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The Great Patriotic War: Beginnings
(if you can come up with a better title, I'm all ears)

Joint Fanfic in the Draka Universe created by S.M. Stirling
by Mark Sheppard and Vegard Valberg

********************************

[Ossetian Military Highway, Soviet Georgia - May 22, 1940, 0400 Hours]

Centurion Eric von Shrakenburg watched as the ground slowly rose up to meet him
as he swayed in his parachute. Before he had dropped too low below the horizon, he
had been able to see the lights of what appeared to be a village in the distance, some
ten klicks away from their landing site.

There had been no signs of untoward movement at all; by Freya, it looked like they'd be
able to pull this one off, dropping two entire Airborne Legions onto the vital mountain pass
that the Ossetian Military Highway ran through, so that the Russian forces in Georgia would
be isolated and destroyed by the Drakan armored spearheads rumbling past the now
destroyed border outposts from what had been known as Turkey in the west and from
the valleys of Armenia in the east.

Suddenly, Eric saw something gleaming in the moonlight, and wondered what it was. For
a few moments, he wondered what the hell it was, and then his brain clicked. He frantically
began to try and shift his weight across the parachute so he wouldn't fall onto it; he was
still sinking at a very fast clip.

A single strangled cry of "Schiesse!" was all he managed to get out before he was on top
of it, and then his world exploded in pain and he blacked out.

[10 minutes later]

"I've found the Centurion!" shouted Senior Decurion McWhirter as he cleared away the
brush surrounding the battered body of the young Shrakenburg lad. McWhirter tried
not to grimace as he saw what was left of the young man's right foot.

"Damned Slavs," cursed the Decurion, as he remembered the way the damned Pashtuns
in Afghanistan loved to string piano wire across main highways at night, waiting for a hapless
Draka to drive by and then loot their vehicle.

[The town of Nizhniy Unal, 17 miles northwest of the Drop Zone]

A racuous celebration was currently underway in the drab town of Nizhniy Unal, a few dozen
buildings that existed merely because of the Ossetian Military Highway. The workers who
maintained the highway and kept it clear of snow in the winter months had to have places
to live in, so all amongst the breadth of the innumerable military highways across the
Soviet Union, there were such towns like this.

A rotund middle aged man wearing a shabby fitting suit, looking much like a haberdasher,
except for the Party emblem on his collar, climbed to the top of a platform that had been
built the night before for the celebration, and took a deep breath.

"Thirty thousand kilometers of piano wire, comrades! We have strung up thirty thousand
kilometers of thin, near invisible piano wire covering the glens and openings of our great
state!"

"This is a momentous achievement, comrades! By order of Comrade Krasnov we are
issuing to you a gift of liquour, tobacco and chocolate!"

Even as the party boss was finishing his speech, Red Army quartermasters were bringing
in baskets filled with all sorts of material from cheap tins containing vodka to expensive
chocolate treats in fine cardboard boxes.

"LONG LIVE THE MOTHERLAND! LONG LIVE COMRADE KRASNOV!" cried out the
man. Without missing a beat, the crowd returned the roar at gale strength.

"ALL STRENGTH AND GLORY TO THE GREAT KRASNOV!" shouted the man,
and the shout was returned as well, as the people rejoiced in the bounty before
them.

As the man stepped down from the platform, he walked through the crowd, towards
the local party headquarters, where he had important business to take care of. Of course,
he hadn't mentioned that the reason for handing out this bounty had less to do with
the desire to reward Soviet Citizens, and more with the fact that they either had to
distribute the contents of the warehouses to the people, or else the Draka would have
them as they marched forth. The only other alternative was to destroy them.

Some had spoken for burning them, but already scorched earth was being implemented
on a large scale, so there was nothing really to lose by making the civilians more
comfortable while they waited for evacuation; or some said, prepared themselves to
be drafted en masse, depending on how the fighting went.

Opening the door to the Party HQ, he saw that the regional party leader, Georgiy
Mikhailovich Dratvin, was there. Oh shit, he thought. Had he done something
bad? Forgotten to praise Krasnov enough?

And then he noticed that it was very warm inside the offices. Much warmer than the
season could account for. The reason became apparent almost immediately as
he watched a MGB man in his bluecap walking by with a armfull of papers, towards
the fireplace, where a blazing fire was going.

Gathered around the fireplace were a dozen or so party men, MVD men, and a
bluecap or two, all throwing papers onto the fire, which was roaring like a beast,
throwing half-burnt pieces of paper into the chimney as the flames devoured
the painstakingly assembled dossiers which they had spent so much time on.

Looking around, the party hack swallowed nervously, he was a balding middle aged
man with a paunch, quite not the New Socialist Man of the papers, and he was afraid,
oh god yes, afraid. The only thing keeping him from going to pieces right then and
there was that everyone in this town was looking towards him, the local party boss,
for support.

One of the MGB men was on the phone, talking intently, and covering the mouth piece
with his hand to keep snatches of conversation from reaching the others.

All the party hack could think of was how he'd have to have a word with the women at the
telephone exchange later about what they had 'accidentally' overheard. Then the
bluecap slammed the phone down, his hand trembling softly. He walked over to
Dratvin and whispered into the Regional boss' ear.

Dratvin's eyes widened ever so slightly, and with a quaver in his voice, he spoke
to the assembled party men and security directorate personnel. "It's begun,
it's really begun..." he managed to choke out before he stopped for a moment
to compose himself.

When he had composed himself enough, he resumed speaking. "The Grand Struggle
for which the Motherland has prepared for these last twenty years has arrived! May the
spirit of Lenin and the hand of Krasnov guide us through these tumultous days ahead
of us!"

Woohoo, crack!

Good stuff.

Sweet!

I thought I was good at Russian military history, but who is Krasnov?

Also, is this your work of what would ACTUALLY happen to anyone who tried to airborne the Urals? Does it fit with your Superfortresses story?

So many questions, so little-WRITEMORENOW!

CaptainChewbacca wrote:I thought I was good at Russian military history, but who is Krasnov?

Roughly, he's:

Chairman of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union
Marshal of the Soviet Armed Forces
President of the Soviet Union
Minister of Transportation

The last one is of importance, as he WAS a railroad man before
he took power; he ran the trains for Trotsky in the 1920s.

Also, is this your work of what would ACTUALLY happen to anyone who tried to airborne the Urals?

Not the Urals. The Caucasus. More specifically, the Soviet Republic of
Georgia.

Does it fit with your Superfortresses story?

Yes. Same Timeline. Superfortress story is set in 1944, this one is
four years earlier, on May 22, 1940.[/quote]

So many questions, so little-WRITEMORENOW!

Already researching Russian uniforms and terminology for de next
chapter.

MKSheppard wrote:Not the Urals. The Caucasus. More specifically, the Soviet Republic of Georgia.

Wait wait... am I to understand that in the Draka novels' timeline, the Draka captured the Caucasus mountains with airborne forces? Who wrote that tripe again?

Pablo Sanchez wrote:Wait wait... am I to understand that in the Draka novels' timeline, the Draka captured the Caucasus mountains with airborne forces? Who wrote that tripe again?

S.M. "Steve" Stirling.

I wrote a thread on it HERE

MKSheppard wrote:S.M. "Steve" Stirling.

I wrote a thread on it HERE

So... Stirling wrote that the Draka secured the Caucasus via a thrust of armored divisions with airborne troops opening the roads for them? We're talking about the same Caucasus, right? Lots of mountains, shitty rail system, full of potential partisans with a cultural history of guerrilla banditry? And this is in 1940?

Of course, reading more of that thread, it also appears that Stirling wrote of the Draka pacifying CHINA in under 20 fucking years, and then going on to supply massive armies in the central asian wasteland with nothing but dirigibles. What kind of fucking shit is that? Even if it's a total pie-in-the-sky fantasy, it still sucks. I could write, "The Draka were able to take Kazakhstan because they brought an army of gnomes with them, who spun straw into gold and bought supplies from underdwelling dwarves" and it would still beat that shit for realism.

Pablo Sanchez wrote: Of course, reading more of that thread, it also appears that Stirling wrote of the Draka pacifying CHINA in under 20 fucking years, and then going on to supply massive armies in the central asian wasteland with nothing but dirigibles. What kind of fucking shit is that?

Why do you think i'm fucking enjoying writing these stories so goddamned
much?

Chapter Two: The Deathride of the 542nd

[Tbilisi, Soviet Republic of Georgia - 542. Vnnutreye Voyska Tankovaya Batal'on]

"Lets go, you damned slackers!" shouted Mladshiy serzhant Anatoliy Konstantinovich
Makarenko as he kicked the sleeping tankists awake in the darkness of the night.
"The filthy snakes have invaded!" he shouted, causing everyone in the barracks who
was still half asleep to snap upright, fully awake, as they frantically began to pull on their
gymnastorikas.

As his men dressed, Makarenko went back into his small living space at the head
of the barracks - every mladshiy serzhant had his own room, for they ruled the barracks
in the absence of the officers, and he began to pull on his own uniform, which had
the dark green shoulderboards and green cuff piping that denoted him as a member
of the frontier troops. Raked horizontally across the shoulderboards were the three
stripes that showed he was a mladshiy serzhant, and below that was the little bronze
tank that showed that he was a tankist.

On a peg above his bunk was the characteristic 'bluecap' which had become feared
across the Soviet Union during the Purges of the 1920s, only instead of red piping
around the brim, it was green, signifying that he was part of the frontier troops,
for in the Soviet Union, the border guards were part of the security services.

Makarenko didn't put it on this time. They weren't going to the parade ground. They
were going to war. So on instead went the padded helmet of a tankist.

Walking outside his room, he saw that his men were for the most part, ready.

"Alright, lets go!" he shouted, leading them outside to the parade ground,
where the rest of the batal'on was forming up, some 124 men, with the
addition of the 41 men he was responsible for while in barracks; standing
at attention.

Out in front of them was their commander, Podpolkovnik Sergey Stepanovitch Volkov,
pacing back and forth. When everyone was assembled and standing at attention,
Volkov came to attention and began to address them.

"Comrades of the Glorious Red Army! Just hours ago, the filthy imperialist pigdogs
began attacking the Motherland from their bases in Armenia. Losses amongst our
fellow frontier troops are heavy, and we must come to their aid!"

Volkov paused for effect. "Already, reports are coming in from Marneuli, some
thirty kilometers away, that the imperialists have reached it in batal'on strength,
and that they are being supported by a new type of tank as yet unknown by us."

"Well, they may have a new tank, but so do we, comrades! We shall show them
what red steel means!" shouted Volkov, to the enormous cheers of his men.

"Mount your tanks, comrades!" he finished, and everyone broke off to run towards
the tank park where their tanks were waiting under the harsh glare of floodlights like
primeval dinosaurs. Within minutes, the air was filled with the low rumbling noises
as their 500 bhp V-12s came to life, filling the air with their sooty exhaust.

As Volkov scrambled up the dark green hull of his command tank, he saw that
no one was moving at all, just idling in the night. Dropping into the turret, he crouched
past the breech block of the 100mm D-10T gun, and kicked the radio operator softly
with his boot to get his attention.

"What's the damned holdup, Sasha?"

Ryadovoy Aleksandr Ivanovitch Korolev threw his hands up in disgust in response.
"Comrade, we can't get out, it seems that the night watchman can not be found
and the front gate to the tank park is locked to protect from saboteurs."

"That damned drunken fool! What does he think he's doing, I'll have him shot!
Who's the closest to the gate?"

"Anatoliy, sir."

"Well, put him on for me!" ordered Volkov, and Sasha turned to his radio momentarily.
"He's on, comrade." came the reply a second later.

"Tell him he's authorized to smash that damned gate, to hell with damaging State
property!"

[Outside the tank park]

The drunken night watchman staggered step by step towards the gate, key in hand,
muttering under his breath "Damned tankists, I'll be there, I'll be there, just wait you
damn swine."

Suddenly, the sturdy wrought iron gate flew open as a black mass of irrestible force
smashed into it, sending iron and masonry flying for dozens of meters as the 48-ton
tank rolled through it like it wasn't there, followed by it's comrades, who widened the
hole in the wall each time, since no one was being particular about lining up their tanks
with the hole, after all, this was wartime, wasn't it?

[State Highway 43, Running from Tbilisi to Vanadzor, 20 kilometers from Tbilisi]

Merarch Edward Whittle watched the dust cloud rising on the horizon from the
commander's cupola of his Hond III tank, as his armored merarchy consisting of
three armored cohortarchs consisting of 30 tanks each, rumbled towards Tbilisi.

Tbilisi was one of the major strategic points of this region, taking it would
deprive the Soviet Union of the oil fields around it, and would allow them to
cut the Soviet forces in the far eastern part of Georgia off, and allow them to
be destroyed in detail.

So far, the invasion was going splendidly well, the Russian border guards had
fought hard from their well-prepared bunkers, they had inflicted severe casualties
onto the Janissary Chiliarchies that had spearheaded the assault, causing thousands
of casualties; but well, that was what the Janissaries were for; to soak up the bullets
so the Citizen Forces could deliver the coup de grace.

The few Russian tanks they had encountered had been T-31s and a few T-34s, old
models that had given the Hond IIs so much trouble four years ago, during the border
clashes in Kazakhstan, and they had quickly been dispatched by the 102mm guns
on the Hond IIIs that had been developed to outmatch the Russian 76.2mm and
85mm guns by considerable margins at combat ranges.

As the sky lightened above them as the sun began it's slow climb into the dawn sky,
Whittle spotted the cause of the dust cloud on the horizon. Russian tanks, not the
penny packets of two or three tanks being thrown against a whole cohort of 30 tanks,
but an entire cohort coming to meet them.

"Ivan's go' smar', boys," he remarked over the century's radio net, "he ain' sendin'
his tankers ot' to die by themselves no mo'; now they die en masse."

All around him, the tanks of his Merarchy organized themselves from their road march
positions to fighting positions, waiting for the Russians to enter the range of their guns.

While he waited for the inevitable battle to begin, he reached down and grabbed his
binoculars, they were good ones, fine German Zeiss optics, not the crap that Archona
churned out, and trained them on the oncoming Russian tanks.

Strange. They weren't T-31s or T-34s at all. They were something new. Vaguely, he
remembered his pre-attack briefing that said the Russians had fielded a new tank
called the KS-1 or something like that in response to the improved Hond II models
that could enage the Russian tanks at long range with their 90mm guns.

Ah well, no matter, his merarchy was mostly equipped with Hond IIIs now, the last
few Hond IIs being collected in a century for infantry support, their 75mm guns
actually being better at infantry support than the high velocity 102mm guns the
Hond IIIs carried.

Fifteen minutes later, the battle was joined when the ranges closed to within
2,000 meters, close enough for the 102mm guns to kill. All at once, the entire
merarchy fired, over a hundred tank guns firing nearly simultaneously, sending
clouds of smoke over the plain the battle was taking place on.

Watching through his binoculars, he watched as the first volley began to slam forth
amongst the Russian tanks, misses throwing up sprays of dirt, and hits being rewarded
with showers of sparks. But still the Russians kept on coming, with no losses. If
they had been T-34s, or even LT-1s, half of the tanks would be burning. Fuck.

The Drakan gunners kept on pouring shots into the Russian tanks, but still the Russians
came on, the range closed to 1,500 meters, before the first Russian tanks began to
limp out of formation, smoke and flame belching from their hatches as ammuntion cooked
off. But still they kept on coming, even as more of their number continued to come to a stop
in flaming pyres.

[KS-1 "Protector of the Motherland"]

Volkov flinched as the snake armor-piercing shells slammed into the armor of "Protector",
without effect. It had taken an act of supreme will to advance to within 1,200 meters
while under fire without returning the fire, but now they were well within the effective
kill zone of their D-10Ts. Some of the KS-1s, particularly the older models had the
122mm D-25T, would have to get closer, but for now, they were close enough. "FIRE!"
he screamed, and his gunner complied as Sasha sent the command to the other tanks
of his batal'on.

Rippling columns of flame and smoke ran through the surviving line of Russian tanks as
they finally opened fire, and seconds later, the heavy armor piercing shells began to
impact on the Hond IIIs, ripping through the 130mm of frontal armor like it wasn't there,
and setting them alight.

[Lead Hond III - "Palmeretto"]

"Freya's cunt!" cursed Whittle as he listened to the death screams of the men under his
command as the Russian shells tore into their tanks. The damned Ivans shouldn't have
tank guns powerful enough to penetrate the Hond III at this range!

Still, the cold arithimetic of war was still in their favor. Even assuming 100% losses to
each Ivan tank shell, over a hundred Hond IIIs remained against less than twenty Ivan
tanks.

"Driver! Fo'ard, maximum speed!" he shouted, even as he moved the turret around
to bear on his chosen target, just under a thousand meters away. "Gunner, fire at will!"
he screamed over the noise of battle, and turned away to scan the horizon with his
cupola periscopes for a new target.

He felt the sixty-ton tank rock as the main gun fired, and was expecting the gunner to
begin moving the turret towards the target he'd designated just moments ago. Seconds
passed, and then with great annoyance, he yelled at the gunner. "What the fuc' is goin'
on you damn' slag? Did yo' miss the bahstid at this range?"

"Fuck yo'!" came the shouted response. "I hit the bahstard dead on, wit' a wolfram' round,
an' the bahstid keeps on comin'!"

"The fuc'?" shouted Whittle in disbelief as he slammed down into his seat, and peered
through his gunsight. In the center of it, surrounded by smoke and haze was the oddest
looking tank he'd ever seen. Even as he was watching it, the gunner fired again, and almost
instanteously, the shell struck the tank and simply....bounced off.

Blinking to clear his eyes, and to possibly wake himself up from this nightmare of this damn
Ivan tank that simply wouldn't fucking die, Whittle studied the tank more closely. The front
glacis wasn't flat, but was sharply flared forward coming forward to meet in something that
resembled....a pike? The turret wasn't sharp or angular like on any other tank he'd
seen before, instead the sides all sloped smoothly inwards like a frying pan.

"Keep firin' at that bahstard, we'll hit somthin' impo'tant event'ly!" ordered Whittle.

[Two Hours later]

Whittle walked up to the Russian behemoth that had withstood near point-blank
102mm fire, and carefully fingered each hole, counting them, until he had come
up with a count of fifteen solid hits that hadn't penetrated more than a centimeter
or two.

"Freya's breath! This damn'ed thing is a nightmare!" remarked his gunner, who
had finally knocked the beast out with a shell to one of the bogies, immobilizing it,
and allowing the rest of the merarchy to fill it with enough shellfire that something
had finally, finally penetrated. A bunch of them had gotten a couple of crowbars
and pried what looked like the commander's hatch open, only to be greeted by
the sight and smell of shredded meat filling the interior. Fuckit, let the technical
eggheads handle that one.

Turning away from the infernal tank, Whittle looked around and breathed in deeply,
taking in the smell of victory, which was of burning petrochemicals and flesh. All
around him, the rest of the Ivan cohort was burning, but so were too many of his
tanks; the last count was that he'd lost seventeen tanks to the Ivans, an acceptable
loss rate if it had been from a merarchy equal to his, but not from a damned cohort
that he outnumbered 4 to 1.

Muttering dark curses, Whittle walked to his tank, and signalled for the rest of his
men to form up behind him in a column. With luck, they'd be able to reach Tbilisi
before dark, and shut up those fucking infantrymen who had stopped by earlier
and gazed at the mess before them from the open roof hatches of their Hoplite II
MICVs before moving on in a cloud of dust, jeering at the tankmen who had let
a bunch of Ivans slow them down as they passed.

[KS-1 "Protector of the Motherland"]

Volkov groaned as he tried to clean off what was left of poor Sasha off himself.
The damned snake shell had hit their frontal glacis plate and gone right through
Sasha like he wasn't there, splattering him all over the crew in the process, and
spraying their driver with shrapnel, before passing between him and the gunner
burying itself in the turret wall, just below the ready ammunition stowage.

When he had recovered his wits, he'd thanked the Holy Mother that the shell
hadn't been a few centimetres higher, or else they'd all have been blown to
kingdom come.

"Nikita, I think the snakes are moving off, are you ready to move?"

Volkov's gunner, a big stocky Ukranian by the name of Nikita (everyone in
the batal'on kept bothering him about that, was he related to that kommisar
by the name of Kruschkev?) grunted, fingering his black eye painfully. Several
hours earlier, just after the shell had hit, he'd tried to escape from the tank, but
Volkov had punched him out, screaming "You fucking moron! We're on a
fucking battlefield, want to get your damned head blown off?"

"What about Sasha?"

"He's dead, comrade, leave him. We have snakes to kill." replied Volkov
as he cocked his PPSh-39. "We only have one Pepeshka, so I'll go first."

Nikita merely grunted. Let that damned Muscovite go first.

I like, I like.

We going to be seeing any more armour combat?

Black Admiral wrote:We going to be seeing any more armour combat?

In a couple of chapters. I want to develop more aspects of the war,
rather than just tank tank tank tank boom boom

Chapter 3: The Bear Awakens

[Moscow]

The four lane highways that had been built running through Moscow after the
Revolution were mostly empty, save for the odd car or truck. It was then with
some nervousness that the people going about their business on the sidewalks
watched as not one, but a dozen ZIL limousines came roaring down the highway,
towards the Kremlin. Several of the bystanders made the sign of the cross;
something was up; and whenever something was "up" in the Union of Soviet
Socialist Republics, that "something" was usually bad.

From the back seat of his armored limousine, Marshal Sovetskogo Souza
Mikhail Nikolayevich Tukhachevsky watched as the drab architecture sped by,
block after block of dull concrete apartment blocks, interspersed with the
occasional building in the "Wedding Cake" style that Stalin had preferred when
he was Commisar of Moscow back in 1920, before his untimely death of a
heart attack.

When Stalin had dropped dead all so suddenly, it was too late for them to cancel
the buildings he had commissioned, and there was a severe housing shortage
in Moscow at the time, so up they went; Stalin's final monuments to himself.

Thankfully, they were soon beyond the building prospects on the outskirts of
Moscow and well into the old city itself; the Kremlin was only minutes away.

Inwardly Tukhachevsky wondered why he and the other Marshals had been
summoned to the Kremlin by Krasnov himself. It probably had something
to do with the reports reaching STAVKA of heavy fighting in the Military
District of Georgia.

STAVKA itself was divided along the issue over whether it was a full-scale
invasion of the Soviet Union by the Domination, or just a repeat of the border
skirmishes of 1936. At least the majority of MVD border units in Georgia had
been re-equipped with the KS-1, although there were a few T-34s still floating
around; and the brand new KS-2s had been sent down there in extremely limited
numbers, they were still testing it out at Kubinkia; but the need in Georgia had been
so great that the normal procedures had been circumvented and several dozen
sent there.

He felt the limousine begin a turn, and looking out the window, he saw the MGB
guards saluting the limousines as they passed through the gates to the Kremlin.

Looking out onto Red Square, he saw hundreds of troops being readied,
along with the few KS-1s the MGB's Kremlin Brigada had being moved to
vital locations along Red Square that would allow them to control whatever
went on with their guns.

Minutes later, they were in the underground parking garage of the Presidum,
and everyone stepped out of their limousines, which would remain for them,
engines running, until the meeting was finished.

Soon, everyone was in the elevator that would take them to the hallway outside
the President's office, and slowly the elevator began it's climb upwards. "You
know, comrades, if this damned elevator breaks, they're going to have a hard
time finding our bodies under all the gold we're wearing!" commented Marshal
Blücher, to the laughs of everyone.

Finally, after much trepidation, the creaky elevator reached the top, and the door
opened, revealing the sumptous Hall of the President, which contained the President
of the Communist Party's working offices and living quarters.

A sharp faced young Podpolkovnik wearing the uniform of the MGB saluted them. "The
President will see you now, Marshals." With that, he clicked his heels, turned around
and marched towards one of the doors and opened it.

It was with some trepidation that the four Marshals of the Soviet Union entered Ivan
Krasnov, President of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union's office. Krasnov
could be...eccentric at times.

Walking into his office, they saw their worst fears confirmed. The great map case
that dominated Krasnov's office was open, and spread out upon it was a map of
the Kavkaz region, covered with small wooden blocks upon which military symbols
were engraved.

Bozemoi, not again! thought everyone. Krasnov probaby had gotten it into his
head that this was the long-awaited showdown with the Domination that he'd been
fanatically preparing for ever since he launched a coup that installed him as master
of the Soviet Union following Trotsky's death in mid-1925.

About once a year, or maybe even thrice a year in bad years, Krasnov got it into his
head that the Domination was preparing to attack the Motherland; he would claim that
since such and such unit had been moved here, or there, that it was indisputable proof
that the imperialists were about to launch an attack.

Usually, they would be called right to his office, no matter what the hour, and they would
have to talk down a furious Krasnov, who would be stomping about and frantically barking
out orders to his military aide for transmission to units all over the Soviet Union.

At least Krasnov was dressed normally, thought Tukhachevsky. A few times, they had
been summoned here at 0300 in the morning, and found Krasnov walking around in a
men's dress gown, and then he realized it. Krasnov wasn't wearing his pinstriped suit,
but instead the uniform of a Generalissimus of the Soviet Union. Oh shit went
everyone, upon realizing this.

"The Draka have attacked our motherland on multiple fronts!" shouted Krasnov as
he motioned towards a section of the map on his map case.

"Comrade President, we know about the Drakan attacks in the Kavkaz region, and
we are not sure if it's the real thing or not; you remember, they attacked us in
Kazakhstan four years ago, and you wanted to declare all out war on them, and it
turned out to be nothing but a minor border skirmish."

Krasnov had been expecting this, for his Marshals were a conservative lot; they had
commanded in the Red Army during the 1920s, and had survived the vicious power
fight between Trotsky and Stalin before Trotsky had emerged triumphant and Stalin
had been reduced to just Commisar of Moscow.

"That may be so, Comrades, but look at what has just come in on the wires!" with that,
Krasnov stabbed a finger onto a blue block that had the engravings of an airborne unit
on it. "Reports, reliable reports, mind you, have been coming in that the snakes have
landed airborne units at three specific points, and each point shares in common one
thing!"

Before giving his Marshals a chance to reply, Krasnov gave them their answer. "They lie
on military roads that pass through the mountains, roads which would be vital to future
operations beyond Kavkaz!"

The Marshals all spread around the map case upon hearing that, and for several
long seconds there was complete utter silence. Finally, it was Blücher who spoke.

"Comrade President, is this confirmed? That they are landing airborne troops in
the Kavkaz?"

Krasnov nodded vigoriously. "Yes, the MVD and MGB have both confirmed it,
along with the local party bosses."

Tukhachevsky was the next to speak. "Bozemoi! Are they that stupid?"

"Apparently, yes." replied Voroshilov.

"This is no mere border skirmish," noted Blücher, tapping the airborne blocks
that represented the enemy airborne units. "Drakan airborne units are all
citizen-only, there are no janissaries in them. They are placing them into
a situation where the only choices are death or victory. Victory in their case,
can only come if there's a large scale operation underway to relieve them;
and as we all know, the Draka don't waste Citizens. They have the Janissaries
for that."

"Good thing Yegorov's down there right now," commented Voroshilov. "Yes,
he's one of our best." added Tukhachevsky.

Krasnov wasted no time in getting to the meat of the situation. "Comrades, it is
agreed then, that this is the invasion we have prepared for all these long years?"

Everyone nodded gravely.

"Well, then I must be off to inform the people of this new development, and to inform
the ambassadors here. Please, continue working on your plan to defend the Kavkaz,
I expect a plan on my desk by tomorrow, Comrades."

As Krasnov left, everyone stared at the map for several long moments. "It's finally
happening, isn't it Mikhail Nikolayevich?" remarked Büdenny.

"Yes. It's happening." replied Tukhachevsky, feeling oddly relieved at the same time.
Finally, after so much waiting, it was finally on.

[Leningradsky Prospeckt; Northwest Moscow]

Soviet citizens going about their daily business stopped doing what they were
doing to listen to the voice of their leader booming out from the loudspeakers
that had been set up for such public announcements.

In countless small villages across the Soviet Union, people huddled around the
only radio in the village, which was handcranked, and listened.

All over the world in national capitals, translators gave a real-time translation of
Krasnov's speech.

[Radio Moscow Recording Studio]

"Brothers and Sisters, the Motherland calls upon you!" shouted Krasnov as
he began the speech that would inform the Russian people of the invasion.

"Our Great Foe has struck us during the deepest peace, attacking the peaceful
people of the Soviet Union in their never ending quest for conquest!"

"Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia have taken the initial brunt of the invasion, and
in every instance, parts of them have fallen to the invader, but his attempts to
capture Tiblisi have been blunted by our glorious armed forces!"

Krasnov paused, taking a drink of water before continuing, and all over the
world, people heard the clink of ice in glass before Krasnov's voice once
again filled the airwaves.

"In his folly our foe has sought to invade the Kavkaz using a combination
of heavy armoured thrusts and airborne drops! Now he shall bleed in the
same mountains where for countless generations, peoples from all over
the world have bled!"

"He shall bleed in the mountains of a dozen people united for one
common purpose, their desire for his complete, utter destruction, and
their knowledge that it is either the victory of the Red Army or endless
slavery under the yoke!"

Again, a clink of glass and ice.

"Our foe is already reeling under the blows from our glorious forces!"

A long pregnant pause filled the airwaves.

"Yet a dark cloud hangs over our beloved Motherland! Only when she calls upon all
her valiant sons and daughters to come to her defense, and only when the whole
of the Soviet Union stands united against the aggressor, the slaver, the imperialist,
the force so dark and foul that it belongs in the very depths of Hell, shall we see
the realization of our dialectic!"

"I hear the booming voice of the people of the Soviet Union!"

"I hear them singing martial songs and mustering their forces!"

"I hear the glorious sounds of armaments being raised to defend freedom!"

"These sounds I hear are a magnificent symphony!"

"They are the music of a people that shall never again be serfs!"

All over the vast breadth of the Soviet Union, the listeners began cheering loudly.

"Against us is arrayed the bloody banner of tyranny, and for us there is only victory
or death!"

Another pause.

"Our enemy is a terrible foe, but against him stands full square the force of history
and the Soviet People, and though we must make many sacrifices in the days ahead,
ours shall be the final victory! History, military might, and the great Soviet Homeland
is on our side, our nation is large, our resources many and widespread, we shall not
be overcome!"

[American Embassy]

As the words "...we shall not be overcome!" came through the radio set, George F.
Kennan, US Ambassador to the Soviet Union, slowly shook his head.

"Those poor poor bastards," he muttered.

"Who, sir?" asked his aide, who was working on a telegram to send to Washington,
informing them of these latest developments.

"Why, the Draka, of course. Who did you think I was referring to?" replied Kennan
with a sly grin.

Suddenly, the telephone on his desk rang, and he picked it up.

"Yes?"

"He's here?"

"What for?"

"Why yes, I'll see him, send him in"

The door to the ambassador's office opened, and in walked the Soviet Foreign Minister,
Alexander Shlyapnikov, one of the old hands of the February Revolution, and now Foreign
Minister under Ivan Krasnov.

"Comrade Kennan, it is good to see you again."

"Likewise, Mr. Shyl...Shyl...oh hell, Alexi." replied Kennan, mangling Shlyapnikov's name
as only an American could do.

"Shly-AP-ni-KOV, Georgiy, how hard can it possibly be?" replied Shlyapnikov good
naturedly before his grim visage returned.

"I am here on behalf of President Krasnov, to give you the official declaration of war
of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics on the Domination of Draka, so you may
relay it to Archona, because as you well know, we do not have diplomatic relations
with them; not since 1936."

With that, Shlyapnikov handed over a heavy manila envelope sealed with red wax,
which Kennan accepted.

Pulling out a seat, Shlyapnikov sat down. "Speaking off the record, Georgiy, I do hope
our two great nations unite in the future to exterminate the snakes. Mark my words,
the French and the British will do nothing. The Germans are simply too weak to
do anything. Mussolini won't do anything to rock the boat either, he's in too precarious
a position right now with Victor Emmanuel III."

Kennan nodded offhandedly. For a while, US-Soviet relations had been at a new low
following the Bolshevik Revolution, but had revived following Ivan Krasnov's seizure
of power in late 1925.

"As our great leader says, the historical dialectic speaks for itself. After all, did not
Alexander II come to the aid of the Union in 1863 with the Russian Fleet, after
emancipating the serfs in 1861?" added Shlyapnikov, referring to what Soviet
propaganda had been emphasizing on ever since Krasnov had cemented his
power finally in 1927.

"Yes, I understand that our two nations have always had a close relationship, Alexi,
for the rest of Europe has always looked upon us as the bastard children of the world,"
replied Kennan.

"Anyway, I'll make sure this letter gets to the Drakan Embassy in Poland."

"Very well, Georgiy, it was good to see you again."

"Likewise, Alexi."

OOB of the Kavkaz Front, May 22 1940 (289 Kb)

Translation:

Strelkovyi Korpus - Rifle Corps
Tankovaya Armija = Tank Army
VV = Vnnutreye Voyska = Interior Army
GS = Gornostrelkovaya = Mountain Rifle

Red = Draka
Blue = Soviet

Green X = Drakan Airborne Landing Site
Red X = Drakan Airborne Landing site where Eric Von Shrakenburg is

So... he's a pro-US soviet dictator?

CaptainChewbacca wrote:So... he's a pro-US soviet dictator?

Lets just say the US and Russia have always had a close relationship
in this universe, particularly after Russia was the only European country
to openly assist the US, sailing the Russian fleet into New York and San
Francisco in 1863, while the Draka openly assisted the Confederacy,
sending them guns and ammo, and greatly prolonging the Civil War,
and when the civil war was all but lost for the CSA, the most virulent
pro-slavery people fled on Drakan steamers to the Domination.

To say that there's no love lost between the US and the Domination is
an understatement. Even the Southerners hate the Domination,
which will be explained in a later chapter

Thought it was an ATL thing. I've never heard of Russia sailing to SF in 1863.

Oh, what happened in WWI here?

CaptainChewbacca wrote:Thought it was an ATL thing. I've never heard of Russia sailing to SF in 1863.

http://civilwar.bluegrass.net/ForeignIn ... ussia.html

On September 11, 1863, astonished New Yorkers watched the Imperial Russian Fleet sail into New York Harbor. The unexpected arrival was just as much a surprise to the governments in Washington, London, and Paris. There were rumors that a Russo-American alliance would contest the British and French threats to recognize the Confederacy and intervene in Poland. The Russian officers and sailors were treated as honored guests and numerous banquets were held in their honor. President Lincoln received the fleet's officers in the White House. All of this was noted with great concern in England and France.

Oh, what happened in WWI here?

Oh the typical "europeans go forth and be slaughtered in great numbers"

Too bad the Russo-American alliance never solidified. We coulda helped them in the far east, they coulda helped us take Canada;)

Then we'd have to deal with the Qubecians(ers? ese? little help?). Ugh, forget that.

frigidmagi wrote:Then we'd have to deal with the Qubecians(ers? ese? little help?). Ugh, forget that.

Let's just say that the Quebecois have been......suppressed
by the US which annexed Canada in 1812......

Yes, I know it's stupid, but we're giving the Draka as much
benefit of the doubt as possible by allowing pretty much
everything Stirling wanked his way thru until 1919, when
reality intrudes

MKSheppard wrote:

Black Admiral wrote:We going to be seeing any more armour combat?

In a couple of chapters. I want to develop more aspects of the war,
rather than just tank tank tank tank boom boom

Oh obviously. I asked because armour warfare is a subject I happen to find interesting.

As to the new chapter, the Draka seem to have bitten off far more than they can chew.

Chapter Four - Heroes are Made

Pain, there was so much pain.

Slowly, Eric von Shrakenburg swam back towards the light, towards consciousness.

Slowly cracking one eye, then the other, he found himself lying on a bed in a dingy
stone house, surrounded by wounded Draka. Far too many of them.

"You're finally awake," grunted a voice in front of him. Turning, Eric saw Senior Decurion
McWhirter shaking his head. "It figures, the boss gets taken out in the first five minutes
of the drop, and I have to do his job. Thanks a lot," he said in a tone of voice halfway
between sarcasm and glee.

"How many did we...how many did we lose?" stammered Shrakenburg as he struggled
to orient himself, noticing the bullet holes all over the walls, along with fairly recent
blood splatter.

"We lost Comtech Nixon right away, Eric. Stupid bitch lit a fucking cigarette right after
the drop; got her head blown off by an Ivan sniper. We still haven't been able to find
the fucker, he's been potting us on and off."

"How do you know it's the same person?" asked Eric, feeling a sense of loss about
Sofie, if only...if only he had been willing to be more open with her before...now he
couldn't do anything.

"The pigfucker's got a Mosin-Nagant, that's how I can tell. Don't you pay attention, to
briefings? The Ivans replaced their snipers' Mosins with scoped SVT-38s years ago.
This guy's not part of the official Ivan military."

Suddenly, at that moment, a sharp crack rang through the air, followed by screams and
outgoing rifle fire.

Cursing, McWhirter reached down and grabbed his walkie-talkie from it's belt
clip and activicated it. "Freya's breath, you fucking sons of whores! Stop wasting
your fucking ammo on that bastard!"

Eric tried to stand up at that, and instead fell to the floor. The medic for the
headquarters tetriarchy sprang into the room at the sound of the sudden noise,
and saw Eric flailing around on the floor in shock.

"Oh, you're awake now, good. I was afraid you wouldn't survive, because
there was the possibility of infection setting in from your cuts; we had to
amputate your right foot. It was the only way we could save you."

Noting Eric's despair, the medic was quick to add, "Oh yes, we also fashioned
a pair of crutches for you; they're over in the corner."

Minutes later, Eric was fully dressed, and swinging out the door of the
makeshift aid station, followed by McWhirter, who was filling him in on
the events of the past day and half.

"Right after Nixon got sniped, we decided to abandon our prepared
approach to Village One, and just stormed it. The Ivans fought hard,
caused a lot of casualties, but those new rocket guns saved our asses
with their explosive rounds."

Shrakenburg smelled the stench of burnt human flesh and wrinkled his
nose. "Oh that," replied McWhirter. "Sofie was a close friend of Tetriarch Kaine,
so when she found a house full of Ivan civilians, she called up the flamers."

McWhirter shrugged. "Can't say I can blame her. Damned Ivans. Not as
bad as the Pashtuns and Afghanis though; we had to burn every damned
village of theirs down before they got the message. Hopefully, these Ivans
won't be as stupid."

As they walked down the highway that ran through the village named as Village
One by Drakan military cartographers, Shrakenburg noticed the massive
amount of bullet holes along the sides of the buildings.

"What's with all the holes, Decurion?"

"Again, damned Ivans. It seems like every one of them has one of those stinking
burp guns, the ones with the drum magazines. We lost almost an entire tetrarch
storming the Party HQ here before we decided to simply level it with the rocket
guns," replied McWhirter as he pointed to a smoldering pile of rubble off the road
to the right.

As they came round a bend, they saw the burnt-out wrecks of two BA-10 armored
cars, their turrets half blown off by the impact of the 75mm HESH rounds. Around
them were dozens of bloated corpses in Russian uniforms.

"The Ivans tried attacking us right after we seized the place, sent two armored
cars and about a century of infantry, but we beat them off with our rocket guns
and auto mortars."

As they walked towards the building that had been set up as a HQ, Shrakenburg
noticed an old man in rather well-to-do garments lying on the ground, a neat 10mm
hole in his forehead.

Pointing to the man, Shrakenburg grunted quizzically.

"Oh, him. He was the village elder, came up to us yelling and screaming after
Kaine toasted the Ivans. He wouldn't take orders from his superiors, so I shot
him. No big loss."

Next to the headquarters was a building where screams were coming from, and
a fairly sizeable line of Draka had gathered at the doorway. Without even waiting
for Shrakenburg to ask, McWhirter simply jabbed a thumb towards it. "Recreation,
we found a few Ivan bitches still in the village, along with one or two prettybucks."

As they entered the stone building which was now their headquarters, Eric heard
the comtechs bitching over the vacuum tubes breaking in their sets. Apparently,
the packing containers weren't perfect just yet, although the breakage rate was
far far less than it had been in the past.

"Centurion, good to see you up and about!" said one of the comtechs as he reached
out to McWhirter with the latest status report in hand, before realizing his mistake
and giving it to Shrakenburg instead.

Eric scanned the flimsheet, taking in the information. Apparently the Fifth Army was
bogged down already outside Tbilisi, while the Eleventh was already beginning it's
sweep up through Ajaria along the Black Sea. That was good, as the Eleventh
was the one slotted to relieve them. In the East, the First and Sixth Armies were
pushing through Azerbaijan, right on schedule.

"What's with Fifth?" asked Eric.

"Lazy ass slackers are getting bogged down in Tbilisi, the Ivans have fortified it
heavily and making us have to contest every house and street. We've pulled back
our Citizens and are reducing it with Janissaries." replied McWhirter.

"I'm worried. If they can't clean up Tbilisi soon, they'll have to divert far more of
the Eleventh and First than they planned to do originally to help the Fifth mop
up Tbilisi, and as you know, the Eleventh is supposed to relieve us."

With that, Shrakenburg began to bite his lip as he ran the variables through his head,
how much ammunition a typical century dropped with, versus how much would have been
expended in a day's fighting.

"Where's the Legionary Cohort of Cheetahs? We're going to need them as soon
as possible."

McWhirter replied with a pained look on his face. "Half of the damned things busted upon
hitting the ground; the damned idiots back at the airfields didn't take into account the rocky
soil here when they calculated how much braking force would be needed for the sleds."

Shrakenburg groaned at that. The damned Cheetahs had always been finnicky and
unreliable, and now they were going to pay the price for that. "Does Chilliarchy HQ
have any allocated for us?" he asked.

"Only two, the others are being sent to guard the other pass, and to form a Legionary
reserve to counter any possible Ivan thrusts."

Suddenly, in the distance, a low throbbing noise could be heard. "That's probably them,"
McWhirter remarked. Shrakenburg listened for several moments more before replying.

"No, they're not. They're coming from the wrong way, everyone get ready!" he shouted,
and all over the headquarters, comtechs reached for their frag grenades and submachine
guns, while next door, the first floor windows flew open and half-clothed Draka spilled out
into the streets, clutching their T-7A rifles and running for their prepared fighting positions.

[Ossetian Military Highway, Outside the Village]

The Red Army troops marched along the highway, towards the captured village,
and as they reached the outskirts, they slowed down and crouched down as
they observed the black smoke trailing off into the sky from the initial failed
attack by the Vnnutreye Voyska yesterday.

As the commisars ran through the ranks shouting anti-draka and pro-soviet
slogans, the rough Georgian conscripts nervously smoked the cheap cigarettes
that they recieved at each mealtime, and chatted amongst themselves. Many of
them were afraid, but the desire to drive out the invader and avenge their friends
in the traditional Georgian fashion was strong.

The old customs died hard in the Caucasus, and blood vengeance was a
particularly revered one. Many snakes would die before the sun set behind
the mountains this day.

As the understrength battalion surrounded the village in a crescent pattern,
frenzied preparations were undertaken with the characteristic slavic devotion
towards work, with the promise that once the village was taken, they would
rest.

Mortars were dug in and sited, while the Degtyarevs were carried forward
to form an initial base of fire while the heavy Maxims were brought forward
on their sledges.

While the infantry was preparing for the battle to come, the platoon of LT-1 heavy
tanks attached to this assault rumbled forward into hull down positions and rested
while the stocky Georgian Major in charge of this assault studied the village from
the cupola of the lead LT-1 with his heavy Soviet-made binoculars.

Major Arveladze, as he was known, was responsible for this hastily formed
taskforce, and he studied the village carefully as he tried to figure out the
best way of assaulting the village and driving out the Drakan vermin. Winning
this battle was vital to the national welfare, and more importantly, his own
personal career.

Cursing the workers of Optics Factory No. 42, Arveladze tried to make out
the snakes' locations with the binoculars; they were damned sturdy, but
worthless beyond a certain range. With a sigh, he put down the binoculars.
The snakes were in there amongst the dead Soviet bodies and the ruined
buildings of the village.

As evidence of this, a single shot from the village rang out. Moments
later a bullet smashed into his head, causing him to fall straight down
into his tank.

As blood streamed down his face, he cursed in typical Georgian fashion,
even as he realized by some miracle, he was still alive.

As he realized this, he let loose a burst of laughter followed by the shout of
"Those pea-shooters they have can't even pierce a strong Georgian skull!"

A thousand meters away, Eric lowered a rifle that he'd grabbed from the
floor inside the headquarters building in disgust. Goddamned lousy
5mm cartridge, he thought, invoking the curse of a God he didn't believe in.

The Airborne Legions still had the early T-7As, which were chambered for
the original 5mm, because they needed to be able to carry as many bullets
as possible, due to supply reasons. The T-7A had long been superceded
by the T-7B, which fired the same 7.5mm round that the old T-6 did due
to the neccessity of fighting in Afghanistan and other regions of the
Domination where there were still guerillas.

Suddenly, the highway began to fill with explosions as 82mm mortar fire began
to rain down from the woods surrounding the village. Shrakenburg dove below
the window right away, so he avoided most of the shrapnel, but a comtech next
to him holding a SMG wasn't so lucky, and he went down to the floor, blood
spurting from his throat.

Still the explosions continued. "Freya's breath, don't the Ivans ever run out
of ammo?" muttered McWhirter. As Shrakenburg and McWhirter both crawled
along the floor towards the back door of the headquarters, the Maxims opened
up in interlocking fields of fire, raking the buildings with gunfire.

Knocking the back door open with the butts of their rifles, both Eric and McWhirter
crawled outside. "You'll have to carry me, Decurion, I can't do shit with this damned
foot." gasped Eric.

Nodding, McWhirter reached out and in one fluid motion, slung Eric over his back,
and began to run away from the Headquarters, which was dangerously exposed
to the Ivan gunfire. Several minutes later, he reached the medical station, where
everyone was regrouping, and everyone, even the wounded, was holding a weapon
of some sort.

Major Arveladze watched as the snakes retreated under the heavy fire his mortars
and Maxims were pouring into the outskirts of the village. He watched with glee as
several of the snakes didn't make it, their bullet-riddled corpses falling to the ground.

"Tankoviy desantiy forward!" he shouted and watched as the Pepeshka-toting
infantrymen ran foward and grasped the handrails which were welded onto the sides
of his LT-1s.

Behind them, the other infantrymen of the battalion came forward, forming up in columns
behind the LT-1s, to use them as protection during the advance, and double-checked
their SVT-38 rifles.

"Urrrrrah!" he shouted, the cry being picked up by the rest of his men, in that primeval
chant of the Russian, and later, Soviet soldier, and with a cloud of diesel smoke, they were
off, advancing under the covering fire of the Maxims.

As they advanced, the Degtyarev squads advanced with them, carrying forth their "Guitars"
to keep up a base of fire on the snake strongpoints. Suddenly, from the side of the road,
a snake rose up, clutching a piece of tubing on his shoulder. Before he could even react,
he was dead, riddled by the Pepeshkas of the desantiy riders.

As his tank advanced forward, Arveladze dropped into the turret to converse by radio
with his divisional commander several kilometers away, on the progress of the operation;
this saved his life when the 75mm HEAT round slammed into the side of the turret, mangling
the desantiy riders, but failing to penetrate due to the sheer thickness of the
LT-1s plating.

Ducking his head out of the cupola just far enough so he could see, Arveladze spotted
the offenders; a bunch of snakes manning what appeared to be one of those newfangled
recoilless rifles.

Before he could order his gunner to swing the turret around, the LT-1 behind him had
already spoken with it's 76.2mm gun, sending a spray of cannister down into that area
that left behind only mangled flesh.

Then all hell broke loose. It seemed that the Draka had been waiting for them in ambush,
and that the impatient gunners of that recoilless rifle had jumped the gun, soon the area
around the tanks filled with flying lead as riddled bodies slumped forth on both sides.

Tetriarch Marie Kaine watched with sick disbelief as the oncoming Ivan tanks simply
rolled over the still moving bodies of their own men, firing that infernal cannister shot
that was slaughtering her men, as the burp-gun toting infantry followed behind them
in close succession, some falling, but too many, far too many, surviving.

Tkshenosnuri!

With that traditinal Georgian battlecry, Mladshiy serzhant Chikovani led
the troops of his rifle squad as they charged into the fury of the village,
rifles and pepeshkas chattering away at the vile snakes.

A snake popped out of a doorway, firing his pepeshka wildly, and Chikovani
cut him down with his rifle, firing as fast as he could pull the trigger, and thanking
God that they had gotten rid of those infernal Mosin-Nagants years ago.

As the snake crumpled to the ground, Chikovani charged into the house where the
snake had popped out of, and saw things beyond his worst imagination; girls
and women lay on the ground weeping, and even a young boy was there too,
being comforted by one of the older women. All of them were naked and had bruises
all over their bodies.

Behind him, he heard the rest of his squad entering the house behind him. "Giorgi,
what the hell are you standing there for....." their voices trailing off as they saw the
interior of the rape house.

"DEATH TO THE SONS OF WHORES WHO DID THIS!"
he screamed, the cry passing through the ranks of the Georgian conscripts,
and as one, they surged forward, ignoring their own safety for the sake of
vengeance.

[The Medical Station]

"They're not stopping, Centurion!" screamed one of the young soldiers
right before a Ivan bullet took his head off, splattering his brains all over
the wall.

Despite the Hollbars pouring a wall of lead into the oncoming Georgian
ranks, not one of them faltered, irregardless of the mounting casualties.

"FALL BACK!" shouted Eric as he mowed down a rank of Ivans with his
T-7A on full auto, emptying the magazine into the onrushing wall of khaki.

The bodies piled up, but the Georgians kept on coming, like an elemental
force, unstoppable, driven forward by sheer hatred.

And then they were at the Medical station, throwing grenades into the windows,
and firing their pepeshkas into everyone, even the critically wounded. It was
during this one-sided slaughter, that the two Cheetahs finally arrived, saving
Eric's ever smaller group of Draka from total annihilation with their 75mm
guns firing HE straight down the throats of the Georgians.

"Ivan tanks down the highway in platoon strength! Leon Trotsky Ones!
Cover us while we withdraw!" Eric yelled to the lead Cheetah commander
as he was carried past the tanks by McWhirter, towards several trucks
that they had captured from the Russians whose engines were already
idling.

Without a thought, McWhirter threw Eric into the back of the lead truck,
ignoring the young man's cry of pain, while he went back to make sure
everyone who could make it had made it.

Grabbing a retreating soldier, he yelled "Where's Tetriarch Kaine?"

"Dead, Decurion! She took cannister right down the throat, if you
want her, you'd best get a mop!"

At that moment, one of the Cheetahs simply exploded, the turret
flying off into the sky on a plume of fire.

Without waiting to see if the other Cheetah had survived, McWhirter ran
back to the lead truck and jumped into the cab of the truck, shouting "Shit,
the Trotskys are here already! No time to save the rest! GO!"

The driver complied and with the wail of gears being mangled, the truck
lurched down the highway. The last truck was not so lucky however, taking
a 76.2mm HE shell just as it was pulling away, killing everyone on board,
and spilling body parts all over the highway.

From the cupola of his tank, Major Arveladze watched as the last of the
trucks disappeared around a curve in the highway. Damnit, some of the
filthy snakes had gotten away, and with his battalion in this shape, he
couldn't pursue them.

Sighing, he climbed out of the turret and jumped to the ground. The surviving
battalion officers and NCOs would be meeting with him soon, right now, cleanup
operations were underway, and from time to time, the rattle of a pepeshka was
heard as a Drakan survivor was liquidated.

[761. Strelkovyi Korpus Headquarters; 1 day later]

Major Arveladze sighed as he sat in the hallway outside the Korpus commander's
office, shit, had he fucked up somehow in letting his Georgians run loose with their
blood vendettas?

"Comrade Major, the General-Polkovnik will see you now," said a fresh faced young
Kapitan, who was part of the Korpus headquarters staff. Nodding, Arveladze got out
of his seat and walked into the office of the commanding general of 761. Strelkovyi
Korpus.

To his great surprise, General-Polkovnik Vasily Ivanovich Chuikov rose from his
seat to greet him. "Greetings, Major. I must congratulate you on your successful
recapture of the village of Novogorod."

Arveladze stood there, speechless; he had lost his entire battalion in taking the
village, and he was being congratulated on it?

"According to your reports, there were civilians in dire need of rescue in the village,
and those tanks arrived precisely as you were about to complete your liquidation of
the enemy forces, if you had delayed, they would have arrived to reinforce the
enemy positions."

Chuikov paused. "Now, Comrade Podpolkovnik, I do believe I have something for
you."

With that, he pushed forward a small red leather case. Opening it, Arveladze found the
simple gold star of a Hero of the Soviet Union inside.

"Outside my office are orders assigning you to the 414th strelkovyi polk. The previous
commander has been, shall we say....rather incompetent, and we need someone who
knows how to get things done. Are you up to it, comrade?"

"Yes, Comrade General-Polkovnik!" replied Arveladze, bursting with pride.

[9th Airborne Legion Medical Station]

"Hmm, this one's in bad shape." remarked the doctor.

"Yes, yes, he certainly is." replied another.

"Lucky bastard gets to be flown back home on a Hippo. What I wouldn't
give to have an Arch-Strategos for a father."

*****************

Special thanks to the Duchess of Zeon for researching and finding
that Georgian Battle cry

All Praise to Shep (and cronies) for giving us more delightful Snake trampling...