Vilikiy
08-11-2007, 22:36
Hilscher pushed forward, his antiquated Thompson gun blazing and rattling as bullets from its drum lodged themselves into the twitching masses of Humanity on the floor of the subterranean bunker complex. Along the walls were plates of composite materials jutting out perpendicularly from the walls on alternating sides.
The black-haired man smirked victoriously, darting from one side of the hall to the other past the bodies of his fallen comrades as the claymores embedded in the ceilings of the narrow hallways erupted and fired their shrapnel into the soft bodies of the Trotskyists pouring in to end the "rebellion" once and for all. At least three divisions had been deployed against the militias of the Libertas Complex which amounted to mere regimental strength of barely over a thousand men and women.
With threats to face elsewhere, the Trostkyists wanted a swift repression of the Gravel Faction and had applied overwhelming force. Thousands of conscripts were smashing like tsunamis against the shore into the fortifications of the Libertas Complex. However, they had planned their defenses well, and Hilscher wanted to see it for himself. He rushed onwards, past the slumped bodies of friend and foe alike, and out into the night air.
Ah, the glory of it! Perhaps it was tasting fresh air for the first time in a month that made it seem so special, but as long silver lines of fire shot out from the hills surrounding the Libertas Complex into the ocean of communist aggressors, like a perverted laser concert, the waves of barely trained draftees were fleeing in disarray towards the hills, back towards the passes they had come through to enter the deadly valley, and into the fortified underground complex.
Hilscher fired three short bursts down the hill at a disorganized and broken band of his enemies rushing for his very tunnel, dropping two of them. He fell back, out of their line of sight, and pulled the pin on his most prized possession: a grenade. Carefully, he set the priceless weapon down on the ground and ran back into tunnels, taking cover behind one of the bunkers-walls. The delay on the homemade grenades was iffy, but as the twelve Trotskyists poured over the peak and pushed into the tunnel to escape the dozens of squads of snipers outside, Hilscher opened up with his Thompson gun. He would hold them, and they would die.
Responding to their new threat, they set themselves to killing their one pitiful foe. What a sight these capitalists were - starving and dressed in rags; armed with hand made submachine guns a century out of date. They were not going back out into that hell. These twelve men were all that remained of an entire company.
They took up firing positions along the wall, advancing in surprisingly sophisticated fire teams towards Hilscher as his obsolete submachine gun roared its distinctive roar. He wasn't going to make it. They were going to kill him and his grenade would be wasted. Hilscher leaned out again into the line of fire and opened up with his gun again as the suppressing fire lodged a bullet into his body with a searing jolt of pain.
Hilscher fell to the ground, his teeth clenched together in pain and he tried to figure out how badly he was wounded. He was vaguely aware that his grenade had finally detonated and the suppressing fire had stopped short of finishing him off. Everything went quiet, and dark.
_ _ _ _ _
Hilscher awoke slowly to the sounds of chirping birds and the gentle morning sunlight filtering in through the nearby entrance. A loud but distant gunshot had woken him. He was thirstier than he had ever been in his life, and dark, crusty blood seemed to encase him. If it had hurt when he got shot, the pain was indescribable now. He could not move his left arm, and the point of entry seemed to be in his upper torso, very near to his heart. Blood had flowed freely from him for who knows how long after he had blacked out, but the battle seemed to be over. Boots rushed past him obliviously; did everyone assume he was dead?
Hilscher rolled to free his pinned right arm from beneath his body, which was numb like a giant wet noodle. He groped around his hip for his waterskin, but it felt like he was wearing huge, meaty gloves. With difficulty, though, he located the object of his desire and brought the squishy waterskin to his mouth and squirted the delicious water into his parched throat.
"Survivor." Noted a monotonous voice. It was his father, who was noting nonchalantly to one of his other sons that he was alive as though taking inventory.
Benjamin, his brother and sergeant, stood in full dress uniform with a clipboard looking very official. So damned smug. Already out of his battle fatigues while his brothers and sisters were laying in the mud somewhere covered in blood.
"Sirs." said Hilscher weakly, attempting to be respectful even though wounded. "'Fraid I can't salute. Heh-heh."
"Take it easy, Hilscher." His father said, having the decency to show some compassion this time. "Looks like you're lucky to have your life."
Hilscher's father, William Gravel, was built as tall and wide as a tree. Presently, he was looking at Hilscher's handiwork - the twelve corpses scattered around the entrance and the lack of Gravel corpses.
"If I'm not mistaken, you threw a grenade at their feet as they entered and fired a burst across the team advancing on your position before getting shot? Not too shabby, private."
"Thank you, sir." Hilscher grunted. He wasn't entirely right, of course, but he didn't have to know that. His father liked being right.
"Can you stand?" Benjamin asked. Another sharp gunshot echoed outside, drawing the attention of all three men. His two relatives before him, however, were used to it and immediately looked back at Hilscher.
"Y, yes sirs." Hilscher responded, though slightly destracted by his pain and the continued sporadic gunfire. "I think so. What's with the gunfire? Did we win?"
"Yes, we won." laughed Gravel as Hilscher awkwardly lifted himself to his feet through his immense pain, trying not to move his arm. "The gunshots are the snipers. Pockets of survivors who didn't manage to escape during the retreat have been pinned down all night. It's like the apocalypse out there. Twenty thousand dead or captured out of the thirty five thousand sent against us.; We received word that an envoy from the TSD will be arriving within the hour to discuss terms."
Hilscher was quiet for a second's pause. Peace? His father would never accept peace. "But you're not going to accept?"
"Of course not." William answered dismissively. "Not unless they're reasonable, anyway. We all know they won't be, though. They'll offer us the bare minimum which would be entirely inappropriate after such a crushing defeat. They are not psychologically ready to accept defeat yet; this is merely a draw offer to them at this point. We will have to march to Demyansk to make them understand the gravity of their situation."
Hilscher leaned unaided by his superior officers and family members against the wall, breathing heavily. William suddenly seemed to become aware of his callousness and brought a radio to his mouth.
"HQ, we need an ambulance unit to the entryway of corridor D with a stretcher for a survivor with a non-critical gunshot wound." He said calmly. Easy for him to call it non critical when it wasn't his shoulder screaming in agony.
"We copy that, General," said a woman's voice on the other end the radio. "Medical squad has been dispatched to your location to collect the survivor. ETA two minutes, if they cleared the cave in by now."
"General Gravel out." recited a bored William Gravel, who turned to look at his son one last time before departing. "I'm afraid you won't be able to help with the mop-up out there, but I want you healed up and ready to fight by the time we arrive at the outskirts of Demyansk, do you understand?"
"Yes sir!" cried Hilscher as enthusiastically as he could, despite his condition. William Gravel smiled, nodded, and gave a lazy salute to his son, and then turned to move into the sunshine to watch the glorious extermination of the remaining Trotskyists who refused to surrender.
The black-haired man smirked victoriously, darting from one side of the hall to the other past the bodies of his fallen comrades as the claymores embedded in the ceilings of the narrow hallways erupted and fired their shrapnel into the soft bodies of the Trotskyists pouring in to end the "rebellion" once and for all. At least three divisions had been deployed against the militias of the Libertas Complex which amounted to mere regimental strength of barely over a thousand men and women.
With threats to face elsewhere, the Trostkyists wanted a swift repression of the Gravel Faction and had applied overwhelming force. Thousands of conscripts were smashing like tsunamis against the shore into the fortifications of the Libertas Complex. However, they had planned their defenses well, and Hilscher wanted to see it for himself. He rushed onwards, past the slumped bodies of friend and foe alike, and out into the night air.
Ah, the glory of it! Perhaps it was tasting fresh air for the first time in a month that made it seem so special, but as long silver lines of fire shot out from the hills surrounding the Libertas Complex into the ocean of communist aggressors, like a perverted laser concert, the waves of barely trained draftees were fleeing in disarray towards the hills, back towards the passes they had come through to enter the deadly valley, and into the fortified underground complex.
Hilscher fired three short bursts down the hill at a disorganized and broken band of his enemies rushing for his very tunnel, dropping two of them. He fell back, out of their line of sight, and pulled the pin on his most prized possession: a grenade. Carefully, he set the priceless weapon down on the ground and ran back into tunnels, taking cover behind one of the bunkers-walls. The delay on the homemade grenades was iffy, but as the twelve Trotskyists poured over the peak and pushed into the tunnel to escape the dozens of squads of snipers outside, Hilscher opened up with his Thompson gun. He would hold them, and they would die.
Responding to their new threat, they set themselves to killing their one pitiful foe. What a sight these capitalists were - starving and dressed in rags; armed with hand made submachine guns a century out of date. They were not going back out into that hell. These twelve men were all that remained of an entire company.
They took up firing positions along the wall, advancing in surprisingly sophisticated fire teams towards Hilscher as his obsolete submachine gun roared its distinctive roar. He wasn't going to make it. They were going to kill him and his grenade would be wasted. Hilscher leaned out again into the line of fire and opened up with his gun again as the suppressing fire lodged a bullet into his body with a searing jolt of pain.
Hilscher fell to the ground, his teeth clenched together in pain and he tried to figure out how badly he was wounded. He was vaguely aware that his grenade had finally detonated and the suppressing fire had stopped short of finishing him off. Everything went quiet, and dark.
_ _ _ _ _
Hilscher awoke slowly to the sounds of chirping birds and the gentle morning sunlight filtering in through the nearby entrance. A loud but distant gunshot had woken him. He was thirstier than he had ever been in his life, and dark, crusty blood seemed to encase him. If it had hurt when he got shot, the pain was indescribable now. He could not move his left arm, and the point of entry seemed to be in his upper torso, very near to his heart. Blood had flowed freely from him for who knows how long after he had blacked out, but the battle seemed to be over. Boots rushed past him obliviously; did everyone assume he was dead?
Hilscher rolled to free his pinned right arm from beneath his body, which was numb like a giant wet noodle. He groped around his hip for his waterskin, but it felt like he was wearing huge, meaty gloves. With difficulty, though, he located the object of his desire and brought the squishy waterskin to his mouth and squirted the delicious water into his parched throat.
"Survivor." Noted a monotonous voice. It was his father, who was noting nonchalantly to one of his other sons that he was alive as though taking inventory.
Benjamin, his brother and sergeant, stood in full dress uniform with a clipboard looking very official. So damned smug. Already out of his battle fatigues while his brothers and sisters were laying in the mud somewhere covered in blood.
"Sirs." said Hilscher weakly, attempting to be respectful even though wounded. "'Fraid I can't salute. Heh-heh."
"Take it easy, Hilscher." His father said, having the decency to show some compassion this time. "Looks like you're lucky to have your life."
Hilscher's father, William Gravel, was built as tall and wide as a tree. Presently, he was looking at Hilscher's handiwork - the twelve corpses scattered around the entrance and the lack of Gravel corpses.
"If I'm not mistaken, you threw a grenade at their feet as they entered and fired a burst across the team advancing on your position before getting shot? Not too shabby, private."
"Thank you, sir." Hilscher grunted. He wasn't entirely right, of course, but he didn't have to know that. His father liked being right.
"Can you stand?" Benjamin asked. Another sharp gunshot echoed outside, drawing the attention of all three men. His two relatives before him, however, were used to it and immediately looked back at Hilscher.
"Y, yes sirs." Hilscher responded, though slightly destracted by his pain and the continued sporadic gunfire. "I think so. What's with the gunfire? Did we win?"
"Yes, we won." laughed Gravel as Hilscher awkwardly lifted himself to his feet through his immense pain, trying not to move his arm. "The gunshots are the snipers. Pockets of survivors who didn't manage to escape during the retreat have been pinned down all night. It's like the apocalypse out there. Twenty thousand dead or captured out of the thirty five thousand sent against us.; We received word that an envoy from the TSD will be arriving within the hour to discuss terms."
Hilscher was quiet for a second's pause. Peace? His father would never accept peace. "But you're not going to accept?"
"Of course not." William answered dismissively. "Not unless they're reasonable, anyway. We all know they won't be, though. They'll offer us the bare minimum which would be entirely inappropriate after such a crushing defeat. They are not psychologically ready to accept defeat yet; this is merely a draw offer to them at this point. We will have to march to Demyansk to make them understand the gravity of their situation."
Hilscher leaned unaided by his superior officers and family members against the wall, breathing heavily. William suddenly seemed to become aware of his callousness and brought a radio to his mouth.
"HQ, we need an ambulance unit to the entryway of corridor D with a stretcher for a survivor with a non-critical gunshot wound." He said calmly. Easy for him to call it non critical when it wasn't his shoulder screaming in agony.
"We copy that, General," said a woman's voice on the other end the radio. "Medical squad has been dispatched to your location to collect the survivor. ETA two minutes, if they cleared the cave in by now."
"General Gravel out." recited a bored William Gravel, who turned to look at his son one last time before departing. "I'm afraid you won't be able to help with the mop-up out there, but I want you healed up and ready to fight by the time we arrive at the outskirts of Demyansk, do you understand?"
"Yes sir!" cried Hilscher as enthusiastically as he could, despite his condition. William Gravel smiled, nodded, and gave a lazy salute to his son, and then turned to move into the sunshine to watch the glorious extermination of the remaining Trotskyists who refused to surrender.