Post by WizendTurnip on Nov 24, 2014 0:02:41 GMT -5
As a few of you might know, or at least suspected, I'm a bit of an amateur historian and writer. I tend to focus my writing on science fiction, as it is easier to get away with plot lines if the setting is your own. However, I decided to delve into historical fiction. About a year ago, I started writing about something most western authors don’t: The Soviet Union in WWII. A lot of ink has been spilled on the Western Front and in the Pacific theatre, but not much about the “Great Patriotic War.” Here is my first attempt at writing from the Russian perspective. I apologize if my depiction is inaccurate or offensive in any way. I have tried to base my writing on the events of the September actions of 1941 with as much historical accuracy as I could muster. I bring it to you all for criticism(hopefully, but not necessarily, constructive) and to see if there is an audience here that would like to see more of the same. Let me know.
Bloody September, Part 1
Mladshiy Leytenant Anatoly Borkov
August 20, 1941
They were running. There was no other way to describe their disorganized sprint away from the disintegrating front lines. They had held out for a while against the swift assault of the fascist invaders, but their luck had evaporated and blown away in the face of reality.
Tank commander Anatoly Ivanovich Borkov felt a knife of shame twist in his gut. He knew that he had had no choice; it had been either flee or perish. He knew that his tank, formidable as she was, would not have been able to last long against the fascist tide with her dwindling supply of fuel and ammunition. He knew that the forward infantry platoons that he had been ordered to support were flowing like water away from the lines or dying like dogs under the enemy guns. He knew that the tired, dirty men that took shelter within Chelyabinsk no. 683, Dnepr, and the hollow-eyed husks that huddled on her hull were counting on him to bring them out of this fiasco intact. He knew that the gathering rainclouds heralded the coming summer rains that would turn roads into impassible bogs and spell doom for his 45 ton steel monster. Worst of all, he knew that they were losing this war, and that at the moment nothing he or his crew did would be able to stop that. But it didn’t lessen the pain, or assuage the guilt that was burning in his stomach.
Just a few days ago, he had been drinking with his fellow tank commanders and boasting about how many German machines he would crush beneath the treads of his beloved KV-1 heavy tank. He knew now that they been unaware of the realities of this war. Publically, he was distressed at the current state of affairs. Borkov was a loyal officer. He would never admit that they had been intentionally misled; the NKVD would only censor information that would be harmful to the war effort, of course. Privately, he seethed at the losses the lack of information had caused, premeditated or not.
Many of his friends and acquaintances were dead. Of course, without the great metal monsters to shelter them, the poor, bloody infantry were getting massacred wholesale. Entire corps were ground to dust under the weight of the German invasion. Losses were beginning to mount among the tankers as well. Plenty had died “honest” deaths testing out their T-34s against German Panzers, Borkov’s good friends Ivan Murasho and Alexsei Kirisov amongst them. Dmitri Voloshin’s KV-1 burned with all men inside after an 8.8cm shell found its fuel tank. More tanks and crews than Borkov knew had been obliterated by the relentless attacks of the Luftwaffe.
Lack of fuel and ammunition was proving to be just as deadly to the Red Army as the Germans. Commanders Ivan Sarayev and Pavel Demchenko and their crews were gunned down outside of their hulls when they ran out of fuel near Smolensk. Even they’re own revered tanks seemed to be turning against them. Less than an hour ago, Borkov had passed the mired hulk of Chelyabinsk no. 688, called Steel Heart by her crew, and added the five man crew to the dozen or so passengers clinging to the hull of his tank. He hoped that they were holding tightly as Dnepr plowed through vegetation and over obstacles; he couldn’t afford to stop again.
All things considered Dnepr and her crew had been some of the lucky ones, and she wasn’t alone. Other tanks and clusters of infantry were coming into view as Dnepr cleared a lightly forested area of the Ukrainian wilderness. Borkov saw a handful of T-60’s leading a trio of heavier T-34’s. Their tanks were covered, like his, in the cowering forms of retreating infantry. Borkov could also make out a few of Dnepr’s sisters lumbering onto the edge of the field as well. His heart lifted slightly when he noticed another KV-1 with the number “703” painted on her broad rectangular turret. No. 703 bore the proud name of Winter and was as cold, powerful, and unforgiving as her namesake. Commanded by Borkov’s old friend and mentor Feodor Berezhoy, Borkov knew that as long as Berezhoy lived, they had a chance of winning this war.
Borkov began to notice a trend in the flow of tanks and soldiers now streaming from the trees; they were starting to coalesce into a coherent mass. Almost as one, the soldiers and machines of the Soviet Union were closing ranks and beginning to regroup. The sight stirred something in his tired soul. The retreating host was disheveled and exhausted, but they were sticking together and moving toward a defensible location. Borkov didn’t have to see his map to know where they were heading: Kiev. The force was rallying around the grand Ukrainian city in its time of need and hoping to have their needs met in return. The poetic application of Communism lifted his spirits and sharpened his need for vengeance. His eyes hardened and he commanded his driver to pour on even more speed. Though forced to flee before the fascist invaders today, Borkov vowed never to do so again. They would either repel the invaders, or die trying.