AN: Dear me, a whole week between updates. Oh well. And now, after a great deal of messing about and going to and fro, we finally have the Battle of the Beasts. Alternative titles include 'Red Army is the strongest' or 'How can I make it not a stomp'. Hope everyone's enjoying this. Remember to comment or review depending where you're reading this, as this helps me improve as an author, but also keeps this story closer to the top of the boards, which means more people see it. In this chapter I'd particularly like to know if I can still write decent action scenes.
-x-
The artillery struck first. The divisional guns boomed and 76mm shells thudded down, shrapnel wreaking a terrible toll among the enemy, their formation being torn by great bloody rents, visible clearly from the top of the hill Durov was observing from.
The Beastmen had drawn themselves up into a much tighter formation, no doubt to preserve the ferocity of their charge by weight of numbers. Durov had let them, and had been proved right, with his well-trained artillery crews managing eight rounds a minute with ease. But the artillery, while killing a dozen Beastmen with each round, could not match the power of the Katyusha.
Soon trails of fire were racing overheard, like the spears of the gods the rockets soared toward the enemy, disrupted but still dangerous. The Romans quailed in fear, and their horses reared and stamed in terror at the sound, a shrieking to wake the dead, beginning with the woosh of the ignition, and ending as the rocket ploughed into the gound. The explosions threw up a cloud of eaerth and dust across the enemy, along with great quantiries of smoke which made visibility difficult. If anything though, the rocket troop's attack had been more devastating than any artillery shell. The sound alone would have put the fear of their god into the Beastmen.
The Colonel remembered one battle in January a few years ago. On some desolate Prussian plain he'd witnessed the largest artillery barrage he'd seen in te whole war. For five and a half hours a four kilometre front had been bombarded, fiver hundren artillery guns and thousands of rockets and motars had been fired, with ground attack aircraft and bombers flying overhead at all times. He had almost gone deaf, and even with the bits of cloth they'd torn up and stuffed in their ears their heads had still been ringing for a week.
After the last rocket fell, Durov knew the launchers would retreat, but the guns fired on, this time targeting any pocket untouched by the roket company, of which, Durov saw, there were few. The Russians, well used to modern warfare, began to cheer, and the officers turned to their Colonel for orders. He frowned, regarding the enemy, who, in spite of the barrage, had started standing up, and were once again making their way forward, this time picking their way over their dead kin as they went.
"Advance!" roared Durov, and threw his hand forward like a blade.
A thunder of boots replied, hobnail Romans and rubber-soled Russians in ockstep, their banners streaming red. The two companies Durov has committed were each protected by two centures of Romans, strung out in five ranks in front and behind the riflemen. The other Elysian regiments had been placed on the flanks, and Thurius has confessed that he did not trust them. The Greek-descended hoplites, fighing with shield and spear were on the extreme left flank, along with Thracian tribal cavalry, while a mixed company of two hundred skirmishers made up of Syrian, Gallic and HIspanians took the right.
Behind Durov, the motorised elements of the force rolled up. The tanks went on past him, teetering precariously on the edge of the summit before crashing down on the other side of the ridge, the T-34s like a pack of wolves, with the mighty IS-2, bedecked with two enormous flags, following slightly behind. After the tanks came the assault guns, which took position on the hilltop to rain fire down from a distance, as well as the Regiment's mechanised forces, halftracks and scout cars, which would act as a mobile reserve along with the final company of riflemen, equipped this time with double the normal complement of heavy machineguns.
Finally, Durov had his SG Teams, organised in their own company. He did not intend to commit them, rather to use their mobility to break through the enemy, and then to push on as quickly as possible into Vulcan's lands. Among them were his scientific advisors, as well as his own SG-1, with Ilya perched on the hull of one of the armoured cars, his anti-tank rifle ready.
The Beastmen had reformed themselves again, and Durov marvelled at their discipline, or at least he supposed their morale, that they would be able to get back up after the barrage ended. They had even spread out, lessening the effectiveness of the continuous artillery.
"Sir enemy are within five hundred metres!" came the call from the front.
Durov gave the order again: "All positions fire!"
It wasn't the line of flashes from the ompanies at the front that the Colonel paid attention to, nor even the roar as six assault guns fire within a second of eachother, each rocking back on their carriges. Rather, Durov watched Ilya, who fire in the same moment as all the others, his cheek pressed up against the pad of the stock, while the whole assembly forward of the rifle's receiver shot back, glancing off the deflection plate so it didn't strike the face of its user.
As the guns roared around him, reaching spelling the death for dozens of the enemy, Durov considered that there was something intimate about a rifle, that didn't exist in for an artillerist or a tanker. Ilya fired again, stoically loading and reloading mechanically. Each shot ejected the send casing from the bottom of the rifle, the recoil knocking it out, while Dimitri was kneeling next to the sniper, calmly taking rounds from the ammunition boxes and handing them over.
Once again the enemy were thrown off their feet, the first few ranks shredded by the Soviet fire. Those that managed to stumble forward, half-dead into the Roman lines were stabbed and slashed as quickly as the legionaries could swing their swords. On the left though the Greeks locked their shields and recoiled from the charge, as while a deep cone had been carved into the front ranks, the flanks had been less closely watched. Steadily though the joint force regained their equilibrium; their shots became more accurate as they acclimatised to the unusual situation of close combat, and their Roman comrades resumed the role they'd trained for the previous days, staying low, almost at a crouch, while the Kalashnikovs fired over their heads.
It looked as if then that the line could stand for eternity, as fire seemed to leap from the soldier's eyes, striking their enemies dead. But as the smoke cleared the Beastmen brought up their cavalry. Maddened with the pain of shrapnel and confused by the din of battle they charged, throwing their heads from side to side and bellowing as they ran, their savage riders gesticulating and roaring with them, waving spears and clubs of bone.
The Elysians, well trained and remembering two thousand years of discipline, split apart, levelling long spears and readying javelins. Despite their valour, as one the Russians abandoned their targets and fearfully fired into the creatures, but while they caused great pain, the cavalry drew closer. Nor were the friendly units more effective, and the Greeks began to buckle, the phalanx falling back a few steps even before they'd been struck. The Thracians bolted, their small, shaggy horses screaming and turning their riders barely able to cling on.
Ilya fired on, his rounds penetrating deep and detonating among the organs of the beasts, felling two of them in quick succession. But just as the Beastmen had been mown down by the machineguns, their larger forces were destroyed just as easily as a dozen booms shook the battlefield.
Like lancers they came, their barrels smoking, hull-mounted Degtyaryovs spewing fire. Each one twenty-five tonnes of Soviet steel. The T-34s thundered their allegiance, to march, to fight and to die for the Motherland and the company advanced, loading and reloading, their high explosive shells filling the air. Three rows of six fired in sequence so that between them the platoons were never silent for more than a few seconds.
They came on like a landslide, passing swiftly among the squares of infantry and crushing any Beast too slow to leap away, their bones snapping and their flesh torn to pieces as it was chewed by the treads. In their impotent rage, the enemy began to tear stones out of the ground and hurled them at the tanks; but just like the bones spears and darts they'd thrown, these new showers were nothing compared with the rockets and cannons of the Hitlerites, the scars of which some of the tanks still bore.
But even with this slaughter the enemy still came, and Durov saw that his soldiers were putting half a magazine into the chests of the Beastmen before they succumbed, and even then they managed to throw themselves onto the spears of the Romans. One group of them halted a tank, not by strength, but by obscuring the viewports with their bodies. Durov marvelled as one brute ripped out an external fuel tank from its mooring, dousing himself in diesel and throwing it aside.
Enough of the fuel would be draining down through gaps in the armour to create a real danger of the tank burning up, and so Durov made the call:
"Commit the reserve!" he barked.
The Regiment's halftracks, previously hidden behind the hill moved forward. In each of them they carried ammunition and two heavy machineguns. Between them the final company of infantry rode, precariously balancing on top and even clinging onto the sides of the vehicles. The sight was cheering to see, and Durov knew they would serve as steel walls, able to fire over the top of the infantry. He hadn't wanted to use them yet, and would have preferred if the artillery and infantry had been able to rout the enemy before now, but the Beastmen were proving more resilient than they'd thought. Even with their weapons demonstration before the Romans Durov had known they were stronger than humans, and that their brute strength and savage fervour would be the enemy's greatest assets, but even the high explosive rockets, which would have routed any Wehrmacht division, had seemed not to bother the Beasts, though hundreds of them had been killed early on.
As the halftracks unloaded, unboxing and deploying their Dashkas on tripods, the tanks raced back and forth. With each pass they crushed more of the enemy, but the Beasts had learnt to avoid them, waiting will the last moment and then diving aside. Frequently the tanks clipped them as they went, but even as they were thrown aside the Beastmen would roll and get up, hurling their javelins uselessly into the tank's side armour. Yet none could escape the 76mm canons, the shells of which burst all over the battlefield, sometimes not even being aimed before firing. The bow machineguns were still firing, but Durov knew at some point they would overheat, if the crews were not careful.
By now Durov thought they'd probably killed about five thousand Beastmen, around a quarter of the enemy force. Most of the greater beasts were dead as well, falling either to the weight of machinegun fire, or to the shells of tanks. At least three had died to Ilya's rifle, but as with the enemy's infantry, their cavalry was proving tougher than they'd thought. He considered-
"Colonel!" came a cry, "The Roman cavalry! On the left!"
The battlefield blurred through his binoculars as he swivelled, not bothering to correct the officer as he watched the Thracians charge in. But right in the middle of their wedge he saw a falling cloud of dust, clearly a round having gone astray and landed among the horsemen. The Thracians had rallied from their flight and calmed their horses, and Durov had thought them waiting for the final chase, but while he'd been occupied it seemed they'd rallied and charged. Quite different from the lancers he'd imagined earlier, the Thracians were short men on short horses, and ill-suited to their action.
Durov watched in distaste, grimacing as the charge disintegrated, torn from their horses and mauled by the fangs and claws of the Beastmen. Worse still, the allied units, particularly the Greeks, had attempted to join the attack, but were not out of place and rapidly being outflanked.
"Order Kuzenov to form a square, pull the Romans in and use the halftracks for cover!" Durov said the radio operator, who relayed the command to Chapayev and down to the infantry. "Leave the rest, and bring the artillery in close, fire on that clump there!" and he pointed to the Beastmen feasting on the dead horsemen. Thurius had warned him not to trust the allies discipline and fighting ability, but Durov had ignore it as Roman arrogance, clearly that had been an error. He had wanted to smash the enemy in a single attack, but that was impossible now. They'd have to break them more slowly. The Red Army would not be beaten by tribal savages. Not now, not ever.
The Soviets reformed quickly, they'd already amalgamated into several large groups after they'd opened the ranks for the tanks to pass through, but now they retreated in good measure under the fire of the halftracks and tanks. Wherever the enemy were concentrated the scouts called in artillery, mortars fired with fearsome accuracy and the tanks charged, scattering them. This prevented any concerted push, but also diminished the effectiveness of the automatic fire, as many rounds missed as they did in any battle.
Just then Ilya left to his feet, swearing as he did and bringing his own binoculars up.
"What is it Ilya?" he called over, noting the anger on the sniper's face.
Ilya scowled and muttered something to himself. "The Minotaur is back." He said grimly, "I couldn't see him through the dust before. It's not him, just one of them wearing the helmet, there," and he pointed, "On the horse-thing."
Durov grimaced and after a few seconds search found where Ilya was pointing. It was as Ilya said, the Minotaur was clearly visible as the dust cleared, golden horns shining despite the weak sunlight. However, all accounts of Ivanovich's reconnaissance had the Minotaur in heavy metal armour, like a knight of old, where this one looked more like one of the Beastmen had simply looted the helmet from his dead master. The figure was indeed riding one of the large animals, standing on its back, holding reins in one hand and some sort of spear in the other.
"This is why they haven't broken…" said Durov to himself. It was clear to him now, the enemy had seen their commander resurrect himself and presumably believed they themselves were now immortal as well.
As he confronted the new problem the false Minotaur goaded his mount forward, with two more cavaliers in front of him.
"Sir he's going for the square and he's- " Ilya fired again, the rifle's recoil deflecting it off the plate next to his head "using them as cover!" the sniper reloaded quickly, "I can't get them all."
With another shot Ilya struck one of the Minotaur's guards. There was a small red explosion as it seemed an arm had been torn off by the round, with a bloody mess falling from their saddle, still attached by the reins. The dead weight pulled the mount to the side, where it blundered off in a wide circle away from the battle.
But the other cavalier guided his mount ahead of the Minotaur, absorbing a burst from a halftrack's guns with a roar of pain.
"Take them down before they reach the square!" shouted Durov into his radio, knowing that the infantry would likely break if either of the beasts broke through.
Several of the tanks turned their guns on the remaining guard, and the weight of fire stopped the beast in its tracks, two shots missed, but more struck it and while its driver leapt free, his mount collapsed in a red mist.
But the Minotaur reborn was untouched, and drove his mount to the charge, using the corpses of his guards for cover and shouldering them roughly aside. More shots flew in, and the beast was miraculously untouched, with some flying past the mount and others thudding into the ground. But when the Beastman was within two hundred metres of the square, shrugging off a hail of machinegun fire as if a rainstorm, an enormous explosion erupted in front of it.
The battle seemed to stop, waiting to see the effect of the shot. But after a few seconds the dust cleared and the Minotaur's horns glinted again in the sun. His mount was bloodied from a thousand cuts in its thick hide, but otherwise unscathed, and it stamped forward on thick legs. The Beastmen had stopped their attack, watching their leader, while the Elysians took the opportunity for a short respite, and Durov saw some of the Soviet crews changing their gun barrels for ones that hadn't overheated.
Slowly the smoke cleared from the battlefield, revealing the tank that had fired the shot. Twice as heavy as the T-34s, its canon five times as powerful, Stalin joined the battle, clad in steel. Bane of the Elefants, Tigers and Panthers of the Hitlerite circus, the IS-2 roared its challenged, and was returned by the Mintotaur's beast, which stamped and tossed its head. The rider shouted and gesticulated, motioning toward the vulnerable square, but he had lost control and his mount surged forward through the main, fuelled by rage against modernity and savage momentum.
The IS-2 advanced, red banner flying proudly from the cupola. The commander in the hatch fired his pintle mounted Degtyarev without pause, and the Minotaur was forced down below the shoulders of his mount. The soldiers of both armies cheered on their champions, the wider battle forgotten.
The tank fired again at fifty metres, and its 122mm canon cut its adversary in half. The round pierced somewhere in the chest, halting the charge entirely and sending a gory cloud out above the battle. The animal didn't have time to cry out or make one last roar, as its legs were sent in different directions as bloody chunks flew all over the battle.
As red rain fell the Romans emerged from beneath their shields, cheering. On the other side a dismal groan universally rose from the Beastmen and they edged back, some in the rear fleeing as the IS-2 skidded to a stop between the and the square.
To Durov's amazement, he saw a golden glint emerge from between two large piles of flesh. The Minotaur, somehow still not dead, perhaps shielded by its mount, stumbled forward, limping and leaning heavily on its spear. The Beastmen began to rally and Durov reached for his radio to issue new orders when golden bolts of light erupted from square. A figure in a red cape charged out, Vulcan's staff levelled and firing with each step. A universal cheer came from the Roman and Soviet infantry and they broke formation and charged out with Thurius, hurling their last javelins and firing their rifles as they ran.
The Minotaur finally fell dead, struck by half a dozen bolts of plasma and his army broke. All their cavalry were dead and their saviour slain. Some tried to fight, but the Roman's fury at centuries of war overcame them and they were run down, the faster ones only surviving till the muzzles of the rifles and machineguns found them. They were not to be outdone by the allied troops, as the remains of the Greek phalanx abandoned their spears and shields to pursue faster and the Gauls and Syrians drew their long knives.
Now was the time: "Chapayev!" Durov shouted, "You have command, we are moving!"
He barely heard Chapayev's reply as he climbed into his armoured car, Ilya with his ordinary rifle, having left his now ammunition-less Simonov to be retrieved after the battle.
"Go!" order Durov, "Break through there on the right!" and he pointed to where the enemy was weakest, those on the right having fled the fastest. "Follow me all of you!" he called into his radio.