Post by Julian Rosenthal on Jun 19, 2012 18:44:07 GMT
Country: Soviet Union
Time: July 1941
Weather: Clear and Warm
Like ghosts, they had come from the trees. Darting, fleeting, just as savage as any Abyssinian tribe or Apache braves. The carcass of the German convoy was left smoldering, prostrated across the dirt road, halftracks and transport trucks burned-out and scalded. Bodies lay in tiny, crumpled heaps, cut down in the throes of scrambling like cornered hinds for cover. Machine-gunners in the vehicle’s turrets had managed to spray only quick, scattered spurts of fire into the forest before a marksman’s bullet plinked through their steel helmet. Every infantryman was picked off, one by one. The firing had ended in a matter of moments. The enemy had then contracted upon the Germans like a tightening grip, forms exploding from the trees and flowing onto the road. Bayonets flashed, sinking into half-living flesh, blood welling from already battered bodies and wetting the earth. Screams were wrenched from the wounded as cold steel cut off the last heaves of their youthful bodies. What a sudden, oblivious fellowship of death.
Julian fell to all fours, letting his weight tumble forward onto his palms. His stomach pulsed, his gullet clenching up. He wretched as a slick strand of bile fell from his lips and pooled in a little rocky crevice. The SS-Obersturmfuhrer pulled back on his knees and sat on his legs, his hands both leaving little smears of crimson on the cool slate as they dragged. Julian sat on the edge of a rock-lined creek, the forest creasing on both sides of the water and degrading into a green tangle of grassy undergrowth and moss. The trees, close together and wispy with a cool summer breeze, muttered around him as leaves brushed and tangled. A camouflage smock hung loosely from Julian’s bulky frame, torn at the collar and exposing the heaving chest of his field tunic. The fabric rustled and tugged in the circulating air. He pulled his eyes down and raised his forearm, trying to make out his watch. It was expensive, a gift from a family friend, a gold-framed face on a milky-brown leather strap. He was disappointed to find the glass shattered and sprayed with soil. He smeared a thumb across it, wiping away the dirt with a trail of blood. Squinting through the pain in his head, he could see the hour hand tick out midday. A solid two hours since the attack.
Julian had survived the firefight, but with half of the force destroyed, he had led a small band of three survivors into the woods. Two of them were spotted and downed within the first 30 yards. The enemy had failed to give chase. An Unterscharfuhrer had accompanied Julian for an hour, but had keeled over, dead, on their way down a slope. Julian suspected internal bleeding. So he had travelled alone, jogging at first, and slowly meandering down to an exhausted crawl. He ran through the attack again and again as he sat by the streamside, relaxing and feeling cool air radiate up from the water. Julian organized his thoughts, harnessing the cleansing and clearing power of pain. The attackers had been mostly plainclothes, peasants from the surrounding villages armed with Red Army surplus and captured weaponry. They were led by several men in baggy tan uniforms, splinters and remnants from the smashed Soviet armies who were defeated near the Baltic. They had machine guns and rifles, and were most likely pursuing him. He had to retreat farther in, hope for salvation. It was a thin chance.
Julian pulled himself to the water’s edge, leaning over the rocky edge and dipping his scarred hands in the water. He cupped his fingers and splashed his face, water dribbling down from the tip of his nose and the crest of his lips onto his flowing reflection. He stared into his own eyes, assessing the damage done to him. A piece of shrapnel had torn open his forehead right at the hairline, leaving a huge gash that was just beginning to become tacky. Blood mingled with river water, splashing in tiny drops into the stream. His blonde hair hung loose and caked with sweat and dirt, his Caesarian fringe wet and dangling. It hurt so badly. He let himself go for a minute, let the boy inside him well up. He dragged his finger against the weak current, creating a little water tail in the water. It hurt so badly. He’d seen men die today, men who he was responsible for. He had blocked it out earlier, but right then, it made him want to cry. It hurt so badly.
His ears pricked at the sound of a cracking twig further upstream. It was followed by a rustle of leaves, as if someone was treading carefully down the rocky bank. His head snapped up and with a burst of duty he twirled around. Julian had snatched a dead soldier’s Mauser as he had fled, his own weapon lost in the ambush. He clutched for the weapon behind him, actively scrambling towards a large rock overcome with moss and grass. His scraped palm found the smooth wood of its stock and he pulled it with him, dodging behind cover.
Julian braced himself towards the noise. He wrapped the rifle’s leather sling around his left forearm, steadying his aim, and lurched himself against the rock. He cleared his mind of all thoughts and pain, his senses exploding. He smelled the earthy moss and the greased steel of his weapon’s bolt. His ironsights glided along the undergrowth, ready to fire on anything that would come from it. If he had to die, he would die with resistance.
Time: July 1941
Weather: Clear and Warm
Like ghosts, they had come from the trees. Darting, fleeting, just as savage as any Abyssinian tribe or Apache braves. The carcass of the German convoy was left smoldering, prostrated across the dirt road, halftracks and transport trucks burned-out and scalded. Bodies lay in tiny, crumpled heaps, cut down in the throes of scrambling like cornered hinds for cover. Machine-gunners in the vehicle’s turrets had managed to spray only quick, scattered spurts of fire into the forest before a marksman’s bullet plinked through their steel helmet. Every infantryman was picked off, one by one. The firing had ended in a matter of moments. The enemy had then contracted upon the Germans like a tightening grip, forms exploding from the trees and flowing onto the road. Bayonets flashed, sinking into half-living flesh, blood welling from already battered bodies and wetting the earth. Screams were wrenched from the wounded as cold steel cut off the last heaves of their youthful bodies. What a sudden, oblivious fellowship of death.
Julian fell to all fours, letting his weight tumble forward onto his palms. His stomach pulsed, his gullet clenching up. He wretched as a slick strand of bile fell from his lips and pooled in a little rocky crevice. The SS-Obersturmfuhrer pulled back on his knees and sat on his legs, his hands both leaving little smears of crimson on the cool slate as they dragged. Julian sat on the edge of a rock-lined creek, the forest creasing on both sides of the water and degrading into a green tangle of grassy undergrowth and moss. The trees, close together and wispy with a cool summer breeze, muttered around him as leaves brushed and tangled. A camouflage smock hung loosely from Julian’s bulky frame, torn at the collar and exposing the heaving chest of his field tunic. The fabric rustled and tugged in the circulating air. He pulled his eyes down and raised his forearm, trying to make out his watch. It was expensive, a gift from a family friend, a gold-framed face on a milky-brown leather strap. He was disappointed to find the glass shattered and sprayed with soil. He smeared a thumb across it, wiping away the dirt with a trail of blood. Squinting through the pain in his head, he could see the hour hand tick out midday. A solid two hours since the attack.
Julian had survived the firefight, but with half of the force destroyed, he had led a small band of three survivors into the woods. Two of them were spotted and downed within the first 30 yards. The enemy had failed to give chase. An Unterscharfuhrer had accompanied Julian for an hour, but had keeled over, dead, on their way down a slope. Julian suspected internal bleeding. So he had travelled alone, jogging at first, and slowly meandering down to an exhausted crawl. He ran through the attack again and again as he sat by the streamside, relaxing and feeling cool air radiate up from the water. Julian organized his thoughts, harnessing the cleansing and clearing power of pain. The attackers had been mostly plainclothes, peasants from the surrounding villages armed with Red Army surplus and captured weaponry. They were led by several men in baggy tan uniforms, splinters and remnants from the smashed Soviet armies who were defeated near the Baltic. They had machine guns and rifles, and were most likely pursuing him. He had to retreat farther in, hope for salvation. It was a thin chance.
Julian pulled himself to the water’s edge, leaning over the rocky edge and dipping his scarred hands in the water. He cupped his fingers and splashed his face, water dribbling down from the tip of his nose and the crest of his lips onto his flowing reflection. He stared into his own eyes, assessing the damage done to him. A piece of shrapnel had torn open his forehead right at the hairline, leaving a huge gash that was just beginning to become tacky. Blood mingled with river water, splashing in tiny drops into the stream. His blonde hair hung loose and caked with sweat and dirt, his Caesarian fringe wet and dangling. It hurt so badly. He let himself go for a minute, let the boy inside him well up. He dragged his finger against the weak current, creating a little water tail in the water. It hurt so badly. He’d seen men die today, men who he was responsible for. He had blocked it out earlier, but right then, it made him want to cry. It hurt so badly.
His ears pricked at the sound of a cracking twig further upstream. It was followed by a rustle of leaves, as if someone was treading carefully down the rocky bank. His head snapped up and with a burst of duty he twirled around. Julian had snatched a dead soldier’s Mauser as he had fled, his own weapon lost in the ambush. He clutched for the weapon behind him, actively scrambling towards a large rock overcome with moss and grass. His scraped palm found the smooth wood of its stock and he pulled it with him, dodging behind cover.
Julian braced himself towards the noise. He wrapped the rifle’s leather sling around his left forearm, steadying his aim, and lurched himself against the rock. He cleared his mind of all thoughts and pain, his senses exploding. He smelled the earthy moss and the greased steel of his weapon’s bolt. His ironsights glided along the undergrowth, ready to fire on anything that would come from it. If he had to die, he would die with resistance.
