[b][center]9th November, 1983.[/center][/b] [i]The Assault on Molln[/i] ======================== 17:00 Kampfgruppe Vasily ======================== Eckhardt threw himself against the low lying stone wall of the warehouse's parameter. His hearing had deteriorated to a constant low buzz, and his eyes were stinging from the constant flash of explosions and tracer fire. He quickly looked down himself, and patted the areas of wetness for blood. His hands came back to him grubby, but gore free. He blew a long whistle of relief; not that he could hear it. Looking back through dazed vision, he saw that the rest of the column's ill advised human wave wasn't fairing so well. Dozens of bodies were scattered along the open grass flats flanking either side of the road. Some stirred in agony, calling out profanities and pleas. He caught the glimpse of a medic, kneeling over one of them, and recoiled as the man's face imploded from a high calibre round. Looking down the length of the brittle wall, he saw a few his countrymen - and women - huddled for dear life just as much as he. The assault had started well, and the capitalist pig fuckers had relented their TOWs under the devastating barrage of the BMPs' 30mm guns, and the T-72's incessant but paced volleys of HE shells. However, as he and his countrymen drew close to the warehouse, packed in tight lines for reasons lost to the Feldwebel, the capitalists took advantage and opened fire with an array of small arms. Sprinting towards their blaring muzzles, the East Germans were cut to pieces. Mortar shells added to the slaughter, and those who had not made it to safety by now, had scattered into the eastern forest. "Cowards," Eckhardt muttered bitterly. "The world laughs at us, and no wonder." A hand grabbed Eckhardt's shoulder, and shook him violently. He looked over and saw the desperate face of a man; he'd lost his helmet, and a horrible gash was strewn across his forehead. He was mouthing things that Eckhardt could not hear, on account of the mortar round that lifted him off the ground about two minutes previous. He breathed deeply, after taking note of his shaking hand, and tried with every ounce of focus he had to translate the man's flailing lips. "We're getting killed, Feldwebel, we're going to die here!" Were the words that Eckhardt could make out with some clarity. Shaking his head, he smiled. "It's time we got ourselves into the war, Gefreiter. What's your name?" "Gunter Klawe, sir," the man replied, his eyes growing wider by the second. The amusing thought of them popping from their sockets crossed the Feldwebel's mind. "Who do we have, and how many do we have?" asked Eckhardt, suddenly an anchor of calm amidst the storm. "I don't know," said Klawe, looking down the wall hesitantly. "Everyone and no one, sir." "As good as it's going to get then," smirked Eckhardt. Chancing a peep over the stone wall, the Feldwebel briefly eyed some hostiles. It seemed that the top of the warehouse, despite being reduced to one singular massive hole by the T-72s and the BMPs, was held by a hastily erected sandbag wall. He saw a few tracers slam into the obstruction, before an American style helmet poked over the top and took a shot at him. The bullet fell wide, and Eckhardt didn't even flinch. Rather, he felt very alive. Returning to his cover, he started barking commands down the length of the wall to any who would listen. [center]***[/center] "Gustav Kader," roared Eckhardt down the mouth piece of his radio, "requesting fire support on that platform. Why's it still standing, over?" "Because that's the last of our fucking worries," rattled back an aggressive response. "We've got enemy armour inbound on our position, we're shifting the tanks to deal with them, and most of the BMPs. What we leave behind is what you've got, over." "Affirmative, comrad," Eckhardt chuckled mockingly. "Have them paste those bags until there's no sand left to spill from them. We're going in, over." Eckhardt didn't get a reply. The guy on the other end was Russian, and he guessed him to be the leader of this sad mess, but wasn't sure. There were several Russians mingled with the Eastern Germans, for morale purposes of course. Such was the way of life behind the Curtain. Resigning to wait for the BMPs to start providing concentrated covering fire, Eckhardt drew a cigarette from within his fatigues. They were badly crushed, but dry, and after lighting it he breathed out the fumes with the long delighted release of a sigh. Looking at his assembled platoon strength mixed bag of nonsense, he nodded his head slightly. He was in charge of them. No Feldwebels, save for him, had made it to the wall. Nor had any ranks higher - most of them he figured had stayed behind in the BMPs, or else had fled. They were terrified, and some openly bawled their eyes out - especially the handful of women that had the misfortune of being dragged into this mess. He knew that when he climbed the wall, and headed towards the warehouse's interior that only half of them would follow - but it would be enough. If he could break the NATO occupiers, he would open the way into the northern part of the town. From what he gathered, despite the brief mention of enemy armour, the enemy wasn't blessed with numbers; otherwise they'd of counter attacked by now and driven their sorry arses all the way back to East Berlin. He extinguished the cigarette against the side of his helmet, and placed it back in the pack for future savouring. He watched as the dozen remaining T-72s left the smouldering wrecks of their brothers to head off towards the west, accompanied by a fleet of as many BMPs. The Feldwebel was surprised that they just hadn't simply surrendered, after taking such heavy losses; maybe there was hope for his countrymen after all, maybe there was hope to show the world that the East Germans were warriors to be respected. Unless they were heading off to give themselves in, which was not an unrealistic possibility. Either way, he was left with three battered BMPs that had stopped firing. He assumed, no, he hoped they were just coordinating their aim in preparation for the covering fire. The deafening thunder, and the stream of tracers flying towards, and then over him, told Eckhardt that the BMPs were indeed still in the fight. After waiting a few seconds for the NATO scum to get their heads down, Eckhardt roared, grabbed his Mpk-74 and then vaulted the wall. He heard a few of his countrymen repeating his enthusiasm, but not as many as he would have liked.