West of Moscow, RFSSR, USSR
December 10th (or is it the 11th?), 1941
Early Morning
EVERYBODY knew it but no one would admit it, lest a commissar overhear. The War was going badly. The Fascists were closing in on Moscow, and there were so damn many of them.
For barely-nineteen year old Red Army soldier Peter Batuev, the very thought was terrifying. This wasn't supposed to happen. Moscow was now a Front City.
Since ninety percent of war is waiting, there was plenty of time to hear what was happening from comrades. The Nazi invaders had smashed their way through the Motherland from the Polish border, shoving the Red Army aside with masses of tanks and dive bombers. Worse, it was total warfare. They shot kids and old women. As soon as they captured a village, they would round up and shoot all the Jews. Minsk fell. Smolensk fell. Murmansk fell, which meant that supplies slowed to a trickle. The one bright spot in all this was that the English and Japanese launched a massive raid and sunk the German fleet at anchor in Murmansk, so at least supplies could still get through to Arkhangelsk.
But that wouldn't mean a damn thing if the Fascists got to Arkhangelsk first.
Right now, over a million strong, they began to extend the stubs of two pincers around Moscow to crush the city. For Peter, and two and a half million of his comrades, the task was to pry the pincers open and push them back at all costs. The commissars told him that it would be the biggest, most important, and most glorious battle ever fought. Peter wasn't convinced. It would, if what he heard when they weren't around, be a bloody struggle, man against man, with no concept of upholding the glory of Communism. Just survival.
Peter's poorly-made and too big coat barely kept him warm, but looking around, he was far from the worst off. At nineteen, he was barely more than a boy, but among him were actual boys; some of them must have been fifteen or sixteen and really had no business being there. Yet, here they were, eating soldiers' black bread, holding rifles that looked far too big for them, trying to smoke cigarettes and tell dirty jokes to fit in. His older comrades knew they didn't but said nothing. If the Motherland fell, if the People were broken, then there would be no future for them; no school for them to go back to, no girls for them to chase. Being on the front lines of the War would make them grow up too fast; if they weren't, they may never be able to grow up at all.
Perhaps it was fool's courage, or simple pride, but Peter felt determined to be a part of the force that finally drove the Fascists back. He wasn't motivated by a Hero medal, nor some sense of being the vanguard of Communism. It was survival. Survival for the old comrades and young boys. Survival, so when this all ended -and it had to- there would be something to go back to. Survival, because it sure as hell wasn't Peter's time to go yet.
Because, if the
Russians are anything, they are survivors.
And, if he wasn't destined to survive, thought Peter, please let it be an artillery shell, so at least it would be quick and he wouldn't know it was coming. But don't let it come until these Fascist bastards are running West, and running scared.