Eternity RPC Board
03-12-2017, 12:06 AM
(This post was last modified: 03-26-2017, 02:04 AM by Jamzor the Jaxxor.)
Pforoshmel, Union of Socialist Republics
1524
Sunset marked the end of one grueling, terrible day and the beginning of another sleepless, horrible night. Ilia Kovalenko sat shivering in his makeshift shelter in the shelled-out ruins of the Severyanian city of Pforoshmel. He was inside a ruined house with no roof. The ground was exposed by a large hole in the floorboards, but it was frozen solid and impossible to dig in, so Ilia had to make due with only above-ground cover from the icy wind. On one side there was a hole-filled brick wall. One the other side was an overturned wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow had a hole in the bottom and was missing its wheel, otherwise it would have been taken for carrying supplies. To fill in the gaps, Ilia and his battle companion, his good friend Grisha, had used loose bricks and other debris. As Ilia settled down for a couple of hours on watch, he could hear the far-off chatter of machine guns, the booms of exploding artillery shells, and the individual pops of snipers firing. He dare not lift his head up too far into the hole in the wall through which he was able to watch the street in his immediate vicinity, but he knew that a few hundred yards to the northeast, down the street of what was once a bustling town, was the enemy–the hated Communists. They would be dug in much the same as he was, clutching their rifles much the same as he was, dreading the coming battles much the same as he was, fighting off the deadly cold much the same as he was, but all the same ready to kill the enemy without hesitation or remorse much the same as he was.
He also knew that there would be at least one sniper watching this street, likely at some elevated point, if there were any available which could make a half-decent blind. The snipers were the true killers in this battle; the snipers and the artillery. At night, one might make the mistake of thinking it was safe to move, that you would remain unseen. This rarely worked. Sure, instead of being able to see the whites of your eyes, the sniper might only see a dark silhouette, but they knew where their men were supposed to be and that anyone seen anywhere else must be assumed to be hostile. Sometimes, it was a scavenging civilian. It might not seem like it, but there was still a civilian population in Pforoshmel. They lived in cellars, basements, and other hiding places among the ruins. Whenever Ilia saw one, he or she looked filthy, emaciated, and often ill. There was no running water, no hospitals, no food, and no way out. Neither army would let civilians through their lines for fear of spies and saboteurs. Neither army would even let a civilian come too close for fear of suicide bombers.
They were stuck between a rock and a hard place, much like Ilia and Grisha. He didn’t want to be here, but he had no choice. If he attempted to return home now, he’d either be shot by the enemy while he attempted to withdraw, shot by his own army for desertion, or feel the guilt of having left his brothers to toil and fight alone for the rest of his life. He couldn’t bear to leave his brothers-in-arms. They were his family. Grisha was one of his best friends. They shared secrets together, like Grisha’s love back home, whom he planned to marry immediately upon his return from war.
Ilia tightened his grip on his rifle. Somewhere down the line, a shot rang out. It was close, probably a sniper. Then there sounded another shot. Then another. Then a burst of machine gun fire. Then a whole chorus of weapons fire. Then silence. Some unit down the line might have repelled an attack. Was that all for tonight?
Ilia’s question was answered by the sound of incoming mortar shells. “Incoming!” someone yelled. Seconds later, hell erupted on earth. There were explosions all around. The only thing Ilia could do, the only thing any man could do, was press against the frozen ground, pray, and curse the Severyanians. Shelling was by far the most horrible of wartime experiences Ilia had experienced so far. The feeling of utter helplessness, of your life being held in the hands of chance. It ended after nearly twenty minutes. After waiting for a few minutes to make sure it was over, Ilia chanced a look out into the street. He saw nothing, but he heard the awful, distinctive sound of a helicopter closing in. He couldn’t see it, but he presumed it to be a Union helo. The Union forces had held air superiority for the better part of a week as the rebels desperately tried to get spare parts in order to repair their grounded aircraft. Ilia heard rockets firing and flying overhead, exploding about fifty yards to his left. Then there was a continuous firing of machine guns as the helicopter did a strafing run. Ilia chanced another look, just in time to see a shoulder-fired rocket race towards the helicopter, outlined by the moonlight. The helo jinked sideways, and the rocket flew harmlessly past. The crew apparently decided that was too close, however, and they flew away.
A couple more minutes passed, and then there was a shot from a sniper–one of Ilia’s comrades. Peeking once again, Ilia saw that this was definitely a new assault. Several silhouetted figures moved from cover to cover, gradually advancing up the street towards his position. A burst of rifle fire from somewhere up ahead brought one of the figures down, but a chorus of return fire from the fallen’s comrades apparently removed the shooter from the fight, for he never fired again.
No orders from superiors were necessary; Ilia knew what to do. He and Grisha took up different positions while attempting to remain in sight of each other, in case either was wounded. Ilia loaded a grenade into the launcher mounted on his rifle. The figures were careful not to bunch up, but when two of them decided to hide behind the same debris pile, Ilia fired the grenade. It landed slightly behind the pile and exploded, sending fragments in all directions. He didn’t see if he got his targets, for almost as soon as he fired, the enemy sent rounds where they had seen his muzzle flash, and he had to back off of the window he had been firing from. Bullets slammed into the back wall, sending dust into the air.
In this case, the night was on Ilia’s side. The enemy night-blinded themselves with their own muzzle flashes. It was now a full-blown gun battle. There were shots back and forth. Machine guns occasionally fired tracers. The enemy’s mortar support for their push now returned, and the shelling returned. There was return fire from the rebels’ own mortars. It was hell.
Eventually, as Ilia was about to pop up from a new position and fire through a small hole in the wall, the building next to him took a direct hit from a mortar. The blast blew bricks and debris everywhere. Ilia was thrown to the ground by the concussive blast. Dirt and dust was thrown over him. He coughed, his ears still ringing. “Grisha?” he called out, coughing. He heard no reply. Grisha was nowhere to be seen. Stumbling into the next room, Ilia saw Grisha sitting up against the wall with an almost foot-long shard of wood sticking out of his throat. “Grisha!” he gasped as he ran forward and crouched next to his friend. When Grisha tried to speak, blood gushed from his mouth. “Medyk!” Ilia cried into the night, but he knew that it was pointless. Grisha would never survive a wound like that, and within a few minutes he was dead. Another casualty of war.
1524
Sunset marked the end of one grueling, terrible day and the beginning of another sleepless, horrible night. Ilia Kovalenko sat shivering in his makeshift shelter in the shelled-out ruins of the Severyanian city of Pforoshmel. He was inside a ruined house with no roof. The ground was exposed by a large hole in the floorboards, but it was frozen solid and impossible to dig in, so Ilia had to make due with only above-ground cover from the icy wind. On one side there was a hole-filled brick wall. One the other side was an overturned wheelbarrow. The wheelbarrow had a hole in the bottom and was missing its wheel, otherwise it would have been taken for carrying supplies. To fill in the gaps, Ilia and his battle companion, his good friend Grisha, had used loose bricks and other debris. As Ilia settled down for a couple of hours on watch, he could hear the far-off chatter of machine guns, the booms of exploding artillery shells, and the individual pops of snipers firing. He dare not lift his head up too far into the hole in the wall through which he was able to watch the street in his immediate vicinity, but he knew that a few hundred yards to the northeast, down the street of what was once a bustling town, was the enemy–the hated Communists. They would be dug in much the same as he was, clutching their rifles much the same as he was, dreading the coming battles much the same as he was, fighting off the deadly cold much the same as he was, but all the same ready to kill the enemy without hesitation or remorse much the same as he was.
He also knew that there would be at least one sniper watching this street, likely at some elevated point, if there were any available which could make a half-decent blind. The snipers were the true killers in this battle; the snipers and the artillery. At night, one might make the mistake of thinking it was safe to move, that you would remain unseen. This rarely worked. Sure, instead of being able to see the whites of your eyes, the sniper might only see a dark silhouette, but they knew where their men were supposed to be and that anyone seen anywhere else must be assumed to be hostile. Sometimes, it was a scavenging civilian. It might not seem like it, but there was still a civilian population in Pforoshmel. They lived in cellars, basements, and other hiding places among the ruins. Whenever Ilia saw one, he or she looked filthy, emaciated, and often ill. There was no running water, no hospitals, no food, and no way out. Neither army would let civilians through their lines for fear of spies and saboteurs. Neither army would even let a civilian come too close for fear of suicide bombers.
They were stuck between a rock and a hard place, much like Ilia and Grisha. He didn’t want to be here, but he had no choice. If he attempted to return home now, he’d either be shot by the enemy while he attempted to withdraw, shot by his own army for desertion, or feel the guilt of having left his brothers to toil and fight alone for the rest of his life. He couldn’t bear to leave his brothers-in-arms. They were his family. Grisha was one of his best friends. They shared secrets together, like Grisha’s love back home, whom he planned to marry immediately upon his return from war.
Ilia tightened his grip on his rifle. Somewhere down the line, a shot rang out. It was close, probably a sniper. Then there sounded another shot. Then another. Then a burst of machine gun fire. Then a whole chorus of weapons fire. Then silence. Some unit down the line might have repelled an attack. Was that all for tonight?
Ilia’s question was answered by the sound of incoming mortar shells. “Incoming!” someone yelled. Seconds later, hell erupted on earth. There were explosions all around. The only thing Ilia could do, the only thing any man could do, was press against the frozen ground, pray, and curse the Severyanians. Shelling was by far the most horrible of wartime experiences Ilia had experienced so far. The feeling of utter helplessness, of your life being held in the hands of chance. It ended after nearly twenty minutes. After waiting for a few minutes to make sure it was over, Ilia chanced a look out into the street. He saw nothing, but he heard the awful, distinctive sound of a helicopter closing in. He couldn’t see it, but he presumed it to be a Union helo. The Union forces had held air superiority for the better part of a week as the rebels desperately tried to get spare parts in order to repair their grounded aircraft. Ilia heard rockets firing and flying overhead, exploding about fifty yards to his left. Then there was a continuous firing of machine guns as the helicopter did a strafing run. Ilia chanced another look, just in time to see a shoulder-fired rocket race towards the helicopter, outlined by the moonlight. The helo jinked sideways, and the rocket flew harmlessly past. The crew apparently decided that was too close, however, and they flew away.
A couple more minutes passed, and then there was a shot from a sniper–one of Ilia’s comrades. Peeking once again, Ilia saw that this was definitely a new assault. Several silhouetted figures moved from cover to cover, gradually advancing up the street towards his position. A burst of rifle fire from somewhere up ahead brought one of the figures down, but a chorus of return fire from the fallen’s comrades apparently removed the shooter from the fight, for he never fired again.
No orders from superiors were necessary; Ilia knew what to do. He and Grisha took up different positions while attempting to remain in sight of each other, in case either was wounded. Ilia loaded a grenade into the launcher mounted on his rifle. The figures were careful not to bunch up, but when two of them decided to hide behind the same debris pile, Ilia fired the grenade. It landed slightly behind the pile and exploded, sending fragments in all directions. He didn’t see if he got his targets, for almost as soon as he fired, the enemy sent rounds where they had seen his muzzle flash, and he had to back off of the window he had been firing from. Bullets slammed into the back wall, sending dust into the air.
In this case, the night was on Ilia’s side. The enemy night-blinded themselves with their own muzzle flashes. It was now a full-blown gun battle. There were shots back and forth. Machine guns occasionally fired tracers. The enemy’s mortar support for their push now returned, and the shelling returned. There was return fire from the rebels’ own mortars. It was hell.
Eventually, as Ilia was about to pop up from a new position and fire through a small hole in the wall, the building next to him took a direct hit from a mortar. The blast blew bricks and debris everywhere. Ilia was thrown to the ground by the concussive blast. Dirt and dust was thrown over him. He coughed, his ears still ringing. “Grisha?” he called out, coughing. He heard no reply. Grisha was nowhere to be seen. Stumbling into the next room, Ilia saw Grisha sitting up against the wall with an almost foot-long shard of wood sticking out of his throat. “Grisha!” he gasped as he ran forward and crouched next to his friend. When Grisha tried to speak, blood gushed from his mouth. “Medyk!” Ilia cried into the night, but he knew that it was pointless. Grisha would never survive a wound like that, and within a few minutes he was dead. Another casualty of war.