Molotov Heights IV: Cannons To The Left, Cannons To The Right

1:10 PM

While Beck and Adnan were settling things, the main line of Groggy and Atlas’s battalions reached the summit of Molotov Hill, initiating a ferocious battle the likes of which the Western Hemisphere hadn’t seen since the days of Grant and Lee.
The slaughter was terrible; the Americans fell in heaps, officers, non-coms and men alike, mown down en masse by closely-packed Russian machine guns and Cuban rifles. Now that the Americans were too close for their artillery to be affective, the Russians began firing RPGs and missiles, rockets, mortars, and lobbing grenades into their ranks, and thus the spray of shrapnel continued unabated.

The first few soldiers to reach the line became entangled in wire; struggling desperately to cut it with knives and wire cutters, they were shot down by the Russians. But a few of the men had enough time to create a few breaches. First through the line were Whalestoe and Sven Celeton, who fired and stabbed and clubbed at their opponents with vicious abandon. They were followed by Teacher Tom, who was completely unfazed by the whole affair, seeming to have a death wish.

As Tom staggered over the wire, he watched as Gordon Sumner was felled by a Russian soldier. He aimed his own carbine at the soldier, who immediately threw his rifle down and raised his hands in surrender. Tom ignored this and pitilessly fired into the man’s chest, uttering contemptuously, “He who has no stomach for this fight, let him depart.” Realizing he was out of ammunition, he nonchalantly threw down his rifle and loaded his two side-arms before continuing on.

The fighting now came down to hand-to-hand. Aside from their machine guns, the Russians on this side of the line were lightly armed, and easily overwhelmed. Bayonets flashed, knives stabbed, rifle stocks cracked against Russian heads. Ulysses Bunsher fell in this melee, his body shattered by rifle stocks, his throat pierced by a saw-bayonet, along with C.D., shot and stabbed until his machete clattered to the ground, and innumerable others. But their sacrifice was worth it; after a few bloody, intense minutes, the Russian line broke.

At this critical moment, a battalion of Cuban infantry appeared, rushing on and hitting the Americans from their left flank, rifles blazing. Captain Grenouille, commanding F Company, saw this in the nick of time and ordered his troops to open fire. A fusillade of rifle fire slowed the onrushing Cubans, who nonetheless tore into Grenouille’s men. The fighting was savage, vicious, brutal; chests burst, bones shattered, blood and brain matter spraying every which way. But ultimately, the Americans, spurred on by adrenaline and sheer momentum, forced the Cubans back.

The final line of Russian troops, on the very crest of the hill, now faced the onrushing Americans alone. But to the disbelief of their commanding officers, they did open fire on the American troops. Lieutenant-Colonel Strelnikoff rushed forward, frantically waving his pistol at them. “WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU!?!” he bellowed.

“We can’t, Colonel,” one of the gunners “We can’t depress our guns!”

“I said shoot those bastards!” Strelnikoff shouted, ignoring them.

“Sir, it’s impossible!” the gunner shouted helplessly.

An irrational, impotent anger overtook the Colonel. “NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE!” he hissed with contempt. He then shoved the hapless soldier and attempted to aim the machine gun at the onrushing Americans. He was right – they couldn’t properly depress the weapon. A broken, defeated man, Strelnikoff just sat at the gun for a long moment, as if in a daze, before he was ushered away by one of his aides. Just then, he realized the extent of the debacle he was overseeing.

A moment later, the Americans fell upon the Russian machine gunners. It was all over in a minute; unable to resist, the Russians simply broke and ran, or else surrendered. Only a handful of men stayed to fight, and they were quickly neutralized.

1:30 PM

Bloody as it was, Groggy’s frantic charge broke the Russians’ will to fight. After the Russian and Cuban troops were pushed back, the Americans came across a last-ditch line of Palacian militia, under the guns of a squad of Russian officers, but they quickly wavered as their comrades had before. One of their Captains, unwilling to die for Russia’s imperial ambitions, began running up and down the lines shouting at his troops, “Run! Run! The bogeyman is coming!” Though Russian officers and machine gunners stay behind them, the Palacians began to scatter. They were soon caught in a hellish crossfire between the advancing Americans in front and the Russians behind them, and were forced to make some sort of stand. Without much hesitation, they turned their guns on their officers and their machine guns, raking them with close-range AK fire. With their desertion, shouts of Palacio Libre swept over the hill, and Groggy received an instant reinforcement of some 500 men.

The only resistance remained in the concrete blockhouse. A handful of Russian soldiers were firing out of the two windows in front with light machine guns, and others carrying rifles could be seen behind them. Groggy supervised as machine guns and grenade launchers were put into place. Now it just remained to clear out the blockhouse by force. Groggy began rushing towards the blockhouse, with a dozen or so soldiers following close behind. A burst of AK fire killed one of the soldiers, but the Russian was shot down by a return blast from the Americans.

Whalestoe was the first in the door of the blockhouse. He shot down a Russian sergeant with his revolver and surged forward, gun and knife in hands, spoiling for a fight. A burly Russian corporal surged towards him, bayonet in his hand, and Whalestoe saw him too late. The Russian plunged his bayonet through his chest, puncturing his lung. Whalestoe let out an anguished cry, muffled by foamed blood, but managed to aim his pistol against the Russian’s stomach and empty its contents into his belly before crumpling to the floor.

An American soldier rushed into the room blindly and was shot down by a squad of Russian troops. Next in the door came Teacher Tom and Sven Celeton. Tom went in his first, aiming his pair of pistols, and engaged the ten Russians. Tom’s foolhardy stand gave Celeton a chance to find his friend’s corpse. Blinded to the gun battle around him, the Finn’s slow-burning rage began to boil inside him, unleashing a primal fury.

As Tom fell, riddled by a barrage of rifle bullets, Celeton let out a savage Finnish roar and rushed forward. He wielded his rifle like a battle axe, knocking one Russian to the ground with a rap to the skull. Before he could land a killing blow, a second Russian, a lieutenant, shot Celeton in the arm with a pistol. Celeton, unfazed, turned on the officer, savagely striking him again and again until he cleaved the officer’s skull, spraying skull fragments, blood and brain matter all over the walls and floor. Celeton knocked down two more Russian soldiers with equal savagery.

Celeton then felt two dull thuds in his chest and leg. He looked down and saw fresh blood oozing from his wounds. He stared ahead and saw a Russian officer aiming a smoking gun at him.

It was Strelnikoff. The hapless commander of the Palacian garrison was reduced to a foot soldier, engaged in an act of reckless, hapless heroism. He fired another shot into Celeton, striking him in the left shoulder; Celeton finally fell, collapsing under the weight of dozens of wounds he had previously ignored.

At this moment, Groggy entered the room, wielding his pistol. He and Strelnikoff regarded each other for a moment, before turning their guns on one another. Two Russian soldiers appeared at the far end of the hallway, but Strelnikoff angrily called them off; this was to be a duel between officers. Groggy acknowledged his opponent’s chivalry by not shooting him in the back of the head, despite the perfect opportunity.

The two men blasted away at each other, nerves and exhaustion impairing their aim even at point-blank range. Bullets crashed into the walls and floors, none seeming to hit their target. Strelnikoff ran out of ammunition, but ducked behind a wall as Groggy sent two slugs hurtling after him. Groggy aimed his pistol, but as Strelnikoff emerged with a freshly-loaded gun, he pulled the trigger and heard a dull click. “Damn,” he muttered stoically as Strelnikoff fired a badly-aimed shot that missed him completely.

What happened next was a blur. Groggy stood pondering his empty gun as if in a trance, even as his Russian counterpart haplessly fired away at him. Finally, his left hand, as if on its own, drifted towards his gun belt, and fingered his .38 revolver, heretofore unused.

Groggy moved with slow deliberateness, as if asleep. He dropped his 9 MM pistol to the ground and methodically, carefully drew the revolver. Strelnikoff was still firing, but he didn’t seem able to hit anything. Groggy aimed his weapon at Strelnikoff’s head. The Russian, now frantic, squeezed the trigger of his gun again and again, but nothing came out; his gun was empty. Groggy deliberately pulled back the hammer on his gun as the Russian Colonel struggled to chamber a fresh clip.
BLAM! Groggy fired his .38, splattering Strelnikoff’s brains all over the opposite wall of the bunker.

The two Russian soldiers from before, wielding AKs, burst into the hallway. Groggy immediately snapped out of his trance and fired, wounding one in the leg, but the second fired a burst of gunfire that narrowly missed the Colonel. As Groggy rolled out of the way, Corporal Dan appeared, and with a quick full-auto burst cut down both Russians. Groggy didn’t move, still aiming his weapon at the dead soldiers. Then Captain Harriman entered, pistol drawn, with a squad of soldiers behind her.

“Colonel, are you alright?” Harriman asked breathlessly. Then she added off-handedly, “That was some damned fine shooting, sir.”

Still not entirely out of it, Groggy stared at her. He then ran his hand down his stomach and felt a warm spurt of fresh blood pooling through his uniform, just below his navel.

“Oh my God!” Harriman exclaimed. She turned to the soldiers and began to ask for a medic.

“No!” Groggy shouted, snapping out of his trance. He rushed over to his old friend and clasped her shoulder with his left hand. “There’s still a battle to be fought, Anna!” He then hurried through the blockhouse, signaling Harriman and her men to follow him.

Groggy, Anna and their entourage swept through the blockhouse. Other than two defiant Russians who had to be neutralized, the surviving garrison members didn’t have any fight left in them. Five minutes after coming in, the squad had cleared out the blockhouse, with 30 prisoners in tow.

Groggy turned to Captain Harriman, regaining his composure. “Captain, you’re to stay here and hold all of our prisoners under guard,” he barked authoritatively.

“Sir, I won’t do that!” Anna cried, her eyes on the blood staining the Colonel’s shirt.

“That’s a friend’s request, not an order,” Groggy asked, staring at Harriman wistfully. Then he added, “One of us has to live.”

After a long moment, with tears welling up in her eyes, Anna raised her hand in reluctant salute. She then led her squad and their prisoners into the main office of the blockhouse. They found two more officers there, who immediately threw down their weapons and joined the rest of their colleagues in captivity. Captain Harriman, brimming with anger over the Colonel’s wounding and her frustration at being left behind, shot one of the officers in cold blood, but managed to restrain herself before turning her weapon on the crowd.

By the time Groggy emerged from the blockhouse, the fighting on Molotov Hill was all but over. Other than a few belligerent Russian and Cuban soldiers, most of the enemy soldiers were either dead or surrendered. The prisoners were being herded by Captain Siegel into the blockhouse, where they were to join Captain Harriman and the rest. Now most of the action was concentrated against the Russian right on Ft. Kurugen, where the rest of Alstott’s Brigade was struggling to force their way up the hill. Groggy’s men turned captured Russian machine guns, mortars and field guns on the Russian positions, joined eagerly by the deserting Palacian militia troops.

I’ll have plenty of time to die later, Groggy thought, struggling to hide his wound from his men. There’s a battle to fight. He didn’t realize that Nemesis was soon to arrive.