Post by Anton Trubachev on Dec 14, 2010 5:41:02 GMT
Account E-Mail: [Edited Out]
Name: Anton Trubachev.
Nationality:
Russian
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
Soviet
Character History:
Anton was born in the early 1920's in the town of Kiev under the given name of Dmitry. His mother died less than a month after he was born, and he was put in an orphanage. He had no name, as records of his birth were not kept, and no family. His father had died fighting the Reds in the Russian Civil war. Having no family and thrown into a unpleasant and unkind world, it was not entirely unexpected that he grew up tough. As soon as he could walk he was put into workhouses making shoes. A shoe-maker without shoes. He wore whatever rags he managed to find, and kept warm in the winter only by huddling with the other stinking work boys. They never washed. He got into fights a lot, and working with shoes eighteen hours at a time left his hands calloused, his knuckles bloody.
His living quarters were the worst imaginable. Two dusty old rooms in the shoe factory were turned into living spaces for the children. The floor was grimy and wet from being used as a bathroom. There were holes in the walls which let vermin in. Sometimes when food was scarce the rats would serve as dinner. When food was available, it was usually only a thin slice of bread for those under eight, and two for those over. For those without records, which was most of them, a A bottle of vodka was passed around the room for each boy to take a drink of before bed, to put them to sleep. Each boy was allowed a mug of water every other day.
While he had made enemies, he had also made friends. One friend he made in 1927 was a kid named Oleg Trubachev. He was new to the work house scene, having only recently been orphaned. Unlike the rest of the boys, he had a name. He had seen the outside world. Lived in it. His tale of his life as a Banker's son had them all thinking of him as a pompous, rich ass. He showed them different in the months ahead. He had real mettle. Soon Oleg and Anton became friends, (Anton was the name he had chosen for himself) and he took on Oleg's last name of Trubachev. They were brothers now. Inseparable.
They stayed in the shoe factory together until they were in their mid-teens, around 1934. They were sick of being treated like dirt when they were practically men. Mere peasants, but men nonetheless! One night they slipped out of the hole in their wall. They stole food, or money to buy they food, and didn't do too bad. They slept in a musty house which had been condemned by the city. It was still furnished, so they both had beds. The water did not work, so they crapped in buckets and dumped it out back.
They made the decision to join the army together in 1935. They didn't have any documentation, so they lied about their ages. It was only their best guess as to how old they were anyways. There were kids a lot younger in the Army. It wasn't uncommon to see an eleven or twelve-year old Junior NCO.
They had been given rifles and taught how to march, but that was about it. The purges of 1937 left the Army weakened and disorganized, so what training they received was rudimentary. Anton and Oleg saved enough of their meagre earnings to pay for school during this perios, attending until they had learned to read and write, and do basic arithmetic. Further lessons were stopped when their pay was withheld by the Government while they were being investigated for Anti-Communist tendencies. They were of low rank however, and unimportant in the eyes of their Inquisitors, and their pay was reinstated.
They took place in the invasion of Poland in 1939, everyone celebrating the Non-Agression Pact with Berlin. They were all taken in by the lying pulse-beat of the drums and bands and the pretty girls. Neither one saw combat in the invasion. They were both asleep the day the Germans attacked, in early 1941. Oleg, who had been transferred to another Company was killed by a German tank rolling over his tent, killing everyone inside. It wasn't until he inquired later, after they had retreated well back into the Ukraine that he learned the Company his friend had been in ceased to exist. The British had a motto of "Blood, Toil, Tears and Sweat." It may very well have been his motto during those hard days. They did their best to resist the Germans. He was even appointed Mladshii Leitenant when his was killed. It wasn't a big ceremony. They put down their names in a hat, and his was picked. Nothing special. It was only meant to be temporary until another could be sent from Moscow.
What happened next was that as he fought alongside his comrades, they began to like having him there. He wasn't incredibly harsh on his men. He was a hard fighter, refusing to place a duty on a man that he wouldn't do himself. He was a good Communist. And he loved his men.
Military Rank:
Mladshii Leitenant
Writing Sample:
All hell was breaking loose.
"Where the FUCK are they coming from?" Their commander.
Opening one eye, he wondered if he should bother to wake up this time. Just another German attack.
"Son of a bitch! Will I never get another full night of sleep!?" he said aloud, more disappointed than angry. It was a good thing a burst of machine-gun fire cut his words off, or he likely would have been shot for screwing with the morale of the unit.
Grabbing his rifle, he stood up groggily, rubbing his eyes with one hand. A bullet hit the lip of the trench he had been sleeping in, making his raise his rifle and fire hastily. They sure were lively today. "I don't know what it is with these Germans..." he started, squeezing the trigger of his rifle, his shot missing his target sixty yards to the front of the trench. "They seem to be extremely unhappy about something." He ejected the spent shell and pushed the bolt forward, placing another round in the chamber.
Maybe they found out they've been drinking mud mixed with donkey shit for coffee?" the man to his left suggested. Anton led his target and pulled the trigger again, this time his shot hitting his target, the man crumpling into a mewling pile in the mud. "Animal, not man," he reminded himself. Bullets thumped into mud and flesh all around him with increasing ferocity. A man yelled out somewhere, and Anton thought nothing of it.
His friend from the 39th Guard Regiment tapped him on his shoulder. Turning to look at the man, his jaw dropped. He was white as snow. "The Commander's been hit." he said simply, sparking Anton's curiosity. "Hit?"
"Yes, hit you fool! H-he's bleeding p-p-pretty badly," he stuttered. "Where?" Anton asked, looking around for him. "Sort of between the neck and the collarbone."
Anton sighed. The people he had to work with!
"I meant where is he. Take me to him!" he spewed. Idiot.
He followed the kid through their trench about thirty yards until they came to the Commander. He didn't look like he had much time left for the world. He was holding the bullet-hole, which had gone through his neck and out the back of his left shoulder. When he saw Anton he motioned for him to come closer. He tried to speak a few time, finally becoming frustrated that his windpipes would no longer carry the message through his lips, taking his hat off and handing it to Anton. He tried to speak one more time and just shook his head.
"I guess this is the promotion I've been promised for three and a half years, Dmitri," Anton said to his friend, who looked as if he were about to throw up.
A German grenade went off nearby in the trench, and Dmitri finally blew his guts. A steady stream of yellow-orange liquid poured onto the mud, with a few chunks of what looked like cat food as well.
"Well, friend... duty calls!" he said happily, putting the hat on his head and moving closer to the part of the trench that was under assault. A few Germans had managed to make it to the trench and were in hand-to-hand fighting with the Russians. Anton, his bayonet always fixed, stepped forward and stabbed the Germans rolling in the bottom of the trench with his buddies. The mix of blood, mud and urine was a nice addition to the place his bed used to be. Friggin' facists. Always ruining everything.
"Everyone ready! Here comes the next wave! Ammo and grenades where you can reach them!" he shouted. "We stop them here, Comrades! URAAAA!" he shouted, the battle cry continuing down the trench. A similar cry came from the distance, much louder than their own. In the horizon, one German appeared. And then another. And then twenty of them. Forty!
"Fire your rifles!" Anton shouted, firing his own. Nobody was even aiming. They were all just firing as fast as they could. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Reload. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Repeat. Repeat. The enemy got closer and closer. The ground churned all around with the amount of bullets flying at them. Anton felt something, like someone flicking his ear with their finger. Then the side of his face felt wet. Then the pain set in.
"Ah SHIT! My ear! The bastards blew off my fucking ear!" Anton yelled in disbelief. They were about forty yards away now. He ran out of ammo and had to take ammo pouches of a dead soldier in the bottom of the trench, the back of his head a big gaping hole. Fire. Fire. Fire. On and on. He could see the whites of their eyes now. Out of ammo again! They were in the trench!
A large muscly German jumped on top of him, standing up and firing down on him, his shot cracking a rib before exiting his side. The man leaned forward to perform the final act, just as Anton raised his rifle, the black sixteen-inch spike bayonet gleaming with the blood of the facists he had stabbed earlier. Thrusting forward with all his might, the bayonet glanced off his enemy's ammo pouch. He only had a second now. He pulled back and drove forward one more time, the enemy rifle barrel pressing on his chest as the bayonet drove home, straight into soft German guts. Anton pushed the rifle barrel away from himself and scrambled onto the enemy, taking his bayonet and returning it to its owner, again and again, until the screams subsided.
Chaos. Madness!
Lifting himself up painfully, he defended himself from another German, this one with a knife. The enemy attempt at stabbing him was dodged, his face scrunching up at the pain he felt in his ribs. He thrust his own knife forward blindy, the bayonet he had taken from the German before, and he landed the blade in a Facist throat. The trench was quiet now, aside from the occasional grunt or moan. Anton wondered if the Germans had taken the trench, and opened one eye to see the face of Dimitri, bloody but alive staring back. They helped each other up, the rest of the men looking just as battered and scared as they were. They had repelled the Germans.
"URAAAAAA!" someone shouted, followed by everyone else in the trench, shouting their thanks to the God of War for leaving them the victors. As the medics came and took Anton, he knew that the faces of the men who had survived today would probably be gone and replaced within the week. 'The only easy day was yesterday.'
Name: Anton Trubachev.
Nationality:
Russian
What Army will Your Character Serve Beneath?
Soviet
Character History:
Anton was born in the early 1920's in the town of Kiev under the given name of Dmitry. His mother died less than a month after he was born, and he was put in an orphanage. He had no name, as records of his birth were not kept, and no family. His father had died fighting the Reds in the Russian Civil war. Having no family and thrown into a unpleasant and unkind world, it was not entirely unexpected that he grew up tough. As soon as he could walk he was put into workhouses making shoes. A shoe-maker without shoes. He wore whatever rags he managed to find, and kept warm in the winter only by huddling with the other stinking work boys. They never washed. He got into fights a lot, and working with shoes eighteen hours at a time left his hands calloused, his knuckles bloody.
His living quarters were the worst imaginable. Two dusty old rooms in the shoe factory were turned into living spaces for the children. The floor was grimy and wet from being used as a bathroom. There were holes in the walls which let vermin in. Sometimes when food was scarce the rats would serve as dinner. When food was available, it was usually only a thin slice of bread for those under eight, and two for those over. For those without records, which was most of them, a A bottle of vodka was passed around the room for each boy to take a drink of before bed, to put them to sleep. Each boy was allowed a mug of water every other day.
While he had made enemies, he had also made friends. One friend he made in 1927 was a kid named Oleg Trubachev. He was new to the work house scene, having only recently been orphaned. Unlike the rest of the boys, he had a name. He had seen the outside world. Lived in it. His tale of his life as a Banker's son had them all thinking of him as a pompous, rich ass. He showed them different in the months ahead. He had real mettle. Soon Oleg and Anton became friends, (Anton was the name he had chosen for himself) and he took on Oleg's last name of Trubachev. They were brothers now. Inseparable.
They stayed in the shoe factory together until they were in their mid-teens, around 1934. They were sick of being treated like dirt when they were practically men. Mere peasants, but men nonetheless! One night they slipped out of the hole in their wall. They stole food, or money to buy they food, and didn't do too bad. They slept in a musty house which had been condemned by the city. It was still furnished, so they both had beds. The water did not work, so they crapped in buckets and dumped it out back.
They made the decision to join the army together in 1935. They didn't have any documentation, so they lied about their ages. It was only their best guess as to how old they were anyways. There were kids a lot younger in the Army. It wasn't uncommon to see an eleven or twelve-year old Junior NCO.
They had been given rifles and taught how to march, but that was about it. The purges of 1937 left the Army weakened and disorganized, so what training they received was rudimentary. Anton and Oleg saved enough of their meagre earnings to pay for school during this perios, attending until they had learned to read and write, and do basic arithmetic. Further lessons were stopped when their pay was withheld by the Government while they were being investigated for Anti-Communist tendencies. They were of low rank however, and unimportant in the eyes of their Inquisitors, and their pay was reinstated.
They took place in the invasion of Poland in 1939, everyone celebrating the Non-Agression Pact with Berlin. They were all taken in by the lying pulse-beat of the drums and bands and the pretty girls. Neither one saw combat in the invasion. They were both asleep the day the Germans attacked, in early 1941. Oleg, who had been transferred to another Company was killed by a German tank rolling over his tent, killing everyone inside. It wasn't until he inquired later, after they had retreated well back into the Ukraine that he learned the Company his friend had been in ceased to exist. The British had a motto of "Blood, Toil, Tears and Sweat." It may very well have been his motto during those hard days. They did their best to resist the Germans. He was even appointed Mladshii Leitenant when his was killed. It wasn't a big ceremony. They put down their names in a hat, and his was picked. Nothing special. It was only meant to be temporary until another could be sent from Moscow.
What happened next was that as he fought alongside his comrades, they began to like having him there. He wasn't incredibly harsh on his men. He was a hard fighter, refusing to place a duty on a man that he wouldn't do himself. He was a good Communist. And he loved his men.
Military Rank:
Mladshii Leitenant
Writing Sample:
All hell was breaking loose.
"Where the FUCK are they coming from?" Their commander.
Opening one eye, he wondered if he should bother to wake up this time. Just another German attack.
"Son of a bitch! Will I never get another full night of sleep!?" he said aloud, more disappointed than angry. It was a good thing a burst of machine-gun fire cut his words off, or he likely would have been shot for screwing with the morale of the unit.
Grabbing his rifle, he stood up groggily, rubbing his eyes with one hand. A bullet hit the lip of the trench he had been sleeping in, making his raise his rifle and fire hastily. They sure were lively today. "I don't know what it is with these Germans..." he started, squeezing the trigger of his rifle, his shot missing his target sixty yards to the front of the trench. "They seem to be extremely unhappy about something." He ejected the spent shell and pushed the bolt forward, placing another round in the chamber.
Maybe they found out they've been drinking mud mixed with donkey shit for coffee?" the man to his left suggested. Anton led his target and pulled the trigger again, this time his shot hitting his target, the man crumpling into a mewling pile in the mud. "Animal, not man," he reminded himself. Bullets thumped into mud and flesh all around him with increasing ferocity. A man yelled out somewhere, and Anton thought nothing of it.
His friend from the 39th Guard Regiment tapped him on his shoulder. Turning to look at the man, his jaw dropped. He was white as snow. "The Commander's been hit." he said simply, sparking Anton's curiosity. "Hit?"
"Yes, hit you fool! H-he's bleeding p-p-pretty badly," he stuttered. "Where?" Anton asked, looking around for him. "Sort of between the neck and the collarbone."
Anton sighed. The people he had to work with!
"I meant where is he. Take me to him!" he spewed. Idiot.
He followed the kid through their trench about thirty yards until they came to the Commander. He didn't look like he had much time left for the world. He was holding the bullet-hole, which had gone through his neck and out the back of his left shoulder. When he saw Anton he motioned for him to come closer. He tried to speak a few time, finally becoming frustrated that his windpipes would no longer carry the message through his lips, taking his hat off and handing it to Anton. He tried to speak one more time and just shook his head.
"I guess this is the promotion I've been promised for three and a half years, Dmitri," Anton said to his friend, who looked as if he were about to throw up.
A German grenade went off nearby in the trench, and Dmitri finally blew his guts. A steady stream of yellow-orange liquid poured onto the mud, with a few chunks of what looked like cat food as well.
"Well, friend... duty calls!" he said happily, putting the hat on his head and moving closer to the part of the trench that was under assault. A few Germans had managed to make it to the trench and were in hand-to-hand fighting with the Russians. Anton, his bayonet always fixed, stepped forward and stabbed the Germans rolling in the bottom of the trench with his buddies. The mix of blood, mud and urine was a nice addition to the place his bed used to be. Friggin' facists. Always ruining everything.
"Everyone ready! Here comes the next wave! Ammo and grenades where you can reach them!" he shouted. "We stop them here, Comrades! URAAAA!" he shouted, the battle cry continuing down the trench. A similar cry came from the distance, much louder than their own. In the horizon, one German appeared. And then another. And then twenty of them. Forty!
"Fire your rifles!" Anton shouted, firing his own. Nobody was even aiming. They were all just firing as fast as they could. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Reload. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Fire. Repeat. Repeat. The enemy got closer and closer. The ground churned all around with the amount of bullets flying at them. Anton felt something, like someone flicking his ear with their finger. Then the side of his face felt wet. Then the pain set in.
"Ah SHIT! My ear! The bastards blew off my fucking ear!" Anton yelled in disbelief. They were about forty yards away now. He ran out of ammo and had to take ammo pouches of a dead soldier in the bottom of the trench, the back of his head a big gaping hole. Fire. Fire. Fire. On and on. He could see the whites of their eyes now. Out of ammo again! They were in the trench!
A large muscly German jumped on top of him, standing up and firing down on him, his shot cracking a rib before exiting his side. The man leaned forward to perform the final act, just as Anton raised his rifle, the black sixteen-inch spike bayonet gleaming with the blood of the facists he had stabbed earlier. Thrusting forward with all his might, the bayonet glanced off his enemy's ammo pouch. He only had a second now. He pulled back and drove forward one more time, the enemy rifle barrel pressing on his chest as the bayonet drove home, straight into soft German guts. Anton pushed the rifle barrel away from himself and scrambled onto the enemy, taking his bayonet and returning it to its owner, again and again, until the screams subsided.
Chaos. Madness!
Lifting himself up painfully, he defended himself from another German, this one with a knife. The enemy attempt at stabbing him was dodged, his face scrunching up at the pain he felt in his ribs. He thrust his own knife forward blindy, the bayonet he had taken from the German before, and he landed the blade in a Facist throat. The trench was quiet now, aside from the occasional grunt or moan. Anton wondered if the Germans had taken the trench, and opened one eye to see the face of Dimitri, bloody but alive staring back. They helped each other up, the rest of the men looking just as battered and scared as they were. They had repelled the Germans.
"URAAAAAA!" someone shouted, followed by everyone else in the trench, shouting their thanks to the God of War for leaving them the victors. As the medics came and took Anton, he knew that the faces of the men who had survived today would probably be gone and replaced within the week. 'The only easy day was yesterday.'
