse than death, in some ways.
Why this is? Stanimir, against any possible notion of a whim, was thrust into a constant survival mindset. From the day the civil war started, his fate and purpose as a human being was sealed. He was instilled with the idea that murder was a natural part of life. And while death may be, killing entire races and factions based upon an egotist's idealistic ramblings is not.
Stanimir, by the age of eight, was given all the necessary tools to become a murderer. It was an ability that gave him something of an advantage in the years to come.
With no family, and being too young to hold employment (let alone wholly understand the necessity for it) Stanimir used what little morality his deceased parents had left him with, and set about stealing and killing for food. He made it a point to target people who he felt were undeserving as well; he made it into something of a game to pass the long hours he'd spend executing the actions. He had a brilliant mind, a killing instinct, and the guts to do whatever was necessary to survive.
It was several October the eighths before Stanimir would turn eighteen in 1931. The time was interlaced with a string of just under two dozen murders, countless burglaries, and an assortment of muggings. Mind you, the Zolnerowich boy wasn't mindless in action. Rather, he was very calculating. Every movement, every thought, every decision had purpose. No life ended by his hand without reason. Someone who'd molested their child, embezzled from the evidence locker, or simply an unnecessarily malicious individual, he took only from those who deserved his demented brand of self-sustaining justice.
On his eighteenth birthday, Stanimir knew he was up for mandatory service with the Leningrad cadre. And while the young man knew they wouldn't necessarily find him, he felt that, perhaps, there was a chance to do more killing. A way to, with amnesty from the government of a most powerful nation, take more lives. To fit in, and do what came naturally to him without having to run or hide.
So he enlisted. And, at the time, he felt it to be the single greatest decision he'd ever made.
Training was a simple endeavor. Years of life running, fighting, struggling, and surviving made the normally brutal training regimen a run of the mill routine. Even in presence of other men who had, presumably, been through similar forms of Hell as he, it was a painfully apparent fact that in a free for all battle, Stanimir was the best equipped of the bunch. The instructors took instant note of this, saddling him with the rank of Komandir Zvena right out of boot. Yet the accolades did not stop there.
It became something of a reflex for him to habitually sign anything that involved the word “deployment” or “duties” which was presented to him.
Rebellion in Siberia? Stanimir Zolnerowich
Suppression of worker strike in Kiev? Stanimir Zolnerowich
Invasion of Finland? Stanimir Zolnerowich
The Winter War was perhaps the first time the promoted Starshina was ever given the chance to “shine” in a place that was truly his element. A live combat zone in a full scale war was everything his murderous subconscious ever wanted. He demonstrated the full extent of his “ability” to his superiors countless times. One instance in particular, involving the Finnish town of Kuusamo, landed him his officer commission.
As the Winter War ended, Stanimir flew through officer's training to receive a command in the occupied lands of East Poland. And nothing pleased his killer instinct more. The intellectual, placed somewhere in his muddied mind, knew very well that there was a war coming with the Germans. Hitler and Stalin could shag in open channels all they wanted, but the Mldashiy Leytenant knew that one way or the other the Union and the Reich would come to blows. That killer instinct wanted to be there at the tip of the spear, waiting for every able bodied Kraut to land belly first on the point.
There is a killer instinct, as our young friend has demonstrated. It was given to him by the wills of the world. He knows little beyond murder and survival. And his morale compass can deal with it, as long as it's justified.
But there is one final element that both sides of that argument fail to recognize when they speak of the “natural born killer”. The crucial, most blatantly important element of that fabled “point-two percent”.
Killers and murderers become famous from their horrific actions. They give pause for the “unspeakable” and “inhuman” acts that they commit.
No one ever questions the reason.
No one ever questions the drive.
So if you wish to care about the story of Stanimir...
If you wish to know about a boy turned into a killing machine...
Should you find the time to give his story even the briefest of looks...
You must keep one thing in mind:
There is a man in that mind, sharing space with a killer.
And maybe, just maybe, he's doing everything he can to keep it under control.
Writing Sample: It seemed, to Stanimir, that gunfire was most akin to the beat of drums. Every burst, every shot, every spray. Those were his tribal war drums. His cadence march. His beating heart. As he spent more time around them, he felt more and more comforted by the sound. Rather, the killer in him was soothed and relaxed. Not into sleep, but into submission. The more dominant and humane aspect of his mind was able to assert command over it. In a sense, the two divisions had a symbiotic relationship: the killer kept the man alive, and the man kept the killer in check.
“Starshina,” a cry rang out. Three meters from Zolnerowich's left, braced in cover against the same cobblestone wall as himself, was the platoon commander. One Mladshiy Leytenant Nikolai Gregovichy. He was noticeably (and significantly) younger than Stanimir, and mentally so in a further sense than should be expected. The officer had a tendency to jump at the slightest of movements, even from allies. What's more was the boy's stupidity in the face of the Political Officer, Politruk Jorge Borovin.
It wasn't so much that the man was terrified of the Politruk, it was that he had this insatiable habit of trying to please the man, who was far less strategically and tactically competent than he. The Starshina himself couldn't quite attest to any trained ability, but Stanimir certainly had enough common sense and forethought to avoid shooing anyone who disagreed with him.
“Yes, sir,” Stanimir faithfully replied. As Finnish bullets continued to whisk over his head and chip away small bits of the top most stones, Zolnerowich was already concocting a plan on how to deal with the Politruk. He'd come to the conclusion that morning that Borovin both deserved and needed to die. His continued pseudo-command over the platoon would likely have a detrimental effect on Stanimir's life span.
“Where is the Politruk?” It was apparently time for the first “dumbass” moment of the day.
“Across the way from you, sir.” Sure enough, Jorge Borovin was two meters away on the other side of the sunken road, still in complete defilade (unfortunately). The leytenant, visibly embarrassed that a subordinate had made him look a fool, despite the fact that he was, turned to the political officer and sputtered out a query, breath and saliva freezing as it escaped his idiotic mouth.
“Boroniv, we can't advance from here! The Finns are too well dug in!” And then came the inevitable wave of stupidity in the form of a question:
“What should we do?” That single moment was one of the few instances in life where a man must concede that he is about to die. Whatever the Politruk was about to “advise” the Leytenant to do would likely get them all killed.
Borovin took a few moments to process the plea for aid. What could the platoon possibly do to get them out of this situation? Fall back and regroup with the rest of the company for a more thorough assault? Divide the platoon into fire teams and lead an attack on the nearest cluster of houses from all sides? Call for a smoke screen? Beg for artillery support?
“Ready the men for a charge!” At the utterance of this further horror, Starshina Zolnerowich was thankful that he knew better than to trust his superior officer at this moment in time. Concurrently, he finished formulating his nasty little plan to deal with the Politruk, and ensure his own survival. He turned to his squad, and very plainly instructed them:“Belay all the Leytenant's orders. Listen to me now.” There were a few curious murmurs from his men, but they all trusted him enough to listen. After all, Stanimir had eight years in the service under his belt. They all had two at most.
Gregovichy was, in the meantime, rallying the platoon for the charge. The other twenty-something men of the group were about to die. If Stanimir was lucky, and he usually was, the pieces would fall into place exactly the way he planned.
“On my mark,” Gregovichy howled. The wind and snow was beginning to pick up ever so slightly. The leytenant frightfully peeked over the wall one final time, narrowly dodging a few shots. Truly, it was a marvel that this man had survived as long as he had, let alone been assigned a command. A brief, relative silence fell over the platoon, waiting for the sheepish commanding officer to give the order. The man was evidently conflicted. Very apparently, he was terrified. He knew that he was going to die.
“Charge!” But Gregovichy was an idiot.
The whole of the Platoon vaulted the wall in a matter of seconds, save for the Starshina, his squad, and Politruk Borovin, who had taken to mounting the wall in a clumsy, “heroic” fashion, firing his Tokarev at the Finns rather wildly.
Time to take action.
Before Borovin could notice Stanimir and his squad hunkered down in the relative safety of the wall, the Starshina had directed the muzzle of his PPD to the lank, ill-fit form of the Politruk. There was a fraction of a second between the man turning his head to notice Stanimir, and Stanimir pressing down on the trigger for a quarter of a second. Death was instantaneous.
When Borovin's body hit the ground, the silence remained within the sunken road. Just beyond the wall, the cries of pain and bursts of bolt-actions could still be heard as the lives of his platoon were shamelessly wasted by his superior, who was likely already dead by then. The twenty-six year-old man turned his head to his squad. There were a few looks of confusion an disbelief, but he could sense their acceptance.
Now all that remained was to make everything work in his favor. But this part of his plan had been something of a gamble from the beginning. He was counting on the tactical intelligence of the enemy commander to advance to the road itself.
“Spread out along the wall. Two meter spacing. Ready grenades.” They would need to be fast, efficient, and concise. Things that the career soldier could only count on himself to do really. But he knew he couldn't take on an entire squad by himself. Never mind an entire platoon.
He took up position on the wall again with the rest of the squad, and began to feel around the cobblestone with his nearly frozen, open palm, gently pressing on each rock until he found one that appeared loose enough. Grabbing the PPD by the barrel with both hands, he began to slam on the stone with the butt of the weapon until it came loose, falling into the snow on the far side, and opening up a small, four inch by three inch slit in the wall. Perfect. Now all that was left was to pray.
Keeping his eyes on the village some fifty meters away, his hands fiddled around his belt, pulling two stick grenades from their pouch. He let the heads rest on his thigh, while an index finger tapped the wooden handle impatiently. In the snowy field, he could just barely see the coats of his deceased comrades in the foot-deep snow. There were a few of them writhing about. Some breathing their last, shallow breaths. Somewhere in there, Gregovichy was either dead or dying. All the better to keep Stanimir alive and killing a bit longer.
Finally, the Finns began to creep from the confines of the houses, armed exclusively with Nagants. Just their luck, he supposed. They were going to, unknowingly, assault them mid and long range weapons. It was about a half a minute before he decided the last of the enemy had evacuated the structures, and he made a quick head count. Roughly twenty men; a squad or two. It wouldn't be an easy feat, but they didn't have much choice at this point as the Finns picked up the pace, half-running toward the wall.
“Grenades, on my go.” There were a few nods, and the universal loosening of the caps on the grenades, readying them. Stanimir hurriedly unscrewed both of his, holding onto them gently by the pull strings while he watched with great intent as the unsuspecting Finns approached the wall with lowered weapons.
When they were finally a mere five meters away, with all eyes on him, Stanimir plainly, yet, audibly, commanded them to toss the ordinance. A total of seven grenades were sent over the wall and into the enemy ranks. A few cries of warning escaped the enemy's mouths before the explosives went off, punching through them with bits of shrapnel. As the rest of them, presumably prepared for combat, Stanimir grabbed his PPD once more, wrapping his fingers around the pistol grip, and placing the butt on his right shoulder, with his remaining hand grabbing hold of the drum magazine. He had a little less than seventy-one shots, and there were, even if all the Finns had survived the volley of grenades (and they hadn't), twenty of them. Three shots per man, and a few left for error. Not the best odds.
One-hundred meters to the rear of the sunken road, just outside of Kuusamo, the whole of the 14th Rifle Division was making it's slow approach to support Stanimir's own group, the 52nd. At the front of the line was one Kapitan Yuri Valik, commander of 4th Battalion, 2nd Company. As his company began crossing a wide stream, the sound of explosives going off in the distance reached the Kapitan's ears. Suddenly alert, his eyes darted around the horizon for the source as the rest of the company began to check their weaponry, preparing for inevitable combat.
He quickly ascertained the origin of the detonation. A small ditch of some sort, bordered by a waist-high wall. Shouldering his weapon, Valik brought his binoculars up from his chest, witnessing the attack unfold.
Stanimir rose from his position behind the wall, the squad mirroring his action, and targeted the closest man, sending a brief burst of fire into the target. He repeated the action in an almost machine-like fashion, shifting from man to man and firing. The killer in him smiled with pure glee, fueling his adrenaline ever more with each extinguished life; it was a borderline mindless, euphoric feeling that superseded the man within him. At the far reaches of his mind, the normal human being that was Stanimir shuddered in a dark corner, clawing at his hair in bewilderment, horror, and shame while the beast did it's work.
But something precarious dawned on him. There were easily more than twenty men before him. As he dispatched his fourth man, this revelation suddenly became very clear. Fanned out, from right to left, there were easily a total of forty men before him and his squad, who were frightfully taking out Finns one by one with their own Nagants.
They were going to be overwhelmed.
But the Finns, clearly frightened and confused by the sneak attack, had been put at a disadvantage of sorts. As the enemy continued their blind charge on the wall, Stanimir swapped his magazine, perhaps for the very last time, and awaited the seemingly inevitable close quarters engagement.
As the first of them came upon him, he continued to almost animalistically pick the enemy off with brief bursts. Several began attaching bayonets to their weapons, and the Starshina soon found them being thrust at his person. Witch much luck and agility, he grabbed hold of the icy-cold wooden hand guard toward the weapon's front, yanked the make-shift spear from the attacker's hands, and delivered a knock-out hit with the barrel of his PPD.
Another arrived at the wall, challenging him in close combat, who was quickly killed with a wild burst of fire from Stanimir's SMG. A further man charged, only to be impaled upon the Mosin's bayonet, and cast aside. Similar actions followed. Finns met with a quick burst from the PPD, shots missing the men by inches in the closer confines of the engagement, Stanimir impaling and beating the attackers. But with each corpse, it became more and more obvious that they would not last as the Finns leaped the wall on either side of him, killing his squad mates with bayonet, knife, or bare hands, until he himself was caught in the shoulder by a bayonet, slipping backward down the slope into the road.
This was it. He was going to be butchered on a filthy road, covered in snow and ice, surrounded by the fallen corpses of his countrymen. He began to recount his life as the killer admitted defeat and receded into his mind for the last time. The man, the human being, lamented every life he'd taken. The people he had killed for any number of reasons. The years spent alone, with no one to show him a better way. The icy personality he'd adopted to keep others away. The thousands of plans he'd crafted to kill every last person he ever knew. He regretted his entire life. And now he would die as he had lived. But at the very least it was over. At least he wouldn't have to kill anyone ever again. Wouldn't have to feel that biting pain and regret.
Until a shot shattered the skull of the man before him, knocking him asunder like a discarded glove.
Stanimir tumbled down the slope, onto the sunken road, landing rather painfully on his back. For some time, he could not tell how long, he was unable to draw breath. His lungs refused to cooperate with him. Down the line, as the rest of his charges were being finished off, men in greatcoats sallied into the sunken road, taking the Finns by surprise yet again. Just as the enemy went into full retreat, he inhaled once more, and felt hands pulling him to his feet. Still in something of a daze, he could not instantly recognize what was happening to him; that he was still alive.
“What is your name and rank, soldier?” Zolnerowich could do little more than blink his beleaguered eyes. The question came again.
“Name and rank?” The inquiry registered this time.
“Starshina Zolnerowich. Fifty-second rifle division, third battalion, third company.” Kapitan Valik brought himself front and center before Stanimir, looking the Starshina over. The squad leader had sustained a series of cuts and witnessed a few close calls. In addition to the deep stab in his shoulder, he had shrugged off a shot that skirted his hand to the point of gashing it, and two graze-marks decorated his right temple and chin. The man's black hair was glistening with frozen sweat and blood, and his uniform drenched with the latter, almost exclusively belonging to the Finns.
The Kapitan glanced up the slope to the wall, and observed a total of nine bodies belonging to the attackers, all dead. Returning his gaze to the murderous Zolnerowich, he announced:
“You saved a lot of my mens' lives in that god-like stand of yours there, you know that?” Stanimir shook his head, not quite understanding.
“That position would have been ideal for an ambush. If we'd been hit by that many of them by surprise, they may have taken out the company.” Stanimir still couldn't comprehend what the Kapitan was saying to him, and continued with a blank, tired stare.
“You're a hero, is what I am saying, Starshina. We owe you our lives.” He would go on the rest of the day in a confused, exhausted state. It would only dawn on him that night, during a much deserved rest, what had happened earlier that day. He couldn't decide whether it was a stoke of luck, or if he'd simply been in the right place at the right time. Granted, he'd planned the ambush with the soul purpose of saving his life, and defeating the enemy at the same time, thus fueling the killer into submission. If it had been luck that he had survived the encounter alone, then chances were he'd used up all of his luck for a life time.
Within a few days, he received his commission to Mldashiy Leytenant. It was a direct result, apparently, of his actions at Kuusamo. He ended up filling the position of his former platoon commander.
In a sense, everything had panned out perfectly for him. He'd survived, gotten his fill of murder for some time, and been promoted once again.
At the same time, the man in him, not the killer, was still mournful of his continued existence. Mournful that he hadn't died in that sunken road outside of the town.
No matter what he achieved in life, it seemed, he would still be a slave to that murderous instinct that was instilled in him as a boy. It seemed that there was no way out of it...
Or was there?
[[For clarification, I would like to note two things:
One, I am applying for the Soviet Red Army rank of “Starshiy Leytenant”, which is the Soviet equivalent of the rank of “Captain”.
Two, I would like to point out that the bit where Stanimir holds off the Finnish assault is a tad over the top as far a “god-modding” goes. It's meant more as a plot device to get him an officer commission, and help characterize how dangerous that part of him is. I am fully aware of what the limits are to a character. He can not take on a company of armed men (which I repeatedly stated he did not and could not). Sorry if I am coming off as hostile or overly defensive. Just a heads-up c: . ]]
Rank: Captain
Nationality: Russian
History: There is an argument to be had, many will say, over whether a person can be a “natural born killer”. Everyone has the capacity to kill in some fashion. It's a prerequisite to being at the top of the food chain. The argument centers around the ability to kill another man. Mechanically and from the hip, with effortless gut reaction. The infamous “point-two percent” of the human population.
Some will suggest that it is a genetic thing. That you have to be born with the ability, and such people are usually crazed murderers who develop a fetish for their rare skill. On the flip side, the counter argument would be that such people don't exist, and that some individuals simply find a rhyme or reason to kill people.
But very few recognize the facts that may not be entirely apparent:
There are “natural born killers” in this world.
They are very capable of killing.
They come in many flavors.
Yes, you have those who are born with the trait: savages and murderers who would kill the entire human race for a good laugh if they had the capability. And you have the people who simply stumble across it in some life changing event.
And then you have Stanimir. Stanimir Zolnerowich.
His was a childhood that saw little beyond turmoil and struggle; the sob-story of the average human being in the former Russian Empire. Growing up, there was little food, not a lot of running water, deteriorating living conditions, and the familiar bite of the Russian winter to contend with. And, like every other survivor in the early days of the Union, he persevered and overcame; what else is there to do?
One could answer “suicide”, but it was neither a word, nor a concept, in Stanimir's vocabulary. While the world clashed in the West over a few miles of upturned French soil, he found himself, a four year old boy, in the churning, tumultuous tide of the Russian civil war. All at once, the “Bolsheviks”, the “White Army”, the “Finns”, the “Siberians”, everyone determined that his home was all one big meat pie that every last fool had to get their grubby hands on.
But he was only a boy. A boy few in years, and less in experience. And for such a young mind to be flooded with the horrors of war, famine, hardship, and massacre is nothing short of a crime against humanity. It is a fate worse than death, in some ways.
Why this is? Stanimir, against any possible notion of a whim, was thrust into a constant survival mindset. From the day the civil war started, his fate and purpose as a human being was sealed. He was instilled with the idea that murder was a natural part of life. And while death may be, killing entire races and factions based upon an egotist's idealistic ramblings is not.
Stanimir, by the age of eight, was given all the necessary tools to become a murderer. It was an ability that gave him something of an advantage in the years to come.
With no family, and being too young to hold employment (let alone wholly understand the necessity for it) Stanimir used what little morality his deceased parents had left him with, and set about stealing and killing for food. He made it a point to target people who he felt were undeserving as well; he made it into something of a game to pass the long hours he'd spend executing the actions. He had a brilliant mind, a killing instinct, and the guts to do whatever was necessary to survive.
It was several October the eighths before Stanimir would turn eighteen in 1931. The time was interlaced with a string of just under two dozen murders, countless burglaries, and an assortment of muggings. Mind you, the Zolnerowich boy wasn't mindless in action. Rather, he was very calculating. Every movement, every thought, every decision had purpose. No life ended by his hand without reason. Someone who'd molested their child, embezzled from the evidence locker, or simply an unnecessarily malicious individual, he took only from those who deserved his demented brand of self-sustaining justice.
On his eighteenth birthday, Stanimir knew he was up for mandatory service with the Leningrad cadre. And while the young man knew they wouldn't necessarily find him, he felt that, perhaps, there was a chance to do more killing. A way to, with amnesty from the government of a most powerful nation, take more lives. To fit in, and do what came naturally to him without having to run or hide.
So he enlisted. And, at the time, he felt it to be the single greatest decision he'd ever made.
Training was a simple endeavor. Years of life running, fighting, struggling, and surviving made the normally brutal training regimen a run of the mill routine. Even in presence of other men who had, presumably, been through similar forms of Hell as he, it was a painfully apparent fact that in a free for all battle, Stanimir was the best equipped of the bunch. The instructors took instant note of this, saddling him with the rank of Komandir Zvena right out of boot. Yet the accolades did not stop there.
It became something of a reflex for him to habitually sign anything that involved the word “deployment” or “duties” which was presented to him.
Rebellion in Siberia? Stanimir Zolnerowich
Suppression of worker strike in Kiev? Stanimir Zolnerowich
Invasion of Finland? Stanimir Zolnerowich
The Winter War was perhaps the first time the promoted Starshina was ever given the chance to “shine” in a place that was truly his element. A live combat zone in a full scale war was everything his murderous subconscious ever wanted. He demonstrated the full extent of his “ability” to his superiors countless times. One instance in particular, involving the Finnish town of Kuusamo, landed him his officer commission.
As the Winter War ended, Stanimir flew through officer's training to receive a command in the occupied lands of East Poland. And nothing pleased his killer instinct more. The intellectual, placed somewhere in his muddied mind, knew very well that there was a war coming with the Germans. Hitler and Stalin could shag in open channels all they wanted, but the Mldashiy Leytenant knew that one way or the other the Union and the Reich would come to blows. That killer instinct wanted to be there at the tip of the spear, waiting for every able bodied Kraut to land belly first on the point.
There is a killer instinct, as our young friend has demonstrated. It was given to him by the wills of the world. He knows little beyond murder and survival. And his morale compass can deal with it, as long as it's justified.
But there is one final element that both sides of that argument fail to recognize when they speak of the “natural born killer”. The crucial, most blatantly important element of that fabled “point-two percent”.
Killers and murderers become famous from their horrific actions. They give pause for the “unspeakable” and “inhuman” acts that they commit.
No one ever questions the reason.
No one ever questions the drive.
So if you wish to care about the story of Stanimir...
If you wish to know about a boy turned into a killing machine...
Should you find the time to give his story even the briefest of looks...
You must keep one thing in mind:
There is a man in that mind, sharing space with a killer.
And maybe, just maybe, he's doing everything he can to keep it under control.
Writing Sample: It seemed, to Stanimir, that gunfire was most akin to the beat of drums. Every burst, every shot, every spray. Those were his tribal war drums. His cadence march. His beating heart. As he spent more time around them, he felt more and more comforted by the sound. Rather, the killer in him was soothed and relaxed. Not into sleep, but into submission. The more dominant and humane aspect of his mind was able to assert command over it. In a sense, the two divisions had a symbiotic relationship: the killer kept the man alive, and the man kept the killer in check.
“Starshina,” a cry rang out. Three meters from Zolnerowich's left, braced in cover against the same cobblestone wall as himself, was the platoon commander. One Mladshiy Leytenant Nikolai Gregovichy. He was noticeably (and significantly) younger than Stanimir, and mentally so in a further sense than should be expected. The officer had a tendency to jump at the slightest of movements, even from allies. What's more was the boy's stupidity in the face of the Political Officer, Politruk Jorge Borovin.
It wasn't so much that the man was terrified of the Politruk, it was that he had this insatiable habit of trying to please the man, who was far less strategically and tactically competent than he. The Starshina himself couldn't quite attest to any trained ability, but Stanimir certainly had enough common sense and forethought to avoid shooing anyone who disagreed with him.
“Yes, sir,” Stanimir faithfully replied. As Finnish bullets continued to whisk over his head and chip away small bits of the top most stones, Zolnerowich was already concocting a plan on how to deal with the Politruk. He'd come to the conclusion that morning that Borovin both deserved and needed to die. His continued pseudo-command over the platoon would likely have a detrimental effect on Stanimir's life span.
“Where is the Politruk?” It was apparently time for the first “dumbass” moment of the day.
“Across the way from you, sir.” Sure enough, Jorge Borovin was two meters away on the other side of the sunken road, still in complete defilade (unfortunately). The leytenant, visibly embarrassed that a subordinate had made him look a fool, despite the fact that he was, turned to the political officer and sputtered out a query, breath and saliva freezing as it escaped his idiotic mouth.
“Boroniv, we can't advance from here! The Finns are too well dug in!” And then came the inevitable wave of stupidity in the form of a question:
“What should we do?” That single moment was one of the few instances in life where a man must concede that he is about to die. Whatever the Politruk was about to “advise” the Leytenant to do would likely get them all killed.
Borovin took a few moments to process the plea for aid. What could the platoon possibly do to get them out of this situation? Fall back and regroup with the rest of the company for a more thorough assault? Divide the platoon into fire teams and lead an attack on the nearest cluster of houses from all sides? Call for a smoke screen? Beg for artillery support?
“Ready the men for a charge!” At the utterance of this further horror, Starshina Zolnerowich was thankful that he knew better than to trust his superior officer at this moment in time. Concurrently, he finished formulating his nasty little plan to deal with the Politruk, and ensure his own survival. He turned to his squad, and very plainly instructed them:“Belay all the Leytenant's orders. Listen to me now.” There were a few curious murmurs from his men, but they all trusted him enough to listen. After all, Stanimir had eight years in the service under his belt. They all had two at most.
Gregovichy was, in the meantime, rallying the platoon for the charge. The other twenty-something men of the group were about to die. If Stanimir was lucky, and he usually was, the pieces would fall into place exactly the way he planned.
“On my mark,” Gregovichy howled. The wind and snow was beginning to pick up ever so slightly. The leytenant frightfully peeked over the wall one final time, narrowly dodging a few shots. Truly, it was a marvel that this man had survived as long as he had, let alone been assigned a command. A brief, relative silence fell over the platoon, waiting for the sheepish commanding officer to give the order. The man was evidently conflicted. Very apparently, he was terrified. He knew that he was going to die.
“Charge!” But Gregovichy was an idiot.
The whole of the Platoon vaulted the wall in a matter of seconds, save for the Starshina, his squad, and Politruk Borovin, who had taken to mounting the wall in a clumsy, “heroic” fashion, firing his Tokarev at the Finns rather wildly.
Time to take action.
Before Borovin could notice Stanimir and his squad hunkered down in the relative safety of the wall, the Starshina had directed the muzzle of his PPD to the lank, ill-fit form of the Politruk. There was a fraction of a second between the man turning his head to notice Stanimir, and Stanimir pressing down on the trigger for a quarter of a second. Death was instantaneous.
When Borovin's body hit the ground, the silence remained within the sunken road. Just beyond the wall, the cries of pain and bursts of bolt-actions could still be heard as the lives of his platoon were shamelessly wasted by his superior, who was likely already dead by then. The twenty-six year-old man turned his head to his squad. There were a few looks of confusion an disbelief, but he could sense their acceptance.
Now all that remained was to make everything work in his favor. But this part of his plan had been something of a gamble from the beginning. He was counting on the tactical intelligence of the enemy commander to advance to the road itself.
“Spread out along the wall. Two meter spacing. Ready grenades.” They would need to be fast, efficient, and concise. Things that the career soldier could only count on himself to do really. But he knew he couldn't take on an entire squad by himself. Never mind an entire platoon.
He took up position on the wall again with the rest of the squad, and began to feel around the cobblestone with his nearly frozen, open palm, gently pressing on each rock until he found one that appeared loose enough. Grabbing the PPD by the barrel with both hands, he began to slam on the stone with the butt of the weapon until it came loose, falling into the snow on the far side, and opening up a small, four inch by three inch slit in the wall. Perfect. Now all that was left was to pray.
Keeping his eyes on the village some fifty meters away, his hands fiddled around his belt, pulling two stick grenades from their pouch. He let the heads rest on his thigh, while an index finger tapped the wooden handle impatiently. In the snowy field, he could just barely see the coats of his deceased comrades in the foot-deep snow. There were a few of them writhing about. Some breathing their last, shallow breaths. Somewhere in there, Gregovichy was either dead or dying. All the better to keep Stanimir alive and killing a bit longer.
Finally, the Finns began to creep from the confines of the houses, armed exclusively with Nagants. Just their luck, he supposed. They were going to, unknowingly, assault them mid and long range weapons. It was about a half a minute before he decided the last of the enemy had evacuated the structures, and he made a quick head count. Roughly twenty men; a squad or two. It wouldn't be an easy feat, but they didn't have much choice at this point as the Finns picked up the pace, half-running toward the wall.
“Grenades, on my go.” There were a few nods, and the universal loosening of the caps on the grenades, readying them. Stanimir hurriedly unscrewed both of his, holding onto them gently by the pull strings while he watched with great intent as the unsuspecting Finns approached the wall with lowered weapons.
When they were finally a mere five meters away, with all eyes on him, Stanimir plainly, yet, audibly, commanded them to toss the ordinance. A total of seven grenades were sent over the wall and into the enemy ranks. A few cries of warning escaped the enemy's mouths before the explosives went off, punching through them with bits of shrapnel. As the rest of them, presumably prepared for combat, Stanimir grabbed his PPD once more, wrapping his fingers around the pistol grip, and placing the butt on his right shoulder, with his remaining hand grabbing hold of the drum magazine. He had a little less than seventy-one shots, and there were, even if all the Finns had survived the volley of grenades (and they hadn't), twenty of them. Three shots per man, and a few left for error. Not the best odds.
One-hundred meters to the rear of the sunken road, just outside of Kuusamo, the whole of the 14th Rifle Division was making it's slow approach to support Stanimir's own group, the 52nd. At the front of the line was one Kapitan Yuri Valik, commander of 4th Battalion, 2nd Company. As his company began crossing a wide stream, the sound of explosives going off in the distance reached the Kapitan's ears. Suddenly alert, his eyes darted around the horizon for the source as the rest of the company began to check their weaponry, preparing for inevitable combat.
He quickly ascertained the origin of the detonation. A small ditch of some sort, bordered by a waist-high wall. Shouldering his weapon, Valik brought his binoculars up from his chest, witnessing the attack unfold.
Stanimir rose from his position behind the wall, the squad mirroring his action, and targeted the closest man, sending a brief burst of fire into the target. He repeated the action in an almost machine-like fashion, shifting from man to man and firing. The killer in him smiled with pure glee, fueling his adrenaline ever more with each extinguished life; it was a borderline mindless, euphoric feeling that superseded the man within him. At the far reaches of his mind, the normal human being that was Stanimir shuddered in a dark corner, clawing at his hair in bewilderment, horror, and shame while the beast did it's work.
But something precarious dawned on him. There were easily more than twenty men before him. As he dispatched his fourth man, this revelation suddenly became very clear. Fanned out, from right to left, there were easily a total of forty men before him and his squad, who were frightfully taking out Finns one by one with their own Nagants.
They were going to be overwhelmed.
But the Finns, clearly frightened and confused by the sneak attack, had been put at a disadvantage of sorts. As the enemy continued their blind charge on the wall, Stanimir swapped his magazine, perhaps for the very last time, and awaited the seemingly inevitable close quarters engagement.
As the first of them came upon him, he continued to almost animalistically pick the enemy off with brief bursts. Several began attaching bayonets to their weapons, and the Starshina soon found them being thrust at his person. Witch much luck and agility, he grabbed hold of the icy-cold wooden hand guard toward the weapon's front, yanked the make-shift spear from the attacker's hands, and delivered a knock-out hit with the barrel of his PPD.
Another arrived at the wall, challenging him in close combat, who was quickly killed with a wild burst of fire from Stanimir's SMG. A further man charged, only to be impaled upon the Mosin's bayonet, and cast aside. Similar actions followed. Finns met with a quick burst from the PPD, shots missing the men by inches in the closer confines of the engagement, Stanimir impaling and beating the attackers. But with each corpse, it became more and more obvious that they would not last as the Finns leaped the wall on either side of him, killing his squad mates with bayonet, knife, or bare hands, until he himself was caught in the shoulder by a bayonet, slipping backward down the slope into the road.
This was it. He was going to be butchered on a filthy road, covered in snow and ice, surrounded by the fallen corpses of his countrymen. He began to recount his life as the killer admitted defeat and receded into his mind for the last time. The man, the human being, lamented every life he'd taken. The people he had killed for any number of reasons. The years spent alone, with no one to show him a better way. The icy personality he'd adopted to keep others away. The thousands of plans he'd crafted to kill every last person he ever knew. He regretted his entire life. And now he would die as he had lived. But at the very least it was over. At least he wouldn't have to kill anyone ever again. Wouldn't have to feel that biting pain and regret.
Until a shot shattered the skull of the man before him, knocking him asunder like a discarded glove.
Stanimir tumbled down the slope, onto the sunken road, landing rather painfully on his back. For some time, he could not tell how long, he was unable to draw breath. His lungs refused to cooperate with him. Down the line, as the rest of his charges were being finished off, men in greatcoats sallied into the sunken road, taking the Finns by surprise yet again. Just as the enemy went into full retreat, he inhaled once more, and felt hands pulling him to his feet. Still in something of a daze, he could not instantly recognize what was happening to him; that he was still alive.
“What is your name and rank, soldier?” Zolnerowich could do little more than blink his beleaguered eyes. The question came again.
“Name and rank?” The inquiry registered this time.
“Starshina Zolnerowich. Fifty-second rifle division, third battalion, third company.” Kapitan Valik brought himself front and center before Stanimir, looking the Starshina over. The squad leader had sustained a series of cuts and witnessed a few close calls. In addition to the deep stab in his shoulder, he had shrugged off a shot that skirted his hand to the point of gashing it, and two graze-marks decorated his right temple and chin. The man's black hair was glistening with frozen sweat and blood, and his uniform drenched with the latter, almost exclusively belonging to the Finns.
The Kapitan glanced up the slope to the wall, and observed a total of nine bodies belonging to the attackers, all dead. Returning his gaze to the murderous Zolnerowich, he announced:
“You saved a lot of my mens' lives in that god-like stand of yours there, you know that?” Stanimir shook his head, not quite understanding.
“That position would have been ideal for an ambush. If we'd been hit by that many of them by surprise, they may have taken out the company.” Stanimir still couldn't comprehend what the Kapitan was saying to him, and continued with a blank, tired stare.
“You're a hero, is what I am saying, Starshina. We owe you our lives.” He would go on the rest of the day in a confused, exhausted state. It would only dawn on him that night, during a much deserved rest, what had happened earlier that day. He couldn't decide whether it was a stoke of luck, or if he'd simply been in the right place at the right time. Granted, he'd planned the ambush with the soul purpose of saving his life, and defeating the enemy at the same time, thus fueling the killer into submission. If it had been luck that he had survived the encounter alone, then chances were he'd used up all of his luck for a life time.
Within a few days, he received his commission to Mldashiy Leytenant. It was a direct result, apparently, of his actions at Kuusamo. He ended up filling the position of his former platoon commander.
In a sense, everything had panned out perfectly for him. He'd survived, gotten his fill of murder for some time, and been promoted once again.
At the same time, the man in him, not the killer, was still mournful of his continued existence. Mournful that he hadn't died in that sunken road outside of the town.
No matter what he achieved in life, it seemed, he would still be a slave to that murderous instinct that was instilled in him as a boy. It seemed that there was no way out of it...
Or was there?
[[For clarification, I would like to note two things:
One, I am applying for the Soviet Red Army rank of “Starshiy Leytenant”, which is the Soviet equivalent of the rank of “Captain”.
Two, I would like to point out that the bit where Stanimir holds off the Finnish assault is a tad over the top as far a “god-modding” goes. It's meant more as a plot device to get him an officer commission, and help characterize how dangerous that part of him is. I am fully aware of what the limits are to a character. He can not take on a company of armed men (which I repeatedly stated he did not and could not). Sorry if I am coming off as hostile or overly defensive. Just a heads-up c: . ]]
