by W. R. Benton
“Here they come!” yelled someone off to the left of the Master Sergeant.
Glancing down the hill he saw partisans running toward them and they looked like ants, because the distance was great.
Picking up the phone he said, “ Petov, I need anything you have!”
“I have some artillery, if you want it.”
Fedorovo quickly read off the coordinates and said, “Now, read that back to me.”
Less than a minute later, he said, “Okay, fire for effect, and now!” Then looking around at his soldiers he shrieked, “Get down!”
He heard the scream of the first shell and buried his head in the dirt. At times the coordinates were off and when that happened, men and women died. The explosions were loud, and glancing up he saw more bodies now on the ground. The screams of the injured and dying partisans were clearly heard on the hill.
“Petov, mix a little white phosphorous (WP) in with the shells! It will be good if you can do this!”
Minutes later the white phosphorous shells landed and the hot shrapnel burned white zig-zags into the air. As long as the WP had air, it would burn, which made it a terrible weapon to use on people. The injured could only stop the burning and lessen damage, by covering the wound with mud or removing the shrapnel. The screaming partisans grew louder and then they began to withdraw.
Petov changed the range as the resistance began to retreat. Finally, the partisans broke and ran for the distant trees, and the Russian NCO had the trees pounded by the big guns.
Finally, he called Petov and said, “Cease fire, I repeat, cease fire.”
Standing, he called out, “Who is the ranking man still alive?”
“That would be me, I think, Master Sergeant.” a thin and lanky Senior Sergeant said.
“Get your ass over here with the radio.” He grabbed the dead radioman by his shirt collar and pulled him from the hole. He then rolled the dead Captain from the hole next and finally asked, “What is your name?”
“I am called, Alkaev. Adrian Alkaev, Master Sergeant.”
“ Alkaev, you are a senior NCO, so you need to start acting like one and be an example for your troops.”
“We are cooks, bakers, paper-pushers, and mechanics, not combat soldiers. We were rounded up and told to defend this area. This was the first time in my life, well, that I have fired a weapon in combat.”
Great, a bunch of people who have no idea how do defend themselves, the Master Sergeant thought and then said, “The radio is set to talk with someone who will try to give you air support, only keep in mind, sometimes they cannot help you. I am supposed to be looking at how the rest of the base is doing too.”
“I understand and think we can hold on to what we have. We will be fine.”
Master Sergeant Fedorovo nodded, climbed from the foxhole and made his was toward the fuel storage area, only he never got there. There came a huge explosion that actually hurt his ears and then he saw the fuel storage tanks cooking off one after the other; he turned away. He was too late and moved toward the flight line.
Tracers zipped through the air as helicopters were landing and taking off. Refueling and arming were taking place at the same time, which was usually not done for safety reasons, but the partisans were making a big push, so safety went out the door.
Refueling trucks were moving all over the flight line and aircraft were all over the field. Some aircraft were in flames, some on their sides, but most were waiting for fuel and bullets. One truck of fuel had the cab stitched with a row of bullets and with the driver dead, it continued on until it struck a parked helicopter getting ready for take off. The crew ran from the aircraft just before the collision and wisely so, because when they collided, a big fire ball resulted, and the flames rolled and rolled as they moved for the sky. Then ammo began going off and everyone ran for cover.
“RPG or LAW got the fuel truck,” a Major who was behind the sandbags with Fedorovo said, and then pulled a flask from his coat pocket. He guzzled a bit and handed it to the Master Sergeant who downed a healthy amount.
“I have never seen this many of the resistance in one place at one time, sir.” the Sergeant said.
“This is being done, I think, to make Ivanov pull his troops back to protect this base and to prevent him from using the nerve gas he has planned to spray.”
“I have no idea why it is being done, but there are one hell of a lot of them. In the last staff meeting, intelligence stated there were fewer than 3,000 resistance fighters in the whole state. If that is true, sir, every one of the bastards are attacking us right now.”
A bullet hit the concrete by his right leg, which made the Sergeant jerk his leg, as the projectile zinged off into space. He could not see the attackers, but he knew they could easily blow the perimeter wire and overrun them, but hadn't for some reason. They have a reason, Fedorovo thought. He glanced around the base and saw many fires were burning and bodies, mostly Russian, covered the ground. He shook his head at the senselessness of even being here, but he was a soldier and went when and where ordered.
A loud explosion was heard along the perimeter fence and then screaming partisans ran for the aircraft hangers. Russian machine-guns chattered, as rifles banged and pistols popped. A helicopter flew over head, banked hard and lined up for an attack.
The Americans were crossing the open field between the runway and the taxiway when a stray round bounced off the concrete, struck Master Sergeant Fedorovo in the head, and down he went. His world was instantly black.
CHAPTER 11
My squad held just outside of the airfield fence to cover the attacking forces with the new single man-fired surface to air missiles. I found them easy to use, and I'd been able to down two choppers early in the attack. I'd fired at a jet too, but it was just too fast, and by the time my rocket was airborne the jet was in a steep climb and moving double-quick. I think I missed because I'd been leading the bird and when he pulled the nose up to climb, I'd fired at that moment.
“Tanks! They've brought out the armor!” I heard Sandra yell to be heard over the noise of battle.
I knew then we'd soon be withdrawn from this battle. Oh, we could fight the big beasts, but in the long run we'd have to run off like a scared dog, with our tails between our legs. We just didn't have anything effective against them. The best we could hope for in most cases was to blow a track off and then the tank was still far from being helpless. I don't like the big brutes and never have, because unless you can hit one in the ass where the armor is the thinnest, they're hard to put out of action while moving.
“If we had enough flamethrowers, by God, we'd fight 'em!” Walsh said from beside me.
He was correct, but only to a point. A man with a flamethrower had to get in close, saturate the tank with burning fuel, and that was hard to do. Then, the crew of the tank didn't burn to death, but suffocated as the flames consumed the oxygen within the heavy vehicle. Besides, I think the whole Mississippi resistance only had three or four flamethrowers, so we'd be withdrawn.
Dolly began to bark loudly and when I glanced at her, her eyes were on the sky. I looked up, saw a Black Shark lined up to attack, and yelled, “Everyone down, now!”
The bird came in hot, spitting bullets by the hundreds as the barrels on his Gatling gun rotated speedily and sent hot empty brass flying out behind him. Smoke covered the nose of the aircraft as people on the ground began to die. Sandra suddenly jerked, screamed, and then began to flop around on the ground next to the wire. Dolly ran to her side.
I pulled a 9K32 Strela-2M missile launcher and as soon as the aircraft passed, I stood, aimed and waited for the chopper to nose up. Bullets zinged past me and one tugged hard at my shirt sleeve. I tracked the aircraft and gave the trigger a half-squeeze, which brought an Infrared engaged light on and I heard a slight buzzing sound. I was now locked onto my target, but still had to apply lead and elevation. I then squeezed the trigger.
As soon as the missile left the launcher, I fell to the ground and looked toward
the Black Shark. The pilot took evasive action and even dispensed chaff, but to no avail. The missile flew into the engine exhaust and an immense explosion resulted instantly, sending parts of the aircraft in all directions. The largest piece I spotted was the almost intact cockpit and it fell to the ground still burning.
Remembering Sandra, I gained my feet and ran to her side. She'd taken something in her side and was in terrible pain. When I held her still, I saw a long sliver of metal stuck deep and wasn't really sure how to treat it. I pulled a syringe of morphine from her medical bag, gave her a shot and waited for the drug to work.
“B . . . baby,” she said in almost a whisper and when I leaned closer she continued, “I'll not make it. I'm bleeding internally . . . and there is nothing we can . . . can do. G . . . give me more morphine, please.”
“I can't give you more or it will kill you.”
She reached up with her right hand, rubbed my cheek and said, “I . . . I know it . . . will kill . . . me. I c . . . cannot survive.” I noticed bright carmine blood bubbles on her sweet lips.
With tears in my eyes and pain tearing at my heart, I pulled more morphine from her bag and gave her a second shot. I felt tears rolling down my cheeks and my lips quivered in anguish as I waited for my wife to die.
Sandra, no longer able to speak, met my eyes, gave me a faint smile and then mouthed, “I love you.”
My heart broke into a thousand pieces as I raised her head, and I cried uncontrollably. I loved this woman so much, and now I was being forced to kill her. She and I both knew the Russians would torture her if taken captive, and she'd been their guest once before. I felt her quiver violently once and she squeezed my hand hard, and then went limp. She was dead. I reached over, pulled the metal from her side and discovered a good twelve inches had been buried deep within her. She knew she'd not survive, and I knew it too at that second. I slowly lowered her head to the ground and stripped her of all gear. My last act was to place a grenade, with the pin pulled, under her, to hopefully kill those who tried to recover her body. The Russians were big on body count and I hoped in death, my baby would send a few of the sonsofbitches straight to hell.
“John, we have orders to fall back and do it now.” Silverwolf said as he ran to me. He glanced at Sandra, put a hand on my shoulder and added, “Come, there's nothing we can do for her now.”
I stood, adjusted my gear and noticed most of the firing had stopped.
“Let's move, folks, we're going to have some pissed off Russians in a day or two.” I yelled and then fell in with the rest of the group leaving.
Hours later, my heart still heavy from Sandra's death, we stopped in a forest of dense pines and oaks. The trees were huge, well over a hundred feet tall and it was full daylight. I was a mental mess and called Silverwolf to my side. He neared, squatted and said, “Are you okay?”
“No, I'm not, and until I tell you otherwise, you're in charge because you're the next ranking man.” I noticed my hands were shaking as I spoke.
“I can do the job, except where are we to go?”
“Back to Pearl, and remember the housing area we were at near the shopping center, on the south side of highway 80? We're to move into the houses on the other side of Old Brandon road.”
“My parents lived there until the fall. They both died there too, so I know the neighborhood well. Does it matter what street we take shelter on?”
“Ballard Street, according to Colonel Lee, and up on the hill, so we're not subject to the flooding in wet weather.”
Silverwolf gave a low laugh and replied, “That whole western end of the road used to flood when heavy rains came along.” He paused for a few minutes, cleared his throat and then added, “You know it's not likely most of us fighting the Russians right now will survive, right? I'm sorry as hell you lost Sandra; she was a good woman, but it's not likely in two years or less, most of us alive now will still be around. It's a deadly game we play, my friend, but know she died fighting for a principal. She died to free our country and many more will pass on before we are finally free, but it'll happen.”
“Thanks, but that won't bring her back to me. I loved her, deeply, and now she's gone!” I felt the tears running down my cheeks, except I didn't care.
“Do you think you're the only one to lose somebody they cared about? Grow up, John, because there's not a person here who hasn't lost a loved one, not a single soul. Sandra was a damned fine woman and an excellent nurse, but she's dead. Do you think she'd want you sitting around on your ass, a broken shell of the man you were before, because of her death? She'd want you to avenge her death, and that, my good friend, we'll do. Now, I'll take over command until I determine you're ready to return to your position. I know her death happened less than 24 hours ago, but get over it and do the job fast, too.”
After a Russian ration, which I shared with Dolly, I pulled the big dog close and realized she was all I had left of the old days. I hugged her and scratched her ears as I cried silently, feeling a deep soul hurting grief like I'd never felt before. At some point, exhaustion claimed me and I fell asleep.
Dawn was cold, with snow flying in all directions as we neared Pearl, Mississippi. It was a ghost town now, with most people gone years ago, and the once beautiful yards were now overgrown with weeds and brush.
Near the top of the hill, we located a house that must have been over sixty years old, since most of the houses were constructed in the housing boom following WWII, after all the soldiers returned home. Using Veterans Affairs funding, most bought new homes, and settled in for a comfortable life. Well, comfort, I thought, is long gone and survival is hard enough these days.
Surprisingly the front door was unlocked, so we just walked it, and I immediately felt like an intruder. The furniture was still in place, family photographs were hanging on the walls, and the fridge still had some moldy and hardened food in it. Once power had been lost, the food had gone bad quickly. Of course it'd been ransacked, like most homes, but I couldn't help but look at the images on the walls and wondered if the people in the photos survived or not. Most I knew were dead.
Silverwolf immediately issued orders. “I want toe poppers around the house, except for a straight path out the back door. From now on, no one uses the front door. I want a booby-trap placed on the front door and someone will pull guard in the living room 24/7. I also want a Claymore rigged in the yard, against the house, to cover the sidewalk and driveway. Let's move and make this place a home.”
“Can we use the fireplace?” Joyce asked and then leaned her sniper rifle against the arm of the sofa.
“Maybe, if the weather gets cold enough. Now, that means it'll have to be pretty damned cold before it will be used. Let's hurry now, the snow is coming down hard, and Joyce, you can gather up some firewood or limbs to burn.”
“I'll take care of the wood.”
“Scott,” Silverwolf said, “I want you on guard as the others work.”
“I have it covered.”
I stood and started to move toward the door when Silverwolf said, “You're looking better. What do you think of a fire in here?”
“Keep it small, about the size of a saucer and you should be fine. Remember, if the Russians come looking for us, and they will once over our attack, they'll pick up the heat with their infrared gear at night. Also, any patrols they have out will smell our smoke. We need a place to meet if we're suddenly attacked and need to split up.”
“I'll allow a fire, because it's growing colder and as for meeting, we could meet by the old fire station, on highway 80. Say, behind it about 200 feet.”
“That'll work and I agree we need the heat; it'll help the Russians rations go down smoother, too. The nasty-assed things are so terrible cold.”
Two hours later, Kelly, who was on guard said, “I have movement.”
There were no lights on in the house and it was dark outside. The fireplace contained a fire no larger than a cup saucer. I suspected the smoke was what brought us the unwanted attention, but i
t was cold out and we needed the heat. It was still snowing, so I said, “Silverwolf, I have command now and all is well. Joyce, move to the window and keep us covered. Kelly, slip your NVG's down and see what you have out there.”
Minutes passed as we made our weapons ready, when Kelly said, “They're not Russians, for sure, and if I were to bet, I'd say cannibals. They look like the group that took us captive before. If so, they're fairly well armed.”
“Walsh, bring the flamethrower to the door. If we're threatened or attacked give them a few squirts and then return inside. Fire is a well known way to scare some folks off.”
I heard the blast of a toe-popper, followed by a loud scream. I made the booby-trap on the door safe, opened the door, and Walsh stepped outside. He immediately sent a long finger of flame from side to side. The whole area lit up like it was full daylight. Screams were heard; one man ran down the street, his clothing ablaze as the flames ate at him like a fast acting cancer. Rifle shots were heard, followed by blasts from shotguns. I moved into the kitchen, and picked up the clacker for the Claymore mine. Kerr armed the door again and then all moved into the kitchen with me. I allowed no return fire and a few long minutes later, I saw the door move slightly. The pin in the grenade was barely in, so if the door opened just a little more, it'd be pulled out and explode.
The fuse on the grenade was set to zero, which meant no delay at all. Suddenly, someone kicked the door open and started shooting. The grenade blast was loud in the small frame house, but nothing compared to when I blew the Claymore. The whole door disappeared and I heard horrific screams as ball bearings struck people outside. When the dust settled we moved forward, cautiously, because we would search the dead for gear we could use. Just outside, near where the door used to be, was a butcher's shop, with blood and meat scattered all around. Further back, an injured man tried to run, but Kerr put a bullet in the man and down he went. Between the grenade and Claymore, I counted fifteen bodies and three more had burned to death. Kerr had shot one, but I knew we had to move.