Red storm rising (Nikita)

[Sergey Anatkin]

Location: the cellar of a destroyed factory building in Stalingrad, Russia
Current Time: 29. September 1942, 10:00
Weather Conditions: heavy rain, just some degrees over freezing

It was raining now for almost a week. Everything was wet and the landscape turned into one giant mud hole. Sergey’s thoughts went back to his home. The warmth and peace of the little wooden house of his father appeared like paradise to him. But all of that was gone now. His father was dead and the small house nothing more than a smoking crate. Dare you, German beasts. He shivered and tried to absorb some more heath from the small oven in the middle of the room. Maybe it was even better not to think about it at all.

They were fighting now for two weeks in the same industrial complex. Sometimes the Germans managed to push them back for some metres, but some hours later the Russians always took these buildings back and prepared new defensive positions. Today, Sergey and some more soldiers just pushed the Germans back about 2 hours ago and now they sat around their oven in this dirty, dark cellar, waiting for the next German ambush. How many men had to die for these few, bloody square metres by now? And how many were still up to come?

Suddenly the air was full of the loud noise of heavy engines. Sergey stood up and tried to look through a small hole in the ceiling. He wasn’t able to recognise anything, but he knew that the German Luftwaffe was bringing their morning salute. It was the same time every day. You could even set the clock after them. The walls of the cellar were shaking when the first bombs came down. Small pieces of stone were trickling down with every new hit. Sergey heard loud detonations and several men screaming for a medic outside. The nerves of all the soldiers inside the cellar were absolutely on edge. The ceiling could break down on them every moment. But nothing happened until the bombardment stopped. The ceiling lasted and Sergey was lucky for one more time. He grabbed his canteen and tried to drink some water, but his hand was shaking too much.

While Sergey tried to calm himself down a bit, a very young private stumbled inside the cellar. He was completely out of breath and screamed: “Oh my god. The bunker of the regimental commander just got a direct bomb hit. All that have been inside are now dead. It’s horrible. We need a medic. Medic?” Behind the young private two more soldiers entered the airless room. Sergey recognised one of them to be a Lieutenant. In his hands he held an automatic rifle and his eyes were glancing. He wore a dirty and bloody bandage around his head. “What has happened, Sir?” Asked Sergey the man.

[Nikolai Feliksovich Alkeav]

Rain seemed to have mastered the ability to make through solid objects. For a weeks water had been dripping through every imaginable crack and hole, holes that even air hadn't been able to pass through. That was to expected with the haste in which the bunker was constructed. The Soviet engineering corps may have been one of the best in the world but even they had their limits. Months of arduous combat in the city had meant near constant construction and repair for the engineers.

The air was thick and stagnant with the smell of mold. There was almost no ventilation in the bunker; it was never intended for such prolonged use. Nikita fought for air as he took in his morning tea in the main briefing room of the bunker. Tea; what a joke. It was nothing more than warm water with a little bit of colour. Nonetheless, it was one of the few things that kept him sane in this hell. He checked his watched as he sipped the last drop from the small broken cup. Almost ten o'clock.

Nikita slung his rifle over his shoulder and attached his other gear to various parts of his body. The tea cup was packed away along with four wooden hearts in a small metal canister at his hip.

"Be careful, Alkeav. The Germans took the eastern block last night. We've already lost two officers to a sniper somewhere over there." The voice startled him. He turned to see the grim face of Kapitan Lepushin looking up at him from a table covered in maps. Lepushin was a good man, one of the few competent Party hardliners he'd met here in Stalingrad. "That is, if the Stukas don't get you first." he added after looking at his own watch.

"Thank you for the warning, sir." Nikita nodded and stepped through the threshold into the main corridor. He wound his way though a short maze to entrance of the bunker staying just inside. He stopped to let the cold air wash over him. The rain poured down only a half metre away. The few guards huddled together outside under makeshift roofs paid no attention to him. He checked his watch again, 9:57. With the weather those Stukas wouldn't dare leave the ground today. He reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve a pack of cigarettes.

Just as he put the cigarette to his lips the banshee wail of the Stuka sirens pierced the air. Nikita had no time to react before a deafening roar erupted from deeper in the bunker. A wave of hot air picked him up and flung him out of the entrance. Everything but his rifle and the metal cylinder was torn from him and scattered. Face up in the muck, Nikita could do nothing but watch as the Stukas climbed back into the clouds as flames consumed what had been a bunker only seconds before despite the downpour.

He heard a chorus of cries rise about about him; swearing and calls for medics. Eerily there was nothing but the crackling of flames coming from the bunker. No cries for help, no screams of pain, no whimpering, no shouting. Just the wild dancing of flames in the morning light. A figure hovered over him for moment, before kneeling down next to him.

"You will be fine, comrade." It whispered to him, "But first we must get you out of this rain" The figure grabbed his collar and drug him threw the much to on the covered machinegun nests around the bunker. "You've got a gash on your forehead but it looks worse than it is." This was news to Nikita as he didn't even realize he was bleeding until now. Now conscious of it, Nikita discovered he couldn't see any detail in the world around him, but he could feel the warm liquid sliding down over his temple and off his ear to ground. The figure reached into a bag a produced a roll of bandages which he careful wrapped around Nikita's head. "There you are. You seem to be in shock." Nikita found that he couldn't move his mouth to respond which only served proved the figure's conclusion. "Let us go somewhere for you to rest. I believe there is a cellar under the factory across the street. You there!" The figure called out to another one running past toward the bunker, "Help me get this man over to the factory."

"Yes, sir" replied the second figure all too eagerly. He had probably only been going to the bunker with the belief of being punished for not doing so. He had needed an excuse to run away. Coward, thought Nikita. He couldn't speak the word but he hoped his face showed enough disgust to get the point across. The two of them lifted him by the arms between them and shambled across the street. The rain had soaked his uniform by now and the cold was starting to get to him. What had been a pleasant breeze only a few minutes ago now felt like a razorblades being slowly drug across his body. Russia was a cruel place for those caught unaware and off guard.

That point was driven home even more after the coward carrying his left side crumpled under his own weight followed by a crack from the east. Nikita had regained enough strength to support himself better and move his head, though full autonomous movement was still out of the question. He looked down to the figure as the first figure continued to drag him to safety. The second figure was a private who looked no older than 18. His face was frozen into a grotesque portrait of fear accented by the stream of blood trailing off into other streams of dirty water that lined the street. The level of detail he perceived was relief, he was slowly recovering from the shock.

The original figure stumbled a little which drew Nikita attention back to the task at hand. He put all his available strength into supporting himself in an attempt to make this person's job a little easier. He owed this person his life. His added effort allowed them to quickly finish the last few metres of the street, passing into what was left of a shoe factory. Nothing remained except for the rusting hulks of machinery and parts of walls no higher than his chest.

Zip Ping... Crack

The sound of the bullet ripping by and bouncing off a leather cutter was heard long before the rifle shot reached their ears. The carrier dropped down behind one of the wall pieces dragging down Nikita with him. "Fucking snipers," hissed the man next to him. The swearing caught Nikita off guard, up until now this man had been very gentle and calm. His furious outburst would have made Nikita laugh if he had been in control of his own body.

Nikita studied the man now as his vision cleared. It was medic, the red cross on his helmet and back clearly visible. The crimson was probably the reason the sniper had chosen the private as his first victim and missed the second time. At least some of the Germans had honour.

"The cellar isn't far, my friend. Are you well enough to move a little faster?" Nikita still couldn't speak but he had enough strength to nod his head and prepare for a short sprint, "Good, good. Here we go, then." The medic placed himself between the sniper and Nikita as he put Nikita's shoulder over his, heaved them both upwards and broke into the best sprint he could muster with a man on his back. For his part, Nikita tried his best to keep his legs in time with the medic though he was less than successful.

Zip Ping... Crack Crash

Another failed shot with the bullet spiraling off into a distant part of the factory breaking a window somewhere. Luck was on Nikita's side today, though he wasn't about to temp fate. They duo approached what looked like a massive hole in the middle of the factory floor, but as they closed the distance it revealed itself as a staircase.

"Almost there, comrade!" rasped the medic.

Zip Thip... Crack

The medic screamed in pain as his leg was ripped open by the sniper's bullet. Judging from the accuracy of his first shot, Nikita guessed the leg wound was meant to cripple him rather than to kill. German honour only went so far apparently. The momentum of the two carried them to and over the staircase, both bodies bouncing down the stairs. Luckily the stairs didn't go down too far, just enough to drop out of sight of the sniper. Nikita recovered from the fall first.

"Are y-you hurt b-badly, comr-rade?" he managed to choke out. His head was clouded with pain and the world around him seemed brighter than normal.

"Ah... no. I might have a broken ankle, but that is all." The world sharpened and Nikita was able to see the medic sitting with his back against the wall examining his leg. "That bastard is a good shot. He missed all the arteries." he said after probing his wound a bit. He winced and then laughed, "I didn't think he'd actually shoot me."

A muffled voice made its way through the double doors at the bottom of the stairs, "Oh my god. The bunker of the regimental commander just got a direct bomb hit. All that have been inside are now dead. It’s horrible. We need a medic. Medic?"

"Looks like someone else is in need of your services, ...?" Nikita left the sentence dangling as an indirect request for the medic's name. Russians rarely asked for someone's name directly.

"Medical Officer Sacha Yeltsin"

"Leytenánt Nikita Alkeav. Let us go then, comrade Yeltsin." Nikita mustered enough strength the pick himself up and offered a hand to Sacha, who extended same allowing Nikita to pick him up and help him through the doors. "Our roles have reversed themselves, my friend" Sacha managed a strained chuckle through his pain.

Upon entering the cellar Nikita was met by the same smell of stagnant air that had pervaded the bunker. There were several other soldiers here as well. Several Ryadovóy and a Práporshchik. "What has happened, Sir?" asked the Práporshchik.

"Stukas." was all Nikita replied. He shuffled over to what looked like a bench and helped Sacha down. "Stukas have destroyed regimental command. Yeltsin, did you see any other survivors?"

"No, comrade. You were the only one from the bunker that I could find." Nikita's heart sank. Lepushin would be a great loss to the war effort. Nikita looked about the room again taking stock of the men. They all looked rather ragged. There were a few rifles strewn about with only two small crates of ammunition in sight, both open and half-empty at first glance.

"We'll wait here for now. I lost a man to a sniper on the way here. So, any movement outside before dark should be limited to necessity only. Do you have any kind of radio? Wireless or otherwise?"

[Sergey Anatkin]

"We'll wait here for now. I lost a man to a sniper on the way here. So, any movement outside before dark should be limited to necessity only. Do you have any kind of radio? Wireless or otherwise?"

Sergey was hardly able to understand the officer, because of a very loud explosion. A German bomb must have detonated quite near to the factory building. Some seconds later, everything was silent again, except the constant noise of machineguns and grenades in the background. The symphony of war.

"No ,Sir. No radio at all. We have been cut off from all connections here and didn’t even receive new orders since yesterday night. You are the first officer that I have seen for two days and I have to admit that it’s pretty good to see you. But unfortunately all I can offer you is a cup of vodka and some Machorka. Food should have arrived an hour ago, but as you can see, nothing arrived here at all. The only thing that we have enough of is ammunitions. Yesterday the Fritz tried to enclose us and almost managed to. We had to retreat here, but since some hours the building is in Russian hands again. I’m pretty sure, the Germans will come and try again today."

After finishing his sentence, Sergey nodded to one of the lower ranking soldiers. The Ryadovóy disappeared for a second and came back with a bottle and two dirty, half broken cups. He putted the cups on an ammunitions box in the middle of the room and filled them completely. Sergey took one of the cups and offered it to the Leytenánt. After the officer took it, he grabbed the other one and emptied it within a short moment. From the quick drinking, Sergey had to cough hardly. The sound was very dry and seemed unhealthy. He had been ill since some weeks, but Sergey knew how lucky he was compared to his comrades who lost a leg or worse.

"Sir, I would recommend to send out at least a small recon team before tonight. We need to find out how far the Germans advanced west of us. The situation is quite dangerous. Without any connection to the units fighting next to us, the risk of getting enclosed is very high. And once they have us in a pocket, the war is finished for us." While speaking, the pictures of these last days entered Sergey’s mind again. Should he ever be able to forget about them?

A short moment later the officer answered: “Ok, I can see that point. A connection is really important to us now. Of course I will lead this small recon patrol. You’re more than welcome to accompany me, Mister?”

“Anatkin. Praporschik Sergey Anatkin, Sir.“

The Leytenánt continued: ”But I want no more than three soldiers coming with me. The rest of you are going to stay here and wait for the supply, if there should arrive something at all. Our patrol is going to head west first, until we meet some men from our neighbour unit. Please keep your heads down. The enemy is everywhere and today I have already seen enough dead Russians for the next whole year. We will start in one hour.”

[Nikolai Feliksovich Alkeav]

OOC: FRANKEN-THREAD!

Nikita finished addressing the room and the room fell to a hush. No one was particularly eager to go back outside into uncertainty. They were, for the most part, safe here and their worry showed in their jumpy motions and wide eyes as they looked around at what little weapons laid around the room.

The officer pulled Anatkin to the side toward Yeltsin, attempting to get out of earshot of the others. He was as successful as one could be in these cramped quarters. The soldier's cough earlier had worried him about the condition of all those here. Now was as good a time as any to inquire about it.

"I need a little information about your men, Anatkin. How long has your troop been here? What supplies do you have left; food, ammunition...?" The medic cut Alkeav off abruptly.

"Nonsense. More importantly, how are your men feeling? I don't have many medical supplies with me, but I wil try to alleviate some of the more mild symptoms..." the medics voice trailed off as he began rummaging through his bag of medicinal goodies.

Alkeav was displeased with Yeltsin's impolite actions and let it show on his face, but didn't make an issue of it. Instead he turned his attention back to Anatkin awaiting his answers to the barrage of questions.

[Sergey Anatkin]

After the Russian officer had finished giving his orders to the men in the small, wet cellar, he grabbed Sergey by his shoulder and gently pushed him into one corner of the room. Obviously he wanted to discuss something, without having all of the lower ranking soldiers listening to him. Wearing a serious expression on his face, the Leitenant asked Sergey about the food and ammunition supplies, his men had left. This question caused Sergey to stare at the officer in a very disbelieving manner for a few seconds. Hadn't he just reported all these things to the officer some minutes ago? Had this man listened to Sergey at all? But before the NCO was able to answer these displaced questions, the medic, who had entered the cellar together with the officer, abruptly cut the Leitenant short, asking for the health of this small group of soldiers with a worried view.

In his surprise, Sergey needed some moments to get his thoughts together and answer the questions of both of the men. Not only that the medic hadn't shown any respect for the higher rank, but the officer not showing any reaction to this, made Sergey develop hard doubts in the leading qualities of the man, that stood right in front of him. How should he be ale to lead a whole platoon of men, when a single medic could easily dare to question his authority?

Turning himself away from the two men, Sergey loudly snuffled his nose and spit the snort on the ground of the dirty cellar. After he dryly coughed again, he turned to the medic first. "What to say? The men are all happily giving their lives for the motherland and for comrade Stalin!" Sergey said these words loud enough for his other comrades in the cellar to be able to hear them. After he had finished, he tried to laugh grimly, what merely sounded like a loud, unhealthy cough again. Most of the other soldiers in the wet room started joining into the laugh and one Efreitor, who had the statue of a brown bear, zestfully pat Sergey's back. Still laughing, the huge Russian refilled another cup with vodka and reached it to the NCO, waiting for Sergey to take it.

The atmosphere in the cellar was heating up with every moment now. After taking another nip from the high proof liquid, Sergey raised his loud, guttural voice again. The alcohol made him feel confident enough to speak open for the moment. "Of course the situation here is pure shit. If you can not see this, you must be blind or dumb, comrade officer. We have enough ammunition for our rifles here, but unfortunately we can not eat that. The men are hungry, what of course makes morale quite non existent. Nobody can fight his enemies while his stomach is rumbling louder than the sound of his rifle." Again Sergey made a short break to sort his words, but he continued without giving anyone the chance to interrupt him. "Also, most of the men you can see here are more or less ill. Some of them shouldn't even be in the rather near of the frontline. And I'm not talking about myself and the tiny little cold I've got. But what are you officers doing to really help us?" Again, some of the soldiers in the cellar grimly cheered at the words of the NCO.

After emptying the cup of vodka, Sergey zestfully put it on a wooden ammunitions box in the middle of the room. "The sun is going to set soon and we really need to hold contact with the Germans to our west. I'll start going on a patrol now, no matter if you'll decide to stay here or to lead us. Outside of these walls, there's still a war that needs to be won. Artjom, Lew, ready the Maxim MG, we'll take it with us." The Praporschik took his Nagant rifle that lent on the brick wall of the basement and slung it over his shoulder, expectantly watching the Russian officer and waiting for the Leitenant to show a reaction to these more than clear words.