Assault [Stanimir]

[Aleksandr Chekov]

November 1941, Leningrad, midday.

They dodged as another shell hit close by to him and his soldiers resting place. They had been fighting for a long time and now had finally been allowed some rest. They had reorganized and was eating what food they had been given before they had to to return to their positions.

The young leitenant could feel how tired he was and the men, but the morale was high. They had been by the front where they had been able to hold back the enemy despite losses which some would blame on the lack of training for the ship personnel which was now an important part of the battle with iron moral despite losses.

They now sat by the first line of defence where the sound of bullets and explosions could be heard and some times they had to cover themselves. A messenger came to them "Tavarish Mladshii Leitenant Chekov?" The messenger asked, He nodded at the messenger determined while lighting a cigarette.

"Here are your orders, Tavarish mladshii leitenant Chekov." the messenger said handing him a piece of paper. He nodded at the messenger before starting to read the message. "Alright men, we have to assault further down the front... So be ready to move out!" he ordered following the orders he received blindly as he had been taught by Komsomol and on the officer academy.

He stood up and ordered his men forward who tiredly got to their feet before moving out. He moved towards the line they had to be at knowing that they would eventually receive support from the army soldiers. As they reached their position they immediately came under enemy fire making him and his men drop to the ground or seek to the nearest cover before opening fire on the enemy which seemed to outnumber them quite alot.

[Stanimir Zolnerowich]

Icy. The feeling of Stanimir's blood, rather than the climate. True, it was freezing in Sankt Petersburg, as it usually was; the temperature rarely rose above fifty degrees Fahrenheit, even in the brief summer season. But he felt naturally cold. Whether it was the symptom of a disorder or a result of his own mind playing a never ending prank on him was unclear. Nor did it matter, truthfully.

Sankt Petersburg, the true name of the city the Bolsheviks had renamed “Leningrad”, had been under attack for two weeks now. With the Finns to the Northwest and Northeast, and the Germans beginning to close the gap to the east. It seemed an inevitability that the city would either be taken or besieged within another two weeks time at most, although the seasoned veteran expected it would take far less time than that for the Wehrmacht. Likely days.

Chances were, thankfully, that his unit would be relocated within the next twenty-four hours. For now, he was biding his time being shot at by his old adversaries: the Finns. Were he a more vocal man, the Starshiy Leytenant would have ardently expressed his knowledge of Finnish tactics along with his own experience in dealing with their formidable, yet in many ways rudimentary, forces. It was an odd juxtaposition, really. The Finns, who he'd been locked in deadly combat with only a few years prior, were now better equipped and better trained than the vast majority of the Red Army. In no small part thanks to the Third Reich, but it was an interesting change of pace regardless.

His company had taken position in a boarded-up cafe just fifty-meters from the front-most Finnish line; the enemy had taken to using the exposed sewers that were formally concealed beneath the streets as a makeshift trench network. It was likely a filthy means of movement, and undoubtedly a health risk to their men. At the same time, it gave them the unquestionable advantage of being able to show up anywhere behind the Soviet lines. It was a notion that had ensured a state of alertness and a lack of sleep in both Zolnerowich and his men.

Judging by his (possibly off) timepiece strapped to his wrist, Stanimir determined it was an hour after noon. Perhaps later. Or earlier. There was no way of accurately telling through the combination of snowfall and smoke. The resulting precipitant gave a whole new meaning to the myth of “don't eat the yellow snow”.

Maintaining vigilance on the Finnish position meant keeping both eyes on the road and surrounding buildings almost endlessly. It had practically become a de facto rule not to blink. And in this instance, he and his mens' vigilance spotted a rather peculiar group of allied infantry, of about forty, maybe thirty men, moving up the road. What was peculiar, beyond the fact that the commanding officer had led them straight up the the enemy's line of fire (and surprisingly made it to an iced-over barricade without taking any losses) was the fact that they were naval infantry. “The Black Death”, or the “Black Jackets” as the rest of the army liked to call them.

He saw them before any of his men, stationed on the various floors of the structure, could relay it to him. His first thought was made audible.

“Who's men are those in the road?” To his rear, his radio operator, one Bovor Greggin, began to hail headquarters for information. Whoever the platoon's (he reasoned) commander was, the man was either a complete fool, or had testicles composed of cast iron. Whichever it was, they wouldn't be moving forward from that spot without being slaughtered. Likewise, moving to either adjacent structure would be a difficult task without support. It was just their luck that Stanimir's men were ready to lend aid.

“Command thinks they're with the third naval infantry, sir! They were part of the garrison when the attack was launched!” It was something of a blessing; they weren't totally green.

”Alright; covering fire on the house across the street, and the main barricade up the road. Let's get these guys out of the open!” With his order, compliance followed. Stanimir's reputation had followed him over the past two years. He was still talked about behind his back in the mess, and whispers were exchanged around the bonfire. Starshiy Leytenant Zolnerowich was just as ruthless as a twenty-eight year old man, as he had been when he'd joined the army ten years prior. When he gave out an order, his men followed out of respect more than fear, but both emotions were ever-present. The Leytenant had demonstrated, on numerous occasions, that he had no qualms with executing cowards, deserters, or political officers. This outward display veiled his true motives for such executions. The men saw it as a symbol of his staunch but effective command, and a lack of willingness to deal with the strategic retardation of the party officials.

The real reason was that he would take any possible excuse to kill a man.

[Aleksandr Chekov]

Now there they sat pinned down by the heavy fire all while he was planning out a way to get to the nearby buildings which would lead them to greater safety but also deny that building to the enemy. It seemed hard but in his mind not hopeless of cause it might require that some of the men gave their lives for Stalin and the Motherland.

Then there suddenly started to come supporting fire from further down the road which lightened the fire which was made upon them making it easier for him to move his men forward which would be the risky business in this battle.

"Alright men!" He yelled out "At my mark we move to the closest building" He took a deep breath putting a whistle to his lips calculating when the best time to run would be "Shoot then run!" He commanded before blowing the whistle seeing his men make a last firing round at the building making his opponents cover a bit before they all sprinted towards the building.

The first part of the way went smooth but then the enemy started to fire taking down a couple of the men and one right next to him. Although he did his best to show courage to his men he'd rather want to retreat to a safe location but he had the fear of disobeying an order, he knew the punishment which could be bestowed upon an officer if they showed cowardice in the eye of the enemy.

Finally they reached the building only having lost a handful of men, though he still maintained a good force. Now came the trouble, the M91/30 being the common weapon for the Soviet soldier with its regular spike bayonet reached a length of 1.3 meters making it hard for building fighting. But they would have to try.

They prepared for entrance while he was holding up a hand with three fingers while counting down and as he clenched his fist the door was kicked down and a grenade tossed in and the same for the two most adjacent windows, and hopefully clearing the rooms with a large bang before they entered the building, starting to try and clear out the first floor.

[Tristan Herman]

When the friendly officer's men began to mount a charge on the enemy occupied structure, rather than move off the street and out of the line of fire, Stanimir couldn't help but extend his previous sentiment. The commanding officer was clearly an idiot. Or an idealistic communist pig; the two were interchangeable to the Starshiy Leytenant at the end of the day.

By some strange, bastardized miracle (if one could even call it that) the platoon made it through the Finn's hail of gunfire. Either the officer and his men had the intention of using every last possible ounce of luck they retained, or somebody was looking out for them. Regardless of the reason for the platoon's survival, it was clear to Zolnerowich that his own company would not be moving any time soon without support. Add on the fact that the officer had no intention of being in the choke when Sankt Petersburg was finally captured or surrounded, and the incentive to eject in the enemy from their position became all the greater. Aiding the naval infantry in their assault was the best course of action.

And, as a personal plus, it meant there was killing to do.

“First squad, follow me! We're going to give our comrades a hand!” The oh-so-familiar, sinister smile spread across Stanimir's face at the prospect of death and destruction. The Killer was awake, and had no intention of going back to sleep for some time.

His men assembled as per their orders, and Stanimir burst from the building entrance in a headlong sprint, faithfully wielding his PPSH; he'd scavenged it from the company commissar who'd befallen an unfortunate “accident” the day prior. In their rush across the frozen paved street, a solitary man was lost, only to be dragged back to the cafe by his brethren for medical care.

As Stanimir's body slammed against the brick and mortar of the tall apartment structure, the “Black Jackets” were faithfully executing their assault, stacking around the structure's many entrances. Stanimir reasoned that while the troops at the main barricade were distracted by his allies' attack, they would be able to lead an attack of their own on the unsuspecting enemy.

Grenade's were a guy's best friend after all.


[[Just noticed I accidentally posted as Tristan. Oh well. ]]

[Aleksandr Chekov]

Now they were caught in close quarter combat making their attempt to clear the place room for room. Door was kicked down and screams of pain were heard and yelling in different languages as well as shots and knifes hitting meat, it sounded bloody. He held the pistol he had taken of another dead officer earlier that same day moving around in the buildings first floor with his men, though majority of the resistance seemed to be elsewhere.

He moved into a room seeing a man i grey uniform, fighting one of his own soldiers so he quickly fired at him killing him before he even reached to turn around saving one of his soldiers who seemed very surprises as his opponent dropped to the floor. The soldier nodded before running past and to do more battle. He looked out a window and saw the khaki uniform as they reached the building. He felt a feeling of joy to have help though also a feeling of regret that somebody would take the honour.

He went back into the hall running towards the stairs with a couple of his men in front of him and as they reached up the stairs he heard the devastating sound of the of a machine gun as the bullets chopped through the men making them drop dead quickly. He stopped surprised at the step finally some of the adrenaline fading making him feel slight distress looking back to his men who seemed to have won over the few people on the lowest floor.

He knelt and looked at his men "We'll wait for the red army guys who's just outside... Hopefully they got equipment or manpower for this" he said some of the men leaning up the wall aiming around. He knew that frontal assault on a machine gun would be suicide no matter how much he was ordered to do it.

[Stanimir Zolnerowich]

The rain of grenades from Stanimir's first squad made short work of the entrench Finns just over the barricade. Their cries of terror and anguish were the only signal required for him to pop his head over the snow-covered bank of chairs, brick, and car parts long enough to determine that an assault at this point was nothing short of child's play.

“Up and over!” With that command, Zolnerowich sallied over the barricade, brandishing his PPSH like a greatsword pointed to the enemy. He sprayed the surviving (and shocked) troops with a hail of small-caliber fire. His assisting comrades took notice, mirroring the action with a dispatch of anyone in their sights. As they realized immediate danger was no longer an issue of consideration, the Leytenant turned back to the structure he and his men had been occupying only moments before.

“Second platoon: out of the building! Take up positions here!” Again, the respect he garnered was measured in their willingness to obey his commands. He reasoned that the remaining men of his company could provide overwatch for the rest at an elevated position. Meanwhile, the Naval infantrymen and his own troops in the street would maintain the new position until they were relieved. If they were relieved.

On the matter of the Black Jackets, Stanimir again turned to first platoon, quickly drawing from its ranks a handful of men to follow him to the structure adjacent their new position at the barricade. Forced to circle back around to the front door of the building, located to rear, the Leytenant burst through the front door, asking the first brazen looking soldier he saw where the commander was. Down the hall, take a right, la-la-la, something about a machine-gun. The man, if you could even call the commanding officer that, looked green as the head on a stick-grenade. Not scared, mind you, but definitely not anywhere near as experienced as Stanimir was. Let alone as old.

“I'll take a wild guess,” Stanimir started, quite calmly,“That there is something beyond the corner that is looking to kill you, Leytenant?”