Amid the scene of utter chaos and agony, of shattered, dismembered bodies, the sceams of the living and the moans of the dying, ony one man laughed. He laughed hysterically and shamelessly. His laughter became a cackle, something less than human and echoing far into the frozen fields surrounding the slaughter.
Czsimir couldn't help himself. Throughout the aerial attack he held the reins of Herr Brandts' horses. Now one horse had died in its traces, the victim of a soviet cannon shell that had showered him, from head to toe in horse blood and horse flesh, but he found it impossible, at first, to release the reins.
Herr Brandt had named the horses "Castor" and "Pollux", they were twin stallions and a gift to his two sons. Pollux had died as Czsimir held on to them. A spray of Soviet shells had claimed the animal's life yet spared him, despite his exposed posiition during the attack and his standing less than a meter away from the doomed animal.
Poor Ursula emerged from her hding place in the snow, but shrapnel from a bomb had riddled her left shoulder, She climbed awkwardly into the wagon. Anna wept. A bullet had struck Papa Brandt in the ribcage, shattering two of his ribs and bathing his wife Anna in his blood. But despite her tears, Anna was already tearing up a sheet to bind his wounds and, having finished that, looked to bandage Usrula's shoulder. No one ever knows how they will react in war. Herr Brandt had protected his "helpless" wife with his body, soon she had ceased crying and worked with a will to heal both his injuries and Ursula's.
Once the shook wore off, Czsimir cut the dead horse out of the traces and began to toss luggage out of the wagon to lighten it so that the surviving horse could pull it. Due to his wounds, Papa Brandt could only moan a feeble protest at the loss of his property, while Czsimir disposed of some of the household's most valuable, or at least, most sentimentaly valuable cargo.
Meanwhile, Arajs and Hansen assembled their men, relieved to find that none had been seriously injured. In the first few minutes after the attack, they found it impossible to stop their soldier's attempts to give aid to the civilians caught in the air attack and didn't seriously attempt to stop them from offering comfort to the wounded. Ultimately, it was the unprecedented scope of the carnage that discouraged the men and brought them back to the rallying point.
Without a doctor or even a medic, what were they to do for the hundreds of mangled civilians? Could they amputate a leg or an arm? Could they scoop an old man's guts back into his stomach cavity and sew him up? What were they to do about the women and children missing limbs and eyes?
Their sense of Horror itself returned them to the realtive safety of the ranks quicker than any orders they might have been issed or any threats that might have made. Forming them up and checking their weapons, Hansen and Arajs lead them away from the killing field at a quick march directly through the ruins of he civilian column.
Czsimir chased after them, whipping his single horse into a trot over the bodies and pieces of bodies on the road, as Anna sought to cope with her husband's and Ursula's injuries. Behind them, the refugees picked themselves up (those that could) and sought to continue their flight. The dead and gravely wounded would simply have to tend to themselves so that the living could escape.
But they had not quite escaped the scene of the massacre before an entirely new threat emerged from the Southern reaches of the road.
Clanking and roaring and emitting nauseus clouds of black diesel smoke, Leutenant Savkin's advance scouting party of T-34s and T-70s with their hard-bitten tank-riders approached from the road South towards the straggling, mourning, disorganized files of civilian refugees and their transport.
So....My Tank Corps in Prussia...
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Lieutenant Savkin choose to follow his orders to the letter, sending his two light tanks out on either flank of the road and his T-34s with their tank-riders straight down it. The plan was simplicity itself and depended upon the panic caused by his sudden appearance at the rear of an obviously defenseless and already fleeing mob of civilians.
At the first sound of his tanks, the refugees at the end of the column fled into the fields or pushed forwards down the road, trampling the weak and old in their panicked flight. The few trucks and cars among the German civilians simply drove over the people walking ahead of them or rammed carts and wagons, plowing them out of the way. The scene was indescribable; already shaken by the air attack, the collective nerve of the refugees gave way at the sight of Russian tanks on the road.
“Tank fright!” Max had seen it many times, even amongst veteran troopers. Seeing the tanks advance, the morale of soldiers and civilians alike collapsed. All of the pent up, barely suppressed fear amongst them exploded—men abandoned their wives, mothers ran away leaving their children, others simply raised their hands in surrender or tried to hide themselves in the snow banks. Hansen’s unit fell apart instantly and he couldn’t hold them. Arajs, his Latvians, W.F. and a few others went to ground, using their entrenching tools to dig hasty holes in the snow, anything that would provide a little cover. But the majority of the men discarded their weapons and fled. Hansen was only able to stop a few by screaming at them “Where are you running to?”
But this was not a time for logic. Arajs deployed his men off of the road and to the left to avoid being physically swept away by the running, shoving, cursing horde of refugees and soldiers.
Savkin’s T-34s sped forward, firing with all machine guns. His orders were to “clear the road”, which he chose to interpret as meaning “kill anything that moved”. His lead tank simply ran over anything and anyone in their way.
Thirty-five tons of tank couldn’t be stopped by either a stalled truck or a peasants cart and its horses, it crushed them with nearly equal ease.
And people were simply obliterated by the tanks threads, becoming nothing more than bloodstained blotches in the snow. A man crushed by a tank no longer resembled anything vaguely human, except for the outline his corpse stained into the road and perhaps a stray, dismembered arm or leg. The T-34s’ spinning tracks spit ground bits of flesh and bone against the tanks’ fenders and splattered the hulls of Savkin’s tanks with large wet red stains.
Hansen, W.F. and Arajs had seen this grisly phenomenon before and as infantrymen, instinctively hated and feared tanks. But the Prussian folk and the inexperienced troops could not have even imagined the sights unveiled before them. To them it was a vision of Hell and Hellish inhumanity all too soon to become their fate.
“The woods?” Arajs gasped. But there was a good hundred-fifty meters of open ground on either side of the road between them and the safety of the woods. And Russian light tanks were already sweeping that ground with their machine gun.
Hansen watched the massacre unfold with an odd detachment caused by a mixture of horror and helplessness. “We’ll have to fight”, he grunted at Arajs.
Arajs jerked a panzerfaust from the hands of one of his men and began to crawl forward. Hansen grabbed two more, shouted a few orders at the remaining men, stood and pushed his way bodily across the road through the mob to the other side.
W.F. knelt in he snow, aiming for the tank-riders but holding his fire. Alex Krugel and his loader were setting up the MG-42 nearby and W.F. told them not to fire as well. He knew that Max and Arajs had to get within 60 meters of the tanks to have a shot and, unless they were able to get a shot, everyone was doomed.
But as they prepared to resist their own deaths, hundreds of men, women and children died horribly within their sight, either mercifully shot or crushed into pulp under the treads of the Soviet tanks.
At the first sound of his tanks, the refugees at the end of the column fled into the fields or pushed forwards down the road, trampling the weak and old in their panicked flight. The few trucks and cars among the German civilians simply drove over the people walking ahead of them or rammed carts and wagons, plowing them out of the way. The scene was indescribable; already shaken by the air attack, the collective nerve of the refugees gave way at the sight of Russian tanks on the road.
“Tank fright!” Max had seen it many times, even amongst veteran troopers. Seeing the tanks advance, the morale of soldiers and civilians alike collapsed. All of the pent up, barely suppressed fear amongst them exploded—men abandoned their wives, mothers ran away leaving their children, others simply raised their hands in surrender or tried to hide themselves in the snow banks. Hansen’s unit fell apart instantly and he couldn’t hold them. Arajs, his Latvians, W.F. and a few others went to ground, using their entrenching tools to dig hasty holes in the snow, anything that would provide a little cover. But the majority of the men discarded their weapons and fled. Hansen was only able to stop a few by screaming at them “Where are you running to?”
But this was not a time for logic. Arajs deployed his men off of the road and to the left to avoid being physically swept away by the running, shoving, cursing horde of refugees and soldiers.
Savkin’s T-34s sped forward, firing with all machine guns. His orders were to “clear the road”, which he chose to interpret as meaning “kill anything that moved”. His lead tank simply ran over anything and anyone in their way.
Thirty-five tons of tank couldn’t be stopped by either a stalled truck or a peasants cart and its horses, it crushed them with nearly equal ease.
And people were simply obliterated by the tanks threads, becoming nothing more than bloodstained blotches in the snow. A man crushed by a tank no longer resembled anything vaguely human, except for the outline his corpse stained into the road and perhaps a stray, dismembered arm or leg. The T-34s’ spinning tracks spit ground bits of flesh and bone against the tanks’ fenders and splattered the hulls of Savkin’s tanks with large wet red stains.
Hansen, W.F. and Arajs had seen this grisly phenomenon before and as infantrymen, instinctively hated and feared tanks. But the Prussian folk and the inexperienced troops could not have even imagined the sights unveiled before them. To them it was a vision of Hell and Hellish inhumanity all too soon to become their fate.
“The woods?” Arajs gasped. But there was a good hundred-fifty meters of open ground on either side of the road between them and the safety of the woods. And Russian light tanks were already sweeping that ground with their machine gun.
Hansen watched the massacre unfold with an odd detachment caused by a mixture of horror and helplessness. “We’ll have to fight”, he grunted at Arajs.
Arajs jerked a panzerfaust from the hands of one of his men and began to crawl forward. Hansen grabbed two more, shouted a few orders at the remaining men, stood and pushed his way bodily across the road through the mob to the other side.
W.F. knelt in he snow, aiming for the tank-riders but holding his fire. Alex Krugel and his loader were setting up the MG-42 nearby and W.F. told them not to fire as well. He knew that Max and Arajs had to get within 60 meters of the tanks to have a shot and, unless they were able to get a shot, everyone was doomed.
But as they prepared to resist their own deaths, hundreds of men, women and children died horribly within their sight, either mercifully shot or crushed into pulp under the treads of the Soviet tanks.
Last edited by Commissar D, the Evil on Sat Oct 07, 2006 7:02 pm, edited 4 times in total.
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Dragunov
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howabout 'ensanguine'? well, greasy doesn't fit the bill, since at least my blood is water-based.
and, the tank treads would have to be about a meter wide to entirely squish a human. keep them arms and legs in your descriptions.
i'll shuttup for now, and happy thanksgiving,
Dragunov
and, the tank treads would have to be about a meter wide to entirely squish a human. keep them arms and legs in your descriptions.
i'll shuttup for now, and happy thanksgiving,
Dragunov
When Stalin says "Dance" a wise man dances.- Nikita Kruschev
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Well Dragunov, in my defense, descriptions of the same thing from Vietnam use the word greasy--I think it is a reference to the mixture of blood and chunks of flesh, which probably seems greasy.
Thanksgiving? hey, we haven't reached Halloween, a much more interesting holiday, yet! Monday is Columbus day, named after a genocidal European sailor....
Best,
David
Thanksgiving? hey, we haven't reached Halloween, a much more interesting holiday, yet! Monday is Columbus day, named after a genocidal European sailor....
Best,
David
Death is lighter than a Feather, Duty is heavier than a Mountain....
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Commissar D, the Evil
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Commissar D, the Evil
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