A Soldier's March Chapter 5, a call of duty fanfic

DECEMBER 25, 1942 – 9:00 P.M

I hope everyone has a nice Christmas.

DECEMBER 26, 1942 – 8:45 P.M

I leave for the front lines tomorrow, to be reunited with my brothers.

I find it sad that I am eager to get back and deal more death and destruction to the Germans that have attacked us. I continue to read the casualties list and every time I do my thirst for revenge grows stronger, so much so that my stomach often growls in pain. I've cried more in the past two weeks then I have in my entire life and I feel ashamed because of it.

The only other time I have felt shame was when I put a tack on my teacher's chair as a childish prank and he suffered from a cardiac arrest. He didn't die, but my conscience continued to pound on my soul for weeks afterward.

DECEMBER 27, 1942 – 11:00 P.M

I have left the hospital tent today for the line.

Ninel said her goodbyes in tears, but gave me a pair of her earrings as a token of our friendship.

I came to the hospital with little, so carry little on my back; a rifle, a backpack, a canteen, and a freshly pressed uniform was all that made up my kit. My boots tread hard on the snowy grass and I became addicted to the musical crunching sound it made under my feet. I wore the same hammer-and-sickle winter cap I had arrived with on my head, but it barely protected me from the cold winds.

A truck came to the graveyard; I asked where it was going.

The 13th Guards Rifle Division was somewhere along the Volga River, guarding the dozens of ships bearing US-funded supplies coming across the debris-ridden waters.

"I am headed towards the river, comrade. Why do you ask?"

"May I have a ride?"

The driver nodded. "Go in the back, but be careful, there is some ammunition in there that you wouldn't want tipping over."

I nodded, marched over to the back of the truck, and climbed in.

The ride was nice and quiet; the driver didn't speak and I didn't have any reason to start a conversation. He attempted to avoid any violence at every turn and, because of this, it took a little bit more than two hours to get near the Volga River. Once we arrived at the docks, I jumped out and, after asking several of the dockworkers, decided that my comrades were just a mile north of my current position.

I set off along the shore, my feet just barely within the reach of the river's vast waves.

It hadn't been long since I'd been on these beaches. The morning before my company's assault on the German fortifications in September, my division had been deployed from the opposite shore of the Volga River as a part of the major Red Army assault against the Germans. I can still remember the streak of light as the train doors opened and the sight of battle first crossed my visage. The Germans strafed us with their planes and fired on us with their machine guns perched high in the buildings atop a fortified hill.

That was the first time I met Nikita; a tall, gangly boy who was a new recruit at the time. He had been taking cover behind a tank obstacle and mortar fire was narrowing down on his position. Nikita was frozen; even when I called to him he didn't move. I jumped up from my own position, leaving Sokolov and Durasov to fend for themselves and pulled Nikita out of danger.

Belinski then came over and guided a shell-shocked Nikita down to help with the wounded so he was neither killed by the Germans nor deemed a traitor by his superiors and shot. Once this was done, I regrouped with Nevski and followed him up the hill with my men. In a matter of minutes, our forces swarmed over German defenses and were in the city streets. The Germans tried to abandon their posts in the buildings, but ran right into our advancing troops and a fierce hand-to-hand fight broke out.

I remember taking my rifle and breaking a man's skull open with it.

The water had yet to clean off what remained of that bloody day. I could see the rotting corpses stuffed in the sand; the smell was horrible. I kept going, though, speeding up my pace whenever I was near a body. This reduced the time it took for me to get to the division, which I could now see in the distance.

The majority of them were scattered across the beach, helping civilians unload the crates of weapons and ammunition being dropped off on the beach by small steamboats. Commissar Letlev, a familiar face, was standing atop the hood of a car with a notepad in his hand. Around him was a small crowd of troops, calling out their names. In the car sat General Badanov and Colonel Voronin, both with a bored expression on their faces.

I walked down to the car and approached Voronin.

After saluting both senior officers I said, "Sir, I am looking for Captain Elias Nevski's company. Might either of you know where they are?"

"Yes comrade," Voronin shifted in his seat and pointed towards a group of men standing around a set of armored halftracks a little ways up the beach. "What do you need them for, sergeant?"

I swallowed. "I just got back from the hospital, sir."

Badanov sighed. "Well, it is a good thing you are alright, comrade."

"Thank you, sir." I said and saluted both of them.

They saluted back and soon enough I was on my way. The first recognizable face I saw was Nevski's, but, upon spotting it, I quickly turned in the other direction. I continued on my way on the beach, searching for either Durasov or Alexei. I missed Durasov terribly, as I'd known him since even before the war had started. Having known Alexei for only a short while, I wasn't as anxious to see him as I was Durasov.

I stepped up onto a crate and scanned the beach for my friends.

"Andrei, is that you?"

I turned.

Behind me was a familiar face.

Durasov's smile stretched from ear to ear and his eyes lit up as he saw me. I noticed that, in contrast to his face, his uniform was in ruins; tears and rips made a home in his jacket, mud seemed to have been splashed on his pant legs, and his rifle was now old and rusty. Nevertheless, he was happy to see me and I was happy to see him. I stepped down from the crate and took his hand to shake. He gleefully took my hand and we shook for a moment. When the moment ended and we were done, I patted Durasov on the shoulder and asked him how he had been and what the company had been up to since I'd last seen them.

He said that they had managed to beat back the enemy troops easy enough, but had taken no prisoners during the ordeal. For the past couple of weeks, the division was assigned to oversee patrols near and around the Volga River, as well as help deliver supplies to friendly units once they were made available to transport and distribute.

And that was what the division was doing.

Once Durasov was finished speaking, he brought be over to where a group of men were sitting.

"Alexei!" he called. "Andrei Toufexis is back!"

One of the men looked up and stood. It was Sergeant Alexei. He came over to Durasov and me with a half-smile on his face and a cigarette in his hand. Alexei looked at me, shaking my hand.

"How are you doing, comrade?" he asked.

"Leg's a little stiff but I will be alright." I answered.

"Well, that's good."

"Yes well…"

My voice was suddenly drowned out by a loud whistling noise. Everyone stared up into the sky for a moment. It wasn't until someone eyed "MORTAR!" That anybody did anything. Everyone scattered; crates and weapons were dropped, men tripped over one another, and orders were quickly called out until…

BOOM!

The whistling ceased and a mortar round landed right behind the car where Voronin, Badanov, and Letlev were in. Letlev was sent flying off the hood, landing on his head and breaking his neck. Voronin and Badanov were saved by the metal of the car and quickly jumped out, sprinting across the beach towards the nearest cover. Soon, dozens more simultaneous whistling sounds erupted from the sky and landed abruptly on the beach.

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

Sand, bodies, and supplies were sent flying into the air as mortar after mortar landed amongst our positions. I didn't move; both Durasov and Alexei had left me in favor of finding cover. I stared up into the sky—I wasn't looking for any incoming shells, but rather looking at the clouds as if they would be dispersed by the artillery. It was at that moment I felt a rough hand clamp down on my shoulder and push me down onto the ground. The sand sprayed into my eyes and mouth and I was blind.

Nevski yelled in my ear. "Get up, comrade, now!"

Elias grabbed both of my shoulders and pulled me to my feet. I still couldn't see and my ears were ringing as more shells plummeted down.

BOOM!

"Can you see, Andrei?"

"No!"

"Alright," Nevski yelled. "Run as fast as you can, comrade. I will guide you to some place safe."

I didn't have time to answer, as Nevski wrapped his arm around my chest and pulled me forward. I moved my legs as fast as I could, but I was still unable to keep pace with the Captain. I don't know how long we ran or for how far, but when we did eventually stop, we were inside a building. Nevski sat me down on a wet and damp wooden chair. He then took off his gloves and rubbed my eyes until I could see.

I blinked twice and opened my eyes.

I was in a church, sitting before an altar. The war was not a friend of the church and had received several fatal blows due to this. Half a wall was missing and only a small portion of the ceiling remained, allowing the snow to fall onto the aisles of benches. Nevski sat down on the stage beside the altar, looking at me with his rifle on his lap. The sound of explosions continued outside and shook the foundations of the church.

"How are you feeling?"

I must have had a confused look on my face, because he continued. "How are your eyes doing? Can you see alright, comrade?"

I nodded. "Yes sir."

"Come on, Andrei. We were friends once; there is no need for formalities. Call me Elias, please, comrade. I have enough people calling me "sir" or "captain", and it makes me sick."

I shifted in my seat and wiped some of the sand off of my uniform. I looked at Nevski, who had drawn a knife and begun to clean its blade. I licked my upper lip and squinted. "What happened to you Elias? When we first met in Moscow you were a happy, fun-loving person. You were engaged to…to that girl. What made you like this?"

"They made me like this!" Nevski barked in a sudden burst of anger. "Hitler and his fascist dogs did this to me. The Germans made me how I am." Nevski hesitated for a long moment as he looked down at his feet and tears began to form up in his eyes. "They took everything from me; they killed my family, my fiancé…they killed my dog."

He was on the verge of sobbing now. Every word that escaped his lips was slightly muffled by a cry. "My beautiful Valentina…my father and mother…my little sister…all lined up and shot by the Germans. They took my dog outside and shot him. The only reason I stand before you today is because of Voronin, he found me before they killed me and slaughtered the fascists. He then offered me a choice: to get revenge on the people who killed my family or stay in Moscow and help rebuild our city after the German attack."

Nevski wiped his eyes. "I treat the Germans as they have treated me. When we get to Berlin—and I swear, by the end of this war, we will—no man, woman, or child will be safe from my vengeance. You may call my actions cruel. But if you were in my position, you would see them as justifiable. No, I do not have a lust for blood as you and your friends might have thought, but I will not spare any German I come into contact with."

I was shocked but kept a straight face.

I leaned in towards him. "I understand now why you have done what you have done, but you will answer for the death of Private Nikita…you will answer for the murder of those German POWs. I am sorry, my friend. The pain in your heart must be great, but know that mine is too when I say I am your enemy."

Nevski smirked and stared into my eyes. "This is the thanks I get for saving your wretched life?"

I frowned. "You knew what my answer would be. What did you think would happen? Did you believe everything would be forgiven? Nikita was a boy, not even old enough to buy a drink—and you killed him!"

Nevski stood. "Those POWs were but boys, yet I do not hear you defending their deaths!"

"I do defend them!"

I stood.

"Yet I show no aggression towards it."

"Why?"

"Because I know in my heart that one day you will rot in Hell and that for your sins you will be punished and their deaths will be justified."

"What about my family's deaths?"

"How long have you been in this war, Elias? How many men have you killed? You said it yourself that those Germans who killed your family had met their fate a long time ago. Your family's deaths have been justified ten times over. Killing innocent German soldiers will not give you any satisfaction; it will only add on to your punishment."

The sound of the mortar shells impacting ceased and I turned my back on Nevski. I didn't care if the attack was over, but I needed to get away from Elias before I took it too far. One of my friends was already dead because of this psycho, and I didn't need him to kill me. I expected Nevski to maybe take his knife and stab me in the back, but nothing happened. He allowed me to pass through the door and leave him in his misery. I quickly found Durasov and Alexei and together we found a nice place to rest on the beach.

It is from there, watching as the rest of the division disposes of the destruction left in the wake of the mortar attack, that I write this entry, reader. It is on this beach, amongst the debris, that I query: Who will be the one to survive this war, Nevski or myself?

It shall be determined by this war's end.