DrakaFic: The Great Patriotic War : Beginnings

Post by **Sea Skimmer** » 2004-07-19 04:14am

The Duchess of Zeon wrote:< snip >

Nothing beats in hilarity the ideas made up by bean-counters at desks who have never been beyond the city limits of a national capital in their lives.

Well scrapping off the top silo and hauling it away in tens of thousands of steel drums was a major part of the cleanup at Palomares. Though it also a situation in which only the mighty power of alpha radiation needed to be dealt with..

Post by **The Yosemite Bear** » 2004-07-19 06:58am

duck and cover, actually a trapped draka unit surrounded etc would be good

CaptainChewbacca · Post by **CaptainChewbacca** » 2004-07-19 10:19am

Are the Nazis on the Draka's side? What happened to them?

starfury · Post by **starfury** » 2004-07-19 12:16pm

Are the Nazis on the Draka's side? What happened to them?

Actually I am still waiting for shep's explantion for why Germany is now too weak to do anything to hurt the Draka.

fgalkin2 · Post by **fgalkin2** » 2004-07-19 05:19pm

Same here

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

MKSheppard · Post by **MKSheppard** » 2004-07-19 08:34pm

Chapter Eight - Working on the Railroad

[Former Soviet Armenia - June 17th, 1200 hours]

The steel rails glistened under the blazing sun, like they had for years before. But today was to be
different. Far away, a low throaty roar sounded. Minutes later, the first of the flatcars came around
the curve.

Piled high with sandbags, and with the long thin barrels of 40mm anti-aircraft guns poking out from
every concievable distance, the flatcars were swarming with soldiers wearing mottled camouflage;
some lounging in the sun while others watched the sky intently, while yet more scanned the treeline
even more intently with binoculars.

Behind the four flatcars ahead of it, the heavily weathered and worn Soviet R-15 Diesel locomotive
grumbled mightily as it strained to pull the troop train across the mountains that made up so much
of the Caucasus.

Inside one of the heavily laden sleeping cars, Monitor Sean Harrison watched the trees go by one by
one from the grated windows of the sleeping car. Looking around, he remarked how much different
this car was now, compared to just a month ago. Then, it had been part of the luxurious Disrakapur
to Alexandria run; now it was just part of a long drag of drab military cars; the brilliant blue and gold
of it's former existence covered over with the olive drab of the military.

The anti-grenade screens weren't certainly part of the pre-war equipment, thought Harrison. Damned
Ivans, he thought. The Russians had made tossing grenades into sleeping cars carrying both fresh
troops and the wounded a spectator sport, until guards had been posted around the clock and these
new anti-grenade screens had been installed.

Harrison was about to remark to his bunkmate, one of his neighbors from back home in Caesar,
when his entire world went to pieces.

Several hundred feet ahead of Harrison and his fellow squaddies, the lead wheels of the first flatcar
ran over the wires which had been spread across the rails, breaking the circuit, and triggering the fifty
kilograms of explosives which had been buried the night before by a partisan group.

The massive explosion threw the flatcar, men, guns, sandbags and all, into the air, where it flipped end
over end for dozens of meters, before crashing down about forty meters down the line in a pile of splintering
wood and screams.

All over the length of the train, doors were thrown open, and soldiers in various states of dress and undress,
including some who had been rudely interrupted in the act of coitus, poured out, their rifles at the ready.

As Harrison brought his T-7B to the at ready position, he heard the shout go through the line, "A Tetrarch! Move
out and secure the area!"

Fuck, went Harrison. A Tetrarch was his unit. Grumbling to himself, he jogged out of the milling mass, and
joined the rest of his Tetrarch, which was made up entirely of people from his hometown as they advanced at
a jog down the length of the train, towards the burning flatcar.

Reaching the area where the flatcar had been, everyone couldn't help but steal a glance at where the charge
had been; now there was a crater five feet deep and fifteen feet wide, with the rails twisted upwards towards
the sky.

"First Lochos! Cover Second!" shouted their Decurion, a hard-bitten man by the name of DiFierno. Without
a word, Harrison and the rest of his Lochos jogged at a brisk pace into the forest under the cover of their
fellow citizens rifles. If that had been a command-detonated bomb, the partisan pigs couldn't be far.

Fifteen minutes later, they trudged back to the stopped train, having gained nothing from it but sweat, lots
of sweat along with several nasty insect bites. "Dam' Russian pig'fuckahs," grumbled one of the troopers
next to him. "Don' even have the guts to fac' us, instea' they hid' in the night an' blow us up by remot'."

As they emerged from the treeline, they saw that the engineers were already well along in the process
of replacing the blown up section of rail with extra sections of track and ties that were stored in the rear
of every train for this very purpose. While the citizen engineers cut away at the twisted mass of the previous
rails, the serf auxilaries attached to Chilliarchy HQ for this kind of menial labor, were shoveling dirt
into the hole, covering it up so that the rails could be re-laid.

As Harrison watched, Chilliarch von Falkenburg walked up along the track, clearly displeased. "What the
fuc' is taking you so long? This hole should have been filled by now!" Without any further word, he drew
his service pistol and shot one of the serf auxillaries in the head.

Spitting on the body, von Falkenburg holstered his pistol. "Bury that worthless pile of shit in there; the rest
of you scum, get working HARDER. We're already an hour and a half behind schedule, and I won't tolerate
no more delays."

Fear of death had a very salutory effect, and aching bodies were forgotten as the workers went into high gear,
swinging tools harder and faster than before. Then one of them stopped briefly to wipe his brow. There was
another gunshot, after that, no one stopped working for any reason at all till the job was done.

The Decurion on duty cursed silently. Damned shame to have to use these rejects, and a damned shame to
have to shoot them to make a point, but these were lazy ass ragheads and even when they were broken, they
needed a lesson to keep working.

[Outskirts of Tbilisi - June 17th, 1940 - 1900 hours]

The sun was a red ball slowly sinking below the horizon when the 763th Infantry Chilliarchy's troop train
finally pulled into the station, some four hours behind schedule. As the troops detrained, wave after wave
of Rhino ground attack aircraft roared overhead, their bellies heavy with bombs, trying to get one last
strike in before it became too dark for combat operations.

Harrison stood on the hard packed ground in the marshalling yard, and stared at awe at the great red glow
on the horizon to the north. "What's that?" he asked one of the Security Directorate men who was marching
up and down, trying to create order from chaos as each train unloaded.

"You dropped on yo' head as a child? That glow is Tbilisi. Have fun." replied the Directorate man with an
evil smirk.

"Damn it."

"Hey, Sean! We found som' toys to play with!" came the shout from across the marshalling yard. Looking down
the yard, Harrison saw that the members of his Chilliarchy were gathering around a line of Russian...no...Georgian
refugees, penting their built-up anger over the endless partisan attacks on the way here on the Georgians.

Walking up, he saw one of the Georgian women screaming in their gutter language as the men played football with
her baby, the meaty smacks of booted foot striking flesh clearly distingushable even from a distance. Fucking
disgraceful sow, learn some fucking discipline, thought Harrison. By Freya, these people were soft, they
wouldn't have lasted a minute in the boarding schools back home.

Groaning, Sean clutched his head. Fucking bitch's screaming was giving him a headache. Unslinging his rifle, he
shot the woman in the head, silencing her shrieks forever. "Shut up yo' fools! You serfs now, better start
learnin' to behav' like 'em!" he shouted.

[76th Rail Legion Headquarters - 2000 hours]

The headquarters of the 76th Rail Legion wasn't much; it was a railroad station that had seen better days;
the paint was peeling on the walls, nine out of ten windows were broken, and the only light within came from
kerosene lanters which had been hastily hung from nails driven into the walls.

In one of the rooms, Chilliarch Manfred von Falkenburg was doing a fairly good impression of pure
blind rage, directed at the hapless officer who was manning the Rail Transport Allocation desk.

"They did WHAT?"

"I'm sorry, Chilliarch, but your Chilliarchy was delayed beyond any reasonable amount of time, so your unit's
Hoplite IIs were....reallocated to other units who needed them badly."

von Falkenburg literally wanted to reach out and strangle this fucking behind the lines rear echelon
skinny motherfucker with his bare hands. Gritting his teeth, he counted to ten several times before
replying.

"On whose authority were they reallocated, Tetrarch?" he sneered, emphasizing the man's
rank.

The clerk flipped through several piles of paper on his desk before finding the paper he was looking for.
Holding up the paper to the light, he squinted, trying to read the illegible scrawl of the serf who had written
down the transfer order in the detraining yard.

"Ah, according to this, it was a Cohortarch Brown who authorized the transfer."

"A FUCKING COHORTARCH?" screamed Falkenburg.

"I'm sorry, Chilliarch, I can't get your Infantry Fighting Vehicles back, but as luck would have it, the
402nd Chilliarchy's been delayed back in Shulaven. Their train got held up by a priority shipment of
Aardvarks to the front; they won't be here for seven more hours at least; their full complement of Hoplites
is sitting on siding 12 however."

"I'll take them," replied Falkenburg without missing a beat. Sucks to be them, but they'll find a way
around it, we always do. he thought.

There was a intermediate period while they got ready to unload the Hoplites. First, they had to round up
enough of the Rail Legion's auxillaries to do it. The natives were far too unreliable to be trusted to unload
military equipment, so that was delegated to attached railway auxilliaries using whatever equipment the
Soviets had left behind all over the breadth of the Domination's conquests.

There were basically two ways of getting the Hoplite IFV down from it's flatcar. One was to separate the
cars a bit, attach a ramp and roll it down. The other was to take a crane and lift it off the car.

The siding was a miserable affair, little thatches of grass were growing between the railway tracks, and it
looked like it had been partially abandoned untill the Draka had come and pressed it back into service.

What dominated the siding however, was the long drag of railroad cars, all of them carrying the boxy Hoplite
IFVs with their auto-cannon equipped semi-remote turrets. On the turrets of each of the IFVs was the legend
'402' in bold white paint.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on what your viewpoint was, they had all been properly secured for
the long train trip. As von Falkenburg watched from the old station, the Serf Auxillaries swarmed over the
flatcars, singing a work chanty as they smashed away at the chains with sledgehammers; there was no time
to properly unsecure them.

"Dow'! Dow'! shouted the lead serf as he motioned to the operator of the steam crane they had found
by the siding and coaxed into working order. Another serf ran up and attached the crane hook to the cables
which ran through the eyelets on the Hoplite's frontal glacis and rear end. Once the hook was locked into
place, everyone stepped back; they had seen enough loading accidents back home; thirty tons of armor
meeting a hundred kilo man was not pretty.

"Up! Up...aw fuk'it!" shouted the serf as he watched the crane groan and begin to tilt towards the flatcar.
The damned thing was too heavy for the crane. Waitaminute....the serf motioned for the other serfs to tie
ropes to the top of the crane and pull on it to act as a counter weight; they'd done this plenty enough four
years ago in Kazakhstan, 'cept of course, the Hoplite I had only weighed fifteen tons, not the thirty of the
Mark II.

von Falkenburg couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of the auxillaries straining on the ropes to keep the
crane from tilting over; it looked like something out of a bad charade. Even so, the Hoplites were unloaded
surprisingly fast, most of them ending up on the ground with a nasty crash as they were dropped nearly
three feet.

"Fuckin' A! If they can't handl' that, you don' take'em into bat'l!" shouted the serf overseer as he slapped
one of the Hoplites on it's armored flank.

As von Falkenburg walked down the line of unloaded Hoplites with his aide, he pointed at the turret of
one of them; "The first damn thing we do is change that fuckin' paint. No need to be walking around with
ol' 402's equipment. They're ours now."

As he continued his inspection of the Hoplites, he saw that many of them were actually dented in places.

By Freya, and we're not even in battle yet....

While Falkenburg was continuing his inspection of the "new" Hoplites he'd "acquired", Harrison's squad was
settling into the Hoplite that they'd picked as their home. As he pushed his pack into a crevice inside the
troop compartment, Harrison wrinkled his nose at the unpleasant smell of oil and petrol mixed together; how in
hell those Yankees stood the smell of it, he didn't know.

"Fuckin' hell!" came the shout from forward as the 'gunner', for lack of a better word, found out that the
periscope by which the 20mm cannon could be fired was shattered. "We got a broken eye here!"

"Damnit," muttered DiFierno. The main selling point of the Mark II Hoplite was it's 20mm cannon and it's
ability to be fired from under cover by the troops; now someone would have to open the tiny little hatch
in the tiny little turret and stick his head out in an ungodly position to be able to aim the damn thing now.

Suddenly, the vehicle's engine came to life with a low roar that deafened everyone inside the vehicle.

"Fuckin' petrol trash," muttered Sean, remembering the time that a neighbor of his had brought around
a 1930 Model X Ford roadster, he and his friends had been amazed why anyone would even want to
buy such a piece of shit; it was noisy, spewed horrid smelling gases, and vibrated like hell compared
to a refined Trevithick autosteamer.

The entire vehicle then lurched forward, as the driver put the engine into gear and applied power to
the tracks; all throughout the siding, dozens of engines roared to life.

Grumbling, Harrison tied a bandana around his eyes in an attempt to block out the dim red light from
the lone light bulb in it's protective glass casing in the center of the troop compartment and tried to
sleep, despite the enormous roar of the engine.

[An indeterminate amount of time later]

The track came to a halt, and the sound of the engine died off; causing everyone inside to look around
suspiciously. They couldn't be in the city already, it was too damned early. "Stay here yo' slackers, I'll
go chec' up on this." ordered DiFierno as he climbed out of the cramped troop compartment which
held eleven soldiers and their battle gear.

As he breathed in the cool night air, DiFierno found himself face-to-face with a Security Directorate
officer. "No go, Decurion; it's not safe at night to go any further beyond this point; the damned Ivans
have got tommy gun squads roaming the night with molotovs. Pull off the road into this depression
over there-" DiFierno watched as the Directorate man pointed towards a long depression which had
been carved next to the side of the road, apparently for this task. "When it's first light, you can get going
again."

DiFierno simply nodded as he watched the gruesome spectacle of Tbilisi on fire a few klicks down the
road, shells and rockets ripping through the air, their sounds reaching him moments later. Damned good
thing we're getting a reprieve from that tonight. We're gonna need it.

Inwardly, DiFierno shuddered. He'd heard the stories about the Ivans, how you had to shoot an Ivan
fifty times to stop him cold, or how they'd come back from the dead to tear your throat out...this was
like no other war the Domination had fought, and DiFierno found that very unsettling.

MKSheppard · Post by **MKSheppard** » 2004-07-19 08:59pm

CaptainChewbacca wrote:Are the Nazis on the Draka's side? What happened to them?

Allright, Chapter Ten is going to deal with the political situation in Germany; I hope Fgalkin doesn't mind me taking time away from
THE GREAT PATRIOTIC WAR

darthdavid · Post by **darthdavid** » 2004-07-19 09:03pm

Niiice.

consequences · Post by **consequences** » 2004-07-19 09:38pm

*Hulk mode*

Uggh, Crack taste good. Me like. Hulk like watching Draka squish.

Hulk think that Draka should clue in pretty fast to concept of running something ahead of first railway car, so as to avoid incurring unneeded casualties and damage to valuable equipment. Hulk also think that Russian partisans will clue in to using multiple explosives to counter this tactic, and Hulk look forward to seeing partisan actions seee-saw back and forth as new tactics are adopted and abandoned by both sides.

Lonestar · Post by **Lonestar** » 2004-07-19 11:42pm

Shep, in the Drakaverse...

Is Gran Columbia an ally of the Draka?

And what's the status of the central American states? Out and out annexed? (like Mexico) Semi-independant?

CaptainChewbacca · Post by **CaptainChewbacca** » 2004-07-20 12:25am

All of central America down to Panama is USA, the South American empires take their cues from the USA.

Lonestar · Post by **Lonestar** » 2004-07-20 11:27pm

Then why is it the "Only full divisions" the USA has are stationed near Gran Columbia?

MKSheppard · Post by **MKSheppard** » 2004-07-20 11:59pm

Lonestar wrote:Then why is it the "Only full divisions" the USA has are stationed near Gran Columbia?

Because this is my take on the Drakaverse, not Stirling's.

Lonestar · Post by **Lonestar** » 2004-07-21 12:07am

So Gran Columbia is potentially an enemy of the USA. Can you please explicitly state your Take on the Latin American countries Shep?

MKSheppard · Post by **MKSheppard** » 2004-07-21 12:30am

Lonestar wrote:So Gran Columbia is potentially an enemy of the USA. Can you please explicitly state your Take on the Latin American countries Shep?

They've seen the US sweep down north america, annex mexico,
Panama, all the little central american countries, annex cuba, Haiti,
etc etc, and uhm, in Stirling's little world, they're all happy lovey
dovey with the US

There's a healthy amount of friction between the US, Grand Colombia,
and the Empire of Brazil, they all think each other has designs on each
other's territory.

US thinks that GC and EoB will try something in the Caribbean with
the american states there.

GC trusts neither USA or EoB

EoB vice versa.

It's all one vortex of suspicion. Because the South Americans view the
Americans suspiciously, after all, didn't they enact the Monroe Doctrine
just so that they could gobble up Mexico and Central America along with
the carribean, from their POV.

Lonestar · Post by **Lonestar** » 2004-07-21 12:38am

So, in theory, it's likely the Draka might be sending weapons to the Latin America States and/or running guns to central America? (presumably there's ALWAYS some jackasses who don't like the country that's ruling them)

MKSheppard · Post by **MKSheppard** » 2004-07-21 12:44am

Lonestar wrote:So, in theory, it's likely the Draka might be sending weapons to the Latin America States and/or running guns to central America? (presumably there's ALWAYS some jackasses who don't like the country that's ruling them)

Excuse me while I steal your idea

Just kidding; that's a damned
good idea, makes sense, stir up stuff to keep the USA occupied there.

Post by **The Yosemite Bear** » 2004-07-21 12:59am

of course that south american turf is full of things that the draka can use to make their serf's more productive.... (look at those hard working serf's/jannisarries in handeling the night watch, couldn't be because their rations contain cocaine extract....)

Norseman · Post by **Norseman** » 2004-07-24 12:22am

Chapter Nine - Only Man Endures

We have fought during fifteen days for a single house, with mortars, grenades, machine guns and bayonets. Already by the third day, twenty-three Citizen corpses were strewn in the cellars, on the landings, and the staircases. The front is a corridor between burnt out rooms; it is the thin ceiling between two floors. Help comes from neighboring houses by fire escapes and chimneys. There is a ceaseless struggle from noon to night. From story to story, faces black with sweat, we bombard each other with grenades in the middle of explosions, clouds of dust and smoke, heaps of mortar, floods of blood, fragments of furniture and human beings. Ask any soldier what half an hour of hand-to-hand struggle means in such a fight. And at Tbilisi, it has been thirty days and thirty nights of hand-to-hand struggle. The street is no longer measured by meters but by corpses.

Tbilisi is no longer a town. By day it is an enormous cloud of burning, blinding smoke; it is a vast furnace lit by the reflection of the flames. And when night arrives, one of those scorching, howling, bleeding nights, the dogs plunge into the Mtkvari and swim desperately to gain the other bank. The nights of Tbilisi are a terror for them. Animals flee this hell; the hardest stones cannot bear it for long; only man endures. . . .

Tetrarch Robert Jackson , 56th Infantry Division; 5th Army

Chapter 9a (with MKSheppards Permission)

SOMEWHERE IN TBILISI
SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF GEORGIA
UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS

"SUKIN SYN" the Sergeants shout of "Mother F****r" was loud as the withering fire from his PPSh-39 (papasha) nearly subdivided a Janissary trooper, the fighting was fierce in places it had gotten down to bayonets and shovels, but the shovels were best there.

Never mind, the papasha sent out a stream of bullets that would make even the most fanatical Draka or Janissary keep his head down, and in a real pinch there was no substitute for good honest hardware and lots of ammo.

"O LORD! Crush their bones into powder and scatter it before the wind!" one of the troops said, followed by "O LORD! Crush the Heathen! The demon spawn of Satan! Those who will be roasted in the fiery pits of Hell!"

"OH shut up you bastard" came the reply from somewhere in the ranks, but the bastard was too involved in his own rant, his eyes glazed over, and suddenly he surged forward yelling something in Georgian. He was cut down almost immediately, but kept moving forward, then whatever it was he was holding exploded.

"The hell with this" the Sergeant muttered, then he signed his RPG team "Gimme a couple of rounds through that wall, and room sweepers get ready to follow me"

The preferred technique for urban combat in this outfit was to put an RPG, cannon, or tank round right through one of the walls of the building or the room, and if you were lucky that would also create a neat hole for you to enter through. Either way the tactic was very simple, first a round of high explosives went in, then you did, and then it was time to hose down anything that still moved.

An RPG round, or preferably something even bigger, was better than just throwing in a hand-grenade, if you chucked in a hand grenade the bastards would have a few seconds warning, and then there was always some son of a bitch that had been hiding behind a sofa or something.

A couple of explosions later and the team rushed the building, just to be safe anything that looked even remotely Drakan was gunned down, there is something truly intimidating about a weapon with a rate of fire like the Papasha, what with the 71 round drum it was like having your own personal machinegun.

After getting inside it was time to do room clearing, not a very pleasant task, especially since you'd stumble across dead Georgian civilians every now and again, at this stage survivors were rare and far between. Best way of room clearing was of course to blow a nice hole in the wall of the room and go in through there, but if there were civilians around, live ones, you had to be more careful.

Of course if there was a lightly constructed building, and you didn't think there were civvies in it, then pulling out a RPG and blasting the lower floors with a nice explosive charge wasn't out of the question, either that or bundling up a few satchel charges and chucking them in. Then again the whole damned building might come crumbling down though, even a solid building would be hurt quite badly but this was war.

Often when they were room clearing they'd use improvised low powered pieces of dynamite wrapped in cardboard just to make sure that the building didn't come crumbling down around them, even if it wasn't quite as effective at stopping the Janni soldiers.

Door went down, and the sergeant moved in, moving quickly the sub machinegun blasting away at the immediate threat as he rushed right towards the corner. A quick burst of twelve or so rounds cut down the one Draka trooper he could see. His number two man the corporal was moving in, moving right along the wall, sending a quick burst into the fallen Draka soldier just to make sure, and making sure to cover anything he could from his corner. Both of them making sure the breach point was clear, then quickly numbers three and four rushed in in short succession.

Every time they passed a Draka corpse they put an extra round in it, just to make sure, often wasting ammo like there was no tomorrow, but unlike the Draka's they had plenty. The roads to Tiblisi were being cut of or bombarded now, the Draka forces were going to be butchered one way or the other, and that was all there was to it.

The sergeant felt the smell of blood and dust and ammunition, it was a tearing arid smell he thought, but they would move on. This time they had the edge, unlike Erevan where they were surrounded and attack by enough Draka troops to scare the devil himself. He heard the sound of... something, his body reacted before he knew what, he threw himself towards cover and twisted so as to aim in the direction of the Janissary trooper that just got shot down.

Moving on through the building, suddenly a sound, cover, aim, five or six year old girl "HOLD! HOLD!" Something behind her, a Drakan soldier, a family member? He hesitated, damn hesitation, almost too long, a Draka soldier, but a couple of quick bursts brought the bastard down.

He rushed forward and grabbed the girl, checking her quickly to make sure that she wasn't booby trapped, couldn't put anything past the bastards. Then first squad pulled back towards the medics with the girl, quick nod to second squad as they moved past no time for anything else, no interruption in the flow of operations. Sound of brittle materials crunching under their boots, and the girl screaming "MOMMY! MOMMY!" at the top of her voice.

Girl handed over and being moved to the rear, first squad moving back into actions, time lost minimal, or so he hoped.

Second squad stood ready by another room, door smashed open, troop immediately moved to the side of the door and... two things, massive discharges of fire towards the door, but no Soviet troops were there. Then a quarter of a second later two charges exploded on either side of the door, from inside the room, tearing apart second squad and sending blood, bone and flesh across the hallway. Clever really, inside the room place explosive devices on either side of the door, shaped charge explosives, so that anyone in the hallway standing by the side of the door would be cut down. Somebody killed and got killed for watching cop shows.

"GO! GO!" The Sergeant ordered, they rushed into a room on the side of the one the Drakas were hiding in, a room the Soviets had cleared already, then the explosives man slapped a couple of charges on the wall there. The explosion sent plaster raining down on them, and whipped up enough smoke that they had trouble seeing. They rushed into the room, rapidly and ruthlessly cutting down every single Draka or Janissary they could see, one of them survived a few seconds longer than the rest, only to be cut down when he popped up from behind the couch.

They surveyed the room, five dead Draka there, make that four dead one of them seemed to be alive, somehow... four dead Soviets outside the room, and two dead inside it. Not soldiers mind, a fourteen year old boy with his throat cut, and a woman tied over a table, the corporal knowingly commented "Fucked to death Sarge, the bastards..."

The Sergeant walked over to the Janissary soldier still alive, a young boy really, maybe nineteen years old, desperately trying to stay alive. He got a kick in the stomach before the Sergeant picked him up and casually threw him through the window, the Janissary soldier got out a desperate scream "AAAAAH" before there was a sickening THUD and then silence. They then of course made sure that the rest were really dead, this time by putting a couple of bullets through their heads.

One of the soldiers cut the woman lose and gently placed her next to the boy, they then sent a report that there were two more civilian bodies to be picked up at some opportune moment, hopefully when the building had been secured. Normally the faces would be covered, but in this case just the bodies were, otherwise they could be mistaken for Draka soldiers playing possum and mutilated even further by drawing fire.

"Let's go" the sergeant said and the entire squad moved out again, no mention of the incident with the flying Janissary would ever get into any after action reports. The fighting was unbelievably savage and ruthless, fought with a ferocity that would shock and horrify any civilized observers, of which there were none. Not that anyone would ever care what the Draka and the Soviets did to each other. As they left the sergeant casually noticed that the hallway was actually covered in a thin layer of blood, all of it Georgian.

Ironically later on the Red Army press corp would rush in, photograph the dead woman and her son, and show the poor girl child, and every Drakan atrocity would be highlighted and broadcast to hell and beyond. The Draka of course were not in quite the same position when it came to getting their message out, and dead Drakan soldiers all look the same whether they were thrown out of windows in the heat of combat, or shot.

Augustus · Post by **Augustus** » 2004-07-24 01:01am

Great fic, makes me remeber why I hate S.M. Striling's shit so.

Question:

What is happeing to the civis on the Draka side of the line? Are the Draka leaving them in place until the situation is stablized. Or are they wasting a massive amount of effort, resources and time rounding them up into camps or herding them onto trains inorder to get them into the 'serf' indoctrination/distribution system ASAP?

Norseman · Post by **Norseman** » 2004-07-24 02:17am

Chapter 9b Mother of Georgia

(posted with MK's permission)

TBILISI
SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF GEORGIA
UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLICS

High over Tbilisi stands a great statue jutting eighty feet up into the air, this is the Mother of Georgia, gazing out into the distance to see who comes to Tbilisi, holding a sword in one hand to fight any invader, and a cup of wine in the other for the friends and guests of the Georgian people. A potent symbol of the nature of the Georgian race, and upon the pedestal where she stands is written the text "Welcome to Georgia. Welcome to Tbilisi".

Upon the hill where the statue stands there was once many pine trees, but they have recently been cut down, and used in building defences, indeed when you draw nearer you can see that all the trees obstructing the view of the route up to the statue have been cut down. Near the statue logs, piles of dirt and bricks supplement trenches dug into the hill, trenches in which small shapes can be seen moving about.

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Beneath the statue the engineers worked fervently, sweat rolling of their brows as they did, the air was cold with the peculiar cold damp air that only enclosed concrete rooms can produce. There were four of them, men in their thirties, looking much alike in their brown Red Army uniforms, all of them unshaven and tired looking as they opened yet another box of explosives. The room they were in was riddled with holes drilled into the concrete walls, and linking all the holes were red and green wires, the moment they got out more explosives they set about taking their massive drills and making yet further holes.

Meanwhile outside a similar team of six engineers were swarming over the statue, they had raised a rough scaffolding that reached halfway up the massive statue, and now they were working on drilling deep holes in the big concrete statue. Here too long sausage like lumps of dynamite were pushed deep into the holes, detonators prepared, and long rows of wires strung down wards, with some attempts at concealing then.

"Feels like sacrilege," one of the engineers whispered as he drilled yet another hole into the statue, and scooped out the grey concrete dust that remained in the hole.

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Junior Lieutenant Zemphyra Bebutova was encouraging her command "Dig faster, put those defences in place, remember it is up to us to defend this monument to national glory! Comrades stand proud!" She called out while holding her hand up in a clenched fist Red Front salute "On Comrades!" She was twenty two years old, two weeks ago she had been a student at the cinematography school in Tbilisi, then the war had come. She was a tall handsome woman, dark hair worn in a braid, the Red Army uniform fitting her quite well, though being a bit loose as she was a bit skinny. Hanging from her hip was a PPSh-39, and a kitbag, both moved as she bounced around calling out encouragements to her reinforced platoon.

They were young, far too young, of her command she had 25 Young Pioneers, boys aged 12 to 14, and another 15 Komsomolets aged 15 to 19. They were really far too young, the youngest were in uniforms at least two sizes too large, but they did stand proud, many of them still had the red scarf of the pioneers tied around their necks. The youngest didn't quite understand what was happening, seeing the fighting as a grand adventure of sorts, the older ones were standing firm trying to look adult with their cigarettes half hanging from their mouths and their rifles pointing nonchalantly at the ground in a fashion that would give any competent drill sergeant the fits.

The older boys were trying to look good in front of their officer, tightening their loose uniforms, making new holes in the large belts so as to make them fit their smaller frames more easily. A couple of them were rechecking the SVTs, feeling the smooth action, and topping up on the ammunition yanking their fingers away quickly as the breech snapped shut. The teams were divided between those wielding SVTs and those carrying PPSh-39s the Papasha.

Beneath camouflaged shelters nimble fingered mechanic apprentices were making Molotov cocktails, filling up glass bottles with a foul mixture of gasoline, tar and a few other local specialities. Young boys had fetched the bottles, running around picking them up and bringing them over to the soldiers instead of getting the bottle return, the soldiers had taken to giving them a few kopeks or a sweet when they came. Then when the bottle was filled they popped in a gasoline soaked rag and the weapon was finished, crude but effective. In this outfit they had found a new and improved way of deploying it, some of the boys had brought with them their slingshots, big slingshots with tough rubber that could chuck bricks or bottles a considerable distance.

Far more interesting, were the gasoline bombs, a bit more complicated but lovely for use against vehicles of any sort. Here there were a little factory line making it, even the young Pioneers could make it, you take an empty bottle and fill it with gas, pour two table spoons of sulphuric acid in, and then cork it. The bottle is then rubbed with kaliumchloride, wrapped in a newspaper and thrown at the target. In the little armed camp big piles of newspapers, previously determined for recycling were now being used to make these gas bombs, the acids had been requisitioned from a nearby drugstore, and long strings were used to tie the newspaper to the bottles.

Hands were also at work secretly in the area surrounding the statue, digging small explosives charges, sometimes wrapped in nails, and dragging the connecting wires back to the trenches, carefully covering the wires with dirt as they moved.

"You're crazy," the engineer Senior Lieutenant offered up to Zemphyra Bebutova as he looked at the expanding defensive lines "You got forty teenagers, and there's a Cohort at the least of Janissaries heading this way, if I could order you to return..."

"Your authority over me is limited Comrade Senior Lieutenant, I am sure if you could order me to withdraw you would," Lt Bebutova replied coolly, then taking a deep breath she straightened her uniform, and looked up at the enormous statue under which they were labouring "Wars are won and peoples are heartened by legend and images, the defence of the statue of the Mother of Georgia shall go down in history! Unfree hands shall not be able to lay one finger on this!"

"Right," the engineer muttered, feeling a bit uncomfortable, she was cute, a bit skinny, but WHEW what a loonie! "Ah well, push this detonator and the whole statue should disintegrate, and of course," he pointed at the other numbered bundles of wires "Numbers one, two and three, they detonate explosive charges near the bottom of the hill, four, five and six detonate charges in the same area in case you need to beat back a renewed attack, and seven, eight and nine is further up, we prepared a ring of explosives right near the top of your position detonator ten. Ah you know how to attach the wires to the detonators?"

"Yes, yes Comrade Lieutenant, I know, I only have two detonators, but," she straightened herself "I will perpetually keep one of them rigged to blow up the statue!"

"Right, I showed some of your mechanics apprentices how to attach detonators and rig more explosives, but for gods sake tell them to be careful, I wish we had time to rig up more but in an hour or so... we are ordered back now."

"You do what you must Comrade Senior Lieutenant, tell them that our last thoughts were of the Socialist Motherland!"

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In the city below the fighting was turning hellish, every street, every building, every hallway and every room was turned into a battlefield. Men would die by the dozens over control of a single staircase, screaming, shouting, fighting with knives, shovels, grenades, and even boot, fist and bite as the Janissary forces pushed themselves further and further into Tbilisi. There was a fog over the city, a dark grey fog made from the dust of buildings smashed with artillery, and the smoke from burning houses.

Up by the statue the assembled group of young soldiers were shivering, teeth clattering with every earth shattering boom, during the worse of the bombardment they had to shout loudly to be hear and when it stopped it seemed to take them forever to notice that they were still shouting. They were clutching the ground waiting for the attack, meanwhile Lt Bebutova was wandering among them encouraging them and reminding them of the depravity of the enemy and the symbolic position they were in.

One of the things she was determined to do was to record this moment for posterity, she had brought with her a lovely 8mm camera, it was powered by a clockwork mechanism and couldn't really record for all that long at any one time, nor could it record sound, but it was small and easy to carry. One of her more promising troops had been selected to carry it when she was too busy, and they ran up and down the trenches shooting pictures, calls of "Come on, look good, you're on Camera" resounded and bits of nervous laughter broke the bad tension.

"Someone's coming!" the shout suddenly went up from one of the look outs, he aimed a trembling hand at some shapes that were moving up the footpath to the statue.

"Get ready!" Lt Bebutova shouted as she rushed towards the spot "Prepare yourself!" Then as she reached the spot she peered down, two maybe three of them, a motorcycle too, not exactly what she had expected unless it was a reconnaissance party, but it was so hard to see through the damn dust and smoke.

"They look like ours", one of the sergeants, a lanky kid from the mechanics department of the local high school, suggested.

"HELLO! IDENTIFY YOURSELF!" Lt Bebutova shouted out in a loud voice, adding, as an after thought "THIS IS A RED ARMY DEFENSIVE POSITION!"

Amazingly enough this was not greeted by a hail of bullets, instead the shapes shouted back "We're here to join you," they stood still for a moment, one of them seemed to move forward a bit only to be held back.

"Come forward and identify yourself properly" Lt Bebutova shouted back, then she tapped the shoulder of the Maxim gunner whispering "Be ready in case it's a trap," and remembering something from a briefly read tactical briefing she added "Sargeant, have the rest of the perimeter ready in case this is a diversionary tactic."

God what a joke the sergeant thought as he moved out to ensure that the perimeter was ready perimeter? Christ if we're slapped with a couple of companies of competent infantry... They had to teach the youngest boys to lie down, receiving the recoil of their weapon with their entire body, and using the ground to help support the barrel of their weapon. As for the rest, it sure looked good, they had laid out the three Maxim guns exactly like the book suggested, and they'd even included extra water to cool it down.

As the warning came the rest of the company, another bad joke, began to prepare itself, "Come on fighters, Georgians, get ready to show these bastards the spirit that made the Mongols yield!" He shouted as way of encouragement "Kill the bastards! KILL!"

"KILL KILL KILL" the cry came back from dozens of young throats, their faces contorted into masks of hate and anger, they were ready to kill if not to die, peering eagerly for sight of the hated enemy.

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Meanwhile the trio had reached Lt Bebutova, they were three young men in Red Army uniforms, one of them was hefting a RPG-1 with a backpack filled with rounds, another one had brought a motorcycle that looked like a civilian model pressed into service. They were nervous but eager looking men, apparently conscripts pressed into duty for the battle.

"Who are you and why do you come here?" Lt Bebutova asked them sharply, giving them an inquisitive look definitely not Janissaries or Draka she thought to herself as she studied them intently.

"Comrade Lieutenant, I am Yefreytor Shota Jandiery, upon the request of Comrade Major Sergey Maximov we volunteered to reinforce your position."

She looked at him, an open face, eager good comrade no doubt, pointing at the RPG-1 she asked "Can you use it?"

"Yes Comrade Lieutenant"

"Good, good, you are now part of our mobile artillery reserve, aside from that the only order is this: Hit whatever you aim at!"

"Yes Comrade Lieutenant!"

That had sounded suitably military she thought to herself as she returned to her duties, one good thing about Soviet soldiers, they saw the rank first and the person second, that was good, very good.

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Couple of the youngsters were singing inspiring songs trying to keep their courage up, uncertainly at first and then one by one they fell into the song. "The International Comrade Soldiers!" Lt Bebutova called out to her small command, and soon the anthem of the Soviet Union rang out clearly across the hill top.

Arise ye pris'ners of starvation
Arise ye wretched of the earth

The Janissary squadron could hear the singing, barely, like a distant whisper, as they crawled closer to their position, at first they thought it a figment of their imagination, a residue from the ringing of their ears from the constant explosions. They were rough brutish men, colours ranging from coal black to a Mediterranean bronze, all of them with their mottled grey-brown camouflage uniform for city fighting. They moved forward carefully, and very slowly, taking advantage of the cover that they were offered.

For justice thunders condemnation
A better world's in birth!

The lead sergeant motioned with his hand "Silunt!" he wheezed, he tilted his head a bit, his ears seemed to almost move as he did so, probing to find the source of the sound "Up theah!" he said pointing a dark brown finger at the source of the sound.

No more tradition's chains shall bind us
Arise, ye slaves, no more in thrall;

He heard the words but they had no meaning for him, just the garbled Russian or Georgian or whatever, "Theys theah, Jimbo go back'n tell de Decurjon."

The earth shall rise on new foundations
We have been naught we shall be all.

"Yah Sarge" one of the squad members said and began to lurch back to report to their citizen officer, second in command of the Janissary century. He ran fast, clutching his rifle tight to his chest, and his satchel bouncing against his side.

'Tis the final conflict
Let each stand in his place
The International Union
shall be the human race.
'Tis the final conflict
Let each stand in his place
The International Union
shall be the human race.

"Yuh him singin' dat Ivan polka" the Sargeant muttered while he waited for further orders, it was no good going on without orders do ah do reckon 'tacking right now'd be best, silly buggahs singin'n'all He wet his lips as he peered through the dust up towards the statue that they had already nicknamed 'Big Tits'.

"What's happenin' Sarg'nt" Decurion Bullthwaite asked impatiently as he arrived at the head of another squad.

"'fences up bah Big Tits, Decurion," the Sargeant said matter of fact as he jerked a thumb in the direction "They'sa settin' up 'fences an' gettin' ready."

Bullthwaite looked up damn, trenches, red flags, the whole fucking nine yards he didn't say it, but he had no idea what the hell was going on, systems intelligence had sworn that this place was clear.

We want no condescending saviours
to rule us from their judgement hall

"Sho' prutty Sah" the Sargeant commented absentmindedly.

Bullthwaite stopped, he was about to say something when he heard the voices "Too damn prutty, never heah any grown soldiers with voices that fancy, Sarge take yoah team up deah and get a looksie on them".

We workers ask not for their favours
Let us consult for all.

Slowly the squad began to move up the side of the hill, crawling slowly and taking advantage of whatever hiding spots there might be on the ground. Slowly the massive men pulled themselves forward on thick muscular arms, their uniforms and dark faces covered in mud and grass.

To make the thief disgorge his booty
To free the spirit from its cell

They got closer and closer to the defensive lines, sweat pouring down their faces from exhaustion, running down as they crawled even closer. Gaawd damnit, why me? the sergeant thought, remembering hazily better days.

They had conquered a nice village, and rounded up the pretty girls there of them had been so pretty, nice tanned skin, firm body, and those colourful outfits the locals wear. They'd found her hiding in her parents wardrobe, big janissaries pulled her out and started tearing on her clothes while she screamed and struggled till they punched her a few times. Not to mention liquor to quench their thirst, why there'd be enough Vodka in this country that you could sit under a tree and drink it all night.

Perhaps it was these thoughts that distracted him, but at least he moved his boot at the wrong instant, some rocks began to slide then he began to slide and had to grab hold of a tree stump to stay current.

We must ourselves decide our duty
We must decide and do it well.

"Hold comrades! Something is moving!" Came the cry from above.

The law oppresses us and tricks us,
the slave system drains our...;

The song died away, replaced by eager voices, and the sergeant whispered "Sweet fock", his hopes that they would have missed him vanished as the world seemed to explode around him bullets striking down around him and then somewhere up there a machine-gun began to bark. Bullets struck the stony ground making cracking sounds, like hammers hitting rock, chipping loose little pieces of rock, or else sending small sprays of mud into the air.

Not one of them hit anything "GEDDAUN!" he called and they all began to crawl back as fast as they could, more rifles joined the frenetic chorus firing on them bullets smashing down everywhere. How'd'fock can they miss? We's so close? the sergeant wondered as they continued their descent under a torrent of bullets.

Finally it happened, as it must, two of the men were cut down by the machine-gun, one of them let out a blood curdling cry and continued to move for a few more seconds, the other just slumped forward and began sliding down. Another one dead or seriously wounded, rifle shot pinning him to the ground, it was getting a bit hot out there, but still their cover wasn't that good, the enemy was not the finest marksmen.

Unfortunately another couple of his soldiers were taken out, one from machine-gun fire, that old Maxim was surprisingly accurate, and no doubt they had their best gunner on that old bastard. Second guy dead from a single rifle shot smack in his chest, but the Janissaries went on down bugger, bugger, bugger the sergeant thought to himself.

Then finally they reached the bottom, one last rush before they were there, suddenly though they were all cut down, it took maybe three-four seconds, as if by some fluke all their enemies found their aim at once. Two of them were smacked by the machine gun, one gut shot by a rifle.

The Sergeant rushed on, moving as fast as he could, he was nearly in safety thankee GAAAAWD when suddenly a rifle shot neatly split his head open, his last conscious thought was that of women and liquor, and then a great dark gulf seemed to open before him. There was a voice, shouting, and it was so dark.

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"YES! WE DID IT!" the boys cried out as they watched the last of the attacking Janissaries pull back, all of them cheering now.

Lt Bebutova sighed "That was just a probe" she said, "Get ready for the big one"

As if to prove her words true there was an explosion that sent rocks and dirt spraying high, and the cry went out "INCOMING!" Hitting the dirt, and covering their heads as best they could as the explosions rose around them. Young boys shaking with fear after their elation only moments later.

"GET THEM THE HELL UP!" the lieutenant cried, she felt desperate, this was guaranteed to soften them up, but if they were lying with their heads kissing their arse they couldn't shoot at the enemy. Another explosion and a sharp rock fragment cut her cheek "GET UP! MAN THE GUNS!" that seemed like a suitably military thing to say.

Even as the explosions continued there was another shout from below, from far below "BuLala BuLala!" The ancient Drakan battle cry stolen from their Bantu opponents, "Kill! Kill!", and along with the cry came row after row of Janissaries rushing up towards their position.

"TKSHENOSNURI!" Lt Bebutova called out desperately, soon though her cry was raised by the others "TKSHENOSNURI!" the ancient Georgian battlecry resounding through the shattering explosions of Drakan mortars soon joined by the chattering roar of the Soviet Maxim guns and the bark of the SVT rifles tearing holes in the Janissary lines.

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Bullthwaite cursed silently as he watched basically the entire recce team gunned down, only to have a perfectly suitable sergeant have his head blown off at the end JESUS! Good help is so fuckin' hard to find these days, and losing a damn Sergeant, why wouldn't some of these other jungle bunnies have bought it instead?.

"Well gentlemen, would appear that ah could use some help," he peered back seeing Centurions Rita Heimlich and Gustaf Smithers both peering up at the massive statue.

"They call her what?" Rita Heimlich asked "Big tits?" she laughed out "Well not so far from the truth, if that's what Georgian women are like I must get me a couple" That brought laughter from the other citizens, and wistful smiles on the lips of the Janissaries.

"Lousy fire discipline and accuracy" Centurion Smithers commented, looking up he indicated a path "Full out assault right now, while their still getting ready, should succeed in overrunning them, better move now though."

"Aight, I concur," Centurion Heimlich answered "MEN! Get ready ta move up and capture yon Big Tits!"

"YA MA'AM" the Janissaries called out as they readied themselves, loading rifles and checking submachine guns, a few checked their grenades making sure they'd be ready for trench clearing.

"Right men, show me that you got more balls than Callous Century!" Centurion Smithers told his men, while he was making sure they were ready to move out.

"YA SAH!" they yelled, as they quickly lined up ready for the big push.

"Begin mortar fire"

The dull thump of the mortars being fired began, followed by the thundering sound in the distance as they hit their mark sending sprays of dirt upwards, forcing the enemy to keep their heads far down.

"ONWARDS!"

"BuLala! BuLala!" the cry came out terrifying sounding from near two hundred throats as the Janissaries began their assault, a mass wave rushing forward covered by artillery and the odd secure machine-gun position as they rushed onwards.

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BOOM! The first of the carefully hidden explosives charges went off.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Like roman candles, tearing holes in Janissary lines, sending bodies up into the air flying around like rag dolls thrown by an angry giant, heads torn off, arms torn off, a soft red rain began to descend.

TAKKATAKKATAKKA the Maxim gun joined in, light percussion to the grand drums of the explosive charges, the sustained fire doing terrible damage to the Janissary lines, especially when the second Maxim finally got a line of fire opening up at far range.

Somewhere one of the Pioneers started screaming, and screaming, and screaming, he lay clutching his stomach, tears rolling down his cheek as the blood began to dribble down onto the ground beneath him.

Now the molotovs started flying, sending flaming bursts into the Janissary ranks, fire is terrifying beyond any rational understanding of the danger it constitutes, and man fears burning more than any other death. Unfortunately sloppy handling of one bottle made it break, badly burning one of the young pioneers manning the big sling shot, but he was simply pushed aside in a callous motion and they kept flinging bottles down. Children can be so cruel.

Crawling around in the trenches your hands got dirty, your trousers soaked in mud, and blood and other disgusting things, the dirt in your hair, but they kept firing, even as some of them stuffed their mouths with dirt to keep from screaming. They looked like demon children from some region of hell, their eyes lit up with sadistic blood lust as they poured fire into the enemy. The Komsomolets learned to fear them that day, but much more so did the Janissaries.

"Hold fire with the RPG!" Lt Bebutova ordered "Save it for when we need it, not now."

Beneath they could see the Janissaries stop advancing as fast as they ought, taking half steps instead of rushing forward, a few tried turning back only to be gunned down by the security directorate.

Then in English one of the Komsomolets cried out "TURN BACK! WE SHAN'T FIRE IF YOU DO!" They never knew if the Janissaries had heard, but these men brought up to Kadaver Obedienz didn't break so easily, but by now they were trailing dead, one in ten, one in five, and then they broke, screaming and hollering as the whole group fled back irregardless of danger.

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"THORS ARSE!" Centurion Heimlich burst out damn, damn, we should have known, we should have thought of the possibility of buried charges, but...

"What do you think?" Centurion Smithers asked in his usual dry fashion.

"I think, that we got fucked with cactus."

"Yes, but that doesn't help, well... to my mind if speed and surprise fails, then brute force is in order, call for reinforcements."

"I concur, a prepared attack then."

"Yes, absolutely, call the Cohortarch and inform him... that we are in dire need of his aid."

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"Casualty report Comrade Sergeant," Lt Bebutova asked, feeling heartbroken they're children, for gods sake they're children... they are children that will be slaves, and possibly raped if the enemy wins her internal conflict was short, there really wasn't much to think about here.

"Comrade Lieutenant, of the pioneers we have six casualties, one fatality, three incapacitated, and one missing in action," the Sergeant began in the curiously bloodless description, he could have said that a fourteen year old had his guts hanging out, or that another had his legs blown off, that they were screaming for God and mother, but he didn't. "Of the Komsomolets we have two casualties, one fatality and one incapacitated," he finished his report.

"One missing in action?"

"Yes comrade Lieutenant, we cannot seem to find one of the young pioneers, and no one can account for him."

"Deserter?"

"Unknown"

"Damn, well... write him up as missing, presumed dead."

"Yes comrade lieutenant"

She walked over to the edge of the trench and began to film the dead Janissaries, dead and wounded, out in the field there were a couple of them badly wounded screaming out loud "Oh this is good, the manual says that the sounds of their wounded will discourage them from further advance," Lt Bebutova commented absentmindedly as she made sure that she got the best possible footage of the carnage her small unit had wreaked.

fifty or more dead she thought to herself, then she called out "Over fifty dead! The enemy is paying for every step! Thirty dead to our two! HOLD FAST!" She cried in her usual frenetically cheerful voice, which oddly enough managed to get the boys seeming a little better off.

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"You lost how many?" the Cohortarch asked coolly, looking up at the carnage on the hill. He was a tall man with snow white hair and cold blue eyes, a lean hard face, too old really to be a Cohortarch in the field, but he had some experience with trench warfare, and so here he was. A chest full of campaign ribbons, like a what's where of Great War campaigns, everything from Ankara to Constantinople. These days he was nicknamed Old Timer.

"About fifty dead, but there's at least a dozen or so out there, we're down seventy two combat effectives as it is," Centurion Smithers reported.

"You have lost over a third of your combat strength?" Old Timer asked with disbelief "Why the hell didn't you withdraw them when it was clear the attack was a dud?"

"The duty of the Janissaries..."

"Doesn't matter, sorry son but it doesn't; they broke, god damn it, they BROKE, calling them back is nothing when you see that they are about to break, but now... now we need to do collective punishment, we're talking a god damned decimation," he shook his head sadly "Ah well, put the units that broke in the spear point of the next attack, tell them to redeem themselves with their blood, and instruct the follow up troops to shoot anyone that wavers, and have the Security Directorate set up proper machine-gun nests"

He began giving orders just like in the old days, he looked at the statue big tits, Mother of Georgia, well, we're going to do to Georgia what our Janissaries do to any set of big tits, so it's a fitting nickname he smiled briefly at that thought.

"Our tactic is simple, first we soften them up with another attack, more carefully planned this time," the Old Timer began "and we push them hard, but keep avenues of retreat open in case the pressure grows too hard, but remember we need to enforce discipline, ANY deviation from orders must be punished with immediate execution. Right?"

"Yes Cohortarch," Smithers replied, wondering briefly if he knew the man well enough to use his nickname probably not he decided.

"What then? After we soften them up?" Heimlich asked.

The Old Timer looked at her, perked up an eyebrow and said "What we always do when the Janissaries fail, we send in a combined force, hopefully we will have softened them up enough by then as to avoid unnecessary losses in the Citizen Force."

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BOOMBOOMBOMBOMBOMBADOOMBOMBOM the sounds couldn't be differentiated anymore, it wasn't just simple mortar fire anymore, it was heavy artillery now. A wayward artillery shell had blown up the cup in the Mother of Georgia's hand, and the hand as well, leaving her only with her sword.

"AAAAAAAH" one of the young pioneers began to scream, louder and louder, frantically his comrades grabbed him one of them trying very hard to cover his mouth only to yank his hand away as it was bitten. The two burly youths now grabbed him, desperately trying to shut him up, tears running down their cheeks as their teeth clattered from the explosions. They shoved his face down into the ground and began to shove dirt into it, finally silencing him.

"Ohgodohgodohgod" the Corporal muttered as he filmed the chaos around them, his heart beating faster and faster, and the only thing louder than the explosions were the shrieking communist propaganda that Lt Bebutova spewed forth.

"HOLD FAST! We who struggle in the name of workers rights shall be triumphant! We sit snug in our trenches, they can hammer us all they like but the Georgian..."

The explosions ceased and everyone looked about, "Why'd they stop," someone asked.

"Because not even the Domination continues to shell with artillery when they are sending in the boys" Lt Bebutova said, pointing a finger at the Janissary hordes pouring forth.

Moments later the cry of "BuLala! BuLala!" reached the ears of the defenders, then the Maxim guns opened up and the Janissary battlecries were mixed with screams and orders.

"Let them have it with both barrels!" Lt Bebutova cried out "WE've beat them back before! Let's do it again!" She waved her gun around, a nice 7.62mm Tokarev, and fired it a couple of times at the advancing Janissary units.

They kept coming though, the wave of Janissaries, big muscular brutes rushing forth convinced that he, yes HE, would succeed where all others had been cut down. He was of course wrong. They were torn to shreds by a hailstorm of bullets, including two well covered Maxim nests. However unlike the first attack they were more spread out, and advanced more carefully, that gave them an edge. When the explosive charges were used it couldn't disrupt their ranks as much as it could the first time either.

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"The attack is going splendidly," Heimlich commented as she peered up at the carnage ahead of her, the field glasses gave her a spectacular view. A smile spread across her lips ah yes any pretty bucks up there are about to be ridden raw she thought to herself.

The Old Timer just frowned "It is going well, they have failed to disrupt the positions, and now..." As he spoke another set of explosives rippled across the hill "Good thinking, good defensive lines, but a bit too... orthodox, someone copied that one right out of the book," he made a tsking sound "Even that explosion, right out of the playbook"

Just as the advanced parties were coming even closer there was an incredibly fierce burst of gunfire, the entire front seemed to come alive, and a quarter second later the sound reached the officers on the ground "BRRRRAAAAAAPPPBRRRRAAAAAPPP" long intermixed burps. For the Janissaries it was as if they had run into a hurricane and were flattened against the ground, the forward party was wiped out within seconds.

"Oh dear, clever, orthodox but clever," the Old Timer commented "Though I dare say we've bled them enough now, call the retreat, and bring the Citizen Century up to speed it's time we finished the job."

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The scene was one of death and horror, the small sickbay that the Soviet forces had assembled was filling up, the smell of blood and disinfectant was everywhere, and a handful of Pioneers with their first aid badged helped a semi-trained paramedic in giving medical attention to the wounded. The wounded were laid out on improvised beds made from jackets and sacks, the operating table was a large canvas spread out on the ground, already it was blotched with blood.

Despite their youth the wounded Pioneers were very brave, they hardly made a sound as their wounds were probed, or even when their limbs were amputated. Sometimes they screamed though, and to prevent their screams from discouraging the rest of the outfit everyone had been ordered to sing The International, as loud as they could, overpowering the sounds of screaming and suffering.

The doctor, or so he was called, stretched, his white apron was covered in blood, and his hands too. He shook a bit, he was a regular 19 year old youth, with a few months of paramedic training, nothing that had prepared him for something like this. His skin was almost pale by now, short brown hair, thick set Georgian features. He shook a bit as one of the Young Pioneers poured disinfectant fluid on his hands, and he quickly washed them, seeing how the now pink liquid spilled upon the ground.

"Comrade Doctor" the Lieutenant greeted him "How are your patients?"

"My patients? Comrade Lieutenant, I have a pioneer with no legs, one with heavy burns all over his body, couple with serious bullet wounds, and I got two Komsomolets who are also in bad shape," he took a deep breath "I can't do this, they need a real doctor!"

"Comrade Doctor," she shook her head sadly, then she placed a hand upon his shoulder and looked into his eyes "We will not live to see the end of the day," she said in a low voice, then she added "What will you do?"

He snapped to attention "My duty, tend to the sick till we are being overrun, and then... ensure they are not captured by the enemy!"

"Comrade Doctor you are needed at the trenchline."

"I see, then I shall do my duty now, with your permission Comrade Lieutenant."

"Granted of course..." she patted his arm "It is the bitter days of summer."

The doctor turned around, from his medical bag he dug out a bottle marked "Morpheine". He walked into the surgery and whispered into each patients ear "Time for your prayers," he caressed them gently and added "So sorry, but you are dying, I shall give you something for the pain, say your prayers and prepare to meet God, remember you shall not be called upon to answer for those who die in battle, say your prayers and repent and you shall be in heaven."

He pulled out a syringe and measured out a large dose of morpheine, injecting it into a young mans arms, a boy rather, his face seemed almost angelic as his lips began to move. The doctor moved on administrating gently to all his patients, he looked back at the first one, a look of peace and tranquillity crossed the boys face, and his lips moved slower and slower. Gently the doctor closed the boys eyes and kissed his forehead "Go with God."

-----------------------------------

"Casualty report Comrade Sergeant," Lt Bebutova demanded from the weary sergeant supervising his troops.

He turned his eyes on her, he looked oh so tired, like an old man, "God," he muttered softly, then he straightened himself, stood to attention and called "Comrade Lieutenant! I report of the Pioneers two dead, two incapacitated, four lightly wounded, two missing, of..."

"Stop please, lightly wounded, they can still fight?"

"Yes Comrade Lieutenant, so long as they don't have to move much."

"Good, and missing?"

"No idea I fear, maybe they tried to run, we can't tell, so sorry."

"Damn... Missing in Action, go on Comrade Sergeant"

"Of Komsomolets, one dead, one incapacitated, two lightly wounded, but can fight, and two missing, and one of them ran over the trench line, not sure what happened after that."

"Damn, Sergeant, if I am not much mistaken that leaves us with," she began counting quickly in her mind, making a face when she got the number "Fifteen pioneers and twelve Komsomolets?"

"Yes Comrade Lieutenant, that is correct"

"Well then," she swallowed "We need to ensure that our ... movie project, manages to reach friendly lines."

-----------------------------------

Lt Bebutova watched the assembled group, the Sergeant, what was his name? Tsereteli that's it "Sergeant Tsereteli, Corporal Ratiev, Private Manvelishvili," she gave them each a nod "I am sure that you wonder why you are here?" Before any of them could interrupt she continued "You are here because we need to make sure that the film we have taken of our operation gets out, and that requires... ah, the motorcycle, that is where you come in Corporal Ratiev, and of course Private Manvelishvili here is our best Papasha gunner so he will be your tail gunner. The plan is simple, when the enemy has committed himself to his attack we find a route out, and for a few moments we concentrate our best riflemen, and of course the RPG, there to blast a hole in their ranks, and then you take the films and ride out on your cycle. Simple really."

"Comrade Lieutenant, I am not a coward to flee our position!" Corporal Ratiev protested, feeling a strange sense of unspeakable elation, but also a strong sense of duty to this position they'd held for, oh Lord it was only hours but it felt like days.

"Comrade Corporal, you are being ordered to do this, and it is not without its dangers, however I will write in your pass that you did leave under orders," Lt Bebutova replied sternly "And I will brook no insubordination on this issue!" MEN, always feeling that they have something to prove!

Manvelishvili was very quiet, he swallowed many times and his lips moved quietly Thank you Holy Mother! Thank you St Nino! I shall light a hundred candles to you He had been ready to stand firm and die, but now that deliverance was before him he lacked even the courage of Ratiev to make a protest.

"Very well Comrade Lieutenant, I shall check upon the motorcycle and make certain I am ready to ... go," Corporal Ratiev replied, snapping off a salute.

"Good, you and Private Manvelishvili are dismissed for now," she replied.

After the two men had departed she looked at the Sergeant "If I should be incapacitated, it is my fervent wish not to fall into the hands of the Draka," she sat down at a small desk and began writing "I am writing a pass for the two men, and ... a personal note, with last will and testament, go tell the others that if they want to send some personal note to friends or loved ones they should finish them up fast."

The Sergeant nodded "Yes Comrade Lieutenant, and if I may, it has been an honour."

-----------------------------------

"Well now, we have four slightly understrength centuries of Janissaries, and one of Citizens," Old Timer began "We send the Janissaries up first, standard two pronged assault as usual, and they will draw any remaining explosive charges, unless I miss my guess there is at least one more set of those placed just outside their perimeter defences. The Citizens will stiffen the Janissaries, the doctrine is called Corsetting, after reaching the top of the ridge the Citizen Force will rush the remaining defenders and capture the statue, there will be some casualties but that cannot be helped. Watchwords here is speed, firepower and flexibility, in short the Stosstruppen tactics familiar to anyone who studied Falkeheyn or Brusilov, and that ladies and gentlemen ought to be you."

"What losses to you expect Cohortarch" Smithers asked.

Old Timer raised an eyebrow as he turned towards Smithers "Ah, very minor, both for Janissary and Citizens, when you apply that sort of total numerical superiority it usually means vastly reduced losses on your own side. In addition they've been greatly weakened already, it's a simple matter of the arithmetic of war."

Outside the the Janissary troops were getting ready, eying the slope with a mixture of fear and disbelief, some of them crossing themselves and muttering prayers. Old Timer eyed them, smiled and walked among them, respectful yet distant, like a strict father "Men, it's time to wipe out those bastards up there, but we remember our promises to you, loot, women, and the finest liquor!" At his motion of the hand several auxiliaries came with big metal containers filled with raw cane liquor, sweet and strong, 'liquid courage' or 'tin can tiger' as some called it. The Janissaries eagerly held out their tin mess cups, smiling widely as the auxiliaries poured out four ounces of liquor to each of them, as they drank it the Janissaries began to shout louder "Ad'em! KILLYA!" and other howls.

How fast they forget, this used to be common during the Great War Old Timer thought, shaking his head sadly people are too concerned with precision and discipline, instead of aggression, nothing like liquid courage to make a man charge a machine-gun nest, and if you think that it's fun being charged by a drunken howling maniac... you had another thing coming.

The Citizen Force Century looked disdainfully at the Janissaries getting their courage, but they saluted Old Timer with genuine respect as he arrived among them. He walked down their lines, somewhat disorderly lines, but this was an outfit that was ready for combat, not for inspection.

"Men," then smiling "Women too," he added "I've done this a hundred times, nothing much to it, but I remind you there will be explosives just outside their final perimeter, careful there. Other than that you know what has to be done, I won't go into great details there, only going to remind you speed, firepower and flexibility. Service to the state!"

"Glory to the race!" the entire Century returned as one, smiling and saluting as they marched by, Drakan military culture was short on ritual, but they did believe in recognising achievement.

An officer is a craftsman not an artist, they can say what they want but war is an accountants game, it all boils down to assets and attrition Old Timer thought as he watched the Cohort move into position, the Janissaries being somewhat more disorderly than usual, but very spirited and determined.

"A final point" Old Timer said, addressing one of his aides "I want you to round some up some wenches and young prettybucks, preferably locals," he nodded towards the Janissaries "When you got a pack of good hounds you need to give them some meat from time to time."

-----------------------------------

Lt Bebutova finished her writing, placed it in a thick envelope and handed it to the courier "Comrade Corporal" she smiled weakly "I hope that you will be able to deliver this note to head quarters, and the film, so that our sacrifice will not be forgotten."

Corporal Ratiev held up his dispatch bag "I think Comrade Lieutenant, that there are many that share your concern, the... film"

"Think you or your tail gunner could shoot some more film as you leave?"

"No, just... ah no I don't think we can do that, sorry."

"Well take the camera with you anyway, don't want the enemy to get their hands on it," she held it out along with a small pouch "Camera and the film we done already, make sure it's not exposed to light, the film that is, it has to be developed first."

"ENEMY ATTACK!" the shout came from outside, it actually brought a smile to Lt Bebutova's face over at last, my great contribution, it will be over at last

"Please, stop, briefly, try to catch the sight of the statue being immolated," she begged, a strange mad fire glowing in her eyes as she grabbed his arm "Promise, you'll try."

Ratiev was shocked and surprised, but all he could do was say "Yes Comrade I'll try", eager to get away from a rather awkward situation.

"Good, good."

-----------------------------------

"BuLala! BuLala!" the Janissaries roared as they surged forward, running at breakneck speeds, some of them falling over but immediately leaping back up and surging ahead. Their cries of "BuLala! BuLala!" were followed by guttural roars, their teeth showing and bayonets gleaming. Right behind them with the same cry were the citizen force, screaming the battle cries and rushing forward ready to back this mass. There had been no preparatory bombardment, and Soviet resistance had taken a bit to materialise without the warning.

-----------------------------------

"GET UP AND FIGHT!" the Sergeant cried as he began firing at the advancing enemy, they were moving too fast now and his own forces too spread out, but he was determined to put up a fight. Ushering troops into position he readied himself, but they had no choice but to keep their best marksmen, and their RPG in reserve so that the courier could escape.

TAKKATAKKATAKKATAKKA the Maxim gun began, sweeping up and down the Janissary host, but without much luck at stopping them. Closer and closer the Drakan host surged, a few burp guns opened up too, cutting down several Janissaries but on they swarmed.

"Now!" Lt Bebutova called.

Immediately the RPG team rushed into position "Clearing route!" quickly they loaded the HE round and aimed it down at the cluster of Janissaries "STAND CLEAR!" came the shout, followed by "CLEAR! FIRE!" and then a loud wooosh as the fiery tail of the projectile streaked over to the Janissary position.

BOOM

Janissaries were flung aside, one actually tossed through the air, but most simply thrown down, arms and legs at unnatural angles.

"RELOAD! RIFLES FIRE AT WILL!" The Sergeant ordered, immediately the air was filled with SVT firing cutting a deadly swathe through the Janissaries below.

"NOW!" Lt Bebutova called and slapped the couriers back "DRIVE!"

The motorcycle revved up and lurched forward just as the RPG team fired another HE round, this one spooking even drunk Janissaries even to scoot out of the way, just as the motorcycle flew down the steep hill. The tail gunner fired a few bursts in the general direction of anyone who tried to stop them, and a few shot back with clouds of dust rising around the bike, but no one managed to lay a hit on it.

"STAND CLEAR!"

"CLEAR!"

"FIRE!"

Yet another HE round flew, this one cutting into a small cluster of Janissaries ready to fire at the speeding bike.

Lt Bebutova was about to give another order when she cried "OOOF" and fell down to the ground clutching her side, her fingers were wet with something sticky, as she looked down she saw it was red, and felt it was moist and warm and coming from her body "Damn" she whispered softly as she began to stagger towards the secure area beneath the statue "TO THE END" she called even as she felt their eyes upon her.

Beneath the statue she collapsed in the cold concrete atmosphere inside of it, finding the last detonator she placed her hands on it, readying it just so that if she passed out she'd detonate. Outside there was shooting and screaming, the sounds of a massacre ah yes, they finished us off the door shot up and she saw a uniform not Soviet she smiled as she pushed the plunger down hard and then the pain suddenly went away.

-----------------------------------

NO! Damn it! NO! for the first time since this miserable mess began Old Timer felt his stomach churn, the motorcycle escaping had been somewhat surprising but not overly so, it seemed just the sort of gesture desperate people might make. In addition by helping it escape they had greatly compromised their position, making his attack all the more effective.

What followed then, just as they pushed into the trenches, that was the shock, the explosions just outside the trench lines had come on cue taking down a couple of citizens and a dozen or so Janissaries. Then had followed the usual scenes of slaughter and rampage, a few surviving young boys about to be mounted, or so it seemed through his binoculars, and generally an outright slaughter of everyone else. The defenders had been so easily slaughtered once their defences were pierced, second rate troops in other words.

Then it had happened, the entire area was covered in smoke, and then a horrible thunderous drone had hit them, and a giant pillar of dust and smoke had risen as the statue half disintegrated and half keeled over, sending tons of dust and stone in every direction. As he watched this he realised with shock that basically everyone inside the trenches would be affected, if not killed then wounded of you glorious bastard, whomever you were, that was a gesture worthy of a Greek tragedy he thought to himself shaking his head even I can respect that.

-----------------------------------

An hour later an exhausted motorcycle courier and his tailgunner arrived at Tbilisi headquarters, their films were sent to be developed, and their messages carefully studied. This day would be legend.

"We did it"

"Yes we did, we got out alive..."

"No, we granted her last wish, I got, I got it all..."

Post by **fgalkin** » 2004-07-24 02:59am

Very well written. Its also much more interesting than part a because of its personal touch. Finally, I think that the Soviet anthem should have been sung in Russian, but then nobody would be able to understand it but me.

Btw, Zemphyra is a very popular Russian rock singer. Did you pick the name because of that, or did you choose it randomly?

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

Post by **The Yosemite Bear** » 2004-07-24 07:57am

Definatly a film student's way of fighting a war, by the book with grand gestures....

MKSheppard · Post by **MKSheppard** » 2004-07-24 10:43am

I'm going to have to outdo vegard

for Part c

Post by **The Yosemite Bear** » 2004-07-24 04:56pm

May I make a suggestion?

have the flying tigers "Steal" their plans and help out the ivans not the chinese in this reality. Sure it was the nanking massacare that caused a group of american pilots to work as mercs for the chinese, we could get away with it happening for the russians...