Excerpt from the journal of Bratislav Golubtsov, estimated date of March 30th, 1948
01:32H
Only God and SMERSH know why we are trudging through city. Nothing is left in peace, but many things left in many pieces. We are meeting another platoon. Orders are to convene on two buildings, no reason yet as to why. I may be in same squad with Pyotr, but he has not said word to any of us why we do this, childhood friend or no. We are Red Guard. Is not necessary to ask us twice, job is to be done and the why is not important, but Pyotr, he seems nervous. Something about this does not sit well with him. He is putting on brave face as all Red Guard do, but we notice. I notice..
There is 15 men, all red guard. We have taken shelter in apartment buildings at end of street. We have 'sleeping' Babushka down street, hidden in building as well. When other platoon arrives, we will make way to other side of street. For now, sniper fire and a need to sleep has us from moving any time soon. Somewhere out in dark of night, crazy veteran turtles are lurking. If they are scariest thing in shadows, what is to be afraid of this night?
03:02H
Other platoon arrived. Scared piss from most of us. Steel Guard appeared from nowhere. Crazy turtles. Lead a tank into city along with second platoon. Not quiet at all, but now we have IS-5B to keep us warm. Pyotr said we will sleep for 1 more hour while he goes over charts with turtles who are in communication with defense platoon who are at location near Babushka. They are to cover our advance. Prospects seem better now.
03:22H
We are being shelled indiscriminately. No idea which side. Does it really matter? So much for sleep.
05:58H
ENEMY SPOTTED. Defense platoon and our support element Babushka at north end of city have spotted enemy movement in church not far from our position. Many troops. They are unaffected by shelling, or crazy enough to not care. They bring with them walker. Can not identify. Second platoon's command has begun taking sniper fire. They are reporting injured, but have guided the Vladimir in our care onto the command team of opposing force. They are saying Axis, and from what it sounds, they bring with them the мертвый евреи. Is in my head, but I can smell them on the wind. дерьмо́. It gives me great hope, when wracked the slide of PPSH, I hear many more respond in chorus. Let this Red Orchestra sing.
---
Bratislav decided today was not the day to live up to his name, with explosions raining from the sky and what he suspected to be the gut-churning experience of having to mow down men who have already died, he was ready to and waiting for the retreat order. He would take no step back as glorious Stalin instructed, but hoped that sooner rather than later, Peyotr would call to move for their objectives, whatever they were.
At the end of this block lay two buildings, a converted office building which now served as tenant housing and another building that may have once been a store front and more apartments. Both had been so badly shelled that they didn't even keep out the cold any longer. Glass and dust rained down constantly from the ceiling as the ground trembled with each round of artillery fire. Bratislav wiped his running nose and blew out the tiny flame of the candle he'd been using to update his journal, and just in time.
Another shot rang out, the sharp crack not quite hidden behind the shelling, and more angry shouts from the radio. The other command team had taken up position on the top floors of yet another ruined building further down the street, feeling protected with the hulking 'Babushka' which took up ambush position in the destroyed lobby. Sadly for them, an axis sniper team had spotted them despite the bombardment and they were now, for the most part, relegated to keeping their heads down and calling targets for the Vladimir which chose now to fire. It blew a hole in the wall of the building they were all standing in, it's cannon a deafening starting bell to the festivities. Bratislav was glad the building did not collapse in on their heads from the shock wave.
He raised his head enough to see across the street to the cathedral where he could hear German being shouted. Counting in his head, having been an artillery man himself before he was moved to this element, he tried to time the Vladimir's shell. It was fired high at a steep angle, and as his predicted time grew closer he began to grin, the whistling noise apparent to him, but not clear to the Axis troops who likely could not tell between it and the other shells falling around them. He was only a second off when the street exploded into a cloud of rubble and smoke, and took cover behind the wall as the remaining glass in the windows shook loose or was propelled over his head. From his crouched position, he threw a thumbs up to their radio man who didn't bother to look up from his charts. Feeling silly, Bratislav tried to hide it by taking another look. Of the three heavily armored soldiers only one had any injury. The medic was furiously working to bind a wound as the injured man knelt on one knee, gun still raised, as though a torrent of blood were not spurting from his neck and shoulder. One thing about the Axis Pyotr could not deny no matter how much propaganda he read, they were tough as devils.
As though on cue, carried on the wind and by the hands of some greater evil, Bratislav caught a whiff of something terrible. He, along with everyone else in the company knew precisely what it was before those grotesque abominations ever came around the corner. Their clanging fists dug huge rents and cratered the street as they clawed and capered at high speed for the Red Guard's position, likely betrayed by the tank's gun; blue jumpsuits filled with the rotting flesh of unfortunate souls, the white stripes of their thin garb barely visible beneath the dirt and dried gore clearly identifying who they had been before they became weapons of the Axis powers. In the building across the street, more grenadiers took up position just out of firing range in support, obviously waiting to see what their thralls would do before they bothered to engage. Sending in the hounds. Bratislav couldn't fault their logic, but he despised them for it anyway.
Whether they liked it or not, the battle was begun, and Pyotr began furiously shouting orders, attempting to get the men deeper into their own fortifications and off the roof tops in fear of more sniper fire. He needed to consolidate them to move, clearly not interested in sticking around to be torn apart. The two fire teams in the other building were already running. As the undead drew closer at astonishing speed, one of the turtles put a hand on Pyotr's shoulder and nodded. It wasn't entirely clear what they intended, but Pyotr knew better than to argue with a Steel Guardsman. They had earned their position by being in the line of fire, and so they intended to be again. They climbed out the windows, agile in their huge armored suits, and dropped into the streets, taking up a firing position and drawing attention. The undead took the bait and began their advance.
The fire fight that ensued was shockingly quick; Pyotr instructed them to unleash hell, ignoring standard protocol to conserve ammo and let fly with all they had, his cry proud and loud, echoing through the streets and the response from the turtles equally so. The shotguns belched great clouds of hot lead, and the maxim gun gave off a sound like tearing sail cloth. some of the zombies didn't so much as die but were shredded into pieces which even they were not capable of recovering from, arms and legs torn from bodies and pulped or otherwise rendered down into unidentifiable matter. As if to punctuate the their disdain, the Vladimir spoke up, hurling a shot directly at them and obliterating anything the turtles had left behind. A smoldering crater caked with old, coagulated blood and scraps of tattered, rotting flesh were all that remained.
The Axis seemed unphased, the grenadiers quickly opening fire on the turtles almost immediately after, peppering them with fire that appeared to not effect them in any way, but that was not the plan. It was to distract them, and it did. The Axis sniper fired and the maxim-toting veteran went down into a slump. Bratislav thought he was ducking but the turtles knew better. He was dead, and even if he wasn't, he'd never get out of the street in time to have a medic save his life. The other two turtles returned fire into the building but it was of no use as a storm of panzerfausts burst through the windows, startling both of them. The unconventionality of it all was enough to cause both to hesitate, and in a fantastic puff of smoke and flashes of light they were dead, their bodies haphazardly scattered along the street, spatters of blood in every direction.
Bratislav swore, eyes wide, and turned to Pyotr who was watching over his shoulder. Apparently Pyotr had seen all he needed to see. More troops approached from around the corner, also undead, this time the 'saved' lives of the Axis soldiers, armed with explosives. Their objective was clear, they intended to take out the Vladamir. Pyotr resolved to let them if it meant saving the lives of his men. He gave the orders to group behind the building, exiting through the crumbled rear wall. The two anti-tank teams and Pyotr's command retinue made it across the street losing only one man to a barrage from the axis walker. Admittedly, better than any of them had expected.
As they fled the building, they caught a look at something horrible and realized that they had made the right decision. The Axis 'doctor' who animated their undead was calmly watching from behind the inhuman lenses of his..her? It's gas mask as the rotting bodies of Axis soldiers, also unaffected by the rubble raining down from explosions all around them, took up firing positions and prepared to fill the building they had just occupied. The three Red Guard teams unheroically abandoned their position and ran. Habitually falling into lock-step, they marched the mile or so in stony silence toward the Babushka who was making quick work of a few heavy grenadiers. Once the pilot was satisfied they were dead, it pivoted on it's raptor-like legs, spun up it's guns and began relentlessly pouring fire into the upper floors of a building down the street. Even as it changed course and began walking towards the axis forces, it peppered the upper floor until it collapsed like a barn, eaten by termites.
Above their heads in the husk of a department store where the Babushka had stood an hour before, they could see their comrades, bodies left in undignified positions, slumped over mid sentence or otherwise frozen in agonized pain, a thin coat of grey dust already covering most of them. If they were aware of being freshly avenged, they made no sign of it. With the stench of the undead still lingering in his nostrils, Bratislav counted this as a good sign.
They marched a bit further, ducking into the building Pyotr had identified, their medic seeing to a number of injured and likely hopeless men from the combat squad which had engaged the grenadiers before the Babushka. Bratislav, having witnessed the prowess of Axis heavy troopers turned away, knowing the effort, while necessary, was futile. He instead put a hand on Pyotr's shoulder and pointed at the building they had been occupying moments before.
Down the road but still in view, storm of panzerfausts at close range made quick work of the Vladimir, and shortly after, the Axis force stormed the building eagerly, perhaps after something that the Red Guard had been unaware of. Pyotr sighed, hung his head for just a moment, indulging in a second of self pity before he pulled the beaten, dried remains of what was probably once a fine cigar from the confines of his uniform, lit it with a match, took a few puffs and put on his 'command' face. He tried it on Bratislav, who feigned terror. The two men, smiled at one another, forgetting for just a moment that they were somewhere at the crossroads of hell and damnation, being shelled by who knows which side of this war. Pyotr patted Bratislav on the shoulder, fixed his face back to the 'commander' mask, and then turned to his men and began barking orders to search the place for papers. They had gotten wind of a drop made here by German runners, and damned if the Red Guard were going to leave here without them.
Bratislav stole one last look out the window, watching the undead and their grim handler hurl items out windows in their own search. He prayed a shell would land on the building, taking it and it's inhabitants out for good, but was sure that if there was a god, he wasn't paying attention to the prayers of a soldier, and so he turned his efforts on searching instead for whatever it is they were looking for, buried somewhere in this blown out building, in a city whose name he had forgotten.
