I originally joined the war when I was 15. Right out of freshman year, I was technically not eligible for Red Army standards, but due to my stature and relative physique, I was 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. For target practice, we would use the guns developed during the 1900. Despite their age, they remained durable and somewhat accurate, as accurate as rifles got back then.

For some of the guys in the platoon (dubbed the “youngins” because we were no older than 16), shooting with these rifles was difficult. 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 one. 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 shoe, 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 that I ever would feel, like me and God became one being, and I controlled everything.

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 boot 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 day 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, 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’re going to kick some ******* 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 urges to kill some Brits, we saw virtually no combat. In my month long stay in Germany, only one 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, only being a Private, I had no experience commanding troops, so I just moved from cover to cover, the men advancing with me.

At one point, we were extremely bunched up, so I ordered Maxim and Anton to move some cover that was left of us.

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.

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 it’s 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.

A walked over to the Soviet, who was slipping in and out of conscience. Knowing that even if I found a medic, he would still die, I pulled back the charging handle to my AK, and put a bullet into Anton’s heart. He immediately died.

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, one way or another. I would die on the damn beach, or inland, or in London. It didn’t really matter, because I knew there was no 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 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 number two in jump order.

At one, I could tell we were getting close to the English coast 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, ever 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.

“****! 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 AKs and EM-2 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 off 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 target at all, but it was clear the British were overrun. They started falling back, screaming like madmen at their comrades to “run away”, whatever that translated to in their language.

I hopped over to the paratroopers, all ten of them, and introduced themselves. 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; he seemed to be at a lack of men with 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.

“Major, you are going to learn the job of 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, 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 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, once could argue that I was dead the moment I signed up for the military.

None of the guys of the squad are incredibly concerned that I’m dying. But that’s O.K.; they should care about their own lives.

Nobody's untouchable. No plan is foolproof. We all must meet our moment of truth.

I die.

Copyright 2007 Timmy Dee
{moscomment}