Molotov Heights I: Half a League Onward

MAY 7TH, 2009
MOLOTOV HILL, MOLOTOV HEIGHTS
9:00 AM

The artillery bombardment commenced at dawn. American artillery and missile launchers, finally in position, let loose a hellish torrent of fire onto the Russian positions. American bombers and helicopters flew low over the Russian lines, delivering their payloads onto the Russian defenses. For all their sound and fury, the American guns and bombs were doing little damage to the intricate defensive system.

Lieutenant-Colonel Strelinkoff sat in the conference room of the army’s blockhouse. He studied a map of the defenses and smiled to himself. Surely General Slurry was no Burnside, he thought. But if he was, he was more than willing to play General Lee. After months of swatting at Palacian flies, he was now fighting a real opponent. He could only hope that all his gambling would pay off.

Strelnikoff emerged from the blockhouse, flanked by two of his subordinate officers. His soldiers stood at attention as he reviewed them, young men ready and willing to die for an ephemeral cause. He surveyed the intricate entrenchments, the tan uniforms, the AKs with flashing bayonets, the glimmering machine gun and mortar barrels. And he looked behind him at his heavy guns concealed in camouflaged bunkers.

Only an imbecile would assault such a position directly, he thought smugly. He then looked over at Ft. Kurugen on Petrov Hill to his right, an equally formidable position. If the Americans want a battle, he thought, I shall give them a massacre.

10:00 AM
MESA HILL
XXII CORPS FIELD HQ

General Slurry looked through the smoke of artillery bursts and bomb blasts to see the formidable Russian defenses across the valley.

“Are your troops in position?” he asked General Ale, commander his first division.

“Yes, sir,” Ale replied.

Slurry wiped off his sweating, heavy brow. He had never led so much as a squad into action, but now he was leading 46,000 men in a huge, classic set-piece battle. Slurry found it difficult to maintain his composure, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse.

An aide rushed up to the General. “Sir, report from General Ramsey,” he sputtered. “Ramsey’s division is meeting heavy resistance at Belkin.”

Slurry had ordered Ramsey and a large detachment of Partisans to commence their flanking movement at dawn, before Ale’s division was in position for their assault. He hoped that the regulars would be able to turn the Russian flank and render Strelnikoff’s position invulnerable. The volunteer division, in whom he had little faith, would deliver a knock-out blow against routed and demoralized Russian troops. Somehow it had never occurred to him that Ramsey’s troops would not quickly brush
aside the Russo-Cuban forces before them.

But Ramsey’s men had rushed into the teeth of Colonel Linares’ veteran Cuban brigade, whom they weren’t expecting at all. One of Ramsey’s brigadiers, General Sylvester, had been killed, and three assaults by his troops repulsed. His division, lacking close artillery or air support, was soon pinned down in the steaming jungle, unable to either advance or retreat.

Slurry took this news in his usual fashion. “Huh?”

“Sir, Ramsey’s forces are pinned down by a brigade-strength force,” the aide continued. “They lack artillery support and haven’t been able to make any progress. General Ramsey requests permission to withdraw and redeploy his troops.”

Slurry shook his head. “Belkin must be taken,” he uttered. “It’s paramount. Tell Ramsey that he has a goddamned numeric advantage and should be able to brush those bastards aside. He has Army regulars, for Christ’s sake!”

“Sir, regular troops can’t just walk over machine guns,” Ale said.

“They’d damned well better try!” Slurry said. He stared across the way at the Russian defenses and sighed.

He really hoped that Ramsey made progress, and soon. Otherwise, he knew whom he’d have to rely on…


10:45 AM
THE BASE OF MOLOTOV HEIGHTS

“Colonel, what the hell are we doing here?” Captain Harriman asked.

Groggy frowned. “Captain, we just had this discussion last night.”

“No, I mean what are we doing HERE?” she said, gesticulating at their surroundings.

The Captain had a point. The boneheadedness of General Slurry had caused the 2nd Division to advance towards Molotov Heights through jungle before emerging into a treeless ravine. At first, the soldiers were glad to be out of the sweltering forest, only to realize that they now had no cover. As they advanced, Russian artillery and rockets began hitting them, and hitting them hard. Groggy took initiative to march his troops double-time until they reached cover, but even then the tree line only exacerbated the problems, as shrapnel raining through the canopy brought with it a shower of leaves and splintered tree bark. Groggy lost at least eleven men killed and many more injured in this march, not to mention the cohesion of his regiment.

Now they were in a makeshift line with the rest of General Ale’s division at the base of the heights, using a small dip in the earth as an entrenchment to shield themselves from artillery, mortar and machine gun fire. About 2,000 yards away was the prize; even with his naked eye Groggy could see the strength of the Russian entrenchments, and he blanched seeing the intricate series of machine gun nests, pill boxes, bunkers and rifle pits pock-marking the side of the hill. Although he knew what today meant for him and his regiment – indeed, his whole country and perhaps the world – he suddenly felt a twinge of apprehension, an idea that he might actually fail in his endeavour.

“I sure hope General Slurry knows what he’s doing,” Harriman said.

Groggy smirked. “If he did, we wouldn’t be here, would we?” he asked, just as a pair of American cannon discharged, continuing the pre-battle bombardment. He loaded both of his pistols, coolly readying himself for the day of reckoning.

11:10 AM
XXII CORPS FIELD HOSPITAL
NEAR EL GRAPADURA

General Jenkins awoke with a start. He snorted with exhaustion, realizing that he had overslept – the advance, and perhaps even the main battle, had already begun without him. But there was still Jana lying prostrate on top of him.

“Get off, bitch!” Jenkins roared, kicking Jana on the floor and hurrying himself into action.

Jana awoke in mid-air, and landed with a startled thud and oof upon the tent floor.

Jenkins hurriedly dressed himself and loaded his pistol.

“That’s no way to treat a lady what gave herself to you last night,” Jana chided.

“I didn’t ask for it, did I?” Jenkins said, ignoring her.

“Garn, you’re a regular piece of shit!” the nurse shouted, reaching for her discarded uniform.

“And you’re a cunt,” murmured Jenkins. He carefully applied his army hat and grimacing from a tinge of pain down his shattered arm, then rushed out of the tent at full speed.

Jana stared after him, both angry and horrified. So basically I had sex with that monster for nothing? She asked herself. How disgusting. She hurriedly dressed and rushed with a start out of the tent, searching for Jenkins, when a young nurse named Amy confronted her.

“Lieutenant Gladstone, where were you last night?” Amy asked breathlessly.
“Nowhere I want to remember,” Jana uttered sleepily.

“For God’s sakes, Jana, you can’t sleep in,” Amy chided. “There’s a battle going on this morning.”

Jana started; she had completely forgotten about the battle coming up. But she was now galvanized, and immediately took charge of the situation, leaving thoughts of Groggy and his reptilian nemesis behind.

* * *

Jenkins rushed through the camp hurriedly, attempting to find out what was going. He could hear the far-off thud of artillery, and the roar of jets and helicopters overhead, and knew that a denouement was quickly coming. But how to get there?
Then he saw it. In the middle of the camp, a pair of MPs were sitting around in a jeep, chatting over a newspaper. Jenkins rushed over to them, and they snapped to attention.

“Gentlemen, I’m sorry to trouble you but I need this vehicle,” Jenkins said tersely. Then he rushed into the jeep and immediately began to operate it.
The MPs were too startled to act. “General, don’t you want an escort-“ one of them began.

But Jenkins had already put the throttle down, and was hurtling towards the battle front, just hoping he’d get there in time to take part in, or the very least witness, the fruits of his wrath.