[Timmay]

Synopsis: Memoirs of a teen in the army


I originally joined the war when I was 15. Thought I was not technically eligible to apply for the Red Army, stature and relative physique got me drafted in a heartbeat.

Because of the new 2-week policy, boot camp was hard and swift, our lieutenants making sure that every minute spent awake was one where you just wanted to die. Our regiment, the 42nd Guards, was assigned to Mamayev Kurgan for basic, meaning most of our day was spent either sprinting up the hill, sprinting around it, shooting at targets, or crawling on our bellies while under fire.

My expertise was shown during the second week of training, on a Wednesday, I believe. During target practice, we would use the guns developed during the early 1900's. Despite their age, they remained durable and somewhat accurate, as accurate as rifles got back then.

For some of the guys in the platoon (our platoon itself dubbed the “youngins” since the kids who made it up were no older than 16), shooting these rifles was difficult. Either they couldn’t get the bolt to work, they couldn’t reload properly, or they were just poor aims; this was not the case for me. The rifle just felt natural, and each time I picked it up, I became one with it. I trained myself to shoot.

After we graduated from bolt-action rifles, which roughly took a day, we moved on to the rifles made during the 40’s. Although it took a bit more work, I found that the semi-auto rifles, just like their predecessor, became integrated with me, and we became two parts of a whole. I soon found that my hands would get jittery when they didn’t have a rifle to hold onto. During meals and sleep, my hands would literally tremble. Before, when I was 15, my hands didn’t mean much to me; sure, they brushed my teeth, tied my shoes, etcetera, but for some odd reason, they were just “there”, like some convenient luxury. While in boot, my hands became my being. All I learned in elementary school onwards, all the math, geometry, language, science; all of it became obsolete when I had a rifle. When I was pulling on the steel trigger while steadying a barrel, I felt the most in tune with life, as if the gun and I were instuments playing in harmony.

Now, while I was the best shot in the “youngins” platoon, I turned out to be an extremely adept sapper for the regiment. It seemed I had an affinity for either shooting stuff or blowing it to smithereens. Now, while I could never hope to compete with any of the older guys, namely the 18 and 19 year olds (they were in a league of their own; in fact, they were playing another sport altogether), I could hold my own against my peers.

The last few days of basic were spent sprinting around the hill and getting introduced and acquainted to the Avtomat Kalashnikova 1947, or the AK 47.

The AK 47 was a different world altogether for the platoon and me. Not only was it an automatic, but it was accurate, comfortable, and just felt right. My lieutenant described it as a “pick up and shoot” type of gun, and there was no doubt about it. Even the skinny Artur, who couldn’t hold a rifle steady, much less shoot it, was able to hit targets from 50 meters away.

By the end of training, I had made several allies with the kids my age. There was Anatoli, who had joined the war on behalf of his Dad. Anatoli was easily the fastest of our platoon, able to sprint around the hill in almost no time at all. Il’ya was our squad’s gunner. While he wasn’t the greatest aim with an AK, he had a knack with the DP 28, able to keep heavy suppression on a target. Even Lev, who couldn’t shoot a broad side of a barn found his hidden talent; bayonets, knives, and hand to hand combat. During one exercise, he managed to bring down our Captain. For his “insolence”, he was beaten and had his rations taken away. In the two weeks, I had formed the friends who would stay with me through the war.

After training, we were sent to the German-French coast, where we spent the days either training, running around to resupply AA guns, or just pointing our guns to the West. Our first day, we were debriefed by Colonel Popov, the infamous commander of the 13th Guards rifles division, in which the 42nd Guards rifle regiment was a part of.

“So, you scum think your ready for combat?” He shouted in an auditorium full of the 42nd. We all responded with roars, which brought a forced grin to his face.

“You men are part of this war, why?” A few more roars met his question, but he held up his hand.

“You men are part of this war not because of personal politics, right? You aren’t a soldier because you think the Soviet Union holds better on policies that the Brits? No! You’re a soldier because you want to kick some fucking ass!”

This time, the colonel didn’t hold up his hand, and every man in the hall stood up and bellowed in approval.


Still, despite his and our urges to kill some Brits, we saw virtually no combat. In my month long stay in Germany, only once had they actually attacked us.


The air raid siren wailed out a deafening cry, as an MP shouted something made inaudible by the poor quality of his microphone. Still, it was quickly made obvious what was happening.

It was in this minor skirmish, which would be later called the Battle of Neidersachsen, that I, along with the rest of the platoon, showed my combat naivety. I was in the middle of eating lunch with the rest of my friends when all the sudden, the sound of aircraft rushed over the mess hall. At first, no one paid much attention to the ear-splitting sound of the engine, but then our AA guns lit up, causing an awfully loud sound to echo across our base. We all just sat in place, hoping the sound would just go away so we could continue eating, but then more planes flew past, followed by more explosive AA shells. A lieutenant came running into the hall, waving a Stechkin over his head, occasionally firing rounds.

“Hurry up, get equipped! Lock and load!”

The 4 of us who were still just sitting at the Mess table stared down at our food, then got up, grabbed our weapons, and sprinted to the door.

We were met by a few dozen planes flying overhead and AA fire. Looking around, we tried to find cover as quick as possible, as we were trained to do. However, all around us, men were standing in the wide open, just firing at the Brit plains, which I would later recognize as Spitfires. As the planes strafed back, however, the brave men who were in the wide open ran as the planes’ guns sputtered into action.

As I was looked to as a leader at the time because of my shooting ability, the 4 guys who were tailing me, Anton, Kirill, Maxim, and Nikita, kept looking at me as if I knew what I was doing. Of course, being just a Private, I had no experience commanding troops, so I just moved from cover to cover, the men advancing with me.

While moving through a tight space, i realized we would be the perfect targets for a plane's guns, so I ordered Anton and Kirill to spread out. I pointed to some cover opposite us, and the two moved.

Anton pulled Maxim with him to a large crate, but as he did, a Spitfire came barreling at the 4 of us. I yanked Kirill into cover with me, and waited until the plane had finished firing on us. I kept my eyes closed the entire time, and squealed a tiny bit when its bullets ripped along side me.

Soon though, the sound of the motor dissipated, and I opened my eyes again. Kirill was hunched over my stomach. I shook him, but he wouldn’t get up. After a moment, I lifted his head, only to be greeted by a pale face with its eyes rolled backwards. He was dead; no doubt about it.

Maxim lay dead on the ground, right next to an injured and bleeding Anton. He was already dead; it was just a matter of time.

I walked over to the Soviet, who was slipping in and out of conscience. Knowing that even if I found a medic, he wouldn't make it, I pulled back the charging handle to my AK.

That was how I spent my first battle. I ran like a chicken with its head cut off, and the one shot I fired killed a friend. I didn’t even have a clue where Nikita went; after that day, he just disappeared. I was the last person to see him.


Despite my cowardice, I was promoted to Corporal after the battle; a decision I felt wasn’t just, to both the men and me. I couldn’t be the leader, or even have any power over my coequals.


In late summer, everyone from the 13th guards was informed of a direct invasion of England. One man asked the question, “How will we get there?”

We were informed we would do a bi-aerial assault on Brighton and Lowescoft, using paratroopers. So, as of that moment, we became the 13th guards paratrooper division. Every man of the 42nd guards rifle would become a part of the 42nd guards aerial regiment.

From that point, we trained. We trained, trained, and trained some more. We weren’t given any true instruction; get into a plane, hook up your parachute, and jump. Obviously, this was difficult for some. I was one of these people; I had no problem getting in the plane, but jumping was just too hard. I would stand in front of the door, the wind whipping around my face. It just wasn’t natural.

The landing was equally hard. With my wire cutters, satchels, AK, and extra ammo, I weighed easily over 190 pounds, while my weight regularly was 130. With all this extra weight, I crashed to the ground like a comet.

Still, after a month of training, jumping just became another routine of a young soldier’s life, just like everything else he learns. We got more information about the invasion; the 39th and 34th would land in Lowescroft, while we would land in Brighton. The target was London. It was a gutsy move; the 42nd was a relatively young regiment landing at the heavily fortified beach of Brighton, while the 39th and 34th, true veterans, were going around England’s weaker flank. In essence, we were screwed; no amount of training would get us ready. In the Battle of Neidersachsen, I learned more than I could have ever learned those 2 weeks at boot, so it wouldn’t matter if we jumped out of planes for years on end; once your feet hit enemy soil, all the preparation you had, all the training, gone as soon as the first bullet flies by your head, presuming your lucky. If you’re unlucky, all your training will be forgotten for the two words, “Medic up!”


The night before the invasion was spent in silence, eating lamb chops and rice. The most anyone said was “Pass the salt.”

I sat next to Pavel, Boris, and Dimitri, quietly gnawing on a bone. I hadn’t touched my rice, and wouldn’t for the rest of the night. While I chewed on the bone, Pavel, who was only a few months older than me, whipped out a pack of cigarettes and softly asked for a light. Boris gave it to him, and Pavel flicked it up into action after several tries. Dimitri was in a type of trance, staring directly as his lamb. I was tempted to reach over and nab the chop, but my knowledge of right and wrong prevailed. I wouldn’t do that to a fellow soldier, especially when it looked like he was going to crack at any moment.

I stepped outside. Not wanting to tarnish my virgin lungs, I threw my smokes to a passerby, who stammered a “thanks” right back to me. I decided I would go right to bed, to get ready for the assault that would come the next morning.

The march to the barracks was long and fairly depressing. I knew that tomorrow, I would become another name on a KIA list. It wouldn’t really matter if I lived or not. I would die. Ine way or another, I would die. There would be the chance on the damn beach, or inland, or in London, none of which places I would like my final resting place to be. But the problem was there wasn't a chance I would live; I was just some Corporal. To the men of my platoon, I was a leader and terrific shooter, but to the rest of the army, and even myself, I was just cannon fodder, a guy who would have to take the bullet for the Sergeant.

I threw myself onto the top bunk, kicked off my shoes, and slipped into a world away from the one I had to live in.


At approximately 11 o’clock the next day, all the us of the 42nd got into their modified C-47’s and kept quiet as the noisy propellers of the transports kicked into gear. Half of my platoon was with me, with Serdzhant Andridov as our leader. I was second in the jump order.

At one, after a light doze, it was becoming increasingly obvious we were getting close to the English coast, mainly because of the British Vickers and Lewis guns distant cries. A few artillery shells exploded in air, and all of us tensed up. We were right on top of the UK, and one could distinguish all the sounds of war, even the minor ones like the fire of an EM-2. Several holes were punched into our transport. One man suffered a bullet through his foot, while others suffered many near misses. When we thought that the C-47 couldn’t suffer anymore damage, the red light near the jump door flickered on. Although we were supposed to wait for Sarge to tell us to stand up and hook up, we all jumped to our feet and clasped our jump hooks to the wire above our heads.

It was in this movement that the 6th man in our platoon, a kid not much older than me named Averiy, pulled out the string on one of his satchel charges. My good friend Il’ya, the support gunner, who was right behind him, announced this.

“Shit! Averiy! Fire in the hole!”

We all stood for about two seconds, then a might push came from the back of the plane. Not obeying the jump light, I sprinted to the door and pushed off.

As I floated down to earth like a ballistic from God, I looked up to see my plane streaking across the sky. Two or three parachutes opened near the door, and started drifting gently to the ground. Then, a flash of light, fire, and the plane joined a graveyard of its brethren on the British soil. Just those planes on the ground probably meant several hundred men met their demise. Still, at least 1,000 men’s silk parachutes were open and gliding to the dirt.

The time I spent in the air wasn’t that long, maybe a minute. I landed in a sandy area, probably a quarter mile away from the beach, right next to a British AA gun. I had lost all my ammo on the jump, but it didn’t seem to matter, considering I was one man in enemy territory.

Knowing nothing else to do, not knowing my location, and not even where the rally point was (that information was lost with Sarge), I curled up, and slept listening to the sound of the AA gun.

When the sun was just rising, the AA fell silent, and English shouts filled the air. Then, the familiar call-and-response from AK's and EM-2's occurred, an occasional explosion rocking the world. I crawled out from under my parachute and pushed my way to the AA gun. I reached the monstrosity, giant shells littered all over the ground. Several troops from the 42nd were fighting the English for the gun, and the Brits were losing.

I clicked the safety my gun, then squeezed a few shots at the direction of the Brits. I had no idea who I hit, or if I hit my target at all, but it was clear the British were overrun. They started falling back, screaming like madmen at their comrades to run away.

I walked over to the ten or so paratroopers and introduced myself. They examined me for a few seconds, then a sergeant asked how old I was. I pondered the question for a moment, then lied, saying I was 17. A private snickered, and called me a liar.

Their CO seemed pleased to see me; was at a lack of soldiers of position. He seemed to assume that I knew where the rally point. Taking a shot in the dark, I told him that we should move to Lewes or Worthing; a big mistake, because they were in complete opposite directions. He sat down, silently fuming. After a minute, he stood up, ordered his men together, and pointed to the west; the west was Worthing, the bigger city.


And now, I’m walking in a loose column formation, in a field next to Brighton. Occasionally, a wave of Red troops would parachute out of a burning plane, or EM-2s would echo around us. It’s an incredibly eerie feeling. You never know when or where a bullet’s coming.




The Colonel read the document over again. 42nd guards paratrooper regiment had suffered 85% casualties. The operation was a complete failure. He put the paper on a heap of others that cluttered his desk in giant stacks.

“Well, might as well get this over with,” he said to himself. Using a telephone, he called in a Major to his office.

“Major, you are going to take my job as a Colonel.”

The Major saw a pistol laying in the Colonel’s lap, and it became shockingly clear that the man was going to avoid the red tape completely.

The men changed places, and the Major started reading some of the articles of the deceased men. They were incredibly morbid; killed in a crash, blown up by a grenade, shot through the head. It was tough reading.

Though it sounded distant, the Major heard the gunshot from outside the room, then a soft thump. “Guess that makes me the new Colonel,” thought the Major.

“Let’s see, Corporal…16… shot while crossing a field along with 50% of squad… Tough Corporal. Somehow, I doubt you were 16.”

As the Major read the file, he felt his heart grow heavy. He knew these men were being sent to their deaths. And yet, none of them really knew why they were dying. They were all told to not think; to become mass-produced machines. But they weren’t; they were human. And most of them were literally no more than kids.



I am shot by an EM-2. My fear becomes reality. I’m not sure where I’m hit, but I’m thinking it was through my throat and heart. I clearly wasn’t hit right through the heart; I would be dead if I had. Grant you, one could argue that I was dead the moment I signed up for the military.

The rest of the guys see me go down. A few seemed concerned, but most of the others are laying flat on the ground, firing blindly into the woods. Its hard to see them disregard me, but I know its for their own good. That's what makes a soldier; someone who can be unshaken by the death of a friend. That's what I wasn't. And yet, if I held this selfish mentality, would I be lying on the ground, bleeding out my neck?

Unfortunately, I don't have enough time to ponder it; I die.

[IamTABRIS]

awesome story, with a freaking amazing moral comment

your style of writing is extremely provocative and really kept my attention and had very few quibbles


wouldnt mind a bit more on the general global situation, however thats just a personal curiosity thing, and most likely reflects the mindset of the protagonist
also, would be nice to know what an EM-2 is, but then again, i dont know all that much
xP

either way dude, this was an awesome piece, i loved it, and i want to see some more
=^_^=

[DanHill]

Some of the parts in some bits of the story dont make sence and some of the spelling is incorrect.
but overall a AWSOME STORY. very describable. GREAT WORK.

Dan

[Croissant]

Not sure what to say in terms of content, since the story is really good. I'll just comment on some grammatical/spelling errors.

First, in the very first paragraph, it's "Though" not "Thought."

Second, make sure you write numbers out. "4" should be "four."

That was how I spent my first battle. I ran like a chicken with its head cut off, and the one shot I fired killed a friend.

So, the third point is that you might want to bridge the two sentences together with a colon rather than ending the first sentence with a period.

Again, really good story

[alja123]

I agree with the others: Tis a great millitary story.

My comments lie mainly in your choice and realisation of setting:
Presumably this is set in some variation of the Cold War. In principal I was interested as to a little background or at least a date.

You set your story in USSR, but I (being born there myself) felt that aspect a little weak. I'm curious whether others find it believable.
Basically your choice of names and some other words was good, but over all it felt like the conversation and general style was inspired more by american army/movies than the soviet. Since it is set in an alternative history, I can't say whether the conditions you describe for soviet army are realistic for this fictional time. However I'm fairly certain that what you describe is much brighter and glorious than the Russian army is now (and probably what it was in the equivalent of your year). Basically your protagonist thinks and I'm not sure a character who thinks could/should survive there.
Secondly you use some english jargon & swear words. This kind of feels out of place for me. Perhaps it would feel more natural if either replaced by pseudo-russian terms(Like swearing by animals or something), or just if you just introduced more references to Soviet Union things (like use words like "comrade", there was strong soviet youth movement called Pioneri etc).

So these were my criticisms, but having noted them fairly early in the story, I kept on reading as if the story was set in American (or some other english speaking) army. In this context, the story really shines and I enjoyed it greatly.
So why did you choose soviet context?

[Timmay]

ehh, my granddad was part of the red army during WWII. I never really knew him, so all of my setting and knowledge (or lack there of) comes from secondary sources (usually written by americans or someone who's not from the USSR).

anyways, I picked russian characters for three reasons. First, to pay homage to my granddad. Two, the red army was seemly the only army i could think of that could make a 15 year old seem in place. Three, The soviets were a fierce and robust people, and in such a war as the one I "made", they would be the perfect combatant. it's like would be like a war sized stalingrad.

btw, i am (and was when I wrote this) 15, so, i dunno, it seemed like a good story to tell

[Rakkasan]

Overall, there are a lot of great points within this story; however, I have to agree that it lacks a sense of realism overall.

Even in writing a short story for fun or tribute, it is good to do a bit more research on the things you'll be touching. The cold war Soviet military was a very rough and scary life. For the men at the bottom, it was filled with a lack of factual information, a lot of propoganda to inform them of their resolve, and only enough supplies to continue their extensive training sessions. For the officers, it was a fine line that had to be walked between doing the job of a military leader, kissing up to make sure they would make their next promotion, and pretending (in many cases) to support fully the ideals of communism.

This has the potential of being really great! You need to remember that it's the details that will sell the reader.

Alja123 made an excellent point; the names are plausible, but the way in which these characters are addressed is less than reasonable. The reader might be told that someone by the name of Sasha was a member of the unit, but they might also likely know that his name was really Aleksandr Ivanovich Vasiliev, and that Sasha was his nickname. In fact, he would probably be addressed as Comrade Vailiev by those who were being more formal with him, and Sasha by his closest friends.

A great book that would help you develop a sense for details, and what it might have been like for your young character is Red Army. It is an easy read, and when you're done, you would be able to transform this piece into something phenominal.

If you choose not to read it, at least consider the details that will make it real, and expand on the areas that affect the story so much (such as the battle in Germany, why they were being forced into service at a young age, etc.). Perhaps the Colonel would have crushed out his cigarette as the Major came into his office, amost marching to the front of the desk, and reporting to Comrade Popov with all the pomp of a propaganda officer.

I could go on for awhile, but I don't have the time right now. If you are interested in working more with this short story, and want some one-on-one guidance, PM me.

I'm on vacation right now, but I'll be in and out.

[Timmay]

well, i'm not going to lie, this stories old, and i don't really care about it as much anymore. It would probably help if I went back and edited it, but i'm not worries about it. I've written bigger and better things.

not to mention that some of it, such as swearing using english terms or improperly use of names, but keep in mind the target audience. i COULD use primarily russian terms, but that wouldn't reach the audience. For instance, if this story was set in, say, korea, i could use culturally sound terms like "go eat a potato," and some people would understand such a phrase and realize that it's derogatory. However, some people would be completely lost by such a phrase, and would have to have to find out what I meant. that would undoubtedly irritate some people, and they would be turned away from my story. So, instead of using language and customs only a few people would understand and appreciate, i used the language and customs that everyone would understand, even if it didn't technically fit with my setting and characters.

Additionally, like almost every piece I do, I try to keep the story and meaning universal. while setting and characters are a major part of this story, I could have (and should have) kept the nationality of my characters anonymous. The fact that my characters are russian has little to no effect on how the plot drives itself forward. Anton could have been Anthony, Antonius, Antal, or any other name i wanted. Same with Kirill and Averiy and anyone else who had a name. Hell, i could have named my characters after the creations of doctor Suess, and it wouldn't have changed the story in any major was. Therefore, I find the use of names and titles pointless, and, as such, i don't worry about if I'm using them correctly.

anyways, like I said, thanks for the offer, but i've moved on. This is an old story, and one that I'm not going to worry about

[Rakkasan]

Fair enough...

[Gurdit]

I liked the story. The writing...well, you said it's an old story. I've seen you write better than this.

I liked the ending quite a bit. I think you should put a more clearly visibly demarcation between the scene involving the Major and the Colonel, and then again in the last few paragraphs. Like a ==================== or something. I generally use * * * when I want to change the setting.

[Nupur]

I'm going to agree with most of the people who posted here. This is really good, but you've done better. I love the feel you give to all of your stories. The war situations look very authentic with all those factual details and writing style. I'm not going to get into technicalities here (sorry, haven't got the time right now), but I suggest you go through this once again. There are a few types and couple of other mistakes. But like you said, you've moved on, so very well. Just want to tell you that I enjoyed this very much and will always be on the lookout for something new from you.

[Randomgold]

You say your done with this story, but I don't think you really should be. A good story like this should never really be 'done', just go into another stage of creation. Some time in the future, even if it's years from now, go back and look over this and see what you can improve.

[a&Ω]

My best criticizing statement on this might be something like: there's a lot of exposition but not a lot of action/dialogue. Of course "showing us" everything might take forever and you have a huge back story involved.

[timtornado3721]

Although it definitely is, this story seems to be as you said a moral styled story rather actual focus on action solely. The section with the major and colonel seems detached from the othr story with the main chracter. If you had made a small connection between the two earlier, such as the colonel orders the attack on Engand, that might work as a bridge.