For the People
Dymitry Sergeyevich Gerinelko was a soldier in the Red Army in January, 1945. Deployed to the Balkan steppes,
cheap moncler, the young soldier from Leningrad had been proud to stay behind on special assignment while his division moved onward into the wintry landscape to man a single Soviet radio outpost linking the Generals of the Balkan front with the Politburo in Moscow. Now, however, the frigid and powerful winds of the Russian winter had set in earnest, and the news he heard relayed back to Moscow was increasingly worse. His division alone had lost fifty men in the last two days, and the supplies line was running thin. It appeared as if German Nazi forces would soon make their long-expected run on the Balkans.
The supposed 'peace' accord struck between Stalin and Hitler had never fooled Dymitry; the Balkans would not be ignored so easily by the fascist hordes, he knew, and it would only be so long before Hitler came for them.
In fact, the fighting had never stopped, for Dymitry's division; it had only lulled between the day-to-day existence in the freezing oil fields. The day Dymitry was selected to man the post for his superior marksmanship merit was the day the Politburo committee on Balkan affairs had decided to advance the Generals to meet the Nazi front. There had even been a ceremony of sorts when the Commander had pinned a makeshift medal on Dymitry's chest, naming him the 'last line of defense' and wishing him good luck. Dymitry most remembered the ceremony he had had later with his friends before their deployment; seven bottles of cheap regional vodka had dimmed the pain of parting and emblazoned their hearts for the 'Patriotic War'.
That had been two months ago, and now, long after Dymitry had broken his orders and began listening to the relayed messages, he realized that many of those rosy cheeked young comrades where dead or lay dying on the frozen steppe. The Germans were advancing, and they would soon be here, Dymitry deduced; but never really acknowledged the fact until the terrifying day he had spotted the German scout over the plains of frozen tundra.
Dymitry had lifted his near-frozen Mosin-Nagant Carbine to his shoulder and, through the disguised sniper-hide's concrete-lined window, aimed carefully. Dymitry's modified Mosin-Nagant held a telescopic sight, thus making it a very effective bolt action Sniper rifle. This scope, increasing Dymitry's range from the Carbine's maximum 1,090 yards or so, to nearly 2,050, the Soviet easily centered on the German's face. He had hesitated, not knowing whether more Germans were about or what, but had then decided that he had to protect the radio station at all costs. He lowered his sights to a more safe shot of the center body mass, and fired.
His 7.62mm round slammed square into the scout's right side-lower abdomen, and Dymitry cursed himself for his sloppiness as he centered on the man's now prone and writhing form and drilled another round into the top of the Nazi's skull, tearing through the helmet and stopping the soldier dead. Dymitry had hoped the man hadn't gotten off a radio message, or, worse, had been art of a larger force that might have heard the shots, but he dared not abandon his location to retrieve the corpse. The snow had covered it by morning.
Dymitry, however, was still edgy. A report from his own division commander had come through that night over the old Soviet radio system, and, Dymitry listening in, heard the news that the Germans had completely broken the Soviet advance, and the divisions were retreating in shambles; the Germans were sending forces straight into Dymitry's area. He decided to up his caffeine intake with an extra cup of coffee, he destroyed what little vodka he had in the stove fire, and increased his watch length. Two weeks later, he was still waiting nervously for intruders. They finally came.
"Oh, God," Dymitry breathed, seeing the two soldiers approach the mound of the corpse. Walk by it. He thought as loud as he could, his eyes closed shut tight behind the scope of the Carbine. He opened them; the Germans had found their comrade. He centered on the further one's chest, and fired.
His earlier modification to the sight had helped; and his shot knocked the German backwards after tearing through his center chest, ripping through his heart. The other soldier snapped up at the sound of the sot and began shouting as he saw his comrade fall. Dymitry hadn't been commended for nothing,
ray ban aviators, and his next shot, two seconds later, drilled into the Nazi's face just above the side of his jaw, disintegrating the head in a splash of pink blood and gray brain matter. Dymitry couldn't breath as he hoped beyond hope there weren't more. Then he saw the head peek up over the hill, and he heard the German infantryman shout to his company from nearly 2,000 yards away.
He had used two rounds,
Gucci Sunglasses, and so had three left in this clip, and still fourteen magazines behind him within easy reach in the boxes. He reached back as he waited for the company to advance and pulled three clips out for easy access. Then he saw the first of them.
The first German wore a thick overcoat, and held a new model MP-40, so Dymitry assumed correctly he must have been somebody important. He centered on his head, angled up the sight a fraction to compensate for the distance, and squeezed off a round. Dymitry saw with satisfaction the man's head jerk back suddenly, his now lifeless eyes looking blankly up to the bleak sky, and drop backwards out of sight. Another two men charged up in front of him. He jerked off a round high and missed the closest, then concentrated and tagged his leg from 1,040 yards, dropping him with a scream of agony. He tore the magazine out and reloaded, his frigid hands moving even in the freeze with lightening-trained accuracy as he slapped back the bolt. The next German leapt nimbly over his fallen comrade and began to zero in of Dymitry using the flash from his rifle. Several rounds from the enemy's GEWEHR 41 rifle ricocheted threateningly off the camouflaged hide, but Dymitry held his ground unflinchingly, and landed a shot that pounded into the German's stomach from 1,000 yards, dropping him. Dymitry saw the first man pull himself towards the safety of the hill, and he fired twice to end his misery. He had two rounds still and decided to wait. Bad move he thought a second later as four Germans spread out over the snow charged from the hillcrest, guns blasting rapidly as they baited Dymitry to fire. Their shots went high and to the right, so Dymitry took his time and let loose on the closest one when he reached 1,050 yards, he dropped him with a round in the middle of his torso, probably ripping a lung and damaging the heart. He whipped around and blasted the last round into the next closest enemy at 1,070 yards and killed him with a lucky shot into his neck. The Soviet scrambled for the clips behind him as he flinched the bullets now zeroed in on his flashes from the two remaining soldiers. One stood his ground and the other kept charging. Reloading finally, Dymitry squeezed off two rounds into the charging man and saw him drop a second before he ducked the narrowly missing shots of the stationary German. He popped up in a different slit of the hide and surprised the man in the upper chest and lower neck region to send him to meet his maker. Proud of himself, and set, Dymitry waited the next attack. It didn't come. Surely there must be more. He thought, that was only nine; where were the rest? He got his answer in the next few seconds as he glimpsed the blur of color moving past the crest of the hill on is far right. They are flanking me. And he reloaded quickly and moved. Standing and making his way cautiously outside, Dymitry spied the line of five Germans making their way towards his post from the opposite end of the right side hill. Laying down in the cold, wet snow, he contented himself with the fact that they didn't yet know exactly where he was, and he centered on the first German's face from only 100 yards away. It exploded; drenching the Germans behind him and sending them firing randomly up the hill at the hidden enemy, who casually drilled another round into his eleventh kill of the day. The remaining three concentrated their fire on his barrel, and Dymitry retreated, nimbly rolling to his left and then down the hill to safety. So he thought. They had come from both sides! He realized, seeing the Germans who had been sneaking around from his left flank as well. His eyes met with those of the closest, a young lad, as he himself was, and just as terrified. Then Dymitry's instincts took over, and he fired, killing his enemy while he hesitated a second too long. There were six more behind him, and Dymitry had only two rounds left in his Carbine. He used them now, as he leapt up and bolted back to his right, to find the safety of the hide. He saw one German drop at least before he dove into the doorway and first corridor. There was no time to reload; so he whipped out his pistol; a heavy, solid steel Tula-Tokarev, and checked the chamber. Full clip; eight 7.62mm rounds.
"For the People!" He screamed as he leapt back outside, he caught the Germans by surprise, and the recoil of the powerful TT-33 pistol hammered a bullet through the leader's face. Dymitry was satisfied to see the others scream and fall back; until he noticed the first enemy had dropped a grenade as the bullet had destroyed his face. The pin was nowhere in sight. Dymitry dove to his right, seeing the other Germans fling themselves backwards from their fallen leader and his explosive. The Germans on his right had not quite surmounted the hill yet for fear of his rifle, and they cringed at the explosion that shook the landscape a second later.
Crawling up to peer over the crest of the hill, the last two Germans surveyed the damage of the explosive; the left flank team had been destroyed, their leader laying in charred pieces near the epicenter of the explosion and the other three either writhing in pain from their burns or laying still as death in the quiet snow. Cautiously, the lead right flanker stepped down the snow bank and looked around for the Russian; he found him, laying down on his back in the snow near the door; his coat and face burnt extensively from the grenade's explosion and a piece of flak sticking hideously from is right leg. He was dead.
Moving up to the still corpse, the German leaned down to take the gun, a Tokarev model, from his still clutching hands. Dymitry opened his eyes, and, barely seeing and deaf from the grenade, he shot the German at close range in the gut. The surprised look lasted a second on the foreigner as he clutched his stomach and doubled over, gurgling painfully in the reddening snow. The Tokarev jerked up as he fired again, too high to hit the final enemy, who was then raising his own MP-40. Dymitry took careful aim and began to squeeze the trigger again; but he was too slow, and thirty- two 9mm German rounds slammed into his crippled and burnt body from six yards away.Topics related articles：
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