Realistic or Modern World at War: USSR [1943] - IC

[idalie]

The year is 1943.

Hitler broke the Molotov–Ribbentrop Pact with the operation Barbarossa, which meant the industrial giant of Europe, the USSR, would enter into the bloodiest conflict known to modern man. World War Two. Although to these brave Russians, it would become the Great Patriotic War. One where they fought tooth and claw against the darkening shadows of fascism which encased the continent.

Into the motherland the German army marched, panzers on Russian soil as they savaged their way through and attempted to reach its pulsating heart; the thundering pistons of steel and coal that kept their heads above a war they were unprepared for. Thus, those young men, a million strong, fresh-faced - would be Stalin's weapon. Not guns, not tanks, it would be flesh and blood. The war machine of Russia would push on till Berlin. Only when the fields had been soaked in red would the Russians at last rest.

There is thunder in the East. And the Reich began to fear it. For it was a storm that would wreak havoc, and decimate the Germans in a stand that would resound for centuries to come.

From Nightwitches to the Red Army, Hitler would send leagues to their deaths.

It's the height of summer, July. Stalingrad is beginning to slip back into Soviet hands, and another offensive by the Axis has been launched against Kursk. It is up to these men and women, the shield of the Union, to deflect the enemy. Fight for your lives.

---
​

RULES:
- This is 1943! Don't do anything out of that time era, or I'll come and smack you one.
- RpN rules apply, if it gets steamy fade to black and take it elsewhere
- Don't let fights and tensions from the IC leak into the OOC
- At LEAST a paragraph of 5 LINES for each reply. NO ONE LINERS.
- Don't be a dick.
- Be nice, have fun, lets go kick some Nazi butts

OOC: World at War: USSR [1943] - OOC
CS: World at War: USSR [1943] - CS​

 

[Pilgrim59]

July, 1943 - Early Morning
Designate: Katya-Actual
Cpt. Dimitri Mayakovsky (AKA Papa)
1st Guards Tank Division, 9th Tank Corps
Southern Outskirts, Kursk, USSR


"Alright, listen up comrades! The Germans are making multiple thrusts in the north and south simultaneously. Their main panzer elements will cut their way past our reserves if we fail to hold them here. Our mission is to get to the infantry divisions stationed at FOB Anna and prepare for the worse. Expect heavy armor and mechanized units coming our way once we get there. We will be supported by whatever's left of the 54th Sappers for counter-tank-destroyer missions. Remember your training, and look after each other, comrades. Any questions?"

"Papa, any words on our air support? I'd hate to close the hatch at every siren."

"No words from HQ as of yet, Kono. They're still struggling to wrestle for air superiority with the Fritzskies in the north. We're on our own with the conscripts, comrade."

"Right... I'll be sure to strap some of the kids from the 37th on my hull."

"Pass them up and move them out, comrades. Get to your vehicles, we are moving in ten minutes! Bashlee bashlee!"

The khaki-colored multitude scattered towards their tanks and support halftracks, just as the captain made his way towards a particular crew. There, among the salutes of his men, he put them at ease and withdrew a cigarette from his pocket and lit it. After his initial puff, he leaned towards them and broke the silence.

"Corporal, I'll need you and your crew to run logistics for us. I don't know how long we'll be there, and I do not like to take chances in open field with enemy air superiority. Keep us running and living. Movement is key, comrades, I am counting on you."

The crowd acknowledged Dimitri's notion and quickly got back to loading the ZiS trucks with fuel and replaceable parts. Dimitri would grind his cigarette into the muddy soil and climbed into his T-34. After a while, the base's depot and barracks were almost empty. He put on his crew helmet and checked on his convoy, as survivors of the motor brigades climbed onto Dimitri's tank convoy.

"This is Katya Actual, radio check confirmed. All tanks and infantry are accounted for. Start your engines, and gain speed on me."

The Katya, in her olive-drab coat, roared her engine, unleashing trails of smoke in her quake as she crawled forward along the dirt road. The convoy of distinct T-34s, SU-76 assault guns, and M3 halftracks roared their engines loudly, while their tracks rocking the earth back to sleep in the early morning dew. Dimitri grew his head from the hatch and looked around as they pass a wooded region. The convoy eventually come to a stop at a crossroad of smoking debris and destroyed armors.

 

[Trappy]

July, 1943 - Morning
Designate: Katya-Actual
Sgt. Alexandrei Chaika Gavrikov
37th Guards Rifle Division
Southern Outskirts, Kursk, USSR

At first, all was quiet, the trees, the grass, my comrades. Not even the birds were singing. We arrived near Kursk just last week as the Supreme Command expects an attack in this region. We were given explicit orders to stay focused and stern at all time, and oh how we know that the officers really do their damned job emphasising those orders every single day since we got here and make sure we follow them. So what does that mean for me as a gunner? That's right, "No accordion Sergeant Gavrikov."

And tranquility such as that could only mean one thing: a storm brewing. And it came. The Germans, again, with their savage assaults with their machines, pushed us back and forth. Casualties keep getting higher and higher everyday. Some are fearing we won't make it. The enemy is relentless and last I heard, the Fritz are still keeping our fly-boys busy, so air support is off the list. Livid.

Gargh, enough with all these thoughts. Pessimism won't get us anywhere, and neither will sarcasm. A song might help . . .

Before I could reach for my accordion, the instrument neatly put on some stones to keep safe from the dirt in the shallow foxhole, a sergeant dashes his way through the mud of the field towards me while keeping his head low. The man hopped into the foxhole, his hands tightening the grip on his Mosin rifle as he catches his breath.

"Afternoon exercise Sergeant?" - I jokingly asked the man with a chuckle. I must look like a joke compared to my comrades, I just don't take all this seriously enough. But hey, as long as I follow the orders from above and excellently carry out my tasks, they won't complain.

Finally calmed himself, the Sergeant looks up to me.

"We're moving out. Take your stuff, we're to rally with the tanks. We're making it for FOB Anna, quickly."

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

We made it to the rally point, and before our eyes are columns of assembled tanks, armoured and transport vehicles alike, engines roaring ready. As I admire the impressive view, the Sergeant spoke up from behind me.

"Are you really carrying that for this one? You know we're accompanying the tanks, right?" - He said, as he gestures towards the machine gun leaned on my right shoulder.

"Oh, but I do miracles with it, comrade, just you wait."

As the convoy was beginning to move out, my fellow infantrymen started mounting the tanks and armoured vehicles. Dissatisfaction boils in my stomach. I can hardly resist playing a glorious march to this scene before me, but of course, orders are orders. Another time, perhaps.

I make my way towards a T-34/85, and climb on the back of it after putting my Maxim MG on it first. Once I was up, I make myself comfortable and steady by positioning the machine gun on the tank's turret. The convoy begins to move out, and before long, the depot that was their previous position was emptied.

As the convoy pass a wooden region, a man poked his head out of the turret's hatch. While the man is likely the commander basing on his look and actions, and that makes this one his tank, which I'm on, and I haven't greeted him yet, I think it's best to leave the man to his work.

The convoy eventually comes to a stop at a crossroad littered with debris and smoking frames of vehicles. An eerie silence glooms over the convoy. In fact, it's really getting on my mind.

"We stopped. Is "Anna" nearby, Sir?" - I break the irritating silence with a question directed at the tank commander. While I haven't gotten a good look at his rank, he does seem older than me, so "Sir" was probably appropriate.

Pilgrim59

 

[Commissar Darman]

Nothing, No movement at all. Before Alexander was a field that has be fought over multiple times. And by the looks of it The Germans seemed to have won the last engagement. So where were they? He knew they were there, Sonia insisted on it. Maybe they decided to set an ambush? doubtful. They would have used the opportunity to break through the lines and hit the Reserves. Most likely they took one hell of a beating and are waiting for Reinforcements before continuing the Advance. Judging by the number of Panzers either destroyed or disabled out there. Alexander was fairly confidant that was the case. Nevertheless, An Ambush is still a possibility. So when the rumble of engines and tracks broke the silence. He couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding wash over him.

As the 1st Guards tanks came to a halt at the crossroads just forty meters behind him. Alexander figured now was a good time to regroup with the tanks. Grabbing his rifle. Alexander gave a reassuring scratch on the ear to his partner Sonia. Sonia, A beautiful white Samoyed, covered head to toe in mud was a still as could be. Right now she was using her enhanced senses to pinpoint German locations by by essentially using her body as an arrow with her tail elevated slightly higher than her body. Indicating that the enemy is at least a few hundred meters away. Could be a kilometer for all he knew since there hasn't been any movement for the last four hours. But Sonia insisted they were out there and he trusted her.
Signaling Sonia with a couple clicking noises. The two broke from cover and made for the tanks at a slow trot. Alexander did consider trying to dash from cover to cover. but with the tanks just sitting out there in the open. He figure it was better to get to them as soon as possible. Glancing to his left. Alexander realized he wasn't the only one who thought the same as the rest of his squad made a straight shot for the protection of the tanks. As the first to make it to the tanks. Alexander grabbed the harness around Sonia and literally threw the 30Kg Hound up on to the tank. If he recalled, this specific tank was the Katya, The lead tank of the Column. Hes ridden her multiple times and has been saved by her countless times. Climbing aboard. Alexander positioned himself beside a Sargent as Sonia decided that some privates uniform needed more mud on it and laid down in his lap.
"Scout reporting Captain!" Alexander had to raise his voice over the idling engine. "No movement for the last few hours, But Sonia insists there is something out there. Size and Composition unknown."

 

[idalie]

Leonid Kudryavtsev
The pilots were scrambled in the early hours of dawn, diving into briefing rooms where they had directives assigned and sombre expressions. "Comrade Stalin asked us whether we owned the skies - whether we were strong enough. I said yes, yes because we've already won. This is on OUR soil. This is OUR land. OUR future. And we will fight, we will fly, and we will WIN." The air-marshal stopped his pacing and drove his words down with a waved fist. "We will make this a fight to remember, and no matter how many may fall, the survivors carry on." Collectively bowing heads, there was a shared moment of dreadful silence. "Now GO!" Those bellowed words sent them into a frenzy, grabbing sheepskin jackets and wool lined hats, they pulled their goggles down and sped onto the airstrips. Flocking the aircrafts as they were assisted up and into the cockpit. Blocks pulled from beneath the tires, engine warmed up, and propeller shoved to set it in motion.

Leonid checked his pistol and what ammo he could carry before strapping in his oxygen mask and radio, dragging the map of Kursk over his lap. Using a pencil to stencil in where the Germans were reported to be advancing. His job, initially, would be scouting. The main force going ahead in supporting roles of the advancing ground forces. Tying his red silk scarf into its knot, he adjusted his soviet badge and released the brakes. Setting the juddering craft forwards; down the empty runway whilst holding aloft his thumbs-up.

Reaching altitude, the juddering stopped, smoothly coping with the summer breeze. "This is Rags, over. Romeo Alpha Golf Sierra. Safely in the air. Nice weather for hunting some fat Fashisties." A chuckle of his carried over the radio.
"Rags, this is Petrov, over. You'll be the first shot down with that language of the Fritz." Came the crackled response, causing Leo to glance out his window, where behind him to the left flew a secondary Yak-1. "Ahh, I hope they hear. I'll make that 15 into twice as many as that 'Red Baron' has. Mark my words," Petrov himself couldn't help but laugh in response. "Right, right. How long to Kursk?"
"Ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Remember to check your fuel. Watch out for ground guns. I'll see you at the base." Leonid, on the sombre note, began to veer off to the right whilst Petrov to the left to respectively scout the advancing pincer movement.

Flying over the Soviet troops, Leo couldn't help dipping in closer, with a wave. It was always a little fun doing some acrobatics for the dishearted men marching off to war. Although in this case, he was headed in the same direction. His plane streaked with that red paint down the metal sides, which had earned his honourable nickname. If not for the tatty silk scarf. Kudryavtsev lifted the aircraft's nose and began to ascend once more. Bordering on the sparse cloud cover. Higher still, and the fields of Russia had all but become a patchwork of crops and fences. He was on his own now.

Then he saw them. Over Kursk countryside, the black mass moving. It was what the Huns called the 4th Panzer army, and an army it was. Keeping the distance of a reconnaissance mission, the pilot began scribbling down estimates, numbers, direction. Anything he deemed odd, but knowing the T-34s behind him, Leonid had a critical eye. Bringing the craft around, he bolted as soon as the flash of steel caught the sun - Luftwaffe. He needed to regroup quick with the main force or be left without a testament to his name. For a second he thought he'd not been spotted, and then the machine gun began to rattle, throwing Leonid into a nosedive, before wrenching the joystick upwards in a loop-de-loop to attempt getting behind the bastard. Rattling off a round to try and scare his adversary off. Breath heavy and leather gloves creaking whilst his heart thundered with the inbound adrenaline. First dogfight of the day and he knew it was going to be a good one.

---

Valeriya Litvyak
As the Germans advanced upon Kursk, the 1st Guards Tank Army advanced from Stalingrad in a convoy of T-34s. Valeriya sat half out the hatch, red-cheeked with heat and hair frazzled. Bleach-blonde, if not the roots which had begun to grow out again, Litvyak had the rounded childish face of Betty Boop as commented by a few of her far more Westernised friends. Which was a confidence boost, considering a few of the men she'd worked with had more criticisms of her looks than compliments. Russian summers were hot and humid; this one being no exception. Especially not for a July.

With her radio set half pinned to her ear, she leisurely leaned back, legs half crossed; peaked cap jauntily on her head. Nodding her head with a decent voiced song - not quite the silky jazz singer but an ex-school choir girl.

"Apple and pear trees were a-blooming,
Mist creeping on the river.
Katyusha set out on the banks,
On the steep and lofty bank.

She was walking, singing a song
About a grey steppe eagle,
About her true love,
Whose letters she was keeping-"

A few of her comrades made a few movements, tapping their fingers to the familiar war-time tune, one of the riflemen on the tank tapping his foot pleasantly. It was a nice day, if not for the impending battle that lay to the end of their journey. It caused a faint frown and pout, nevertheless, she opened her mouth to continue it, lyrics coming far easier than one might expect - but once you'd heard it enough times, Katyusha became ingrained. And yet a wartime fairytale most girls had in mind. Falling in love with a brave soldier, defending the motherland - until you fought among them, and those brave soldiers turned out to be the most childish, sex-driven beasts you'd ever had the pleasure of meeting. A big switch off for that fantasy, which left far more desire to now - marry an intellectual.

"Oh, you song! Little song of a maiden,
Head for the bright sun.
And reach for the soldier on the far-away border
Along with greetings from Katyusha.

Let him remember an ordinary girl,
And hear how she sings,
Let him preserve the Motherland,
Same as Katyusha preserves their love."
​

 

[Eshspoyeofdoom]

Sn. Corporal Vasily Petrov
July 1943
54th Rifle Divison
Outskirts of Stalingrad
Mission: Hold the factory, destroy enemy units if necessary

Vladimir had been fiddling with his revolver when his men brought him a man, bound and broken. His unit had settled in a bombed factory, just outside Stalingrad, waiting for any German relief forces to break into the city. Many already have, none have succeeded.

A captured Luftwaffe scout pilot, shot down two miles away, they told him. This was good, after all, the German offensive on Kursk was already underway. HQ in Stalingrad could relay the message to ground and air forces near Kursk if the lines weren't damaged.

Nodding his head, the men set the pilot down before rushing over to the get the interpreter. They were alone in the early summer morning. Vladimir took a good look at him while loading his revolver. Without the muck and dirt on his face, he was the ideal 'Aryan', no more than 20. The 'Ubermensch' who planned to enslave his race and nation. Who killed his wife and family. Who sent his son to a prison camp and forced his daughter to fight with guerillas.

Setting his revolver by his side, Vladimir brought two chairs to face the man.

"Sergeant!" A voice called out behind him, "You called for me?"

Ah, the interpreter has arrived along with the two previous guards. A trusted companion who had been by his side since he was stationed near Stalingrad. He was young. Probably too young to even be here. Desperate times call for desperate measures. But damn, he was useful.

"Dimitri come," Vladimir motioned to sit by him, "We have a visitor. I would like to know what he's saying."

Dimitri barked the famous word that started every interrogation and that would eventually earn him his nickname, "Reden." Speak.

The German babbled and stuttered. Dimitri turned to Vladimir, "He says that he's a mere Airman, joined the Luftwaffe in May."

"What is your name, Airman?" Vladimir inquired, bending down to eye his prisoner.

"H-h-hanz Weber."

"Right...Hanz, tell us what you know."

"Like I said, I'm a just an Airman forced to fight a war I don't even believe in. I don't know anything, sir. Please, let me go. I have my mother and sister back in Munic-"

Vladimir jumped from his seat and stuck the barrel of his revolver into the prisoners mouth, "SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU BLOODY FRITZ! YOU WILL TELL US WHAT YOU KNOW OR I WILL BLOW YOUR FASCIST BRAINS OUT! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?" The German began crying, snot and drool covering his revolver. Vladimir took the barrel out of his mouth before hitting the side of his head with the handle. The German fell to his side, blood dripping onto the floor.

"Proceed...now," Dimitri added at the end, beginning to feel weary of his comrade beside him.

In-between sobs and moans, the German spoke, "Kanonenvogel....tank buster aircraft, more than I've ever seen...Henshel 129 and Bordkanone modifications to...Junkers. I...swear thats...all I know. Please let me...live."

Vladimir sat back, impressed. He was still lying about his position as a 'mere airman', but that didn't matter anymore. Turning to his guards behind him, he smiled and gave the thumbs up, "Send this intel directly to HQ. Make sure it gets to our troops up North quickly. We're celebrating with a drink tonight...as for you Fritz..."

The now semi-conscious German shifted his gaze from the roof to the Sergeant, as he came down with a canteen in his hand. Sloshing with water. The Sergeant lifted his head and put the rim to his lips, turning to his comrade, "Undo his bounds." The German drank and exhaled before getting on his feet. The Sergeant pointed to the open field, "You're free now."

The German stumbled towards the open, finally free to return back home as his Soviet oppressors watched.

After he had gone a distance Vladimir turned to Dimitri, "Comrade, I heard you barely passed your shooting test. Is there something wrong with your aim?"

"No Sergeant," Dimitri chuckled pausing in his tracks, "I just prefer to play cards with my friends I suppose."

"Don't we all? Ha ha. But hey, there's no harm in a bit of practice, eh? You have your rifle don't you, soldier?"

Dimitri's heart sunk. He knew exactly what he had to do. "Sire... Geneva conventions state that prisoners of wa-"

"He's not a prisoner is he? Look. Free. He's a wondering German that could eliminate our unit. Remember our mission, Dimitri."

A pause. "Sire, please-"

"You're a half jew. Aren't you? Records did anyways. Now... you're lucky I'm not like other Sergeants. I'm more... open-minded. And besides, I like you. You're a good soldier. But them? Do you know what they do to you, Dimitri? From what I hear from partisan intelligence and such, they have Death Squads. Ever heard of them? Maybe one day, you will but I reckon...if the fascists have balls to set up Death Squads then they have the balls to do much, much worse. You just wait. It's either you or them in our world. Now, shoot him, Dimitri." Vladimir tosses a Mosin Nagant to the young private.

He loads the rifle and cocks it, before aiming down the sights. The German was heading towards the woods. 200 meters down. Any longer and he would have disappeared for good. Dimitri shivers before firing.

BAM

The German falls.

"Good boy!" Vladimir exclaims, ruffling his hair, "Maybe you aren't such a crap shot after all. Now go recover what you can from him. I'll be with our troops, playing cards... Oh! And also make sure that message was sent to the ground troops. Ok? We need constant radio contact with them now."

idalie

 

[Darth]

Pvt. Artem Knyazev
July 1943
Penal Battalion, 10th Rifle Corps
Outskirts of Kursk
Tasked with Reconnaissance in Force

Artem snuck quietly through the foliage along with his fellow comrades. He gripped his rifle tightly and made short quick breaths. The green brush crunched and swished as he placed careful steps in line with that of the soldier in front of him. Artem's nearest comrades were a good three or four meters in any direction. The entire battalion crept through the near silent forest. The only sounds this seemingly peaceful woodland produced were the songs of nearby birds and a low rustling as a breeze gently shook the branches of the Birch-Aspen trees. Then there was Artem's heartbeat. Each with its own pounding discord; each made it seem Artem's heart yearned to leap out of his chest. Artem's expression reflected that of tension and focus, he was aware of nearly every movement and sounds around him. Artem anticipated for this deceivingly pleasant scene to be interrupted. Though no such response came, and the battalion inched forward.

Minutes passed, and Artem's feelings of dread slowly subsided. He took a moment to really breathe. "In...Out..." Artem thought to himself as he took one long and satisfying breath.

Boom...

A detonation goes off directly in front of him shakes the earth beneath his feet, and Artem is thrown backwards. He lands in the dirt hard, and the wind is knocked out of his chest. The explosion is instantly followed by an eruption of gunfire, and the forest is suddenly made alive with the sounds of battle.

Artem finds himself thrown into disorientation, and struggles to make sense of the situation. After a few seconds, the blurriness subsides, and Artem sits up. Another moment and the ringing in his ears stops. Artem hears the officer shouting and men screaming, as well as a hailstorm of rounds whizzing by harmonizing with gunfire. Artem feels the dirt around him, and his hand finds his rifle. Artem then shifts to his stomach and begins to crawl forward. He can't see the enemy but doesn't wish to waste ammunition so he refrains from returning fire. The battalion CO can be heard just barely audible over the commotion.

"Not one step back!" the officer shouts.

His call is returned with a chorus of cheers from the battalion. Artem's comrades each let out a warcry, before standing upright and charging headfirst towards the gunfire. Artem does the same, he jumps upwards and breaks into a full sprint. Artem let out a bellowing yell from his lungs and held his Mosin outward in a bayonet charge. Artem suddenly finds himself in a massive charge, and on all sides he sees his comrades charging courageously towards certain death. The dirt surrounding Artem kicked up dirt as rounds struck the earth. Many fellow soldiers fell prey to the storm of bullets, and they tumbled to the ground. Artem, along with the rest of his battalion tripped and stumbled over the bodies of their fallen comrades. The chorus revived their verse once more, and the men yelled as they finally met the German defenders withing their dugout emplacements.

Artem saw a gunner frantically trying to reload his MG34 and made for him. Artem let out another ferocious howl before burying his bayonet into the man's chest. The German shrieked in pain as he felt the full impact of Artem's sprint. To Artem's left, another defender tried to bolt his weapon, but his rifle didn't cooperate. Artem then dislodged his Mosin from the gunner's chest and aimed for the German's nose.

Artem pulled the trigger, and the rifle kicked back into his shoulder. To Artem's satisfaction, the round caught the German in the cheek. After a quick snapping noise, the man's head threw itself sideways; before he collapsed to the ground.

 

[Pilgrim59]

July, 1943 - Early Morning
Designate: Katya-Actual
Cpt. Dimitri Mayakovsky (AKA Papa)
1st Guards Tank Division, 9th Tank Corps
Southern Outskirts, Kursk, USSR

Dimitri and his crew studied the burning vehicles, as well as the surrounding foliage for any survivors. All the while a voice crept up on him from behind - a young face, with his face as confused as the rest of his infantry peers.

"We're about to find out, Sergeant..."

Dimitri replied as he spotted and waved a few infantrymen in khaki uniforms towards him from the burning vehicles. They complied, and slowly make their way towards the convoy. He then lean over to the left side as a lone rifleman with his canine companion climbed aboard.

"Scout reporting Captain! No movement for the last few hours, But Sonia insists there is something out there. Size and Composition unknown."

"Panzer elements halting their advance, comrade corporal? That doesn't sound very German to me. Sit tight, comrade."

Dimitri scanned the western horizon briefly, before pulling a receiver from below him and gave his next set of orders.

"This is Katya-Actual to all Victors, the German armors are already attempting to push through this sector, and are likely regrouping for another push. We need to cut west immediately and destroy them before we could advance towards FOB Anna, comrades. Kono, follow the road west then cut north. We'll initiate a pincer attack on their last known position.

"Right, Sasha, Kerenski, on me. We're going for a drive, comrades."

"Wedge formation on me, all tanks forward!"

The column of T-34s would fan out to an arrow head formation and crawled their way through the field of burning vehicles, while a smaller group divert south-west down the road. The Katya tore through a wooden fence, being the tip of the steady spearhead.

POMF! VREEWWWWWW

A high-velocity round landed on one of the T-34s and bounced off its hull, prompting the Guard's attention towards the far treeline at the end of the field. A couple of machine gun fire would follow, causing most of the mounted infantry to take cover.

"Papa, we've got visual on hostile armors, they're in the treeline! I count five Panzer IIIs and a couple of halftracks!"

"Stay in formation, comrades. Turn thirty degrees to the right to deflect the seventy-five mills! Target the half-tracks, they're gunning for our infantry."

"Copy that, comrade Captain, returning fire!"

The T-34s would slowly turn right, positioning themselves at a slanted angle towards the static German armors, rendering most of the rounds ineffective against the sloped armor of the T-34s. As soon as the Soviets were in range, their cannons unleashed a volley of hellfire upon their targets. Within a few minutes of the engagement, most of the German light vehicles were either destroyed or disabled. The Panzer IIIs armed with 50mm would slowly emerge from cover and fire on the Katya, in hopes of destroying the leading vehicle at close range.

VREWW PING! VREWWW

"Captain! break right, they're targeting you!"

"Do not let them startle you comrades. Stay in formation."

"My tracks are hit! I'm disabled!"

A T-34 had broken down with its left tracks bust open. The infantry quickly dismounted and took cover behind the quiet tank. Dimitri noticed the multitude of German tanks closing in on the vulnerable tank and infantrymen, and took it upon himself to drive in between the engagement. Most of the men on top of the Katya layed on each other, bracing for impact from an incoming round. Before the last Panzer could fire on the Katya's exposed flank and infantrymen mounted on top of it, its hull was ejected from its chassis, as a great trail of leaping flame soared from its body. A few olive-drab moving boxes could be seen emerging from behind the treeline,

"You do know that my tank is an older model right, Papa?"

"KONO!"

"Apologies for being late, comrade captain, we had to take care of a few Stugs behind the treeline. But that should be all of them."

"Good job, comrades. That panzer division won't be bothering our flank now."

"What's our set of orders, Papa?"

"We still have to get to FOB Anna. Kono, make room for some of our comrades from the 37th and 14th. I'll call it in for the Serafin to be picked up by our rear-echelon units."

"Acknowledged, Papa, we're awaiting your go. Over."

"Right... Katya-Actual to all Victors, we're continuing our mission towards FOB Anna. Full speed ahead on me, comrades! URRAAAA!"

The multitude of tanks, accompanied by their infantry passengers would tear their way westward. The loud sounds of the engine would eventually be drowned out by a chorus of Katyusha sung by the infantrymen and their iron-cast drivers. As the sun rose slowly over the distant clouds, the Soviet knights upon their mighty olive-drab steeds had reached their objective. However, it was not what they had expected, as the FOB was eerily blissful, as if the battle that they had just been through was part of another world. At FOB Anna, all was calm, and quiet, as the Guards and their mounted footmen halted in the open field, awaiting reception from an approaching garrison guard. With a lax attitude, Dimitri climbed from his hatch and sat on top the turret, freeing his legs from the strains of the cramped box.

"Thank you for choosing the 1st Guards Convoy. We hoped you enjoyed your trip with comrade Stalin's finest, comrades. Comrade Sergeant (Chaika), comrade Corporal (Alexander), keep my crew in check, will ya? I am going to check in with the brass for our next set of orders."


Commissar Darman Trappy

 

[ONI]

(7 HOURS PRIOR TO MAJOR SOVIET MOVEMENTS)
JULY, 1943 - NIGHT
PO2. SULTAN AZIZOVICH NURSULTANOV
133RD INDEPENDENT NAVAL INFANTRY REGIMENT
SOUTHERN OUTSKIRTS, KURSK, USSR
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The rusted crescent moon and star, forged of cast iron felt calming against pursed lips. The action had become very much a ritual for the sailor, to kiss the religious symbol that was. In victory and even in defeat he had resisted, evaded and conned death of another life countless times. From the open ground at Khalkhin Gol, onto the merciless beaches of Odessa, even Sevastopol, to the rubble filled streets that make the once great city of Stalingrad, each time he endured hardships no man should endure, each time he braved odds so overwhelming. His thoughts were wrenched from his mind and replaced by reality when the voice of a comrade, barely heard over the aggressive roar of a tank's engine, broke his musing.

"We're not too far now, just a few hundred metres. Then you're on foot.", Nursultanov took this information with a curt nod and began to adjust his weapon, a PPS-42, held in his right hand "Understood, Comrade Captain.".

Nursultanov felt his feet planet firmly on dirt as he took to scanning his surroundings, the field around the was quiet safe for the idling engines and dingy headlights. Within moments he and about fifty other sailors were on foot and left in the dust by their transports. They trekked a mile from their drop site without pause to a dense treeline that would provide ample coverage, the troop took to concealing themselves in what they thought could be key positions. In a very short time, the sailors had dug in and concealed themselves however the section was spread rather thinly along a span of about 300 metres.

Darkness was unnerving, but the silence before a clash, the midnight cold, the uncertainty of what was ahead, those was the true nemesis of a soldier. Sultan laid in wait, weapon gripped tight in hand, his back covered by regional foliage and his body contorted as comfortably as his shallow grave allowed for beside his grave mate, Misha. He slid down slowly, it was time for them to shift. he gave Misha a few light open palms and grabbed the man's attention, the two changed over without a word. When things were quiet and he had time, Sultan often turned to reading, he'd always strived to learn, to be more than a soldier and even in the low-light of night, read through pages paying no mind to how hard the words were to see. For a while he was to himself but eventually the hushed voice of Misha broke the quiet.

"Psst, Sultan, What are you reading?"
"A book about science. I found it in the liberary, the one at Stalingrad. The one those German's held for weeks."
"I remember it. What do you know about science?"

"Nothing at all, that is why I'm rea-." bright orange shine caught the corner of his eye, they widened and he rolled to the side to view it better. He could hear an aggressive call out down the line, something about putting out a cigarette, not a moment later the buzzing of an MG42 filled the air and was followed up by varying small arms "Germans, left side! Left side!". A beautiful mixture of tracers and standard rounds zipped through the air, the shouts of men struck by rounds was drowned out by the consistent exchange of ammunition. The sailor fumbled with his weapon briefly before sending rounds back down range, incoming rounds zinged and screamed past his ears but the worst hadn't come yet, screeching turned many heads skyward to hopelessly gain visual on the incoming German artillery

"INCOMING! INCOMING!"

There was a momentary lull before the impact, the rounds hitting home alone was disheartening. Those thirty or so shells, not that he could even keep count at the time, felt like a thousand as trees popped and snapped like twigs and sent splinters every which way. The earth beneath them shook continuously as craters formed and fires broke out overhead, illuminating their position even further.

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JULY, 1943 - EARLY MORNING
PO2. SULTAN AZIZOVICH NURSULTANOV
133RD INDEPENDENT NAVAL INFANTRY REGIMENT
SOUTHERN OUTSKIRTS, KURSK, USSR
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The air was filled with smoke, visible for miles in most directions, a number of trees still burned and their charred bark poured from the skies, coming to little the ground below, breathing was a hard task, flaming flakes stung the breath. Nursultanov squatted in his grave, surrounded by fallen and uprooted trees, they had sustain high casualties during the engagement with 23 dead and 6 injured, luckily he wasn't among those numbers but his battle buddy sadly was, he hadn't known the man for a long time but a comrade in arms was as close as family in trying times. He took a later from the man's body and gripped his hand as if to apologise. The enemy withdrew after the clash, seemingly unwilling to fully commit to a night time assault.

Ahead of him, Nursultanov could hear the squeaking of tracks and eventually gained visual on a mechanised formation via the use of binoculars, no doubt tipped off to their previous whereabouts. He left his position, sprinting down the line to find the platoon leader. The sailor came to sliding halt once he found the man "Comrade Lieutenant, a German mechanised column is coming. A few tanks, a handful of halftracks and dismounted infantry." the officer nodded upon receiving the word, the young naval officer took a moment to look around him, surrounded by the few surviving NCOs in his charge.

"Alright - We'll be withdrawing, there's no way we'll halt that attack with twenty men." the man seemed cautious of his wording, orders revolving around retreat were not necessarily well received by the commissars and overly zealous pencil pushers "Prepare the wounded to move. Petty Officers, Chief, once they're done we get moving."

The Petty Officer made his way around and brought his men up to speed, many were relieved, many were shaken even Stalin's hardmen could fear death. Bearing makeshift stretchers the survivors withdrew, their enemy uncomfortably close behind but still far enough to make the move a logical step. Nursultanov remained at the rear of their staggered column, flicking his eyes to their backs every few moments.