Post by Vadim Zbruyev on Jul 16, 2010 17:21:14 GMT
Country: Ukraine, Soviet Union
Date: April, 1944, 0600 Hours
Weather: A cold, April morning.
Potato and pigeon soup, it was an awful meal fit for pigs instead of proud, battle-hardened men of the Motherland's army. But as Vadim Zbruyev spooned the soup out and into his mouth, he didn't complain. It was actually the best food they had had in a month. He looked to the red-headed Maksim to his left and nodded. The older man had gotten his hands on a bottle of vodka. The men in Vadim's squad made jokes about the man and how he could find vodka in a cow's ass if he had to. Maksim handed the bottle to Vadim and he took a swig. The cool alcohol burned his throat a bit as it went down. He nodded in thanks and ate more of the cup of pale soup.
"Why the hell do they have us watching this stupid bridge anyways? They said the Germans would be here three days ago. And not just some Germans a lot of Germans. Now where the hell are those fascist pigs?" laughed Konstantin.
The stocky, black-haired Estonian had a deep chuckle. His accent was easily noticeable compared to how the Russians around him spoke. Vadim laughed as well, it was in truth a bull shit position. The Russian finished his soup and took a cigarette from the window seal he was supposed to be watching out of. The three story building was reinforced heavily with sandbags around the window seals and the roof had a hole in the middle of it from a German mortar team that had harassed the infantry unit that had taken the small village from a Panzergrenadier regiment. Vadim shifted his ushanka in place. The red star on it was in line with the middle of his forehead, like it was supposed to be.
The Ryadovoi grabbed his rifle and bolted and unbolted it until the chamber was empty. He collected the bullets in a pile and took out an empty stripper clip. He set it on top of the pile and grabbed the cleaning kit for the rifle. He began field stripping it and looked to the others. Most of them hardly ever cleaned their rifles, after all the Mosin Nagats could take one hell of a beating. But it passed time, and that was what Vadim needed to do. He took out a vial of grease and a shoelace he kept for the barrel. He soaked the lace in it and brought it through the barrel, rubbing it round and round until it was sufficiently cleaned. The Russian than took out the small cleaning brush and dipped it in polish, getting the barrel and all the other moving parts.
After a few minutes he finished cleaning the rifle and assembled it. He carefully slid the bullets into the stripper clip and opened up the receiver of his rifle. He slid the clip into place near the bold and pushed down slowly on the bullets. As each one fell into place, he flicked off the empty clip and pushed the bolt forward. It slid into place with a click and he grabbed the root, pushing it down. With another click the 7.62mm Russian was fully chambered. He pushed the safety lever down and sat it back against the window seal. Vadim than took a cigarette out and a match. He lit the paper tube and inhaled. He handed another one to Maksim, who had given him one a few days before. The older man nodded and lit it.
"I hope we get some better food. Maybe I will go shoot a goose later or something. Assuming those gluttonous Nazis didn't take them all," announced Vadim.
The three men nodded in satisfaction. Vadim smiled, he loved goose. It was a nice meat especially for a fowl, but he really preferred chicken. Since he had grown up on eating chicken, it was something he knew how to cook a lot better than goose. Vadim remembered Vladimir coming home with a goose one Sunday a month nearly every month. It was the one day a month their father didn't spend the night at a bar. The one day a month they actually had full stomachs. But those Sunday dinners would be lonely after the war, since Oleksandr and Artur got themselves killed. Vadim had realized when those two died that he had never really got to know his oldest brother. The first-born son who had known their mother and known their father before he was a drunk.
Vladamir would occasionally tell Vadim stories about how kind and hard-working their father was and how beautiful and sweet their mother was. And stories of before their father had went to war. They had owned a small farm before the Bolsheviks took over. But after the war it was taken by the government because Vadim's father had been rendered disabled. Vadim smoked his cigarette slowly, enjoying the flavor. Smoking was a new pleasure to the Ryadovoi. He had discovered it during the first month he had been deployed to the front. It made friends and calmed the nerves. He didn't cough on his first cigarette because his father and oldest brother both smoked constantly at the dinner table and well, everywhere. He hadn't seen a cigarette leave either of their mouths since he had could remember. So smoking was inevitable.
As the vodka made its way back to Vadim, he took another swig. The vodka didn't get him very intoxicated at all, it in fact woke him up. After all it was six o'clock in the morning and the coffee ran out the night before. The four Ryadovoi's had been taking turns watching since ten o'clock yesterday morning. Each one of them only had about three hours of actual, uninterrupted sleep. It was more than they usually got, it was sort of a motto around the Red Army, the Motherland never sleeps, and neither do its soldiers. Vadim had been in attacks at four in the morning before, so three hours of uninterrupted sleep was a Godsend. He looked out his designated window and stared at the flowing waters of the Dnieper. They swirled and flowed lazily, much like the pace of the day that was before him. He looked to the road that lead into the village. The game of cat and mouse the Germans had been playing was getting sour, they needed to attack, a rain storm was coming and if they made their attack when the ground was muddy their tanks and half tracks would get stuck.
Date: April, 1944, 0600 Hours
Weather: A cold, April morning.
Potato and pigeon soup, it was an awful meal fit for pigs instead of proud, battle-hardened men of the Motherland's army. But as Vadim Zbruyev spooned the soup out and into his mouth, he didn't complain. It was actually the best food they had had in a month. He looked to the red-headed Maksim to his left and nodded. The older man had gotten his hands on a bottle of vodka. The men in Vadim's squad made jokes about the man and how he could find vodka in a cow's ass if he had to. Maksim handed the bottle to Vadim and he took a swig. The cool alcohol burned his throat a bit as it went down. He nodded in thanks and ate more of the cup of pale soup.
"Why the hell do they have us watching this stupid bridge anyways? They said the Germans would be here three days ago. And not just some Germans a lot of Germans. Now where the hell are those fascist pigs?" laughed Konstantin.
The stocky, black-haired Estonian had a deep chuckle. His accent was easily noticeable compared to how the Russians around him spoke. Vadim laughed as well, it was in truth a bull shit position. The Russian finished his soup and took a cigarette from the window seal he was supposed to be watching out of. The three story building was reinforced heavily with sandbags around the window seals and the roof had a hole in the middle of it from a German mortar team that had harassed the infantry unit that had taken the small village from a Panzergrenadier regiment. Vadim shifted his ushanka in place. The red star on it was in line with the middle of his forehead, like it was supposed to be.
The Ryadovoi grabbed his rifle and bolted and unbolted it until the chamber was empty. He collected the bullets in a pile and took out an empty stripper clip. He set it on top of the pile and grabbed the cleaning kit for the rifle. He began field stripping it and looked to the others. Most of them hardly ever cleaned their rifles, after all the Mosin Nagats could take one hell of a beating. But it passed time, and that was what Vadim needed to do. He took out a vial of grease and a shoelace he kept for the barrel. He soaked the lace in it and brought it through the barrel, rubbing it round and round until it was sufficiently cleaned. The Russian than took out the small cleaning brush and dipped it in polish, getting the barrel and all the other moving parts.
After a few minutes he finished cleaning the rifle and assembled it. He carefully slid the bullets into the stripper clip and opened up the receiver of his rifle. He slid the clip into place near the bold and pushed down slowly on the bullets. As each one fell into place, he flicked off the empty clip and pushed the bolt forward. It slid into place with a click and he grabbed the root, pushing it down. With another click the 7.62mm Russian was fully chambered. He pushed the safety lever down and sat it back against the window seal. Vadim than took a cigarette out and a match. He lit the paper tube and inhaled. He handed another one to Maksim, who had given him one a few days before. The older man nodded and lit it.
"I hope we get some better food. Maybe I will go shoot a goose later or something. Assuming those gluttonous Nazis didn't take them all," announced Vadim.
The three men nodded in satisfaction. Vadim smiled, he loved goose. It was a nice meat especially for a fowl, but he really preferred chicken. Since he had grown up on eating chicken, it was something he knew how to cook a lot better than goose. Vadim remembered Vladimir coming home with a goose one Sunday a month nearly every month. It was the one day a month their father didn't spend the night at a bar. The one day a month they actually had full stomachs. But those Sunday dinners would be lonely after the war, since Oleksandr and Artur got themselves killed. Vadim had realized when those two died that he had never really got to know his oldest brother. The first-born son who had known their mother and known their father before he was a drunk.
Vladamir would occasionally tell Vadim stories about how kind and hard-working their father was and how beautiful and sweet their mother was. And stories of before their father had went to war. They had owned a small farm before the Bolsheviks took over. But after the war it was taken by the government because Vadim's father had been rendered disabled. Vadim smoked his cigarette slowly, enjoying the flavor. Smoking was a new pleasure to the Ryadovoi. He had discovered it during the first month he had been deployed to the front. It made friends and calmed the nerves. He didn't cough on his first cigarette because his father and oldest brother both smoked constantly at the dinner table and well, everywhere. He hadn't seen a cigarette leave either of their mouths since he had could remember. So smoking was inevitable.
As the vodka made its way back to Vadim, he took another swig. The vodka didn't get him very intoxicated at all, it in fact woke him up. After all it was six o'clock in the morning and the coffee ran out the night before. The four Ryadovoi's had been taking turns watching since ten o'clock yesterday morning. Each one of them only had about three hours of actual, uninterrupted sleep. It was more than they usually got, it was sort of a motto around the Red Army, the Motherland never sleeps, and neither do its soldiers. Vadim had been in attacks at four in the morning before, so three hours of uninterrupted sleep was a Godsend. He looked out his designated window and stared at the flowing waters of the Dnieper. They swirled and flowed lazily, much like the pace of the day that was before him. He looked to the road that lead into the village. The game of cat and mouse the Germans had been playing was getting sour, they needed to attack, a rain storm was coming and if they made their attack when the ground was muddy their tanks and half tracks would get stuck.
