- Aftermath - {Soviet only}

[Mikhail Vostrikov]

The air was stagnant with the smell of smoke and dust that had been jarred from every corner of every structure in the area. The German's were here not two days ago and had finally been pushed back by the Soviet forces. Mikhail was one of the men that aided in that push. Many had fallen on both sides of the event, but only the worthy were standing there this morning. Mikhail knelt down and took in the devastation that had riddled what used to be a small industrial park. He dusted himself off slowly as his eyes passed over scattered bullet casings and droplets of blood, these two things were the only decoration to an otherwise bland scene. In the distance plumes of smoke slowly lifted away from the horizon as they became diluted into the air. Small fires danced around in a few locations.

The canvas of destruction was peaceful now but the moment was fleeting. As the ringing in his ears faded away it was slowly but intensely replaced with the screams of the maimed and dying. A small pocket of resistance was being gunned down to the north and a few tanks rumbled down what was remaining of the main road through town. It had been like waking from a dream for Mikhail, only to find himself in the nightmare that was the aftermath. This was the worst part of war, it wasn't the fighting, it wasn't the starving or the cold, those were all things that could be dealt with by a Soviet soldier. It was listening to the men that had fought with you, maybe even the ones that saved your life and you didn't even know it. Their screams were what really ate away at your soul, no matter how much you tried to busy yourself with other things, there was no escaping it. Most of them would live their last moments laid about the streets and rubble. A few would undoubtedly be saved, but what use were they after this memory? None. Fact of the matter was they would never be the same and quite possibly would make horrible decisions in the future that would only result in more unneeded losses.

Mikhail stood up and squinted his eyes while he lowered his head and ran his hand through his unkempt hair. Then he turned and tried to make his way to the rally point to meet up with the remaining troops that could still decently fight. Although they had secured the town the Germans would most likely want it back by sundown. But for the moment both sides were licking their wounds.

[Aleksei Vassiliev]

Darkness. The noises of war didn't seem to reach his ears. He felt calm, almost peaceful. Is this how it feels to be dead?
Suddenly he heard a buzzing sound, which seemed to grow louder every second. Than the buzzing sound changed to words he recognized: "Over here! Quickly....Alive...Efreitor....Efreitor Vassiliev?" Aleksei tried to open his eyes but his right simply refused. He could feel blood running from a wound on his forehead. His entire body hurt like hell and the smell of dust filled his nostrils. He laying what looked like a house or what was left of it. The ceiling had come down as if it had taken a direct hit.
"Efreitor Vassiliev? Are you alright?"
Aleksei looked into the young face of Ryadovi Anatoli Mihailov.
"You have a nasty cut but you'll live. Can you feel your arms and legs?" Softly Aleksei tried to lift his arms from the ground and wiggled his toes. He nodded fast.
"Good! That was a close call. We thought we'd lost you.Others weren't that lucky."
Close call? Aleksei remembered that he and a few others had taken cover in a house for a German Panzer. The next thing he remembered was screaming and an explosion. Than darkness.

"Grigori! Help me get him on his feet!" Ryadovi Molozov who always seemed to grin came running inside. He looked as white as chalk and the grin had surprisingly gone from his face. The strong hands of the two Ryadovi, gently helped him up and Anatoli cleaned the wound with water and applied a bandage.
"We have to go to the rally point. We can probably expect a counter attack."
Aleksei coughed as he took his rifle that Anatoli was holding. "Alright...lead the way." His throat felt like sandpaper and he drank quickly from his flask.

When he stepped outside he closed his eyes for the burning light of the sun. Everywhere were soldiers helping or supporting their comrades. Medics aiding and hospital soldiers running with wounded on stretchers. The dreadful Panzer that almost cost Aleksei's life leaned destroyed against another building. The German tank officer lay next to it, his legs in awkward angles and unmistakable dead.
The fog and smoke that filled the streets drifted away in the air. The battles had been fierce the last days with the Russian forces attacking ferociously, eating away at the German defenses. Aleksei only hoped that the German counter attack wouldn't come soon or better not at all. He still didn't feel that great and he stood weak on his legs.

The two Ryadovi and he made their way to the rally point to prepare themselves and receive orders. And what happened to Serzhant Vostrikov?

[Mikhail Vostrikov]

"Come on now, to your feet!" Mikhail blurted out, not even making eye contact with those he was speaking. He kept his eyes in the direction of the enemy forces, or where they had exited the area. "There is no time for rest quite yet, if you aren't treating the wounded we must get to the rally point for further orders." the men littered in the small courtyard sprang from their moments peace to gather what little gear they had, the Soviets might not have been the best equipped for the war, but they were certain they had the best mindset for it. Mikhail turned and made his way between collapsed rafters and chunks of destroyed walls to the exterior of the broken structure. He looked over the bodies in the area and took a deep breath, the air hadn't been poisoned by their stench yet, but the time would come. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed his cigarettes and a grimace dashed on his face for a brief moment. "Of course they're torn up, everything else is." he muttered under his breath.

"Here, take these Serzhant." was the voice that came from behind Mikhail. He turned to see Ryadovi Viktor Grigorev, he was offering up his own cigarettes. Mikhail only put his hand up to say 'no' but Viktor insisted as he pulled a second pack up from his shirt pocket just enough to be noticed and winked before he released the pack he had pushed into Mikhail's chest and walked away. Mikhail reached a hand up quickly to catch them and dropped his head looking upon them. He smirked for a moment while shaking his head, took one out and stashed the pack. He lit what was now his cigarette and thought back three weeks before when Viktor had first joined up, he was just a green and scared as the rest of the lot, but was the only one that knew to keep a low profile, probably the only reason he was still around. Viktor was about to the point he would be a worthy soldier, he had been through his baptism and was one of the few that came out the other side ready for more.

Mikhail caught up to him and the pair made their way to the rally point, picking up the strays here and there as they went. By the time the cigarette was finished Mikhail and his band of leftovers had reached the edge of the corralled vehicles and mass of Soviet troops. This is it? This is all we've got to hold this place? was the frightening thought that Mikhail, and most likely, everyone else, had at the time. Soon the loud speakers cracked to life and an unfamiliar voice spoke to them, echoing off the walls, or what was left of them.

"Good job Comrades! You have beaten back the dogs that came for our lands! You have served the Motherland honorably!..."[/i] were the words that boomed at them.

"Listen, this is the part where they tell us all the lives we've saved to make us feel all nice and cozy..." Viktor added quietly so only the few close by could hear him. "...then tell us we need to hold our ground courageously or something like that until support arrives." Viktor was shaking his head, seemed he had it figured out...Mikhail remembered when he used to do things of the same nature, in time Viktor would learn to keep his mouth shut and allow the men what little comfort they got from the 'speeches'.

The loud speaker just kept rolling on, as usual. "...Your wives and children go about their days in peace yet again for your efforts today! And even though you have won a mighty battle here today, you mist remain valiant until the end! At this very moment, hundreds more Soviet troops are crossing the river and will be upon us within a few short hours! We must hold out for their arrival! Commanders make your way to the front for orders! FOR STALIN! FOR THE MOTHERLAND!" there was a shrill noise from the speakers and it was over.

Mikhail pushed forward, he wasn't completely sure he would be commanding what was left of the men he had been with for the day, but he hadn't seen a lot of rank in the crowds, he'd rather be turned away than to head back to fight with no orders at all. "Efreitor...uh...Vassiliev? Come, join me up front, just in case this is my day for stupidity I want you to keep the men moving like they should." The chances Mikhail would go off in search of glory this day were slim, but he figured it may lift the spirits of the man, putting a bit of faith into him.

[Vadim Zbruyev]

Vadim sat quietly nursing a shoulder wound. His service was off and laying on the ground next to him. He sat with Konstantin in a shelled out house. The wound had been badged up by a Medic from another platoon. The wound was still leaking blood on the bandages, but not as bad as it had been before. The Ryadovoi had only one pleasure at the moment and that was a cigarette hanging in his lip. Konstantin looked to the younger Russian with concern. After all the medics of the Red Army were not known for their effectiveness, but Vadim looked to him with reassuring eyes.

"Do not worry Konstantin, it is just a cut. Those god damn stick grenades! I should have noticed it! Usually I do, but poor Artem didn't. Too bad, too bad, he was a good guy. I am grateful though that his body absorbed everything but a little of the shock and that fuckin' piece that hit my shoulder," laughed Vadim.

Konstantin smiled. "Y'know I'm sure we are better off than those poor bastards in Finland. I have a cousin there, he told me it was really bad. Colder than it is here, and those Fins are excellent at hiding in all that damn ice,"

"Yeah, well I like the ice, just not the Fins!" replied Vadim with a heavy laugh. The laugh was so hard it made him wince and almost drop the cigarette from his mouth.

Vadim looked on the ground next to him, there was what looked like a piece of the greenish-gray uniform the Germans wore to combat was stuck to a nail on a floorboard. He picked it up with his movable hand and smiled. Whoever it was was definitely missing either a piece of themselves or just tarnished their stupid jacket. Vadim let go of the cloth and let it jump around in the air until it landed silently. He looked at his rifle to his right and his ammunition belt on the ground in front of him. He had ran out of ammunition during the fight and it had caused him some trouble. He had been forced to take a few bullets from a dead man's rifle, not wanting to abandon his own. He grabbed the brown, dirt-flecked, scratched rifle and looked at it. he braced it against the floor vertically, holding it between his legs and opened the bolt.

A bullet popped out and landed in his lap. He grabbed it and set the gun back down. Looking at it, he turned to Konstantin.

"Konstantin, this combination of metal and gunpowder is the only thing keeping us from being killed by them, isn't that funny? The only thing man could design to ultimately attempt to save a soldier from death was a piece of fucking metal? Its amazing how such little thought went into designing a bullet. Its just stupid," announced Vadim.

Konstantin smiled, the man's helmet was sitting on his head loosely. It had a large dent in it from the famous incident near the Ukrainian border where a German sniper nearly took off Konstantin's head. But instead the oddly shaped helmet protected him, it actually did its job. Vadim remembered when the platoon was walking next to a tank and out of all the people, Konstantin was the one who got shot at. He remembered when the soldier fell down and everyone thought he had died. Sure the bullet had knocked him out and down, but after a few minutes he woke up screaming and squirming. It had been something of a joke that Konstantin was bait for the worst snipers in the Nazi army.

Vadim looked at his hands, he was covered in dirt and blood. He needed a shower, or at least a wash in a river or a puddle. The Ryadovoi's body reeked of dirt and the sweet smell of blood. It wasn't a good smell either, it was terrible and almost nauseatingly sweet. Vadim looked to the ground and picked his helmet up, the green, metal "bucket" was uncomfortable, but necessary. He had messed with the straps constantly over the year he had been wearing it, but the damn thing never fit right. He assumed that some blind, half-German, closet Fascist made it an attempt to make one soldier crazily uncomfortable. Vadim never bothered to complain about it, after all a soldier only got issued gear one time, and if they lost it, oh well.

[PuNk! ™]

Moderation Post

[/b][/center]

The following CP has been issued:

Aleksei Vassiliev:[/b] 2CP
Vadim Zbruyev:[/b] 2CP (Deceased/Void)
Mikhail Vostrikov: 4CP

~Danny[/color]