Chapter 1- New beginnings

A Chapter by calgar

Chapter One- Beginnings

All the men were tense. None of them liked patrolling, it was a dirty and dangerous job, but instead of voicing their hatred of the task, they would focus their hatred into the task itself. All had the safety off on their weapons, all were ready to drop to the Russian soil in an instant, all of their senses were straining to catch even the faintest hint of hostile action. The trunks and branches sway gently from side to side, covering the patrol from the worst attentions of the sun, but also concealing the prying, unwelcome eyes of Partisans. They are aware of this, and all are on the edge as to the possibility of an ambush. The last two patrols, both travelling on the same route, had been shot at on the latter stages of their journey. Both had returned fire and driven away their assailants at no cost, but that was little comfort to the latest in a line of uncertain patrols.

The men know their surroundings instinctively. They have been patrolling the same route for almost two and a half months, and they had come to know the ins and outs of the trail. They had come to recognise every twist and turn, every landmark, and had even developed working relationships, if extremely limited and timid, with the locals. Whilst forbidden under standard field practices, during the day to day routine on the Front, they were almost essential.

Around them, the nature is blossoming. Unheeding of the brutal war of survival between two unrelenting, totalitarian regimes and untouched by the barbaric warfare. Roe stride through the undergrowth with their mothers, flowers open to reveal all colours of the rainbow, birds build nests and soar above the canopy. Everywhere, nature continues her cycle. It is to this backdrop that this war of survival was fought, where men slaughter each other without thought or care, a place where the fighting exceeded anything mankind had ever experienced in it's long, vaunted military history.

And all these men had thrived in it. Many were tough farm hands from the verdant plains of Saxony and Thuringia, others were boys from the rough suburbs of Berlin, where only the strongest ruled. All had been on the front for what was deemed an eternity, anything over six months. Some had been present on the first Blitzkrieg campaign into Poland, others had marched down the Champs des Elysée’s in 1940. The least experienced had served long enough to remember with vivid reality the spring and summer campaigns and their disastrous conclusion in the streets of Stalingrad. Many of the patrol had lost friends, colleagues or relatives serving with the 6^th, and this had only made them fight harder during the relief attempt and the brutal, unrelenting battles that followed, and now they had focused their hatred and grief into new, lesser tasks.

In front, the Sergeant motions for the patrol to halt. They all instinctively go prone, bringing their weapons up into an impressive all round defence in synchronization, only the gentle breeze breaking the tense atmosphere. Sweat begins to drip down their foreheads and onto their brows, one or two of the men shake with adrenaline, but all are veterans of the harsh school and all know how to react in the situation they were experiencing.

Taking some solace in this fact, the patrol stand resolute in the woods. But no level of experience can subdue primeval instinct, and the strain showed on many of their faces. Weapons shook as the long, almost unbearable wait continued. Their eyes scanned their surroundings intrinsically, scrutinizing every detail in their hunt for any threats. But they could find no threats, or even any sign of human life. All they could find was wildlife in it's many, varied forms.

After several seconds, the Sergeant motions for them to rise. As they rise, their weapons fall only slight downwards, and as one they begin their hesitant march once more. The grass sways from side to side, bracketed by the wind, before being crunched underfoot by the men, whist the towering oak trees to either side of them move gently in rhythm. Their long branches wind their way over the trail, covering the patrol with their supple leaves. The whole scene is idyllic and relaxing, yet all are even more tense than before, watching every step for a craftily hidden landmine or trap. The school of the Eastern Front breeds toughness, and none of these men had been found wanting.

A village comes into view in front of the patrol. It is the last on the route before they begin the homeward journey back to the encampment, and it is a welcome, if unnerving sight. Every member had lost a friend, a comrade, a brother, to the Untermensch, and all were understandably nervous when dealing with them in such small, vulnerable numbers. The Ukrainians, whilst lacking some of the advantages their Belo-Russian counterparts have against the men of HeerGroup Mitte, are still fearsome fighters, a fact the men are not keen on forgetting as they approach the small, unimposing houses of the village. The trees that screen the village finally part, twenty yards away from the first house, to reveal an idyllic rolling view. The sight brought back the sweet aromas of home, were their lives were not lived in uncertainty and constant danger. But home was something some would never see again.

A shot rang out, and one of the patrol falls, clutching his throat. The patrol drop into position once more, frantically scanning their surroundings for their attacker. His victim lies on foreign soil, clutching his throat even as his lifeblood pours out onto the verdant soil as he desperately tries to stem the bleeding. His comrades, brothers in arms, give him desperate, fleeting looks whenever they can, but slowly they realize as only veterans can that he is a dead man.

Another shot is fired, The wounded man stops moving, his grip on his throat loosens, and slowly blood begins to ooze out of his back as well. The men, brothers, he has spent his time in the Wehrmacht with look on, scanning for their hidden assailant, all the while casting sad, grief stricken gazes at his unmoving corpse. Seconds later, another bullet slams into the dirt in front of the patrol, quickly followed by a tirade of heavier ones, tearing up the dirt in front of the patrol, covering men in dust.

At this, the Sergeant begins screaming orders, and the patrol rise to their feet, firing at the houses in the distance. Finally able to give their anger, grief, frustration and worry form, the patrol launch an impressive fusillade into the houses. They have forgotten all about the relationships they formed with the Untermench, for he has just taken one of their brother's from them. The air in front of them becomes a morass of flying lead and steam as the schmeissers, precariously balanced at the hip, chatter away whilst the 7.92mm rounds snapped intermittently from Gewehr 43's that are raised to the shoulder of their user every few seconds. With a precision created by the unrelenting and vicious fighting, the patrol marched forward, bullets slamming into the ground and trees around them whilst maintaining their own furious rate of fire.

The patrol march uncaring through the fusillade directed at them, with all the power and regalia of their ancestors. They march with the surety of those who have won every type of action in the replete military annals of mankind, with the self confidence derived from an espirit de corps that is near impossible to match, and with the closeness of a band of brothers intent on protecting those around him, no matter what the cost to himself may be.

Several dozen figures run screeching from the houses, obviously terrified by the display of force. They are trying to drag away as much equipment as possible, but this only serves to slow them down and make easier targets for the advancing Germans Some turn to fire a quick, inaccurate burst of fire before melting away, winding their way over the carpet of corpses the patrol's accurate shots have claimed. Nonetheless, many of their assailants remain in the houses, still pouring an impressive deluge with a respectable degree of accuracy. Testament to this, another of the squad falls, blood spurting from his thigh even as he attempts to aim his weapon at the house closest to him. He falls to the ground, blood darkening his field grey uniform and adding moisture to the dry, foreign soil. One of his squad-mates drops onto the ground beside him, rushing to stem the bleeding. In front of them, their comrades continue to advance, heedless of the rising storm.

The rest of the patrol have by now reached the extremes of the village, and are composing themselves for the even more deadly storm of house to house combat. The Sergeant moves forward once again, his schmeisser nestled under his shoulder, a grenade in the other. Another member of the patrol also moves forwards with him, both treading gently and carefully through the rubble strewn streets. They are both experienced, but they are walking into a wall of bullets, reminiscent of the fire their fathers poured into the advancing Allied armies in France and Flanders twenty five years previously. Miraculously both emerged unscathed, marching through the storm with a composure forged in the most taxing of battles. Their return fire is just as unrelenting, and far more accurate. A Russian falls from one of the houses, his arm a torn mess, his face smashed to a pulp by a storm of bullets. Many others die less spectacularly, every death adding to the ever lessening storm of Soviet bullets. By the time the Sergeant and his escort have reached their target, the storm has abated substantially.

The rest of the men warily hang back, firing occasional bursts into houses at the smallest provocation, at the same time as trying to attract as little attention to themselves. All are exhausted, the initial shock and adrenaline has dissipated, and the burden of their equipment is showing as their weary muscles move far slower than before. All, however, are still ready for a fight, and the hunger for revenge burns deeply inside all of them. They have watched many die, but when it is their brothers doing the dying, their primeval hunger for revenge takes over. They all check their ammunition, making quick, efficient reloads and loosening their bayonet and grenade webbing, before exchanging encouragement and reassurance and turning back into the maelstrom.

The sergeant has by this time reached his target, and pulls the connection cord on the grenade. Beside him, his escort fires a long volatile burst into the house, desperately seeking to eliminate any threats. In spite of this, the fire from the windows above them continues unabated. The sergeant moves to the door, predictably bolted and reinforced with steel bars, and fires a short violent burst into the door. Then he rams the grenade into the door, visibly wincing as his shoulder smashes into the frame, before motioning to his escort to find cover. He follows his own advice scant milliseconds later, throwing himself onto hostile soil with great force and speed that would have been thought unthinkable by the uneducated.

“Down Kamerads!”

The patrol follow their sergeant's example and diligently throw themselves to the floor, pulling their helmets to cover their necks even as they try to land as gently as possible on the ground, all the while protecting the myriad of equipment they carry. The grenade explodes scant seconds later, sending voracious wooden splinters hurtling above the patrol's heads, some of them actually petering off their strong steel helmets, like arrows rebounding from the Teutonic knights armor six centuries prior. As soon as the brief whirlwind of debris subsides, the rest of the patrol are on their feet and sprinting to their sergeants position, who is frantically spraying the windows of the next house.

By now, the fire from most houses has stopped. Many of the Russians are dead, lying in pools of blood, their bodies torn by the accurate and deadly fire of the experienced Soldaten. Others have retreated into the extensive forests around the village, melting away into the undergrowth. Those few who actually made it to their refuge did so over a carpet of broken bodies and pleading wounded, all victims of the horrifyingly massive automatic potential the Germans possessed. The only rock of resistance in the sea of defeat was the house that had begun the fighting. It's door had been blasted down by the Sergeant's well placed grenade, but it was otherwise intact. It's towering, brick chimney rose above the smoke of battle, and though it's walls were pot-marked with bullet holes they stood firm. Their occupants stood as firm as the walls surrounding them, their courage unabated, their hunger for German blood unsatisfied. Whether they were driven by some resemblance of a rearguard action, a drive for vengeance, or the simple hope for survival, the men fought viciously.

By now the rest of the patrol had reached the house, and were prepared for the final assault. All exchanged final looks, slung close quarters weapons around their webbing for easy reach, then advanced into the broken, hostile house. The door was a mess of splinters and body parts. The few intact remains of the Russian behind the door were strewn throughout the living space, amidst cold unmoving corpses that had been neatly created by accurate bursts of fire. The corpses lay amongst their weapons, grasping them as tightly as they did in life. The Germans tread carefully through the door and spread out, searching every nook and cranny for booby traps or hiding hazards. The fire from upstairs has stopped, and the Sergeant motions two of the patrol to begin moving up the stairs. All of those present had heard reports of 'Ivans' tenacity and brutality in urban warfare from wounded pioneers brought out out Stalingrad before the entombment of their brothers, and all were apprehensive of the prospect of a bloodless end to a blood-filled patrol. His ending statement on the topic, as it was obvious that the strain of it was bringing back very unwelcome, vivid and dark memories was both brutal and horrifying- “When a shadow jumps, shoot it long enough so it wont jump again, because Ivans waiting behind every corner”

As if testament to the pioneer's words, three Russians appear at the top of the stairs, spraying lead at the Germans beneath them. One German at the top of the stairs falls back, his chest torn open by the impact of a rifle bullet. The others quickly compose themselves amidst the storm of inaccurate bullets and soon the Russians have been scythed down as efficiently as a summer harvest, their bodies ripped open and beyond repair. Blood runs down the stairs, soaking into the pale cedar wood. At the base of the stairs, German and Russian blood mix in a dark pool, in defiance to the leader of the Reich's dream. The patrol wearily move up the stairs whilst one man stays behind to guard their comrade's body. Soon they return, finding nothing but discarded equipment and corpses. As they leave the building, they place several explosives on delayed fuses to eliminate any usefulness left to their enemies.

Eventually, the patrol reach their initial positions during the skirmish. All are worn out, and all are silent. They carry their late comrade's corpse gently and affectionately, as a mother carries a newborn, careful not to ruin his peaceful complexion. The member of the patrol to stay with the injured man, who can only now move with heavy support from his comrades, does not need to be told that another of his brothers has been violently torn from the world. The dried, dusk caked tears on the faces of his living brothers tells him that. They gather around their two brothers, staring painfully and affectionately at their peaceful features. They all cry silent tears, memories of the two men beginning to rush back to them, nostalgia overwhelming their minds.

For all, this was not the first time they had seen their comrade's die, but no matter how many times the human mind experiences such a thing, it never eases the pain and suffering. They are all suffering, their insides burning already with the sensation of loss and grief, but none are willing to show anything more than a whiff of it, for they must be strong for the living. All know the dangers of becoming grief stricken on the front, all have seen the exacerbated casualty lists from men who thought they had nothing left to loose.

And so it is in this sombre, dejected mood, that the patrol begin to make their way back to camp, walking towards the rays of the setting sun and homewards to the fatherland they fight so hard for.

The camp was as busy as when the patrol had left, even though the sun had long since set on the steppe. Everywhere orderlies did errands for high ranking officers, officers discussed the latest developments with a refinement and attitude that would of left the typical Prussian Junker staff officer wincing, all the while the rank and file simply tried to get on with a life as normal as it could possibly be. Panzer III's and IV's, half tracks and self propelled guns were being serviced as quickly, illuminated by whatever fire or lamp the crew could find, as deficiencies were covered up by any and all methods of improvisation and replacement. The tents occupied by the high and mighty persons of Staff Officer ilk were brimming and ready to overflow with lines of Captains and Lieutenants all awaiting orders, who stood impatiently whilst those in front of them were received with either great warmth or a startling coldness. These tents were far more insulated and comfortable than those their subordinates and men had for living quarters, this inequality overlooked by all but the best officers.

Several members of the regiment had ran over to the patrol, who simply looked at them before continuing on. The majority of the regiment was blooded enough to know when to approach a man, and all had the sense to respectfully bow their heads and walk away, whilst those who were in the hustle and bustle of organizing the great war machine left a small artery for the patrol to slowly wind their their way through.

But still their ordeal is not over. After leaving their wounded comrade to the tender care of the camp doctors, to lie amongst many other horribly wounded, on a stretcher that had been covered in the blood of so many others, the patrol leave to bury their two brothers. They dig them two separate graves in foreign soil far from home, a few inches separating the two departed comrades who fought so hard for the other. They strip them of all personal items to be sent back to their families, a small act intended to ease the indescribable suffering their families will suffer, before lowering them softly into their final resting place Their still living comrades, who some would dub lucky, looked down at them painfully, affectionately watching over their friends once more. Then slowly, they covered their brothers with the dirt of a foreign land, their faces as a picture of perfect peace, before they too were finally covered forever.

After what seemed an eternity of slogging their way through the bustling camp, followed by the pitying eyes of men who had never once spoke to them or even knew their names, they had finally reached the pitiful, cramped and cluttered tents they called home. Casting off the equipment they had carried for the past twelve hours and throwing themselves to the floor, the patrol almost instantly fall into a deep slumber. But it is not a peaceful slumber, as they constantly twist and turn tormentingly, their minds haunted once more by yet another traumatic day.

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© 2015 calgar

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Number Six

The first word after finishing this first chapter: Tense.

When I began to read, I was a bit confused. Later on, however, I realized that this confusion fits in with the real-life confusion of war.
It was quite impressive how it actually created in me the sense of tension and wariness that awaiting for a random hail of bullets would in real life.

The style of writing was pretty good too. Very good design on how the patrol's emotions were readable despite the lack of dialogue.

Good job. I hope the upcoming chapters continue to deliver.