Kameraden (something from the vault)
Background Information: I wrote this story when I was 16, it started as a bit of idle chat but managed to develop into a novella. It is quite long and isn't perfect, I'm currently in the process of re-reading it, editing and changing a few things that don't work for me. Then, who knows. It is basically about 4 brothers from 1942 onwards though the main focus is later in the war. It's probably fairly obvious that it started as two separate stories which I brought together. I'll post the chapters sporadically, feedback more than welcome.
Name: Kameraden (working title, suggestions would be appreciated.
Setting: 1942-1944
Genre: Not realy sure, call it a 'pulp war story.'
1. Ourra!!!
Sitting, waiting, freezing. There is nothing else to do. Strange the way the world can slow down when things are at their least comfortable, maybe one can sleep but not well, at best a disjointed snooze, intermittently disturbed by a noise in the distance or a sudden blast of the cold wind. The world seems still except for the gentle slow. Occasionally there would be a gust of the icy wind that would hurl a vicious spray of powder at the one loan figure, hitting the few exposed patches of skin like a shower of burning needles. The only sign that there was anything living for miles was the patch of grey peeking through the white blanket. Beneath it a figure stood against the high wall of a bunker cut into the gentle slope. The gunship grey of the steel helmet obscured by the frozen layer that had formed during the short exposure to the elements surmounted a series of scarves, coats, warm clothes and underwear out of which peered a pair of lethargic eyes. Occasionally a slow arm would rise to sweep away the snow that was freezing over the small gap in the cocoon of protective garb that stood between the sentry and slow cold death.
Before the lone figure stood an embankment topped with a layer of sandbags. He had been standing there for 15 minutes and it was approaching time for his replacement to arrive. Slowly another figure shuffled around the side of the bunker, rifle in hand, tugging his helmet further onto his head so that the rim came down over the scarf-covered ears. As the sentry stepped away from the side of the bunker the snow that had built up on his back fell to the ground. With a nod to the other he walked along the shallow trench to his bunker. As he approached the entrance he felt the slight warmth from inside and stopped to remove the rest of the snow from his frozen uniform. That done he opened the makeshift door to enter the bunker. Three faces looked up from bunks constructed from old ammunition crates and shifted beneath the blankets and greatcoats to see who was responsible for the sudden rush of snow and cold into the room that had disturbed their slumber. Too tired to apologise the sentry collapsed onto a bed and closed his eyes, within seconds falling into a deep, distant sleep. The gust of wind that awoke him marked the re-entrance of a sentry to the bunker, followed by two men carrying a large steel container that a short time ago held piping hot stew that now consisted of a frozen cylinder that had to be smashed into small pieces for the rest of the men to thaw on small cookers. ‘How are we supposed to eat this scheiße?’ asked the sentry as he climbed out of bed and scratched his chest, ‘3 weeks eating this crap, when are we going to get something worth eating?’
‘Come on Rolf, what can we do? Its all we get, even the colonel back at HQ is getting this filth’
‘And what are we supposed to heat it on? I ran out of fuel last week and we used our last block up yesterday. There is nothing out there to burn and I am freezing my balls off here’
‘O.k., O.k., I have 5 refills for you guys and a couple of chunks of bread, should help a little’
‘Well, that’s better than last time, you drag those guys out of their cots and I will start to smash…..’
Rolf was cut short by the crack of a bullet outside and the yell of a sentry. Dragging his y-straps and field gear onto his shoulders Rolf grabbed his rifle. ‘Take this Ols, looks like you are with us’ he shouted throwing a rifle from a rack across the room to the cook who was being pushed out of the way by the other soldiers in the room ‘Come with me, you can take Johannes place, he went the other day’ and without another word Rolf ran from the room followed by Olsen who knocked the ration tin onto the floor. The two charged along the trench as bullets cracked meters above their heads and flung themselves onto the bank, sinking into the snow and using their rifle buts to clear snow from their sandbag ramparts. Rolf held the mechanism of his rifle to stop the bolt from freezing in the bitter cold. Olsen did the same as he peered through the driving snow hunting for the Russian wave he knew was coming. Slowly white clad figures appeared armed to the teeth with slow moving tanks between their close ranks. At either end of the trench manned by Rolf and Ols a pair of heavy machine guns opened up. The distinctive sound of MG34 fire filled the air and was joined by a cacophony of rifle and sub machine gun fire.
The Russians held their fire. Not one raised a rifle to his shoulder or fired from the hip. Suddenly a cry went up, ‘OURRRRAAAAAA!!!!!’ the Russians cried breaking into a run straight towards the waiting Germans. The line roared towards the hail of led that cut great swathes through the ranks that rapidly filled again only to be cut down by another burst from the MG’s. The firing from the German line died down for a split second as the frightened soldiers looked at each other, attempting to cover up the fear on their faces and taking heart from the brave expressions of their comrades. With a shout to rival the Russian battle cry the German line leaped to their feet. Some men dropped their rifles and grabbed entrenching tools, others fixed bayonets or clutched at combat knives. Rolf tucked his spade into the front of his belt and fixed the bayonet onto the end of his rifle as he charged forward followed at a short difference by Olsen. The two waves met with a crash as spades smashed down onto helmets and rifle buts crashed onto furniture of an opponents weapon. Rolf raised his rifle in front of him and charged towards a short Russian as though he were nothing more than a sack of straw on a training exercise. The Russian parried with his own bayonet and lunged for Rolfs chest just as rolf sidestepped, smacking the other on the back of the head with his rifle but making a sickening crunch.
A spade swung low over Rolf’s head as he turned to face his new opponent. Somehow as he turned the bayonet found its target and plunged deep into the Russians chest, just as Rolf tried to twist it out a huge figure appeared over the dieing Russian and threw him to the side tearing Rolfs rifle out of his hands. Rolf fell, sliding across the snow and through the tangle of figures on the ground as the oversized Russian moved towards him. Suddenly Olsen appeared wielding his rifle like a club, cracking it across the head of the Russian who fell, landing with a thud on top of Rolf. Olsen stumbled forward and helped his friend out from under the figure as Rolf grabbed his spade and turned to find another enemy. As he turned a movement flashed in the corner of his eye, as he stumbled back a spade slashed across his chest. From nowhere a bayonet appeared thrusting towards the Russian who ducked, right into a retaliatory spade swing from Rolf cleaving his lower jaw open as Rolf reversed direction to bring the blade down flat on to the Russians skull. As Rolf stumbled backwards into the reddened snow he looked around to see the Russians running back the way they came as a few Germans who had retained their rifles fired after them.
Rolf lay back in the snow and looked around, bodies in the uniforms of both sides lay, indistinguishable in their camouflage on the blood-reddened snow. Olsen staggered towards him and crashed down in the snow by his side. ‘You hit’ Rolf asked noticing Olsen’s walk and wincing as a pain in his finger suddenly stabbed along his arm. Looking down he saw a slow flow of blood where the skin had been torn off his finger as he took it off the rifle trigger. Quickly wrapping it in a piece of fabric torn from the scarf of a Russian lying dead in the snow he groped in his pocket for a glove and tugged it onto his hand. ‘Look at your chest, you are hit!’ exclaimed Ols sitting up and moving towards Rolf. As he looked down Rolf became aware of a stabbing pain in his chest and ruffled through the bloody garments to find his skin clean but cold. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief as he covered the exposed skin and climbed to his feet. Thrusting his blooded entrenching tool into his belt to help cover the tear in his greatcoat Rolf lurched back to the trench, followed by Olsen. As they walked both looked over the corpses on the ground to find anything that may be of use. Rolf stopped to grab a thick Russian Gymnastiorca tunic and a PPSH 41 submachine gun with its ammunition pouch and a spare drum, slinging these on his shoulder he continued to the dug out to get some rest and food. German soldiers, dazed and tired ambled through the bloody mess to find some rest. Wounded of both sides lay, ignored by their comrades who were unable to stop to help. Occasionally a pair of grenadiers would help each other stagger to the relative warmth of the trench and rest.
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There's no honorable way to kill, no gentle way to destroy. There is nothing good in war. Except its ending.
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