PANZER! PANZER! (Deutscheland AU RP)

[Tristar]

The soft rumbling of the halftrack made it difficult for Leutnant Leo to read the last letter that came for him. The roads in Poland was a mix of smooth pavement to brain-rattling, barely developed roads. The countryside was nice for the first few kilometers, but as time passed and the sun rose to its zenith, Leo couldn't stand watching the fields pass them. Shutting out the sounds of his surroundings, he focused on the letter and it's contents.

'Dear Leo. I hope you are safe when this letter reaches you. News of the conflict back home here has been positive so far, but I know not to trust the newspapers. How is it over the-'
​

"Herr Leutnant?" His head jerked up, trying to identify who's voice it was that interrupted his private moment. "Leutnant!" He snapped to his immediate left, the grinning face of a man twice his age. He had only known Ingmar for a few weeks, introducing him as the platoon's leader. A veteran of the Great War, Leo was tentative around the man, even when he learned that he was a father of three. One of them was going to be drafted later this year, apparently, and he was hoping like hell he would get a nice administrative job elsewhere. Somehow, Leo didn't see that happening, but prayed with Ingmar all the same. "Yes Feldwebwl Hauffer? What is it?" The man merely grinned, jerking his chin at the letter. Leo noticed, and quickly folded the paper and slid it into his breast pocket.

"You have someone waiting for you at home, huh?" The officer nodded, grinning weakly. The staff sergeant laughed, patting the green officer on his back, shaking him as the other men in the compartment grinned. "You hear that men? Our Leutnant has a woman back home. That must be nice, knowing you have someone waiting for you?" The men laughed and agreed, some even asking for pictures, following Ingmar's grating chortle. The leutnant followed suit (and mentally marking the soldier that had made that request for later.), albeit weakly- his stomach didn't seem to appreciate this morning's breakfast. The anticipation of combat was getting to his nerves, he supposed. As the rest of the soldiers returned to their previous conversations, Ignmar leaned in close, beckoning for Leo to listen close.

"Leutnant, I know it's not in my place to order you around, but you need to keep your act together, alright? These men are only useful as their leader, and that's you. Got it?" The NCO stared Leo with blue-and-green eyes, making the man very uncomfortable indeed. He nodded weakly, but nearly doubled over when the sergeant slapped his back with a chuckle. "Don't worry, these poles are nothing. We'll reach Lodz without a scratch, earn some medals and go home with tales for your sweetheart. Just you watch."

Maybe he was right. The old man had lived through a war after all, so he must know something. At least that was what Leo thought. This was his first war, his first command: Ingmar probably had friends die around him in muddy trenches. Who knew what was going to happen this time around? But if the veteran said it was going to be fine, well. . . he couldn't say otherwise. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to remember her touch.

Yes. . .he could almost see her face too. Rosy cheeks. . the hair that would be in his face the first thing in the morning. . .

BOOM!
​

Leo's eyes flashed open just as the driver yelled, driving the halftrack off road. "What's happening!?" he yelled. Erwin, the halftrack's gunner only replied with a short burst of the vehicle's mounted weapon. "Wha-" "Ambush!" Ingmar yelled, putting on his helmet as he handed the officer his own. Leo accepted gratefully, peeking out from the sides. Frustrated by the lack of vision, he grabbed his weapon and silently offered a prayer to God one last time. " Dismount, Dismount!" The halftrack slowed down at his order and the men of the HQ quickly leapt out of the AFV.

It was a mess: he landed on his feet, ahead of him the dirt road they had been travelling, the burning wreck of 2nd Squad's halftrack at the lead. The entire convoy had driven off road, with 4th squad dismounted and lying prone on the ground, their squad leader directing enfilading fire at the attackers. 1st squad's halftrack had followed with them, trailing just behind. Leo waved his hand and ordered the vehicle to stop, the crack of rifle making his blood race. "Dismount! Dismount!" The squad leader replied with a yell, ordering his men to leave the walking coffin and to seek cover wherever possible. In that department, the squad really only had one choice- the dirt beneath them. Fields all around, with the sounds of rifle fire coming from the woods up ahead. Barely visible was the shape of a tank's turret, firing from a dug out position, the rattling of machine gun fire making it almost impossible to hear.

"Target that tank! Range, 400m, HE!" The thump of a mortar being fired notified the platoon commander of his platoon leader's position. Crouched behind a small ditch, Ingmar was directing fire for the mortar crew, surveying the scene before him through his binoculars. As the explosion thundered in the distance, the sergeant cursed out loud. "No good, adjust angle! Lower it by 10 degrees! Leutnant!"

Leo jerked, almost saluting as his mind briefly took him back to training. Ingmar had left his binoculars hanging around his neck, the mortar crew finally having found the perfect angle. "Snap out of it, check on the men!" The men. Yes. Yes, that was why he was here. Focusing on the scenario, he found the rest of the platoon to be far too spread out- 2nd squad was toast, the charred remains of the halftrack a vibrant reminder of their inattentiveness. 1st squad had dismounted to his right, 4th squad was firing from the road and the side ditches, while 3rd squad was on their left, their halftrack trying to avoid the attention of the tank's gun. Turning around, he spotted one of his runners, Volkmar working the bolt of his Kar98k. "Grenadier Scholtz!" The blond haired youth turned to his Platoon commander, grimacing. "Tell squad four I want fire superiority, spray those treeline and keep them ducking. Tell third squad I want my flanks secure in the meantime. "

Volkmar nodded hastily and sped off, leaving Leo behind, who immediately called upon another runner. "Grenadier Hecker, run back to the company and tell them we've been engaged by enemy armor and infantry. We've taken a lot of casualties. Double time!" "Jawohl!" The grenadier hastily left the battlefield, leaving the officer slightly queasy about the whole situation. Remembering where he was and what was going on, he ran back to the mortar unit, crouched within the ditch. The tank had not taken a single dent from the mortar and it was clear if left unchecked it was going to break the unit before the rest of the company could arrive to reinforce.

"Mortars, give me creeping barrage. Smoke rounds." With a chorus of yes sirs the panzergrenadiers proceeded to adjust their weapon under the feldwebel's supervision. Not a minute passed before a round was launched from the tube, Leo marking the efficiency of the crew. Setting his weapon aside, he pulled out his binoculars and surveyed the wood line, noting the sporadic muzzle fire. The only real suppression weapon they had seemed to originate from the tank itself- if they had an actual suppression weapon, they were being extra stingy about it.

But that goddamn tank was a pain in the ass, the Matilda slowly moving its turret, an intimidating sight. The coax was raking the field, the crew trying their best to pin an entire field of panzergrenadiers with a single machinegun. If it was simply a contest between who could achieve fire superiority, Leo would wager that his platoon could outmatch them. Cursing, the leutnant kept his binoculars away and tried to look at what the 1st squad was up to.

OOC: @Slamdingo @Chask274 @Jinan B @Oncaro @Elijah Brockway

 

[Chask274]

The ride in Squad 1's half-track had been pleasant, or at least as pleasant as it could be given the condition of the road. Alfred had passed the time by chatting with the squad machine gunner, Obergrenadier Stolze. In the weeks since he'd met Stolze, he'd found the man to be a good person to talk to and share a laugh with.
"Hey, Stolze, do you know what's the difference between a bucket of crap and a Frenchman?"
Stolze had raised an eyebrow in confusion,
"No, can't say that I do, Alfred."
Cracking a grin, Alfred replied,
"The bucket."
Their burst of hearty laughter was cut short by an explosion rattling the half-track as squad 2 went up in flames. The vehicle's gunner was quick to report on the situation.
"Scheisse! Contact front!"
As the mounted MG sprayed hot lead at the enemy, the vehicle pulled off of the road and the order to dismount was given. Racking the bolt on his Gewehr 43, Alfred disembarked and advanced with his squad.

In his usual boisterous manner, Obergefreiter Hans-Jochen began barking orders.
"Skirmish line! Squad, concentrate fire on the treeline ahead! Stolze, get that MG up on the double!"
Finding himself on the far left end of the squad's formation, Alfred threw himself into the prone position and raised his rifle. Before he could fire, however, a horrible stench came to his nose from his left. Gagging, he looked over and immediately regretted doing so. As squad 2's half-track burned, Alfred has caught a whiff of seared flesh and heard screaming coming from the wreck.
"Mein Gott... They're still alive in there!"

 

[Slamdingo]

Months of training, discipline, and coordination. Learning how to move and shoot and fight like a machine. Learning the ins and outs and finer points of his rifle like a lover. Getting the feeling of holding six hundred grams of explosives in hand, and then feeling the dirt and stone shower down atop him when it went off. Moeshe had only ever fired a rifle when hunting with his father and over the last few months he'd fired more rounds than he'd even ever seen in one place. The ride in the back of the half-track wasn't quiet by any means but eventually Moeshe had been able to tune out the sounds of the engine and the bumps of the road as he sat quietly towards the back of the half-tracks passenger area. Other members of the squad laughed and joked and tried to ease their minds of what they were likely about to do, while the Jewish grenadier found himself remembering also the stories his father told him of the Great War. He talked of the viscera and the carnage, mud seeming to get into everything, and the sight of friends dying.

But he had said the sounds were what did it for him. You could close your eyes or turn away from what you saw. But the - a distant staccato roar.

-ZIIIIIII-

And then Moeshe couldn't hear anything. His ears were ringing and he found himself blinking in shock as dirt and . . . and bits of metal came raining down over them in a light shower. Somebody barked at them to dismount and the hulking man moved more on reflex than initiative as he shouldered open the rear hatch and stumbled down ahead of the rest. He looked to his left and right as he watched the other half-tracks that had been behind them veering to one side of the road or another with their own troops spilling out. He could see the machineguns firing atop the vehicles but he couldn't seem to hear them. Anger and fear on the faces all around him, Moeshe ran to the nearby ditch and threw himself inside just in time to hear another.

-ZIIIIIIIIIII-

His hearing had begun to recover just in time to hear the explosion behind him further into the treeline. His rifle was already loaded and a round in the chamber, so it was a simple matter of clicking off the safety. This was another thing that his father had told him, though right now he wasn't actively thinking about it, when it came to warfare. In the moment he didn't have to stop and think about anything. About how that muzzle flash had another young man at the other end of it. How there were people that he was about to shoot. He had been trained well and he could only see them as targets to be engaged. He fired, cycled the bolt, fired again. He picked out what he could of muzzle flashes and silhouettes.

"ES BRENNT! ES BRENNT!" Somebody wailed. "JEMAND MACHEN ES ZU STOPPEN!"

Moeshe made the ultimate mistake of tearing his eyes off of the enemy ahead to see who was screaming - why they were screaming.

The lead half-track was a burning wreck. He could see the jagged metal near the front where the tank round had punched through. He could hear the popping and tin ringing of rounds cooking off from the heat inside. And he could see - he could see . . . Gütiger Gott. The vehicle's gunner had pulled himself up to his position again before he'd just fallen dead atop the cab of the track, where he still lay burning. But more than that Moeshe could see the arm that threw itself over the edge madly grasping for a hand hold. Pulling up a figure with it. A mangled, burning, screaming figure. There were no legs, or at least anything left resembling them, and already flesh and uniform were turning black with the heat as the man fell more than threw himself from the vehicle.

Moeshe wanted to look away. He needed to look away. But he couldn't.

 

[Elijah Brockway]

Karsten felt dwarfed by all of his companions.

The four others he had come to know fairly well out of first squad were all at least five inches taller than him. He was surprised they even fit in the vehicle they were travelling in. Given the fact that they all had weaponry along with them, it was making for a bit of a tight fit. He was hanging in the back near Moeshe, remaining just as quiet as his larger friend while some of the others were happy to talk and joke with the driver and the gunner. In fact, he was struggling to stay awake through the monotony of the journey. However, any thoughts of sleep were blasted from his mind the moment his ears began ringing from the sound of an explosion.

Nearly on top of Moeshe's heels, he ran out of the back of the vehicle, jumping into the ditch and going prone. In a single short movement he disengaged the safety on his rifle and shouldered it, taking aim at any hostiles, ready to attach his rifle-grenade launcher as soon as he had a better idea of what was going on. He took one careful shot at an enemy he could see through the treeline, although the slight sway from his breathing made the round impact a tree his target was using for cover...and when Karsten noticed the man drop and a small spray of blood come out from behind the tree, he was thankful for the power of the 7.9mm round his rifle fired.

Moments later, however, his attention was swayed the same as Moeshe's by the screaming coming from squad 2's half-track. He turned and noticed one man - unrecognizable now from the burns - drop to the ground, still screaming in pain. Noticing the severity of the injuries, Karsten didn't even think twice before firing on his comrade, a single bullet through the brain ending the man's screams and pain, in a more humane way than what otherwise might have taken him. "Gott sei mit dir," he said quietly to the now-limp corpse, as the screaming from inside the vehicle started to die out as well.

He glanced over at Moeshe afterwards, before shouldering his rifle again and focusing back on the fire they were receiving from across the field. "Stay focused, Moeshe," he growled at the larger man, trying to draw him out of his reverie.

 

[Oncaro]

The rough terrain of the road didn't bother Wilhelm, not really. Mostly because he wasn't paying a lot of attention to it, or the bantering of his squadmates. He sat in the half-track as it rumbled along, head bowed as if in prayer, but he wasn't praying. He was looking at a simple locket, one made for him before he left to report for the draft. He never failed to look at it at least once a day, and would at times just stair for at least an hour at the people pictured in it.

On the left side was a picture of his parents and siblings. He most resembled his father Leonard, who was tall, almost gangly. He had the same facial structure as Wilhelm, the same hair that was short and thick and stuck up at the end, but he was more weathered, both from age and experiences, his hair greying slightly despite not even being fifty yet. There was his mother Eva, who possessed blonde hair and blue eyes that could not be captured in the black-and white film, who looked at least ten years younger than her husband despite being less than two his junior. Little sister Carolin, eleven years old, looked more like their father than she cared to admit, and Siegfried, aged nine, had inherited most of their mother's looks. Wilhelm was not in this picture, as it had been taken for him, and all the family had been smiling brightly. To help encourage him, no doubt.

The other side held just one person: Wilhelm's cousin Anna, whom it was said was a spitting image of their great-grandmother Ada, and often remarked on for her beauty; but a mere image couldn't do it justice, he thought, with how her dark hair spilled down below her shoulders and would bob as she moved her head, how her brown eyes sparkled whenever she was doing something fun, how her smile could light up a room with its beauty--

He lurched forward as a piercing, crashing noise overtook his ears and the half-track veered a bit. His body was moving before his mind could properly think as he stuffed the locket back into his shirt after he snapped it shut, and before he knew it he was piling out with the rest of First Squad, carrying both his rifle, his kit, and a Panzerfaust 100.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. Burning metal, burning flesh; something big had hit one of the trucks, and as he looked toward it he could see men screaming as they were set ablaze.

Mein Gott, he thought as ringing filled his ears and everything seemed to become distant for a moment.

Then came another whistle, and another explosion at treeline behind him; or rather, on the left side of the road, actually, and his head snapped away from the grotesque sight to look at where the shot had come from. He could, barely, make out the outline of a Matilda tank before he took cover in the right-side ditch alongside 1st Squad, and he quickly refocused on it, instinctively trying to gauge distance on the tank after weeks of intense training.

400 meters at least. Schiesse, he thought as he hunkered down momentarily, then as the smoke barrage took effect, he began running, adrenaline seeing him through and allowing him to ignore the weight he was carrying.

Nine-and-a-half kilos my ass! Runrunrunrunrun DROP! One. Two. Runrunrunrunrun DROP!

And so he kept it up as the smoke barrage continued, sprinting then dropping, steadily getting closer before stopping and crawling at one-hundred meters. That was the effective range of the Panzerfaust 100, but it'd be even more effective if he got closer. And that was exactly what he did as he inched his way toward the thing. He got within eighty meters, still flat on his belly, and took aim as he stood at a crouch. The 'Faust was a one-and-done weapon, not to be fired with carelessness. Fortunately, this weapon had enough penetration power that it was almost irrelevant where he hit the Matilda. But, just to be sure, he aimed right below the slowly swiveling turret... and with just a light squeeze of the trigger, the rocket flew off toward its destination, ready to pay back the Poles in full for what they did to 2nd Squad.

 

[Slamdingo]

At a certain point, a good soldier shuts some part of himself down. That was what his instructor had told him. He shuts down those things he doesn't need and he continues on with the mission. remembering comrades burning to death and the smell of roasting human flesh would be for - later. Later when he had a cigarette and his rations and far too much time to think about what he'd just seen from his comrade's suffering to knee-jerk cold mercy killing by another. For now he needed to move up with his squad as thick smoke came rolling across the field from whistling mortars. Even with that concealment the enemy tracers still whistled and buzzed as they passed through the smoke and over their heads. The half-track gunners still kept up their fire.

"Move up! Move up now damn it!" It was Obergefreiter Mosemann, their squad leader, bellowing at them over the din of gunfire to move across the field and advance on the enemy, "Fuchsbauer, I want that rocket primed and ready! Stolze, move up with the squad and start putting out fire!" He trusted in their training as much as they should but he was still smart enough to know the bulk of them were entirely new faces who hadn't been in for very long as of yet. So he yelled and shouted his orders to encourage them all to hurry along.

I'm up - they see me - I'm down

I'm up - they see me - I'm down

I'm up - they see me - I'm down

Moeshe repeated the mantra in his head like a prayer to time his dashes across the open ground. He'd bolt up, bound in large stretches at a time, and throw himself 'behind' the nearest perceived rise of the field in time to make sure he wasn't about to catch a bullet. He managed to keep more or less in line with the rest of his squad in the rough firing line formation they'd adopted as they drew nearer to the enemy position. Over his head rounds buzzed like angry hornets passing both ways, with fountains of dirt kicking up from enemy rounds hitting the ground ahead of him sporadically. And every so often it would be accented by the popping sound of a mortar shell dispersing smoke or the clap, zip, and blast of a tank shell going high over the platoon's half-tracks still back by the road providing supporting fire. Then over the din and roar he heard the Matilda's co-axial gun start to fire.

Then a roar. A blast.

It stopped.

Moeshe knew what came next. He'd read his field manual like a bible during his training and almost immediately scrambled to draw his bayonet and fix it to the lug of his rifle, before shouldering it again and taking a wild shot into the woods at the clearest silhouette he could glimpse through breaks in the smoke. They lurched, stumbled, and disappeared as they fell.

Their squad leader bellowed over the noise of it all, "Its down and out! Get ready to move up on my mark!"

Moeshe rose up into a crouch and fired off behind a rifle to his left he saw protrude from the tree-line. It jerked and the rifle fell but he didn't see if it had been a clear hit in the darkness of the woodline. With that done he braced himself for the order to advance in to the enemy position.

 

[Jinan B]

"Dismount! Dismount!" A different man in Elias' body rushed out of the half-track and threw itself to the ground alongside the rest of the squad. Vaguely the man was aware of the situation around him, the burning vehicle and the men within it, the shots being fired at them and the shots they were firing back. His mind, however, was still where it had been before the start of the attack, maintaining his rifle in silence while his companions joked or reflected on their lives before enlisting.

Focus Elias.

He lifted his rifle, the same kind of weapon that his brother used. The amount of time that he had spent maintaining the creation had surely went into the multitudes of hours, as he used the activity as a way to eliminate stress just as he used to do reading.

Focus!

He raised the rifle and fired a trio of shots at the treeline, hoping that even if he hadn't struck one of the men that he was aiming for, he'd be able to help keep them from firing back at him. A foolish hope in all likelihood, he was not wielding a machinegun. Over the chaos that was the battle, he heard bis brother yell in shock and looked to see him staring at the burning vehicle that was now only the grave of Squad 2. He crawled the few meters that lay between them, feeling better when he knew that he was with the man who had helped him his entire life. "Alfred." His voice was loud enough to be heard above the din of gunfire and flames, but still not the shout that the others had adopted. "Focus Brother, or we'll be as well off as they are." He fired another shot at the tree line, this time certain that he had hit someone, before he heard the shout that was his Commanders command to move forward. "Come on. We're not going to die in our first battle are we?" Whether or not his twin had heard him he knew not, for he had already begun to sprint across the no-man's land between the two forces.

As long as he was by Alfred's side, he wasn't about to let the Polish defeat them.

Soon enough the man found himself close enough to the enemy that close combat became all but inevitable. The enemy's tank had been destroyed during the battle, but for the life of him the newly minted Grenadier could not have said what had happened. Fixing his his bayonet onto his rifle, Elias fired another few shots now that he was close enough to almost see the whites of their eyes, and prepared himself for the charge that was sure to come.

 

[Tristar]

Leutnant Oestrovsky watched with faint pride as first squad burst through the opportunity he had created, nearly cheering when the tank stopped moving, its mechanisms failing as one of the grenadiers punched through its armour. Some of the men nearby did give a loud whoop, even loudly cursing their enemy from the safety of distance. Spotting movement from the tank itself, he put his binoculars to his eyes and nearly quailed at the sight: the tank hatched swung open, a bleeding crewman dragging himself out with half his face torn apart as though a hungry pack of wolves had chewed his flesh. How he survived the panzerfaust, Leo couldn't fathom on his own. The surviving crewman mustered what was left of his energy and dropped to the ground, his groans barely audible from here.

Good, he didn't want to have to deal with more details for the nightmares later. One of the attackers momentarily revealed himself, unarmed as he rushed to his ally's side. He didn't reach very far: fourth squad's gunner's shots were dead on his mark, riddling the body with holes. The injured man cried out in his native tongue, his hand dangling from the wrist as he cried out in his native tongue. Leo's ears perked up as one of his runners returned to his side, his breath ragged. "Grenadier Scholtz, tell squad four's gunner to finish the job on that crewman."

"Herr Leutnant? " Volkmar's disbelief, or perhaps curiosity was well placed, but not welcomed. "I didn't know you were trained to question orders, grenadier. Double time! " The soldier responded quickly before he dashed off: Leo couldn't have the platoon questioning his orders. These men had no love for the enemy, but the officer couldn't stomach the image before him if the tanker suffered any longer. A brief moment passed, and a short burp followed through. The body jerked once, before the raised stump dropped to the side.

The polish soldiers seemed to have taken offence at the gesture as rifle fire intensified, squad four's machine gun returning fire and shredding leaves. With first squad still caught out in the open, this was not a welcomed turn of events. Leo was about to order another mortar strike when the ground shook. Looking to his right, a dozen half-tracks burst forth from the woods, supporting infantry running forward and finding positions. The half-tracks advanced, the gunners providing covering fire that silenced the opposition. Over the sounds of machine gun fire, Leo could barely make out the voice of first squad's leader calling for an assault on the wooded positions. That was good, they saw the opportunity and seized it. Making note of the squad's NCO, he turned to receive two of the approaching men, both very familiar but only one was subordinate to him.

Returning Grenadier Hecker's salute, Leo quickly stood to attention at Hauptmann Hurst, saluting the company commander. The middle aged man returned the salute, his hawk eyes scanned the scene, nodding at the general activity but frowning when he saw the burning husk of 2nd squad. "Goddamn it," he finally said, taking off his cap and running a calloused hand through his blonde hair.

"How did this happen Leutnant?" The junior officer gulped, but locked his eyes with his officer and explained. "The enemy positioned their tank to overlook the road, concealed by the foliage. We ran into their crosshairs. " Hurst cursed, squinting at the woods ahead of them as the silhouette of first squad was consumed by the branches. "Leutnant, we just had 12 men killed by a polish unit and it hasn't been two days into the war. " He sighed, grimacing at the smell of burning flesh, reminding Leo faintly of how thirsty he was. "At least we weren't the first unit to suffer losses, but this is. . unacceptable, Leutnant. " Leo could feel the collar of his uniform tightening around his neck, his face red from embarrassment.

"Clear the woods post-haste, we have a schedule to keep up with. As you were Leutnant." "Yes sir!" The captain walked away as the rearguard of the company burst through from their left, linking up with third squad. Looking at his staff sergeant, Ingmar grinned, offering him a cigarette. A little shaken from his experience with the captain's disapprovement, Leo quickly refused the offer and knelt down in the ditch. Already his first experience at the helm of the platoon didn't show particularly exemplary results. Then there was the subsequent paperwork after this.

Maybe he shouldn't have been so quick to refuse the cigarette. His head jerked up when a yell emanated from the woods, the chilling word that no one wanted to hear.

"Panzer!" Overgrenadier Mosemann yelled, raising his SMG at the metal beast and the infantry around it- for whatever reason the Matilda II had run off the road and into a ditch, crashing into a rock that tracked the tank. Even if the turret could still swivel around, it was angled downwards such that the cannon and coax couldn't elevate enough to gun down the assaulting infantry. That still didn't make it less of a threat as some of the infantry that had tried to help repair the tracks immediately jumped into action, their rifles blasting away at anyone caught in the open. The first squad was fortunate that they had the high ground advantage and had caught the polish flat-footed, but for Leo, 400 or so meters away, all he imagined was yet another long list of casualties.

 

[Oncaro]

In the moments after Wilhelm destroyed the Matilda, he wasn't thinking about just what he had done. He had hit the ground behind a small crest in the ground, tossing the used-up Panzerfaust tube away, before a storm of bullets from angry Poles had come at him. That was fair, he had just killed their friends.

Later that night, once the platoon would set up camp, he'd have time to process just what it was he had done just a few moments ago. But here, in the moment, the adrenaline was still pumping, the instincts hammered into him by the rigorous training he had gone through working as he peeked up from cover and began firing at the treeline, hoping to hit someone, and then he ducked down again and fixed his bayonet to his rifle.

"If nothing else I'll have a story to tell the family," he muttered to himself, before he froze as a voice rang out.

"Panzer!" he heard Overgrenadier Mosemann yell out.

Oh Goddammit! Wilhelm thought, looking up to see a second Matilda having run itself into a rock. A bullet bounced off the side of his helmet and he ducked back down again, swearing loudly at his luck. He had to go all the way back to the half-track, get yet another Panzerfaust, make his way back to where he was now, and blow the new Matilda up.

All without getting shot.

Terrific-- in the old "Oh God, this is terrifying!" sense, not the "Yay, this'll be fun!" sense.

Because it wasn't going to be fun. Not at all.

"I wish I could have stayed home," Wilhelm muttered as the fire in his direction became less intense. Perhaps the Poles thought that shot at his helmet had gone through, seeing as he had ducked down and hadn't moved? Regardless, that bit of providence brought him some small comfort as he looked back toward the half-tracks. Which were nearly four hundred meters away.

Schiesse.

Wilhelm closed his eyes, trying to steel himself, and to his surprise he envisioned Anna smiling at him.

"You can do it, Wilhelm," he heard her say. "I know you can. We all know you can. Run."

And he opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and ran.

There was something about running with your back to the bullets flying at you instead of your front that made the whole thing even worse. But he couldn't allow himself to think about that as he repeated the process from before, running, dropping, waiting a beat and starting again. He kept this up before finally getting back to the half-track (in less time than before, as he wasn't as weighed down now) and ducking behind it to catch his breath for a moment. Once he steadied himself and his lungs weren't screaming in quite as much pain, he hefted the second of his three Panzerfausts, and began his run back to the thick of the battle.

 

[Elijah Brockway]

After well placed shots took down another two Polish soldiers - while one sadly careened off and away from everybody - Karsten had a moment to, while grabbing ammunition to reload, take stock of what else was happening around him. That look around told him multiple things:

1. He had, indeed, heard and seen the destruction of the first tank.
2. There was a second tank that had managed to almost-comically get itself stuck, useless, in a ditch, and
3. Wilhelm could probably use covering fire.
4. Karsten conveniently had something that could take care of a fair portion of the infantrymen surrounding that stuck tank who would be causing Wilhelm trouble.

Karsten hit the deck again, and instead of affixing his bayonet like the others, he pulled out his Scheissbecher, quickly affixing the rifle grenade launcher to the front of his weapon, as well as screwing in the actual firing barrel and placing an anti-infantry grenade into it. Opening the bolt of his rifle gave him opportunity to insert the proper blank cartridge and prime his weapon, before he got up, braced it against the ground, and took aim against his target. Having grown quite familiar with the rifle grenade during his training, it was a simple matter for him to get the proper adjustment so that when he fired, his grenade arced into the middle of the group surrounding the close side of the Matilda, blasting hot fragments of metal into the bodies of the fighters, while the concussive impact would cause more damage to those closest to the grenade when it blew. Multiple soldiers dropped limp, more of them dropped screaming in pain, while those far enough from the blast to be basically shielded by their comrades but not actually harmed dropped to the ground on reflex as Karsten hit the deck again himself, loading a second grenade.

Meanwhile, the running Wilhelm would've found that the number of bullets flying at him lessened considerably, ensuring his ability to reach his next panzerfaust without falling victim to enemy fire.

 

[Chask274]

Alfred had sat there, transfixed, until a combination of Karsten mercy killing the poor soul crawling from the wreck and his brother's reassuring words snapped him out of it. "Danke, Elias. Let's get moving." As ordered, Alfred began moving forward with the rest of his squad, moving in relatively short bounds and providing covering fire when he wasn't moving. He noted with satisfaction that the tank had been destroyed, and forced himself to look away when the maimed crewman pulled himself out of the ruined vehicle. Concentrating on the treeline, which was only a short distance away now, he picked out a silhouette peeking out from cover, and centered his sights on it. Squeezing the trigger, Alfred fired and watched as the silhouette jerked and collapsed to the ground. In the heat of the moment, it barely registered to the young soldier that he'd just taken a life consciously for the first time. While he'd fired a few clips worth of rounds already, those had been more aimed in the general direction of the enemies muzzle flashes, but now he could say for certain he'd killed someone. A bang and fresh bout of screaming drew his attention to the left, where Karsten had very effectively hit the infantry around the second tank.

Seeing this, and noting the fact that his squad was now mostly in position, Obergefreiter Hans-Jochen shouted to his men, "Bayonets! Prepare to charge!" After waiting to allow his men to finish affixing their bayonets, he stood and gave the order, "1st Squad! Advance and engage the enemy!", before leading the charge towards the treeline under the cover of Stolze's MG fire

 

[Slamdingo]

It seemed like the second tank had come out of nowhere to appear on the road next to them - but Moeshe was grateful for two things. The first was that they picked one of the squad's fastest runners to lug around the Panzerfausts for them. The second was that the tank had no sooner emerged from its well concealed position in the tree line and onto the road than it had taken off from the elevated road at a bad angle to bring its track smashing down on a large rock to bust its tracks. The awkward angle ti rested at meant that neither the main gun nor its co-axial mount were any good against 1st Squad so close to their lines, or the rest of the company that began to emerge into the fighting. He didn't bother himself with the infantry that were around it as they were rather swiftly getting chewed apart by nearly a company's worth of machinegun and rifle fire after being so exposed in the open. Instead he turned to the treeline ahead just as the order to charge into the enemy position came.

One squad against - who knew how many? The Jewish soldier felt his throat going dry but he was running automatically. He couldn't turn back if he wanted.

They were screaming. Maybe it was the Poles. Maybe it was his squad or just Moeshe. Or it was everyone. He was pretty sure it was everyone.

He came bounding up the rise into the woodland and found himself cresting over a dug-out berm of packed earth. Defensive works set up by the infantry.

One of the Polish soldiers who had been using it for cover had started to rise up and aim for a shot, but he'd clearly been expecting his target to be much farther away. Moeshe swung the stock of his rifle and connected with the other man's face to send him sprawling out on his ass in the dirt. Another next to him stood up from further down the line and gave a scream as he charged the German soldier, but Moeshe still had a round in the chamber and the heroic charge the Pole gave to save his friend was cut short with a round in his throat. And speaking of . . .

The first man began to scramble to his feet and Moeshe 'pounced' when he drove the bayonet of his rifle into the man's chest. And then gave it a twist.

As Moeshe looked up and further into the woodline he realized that he wasn't alone. The rest of the squad had crested that berm it seemed, and were in fighting with him. Any advantages the enemy had were lost from their position being broken and overrun. A look behind him showed charging infantry under the cover of smoke moving up to join them from the rest of the platoon and company. He looked back in time to see yet another Polish soldier charging him with an entrenching shovel in hand. He raised his rifle to block the blow and found it knocked from his hands by the fore of the blow.

Moeshe screamed in anger and grabbed the man by the collar of his coat, pulled close, and then snapped his head forward and back. The crown of his stahlhelm met with the Polish man's nose. And then the Pole tripped up Moeshe's feet despite obviously reeling from a broken nose and the two were on the ground in the melee. Batting, punching, and pulling at each other in a desperate struggle to survive and win the fight. Moeshe used an arm-bar and a grip on the man's shirt to keep him away with one hand while he desperately pawed at the dirt for the shovel or his rifle or anything.

Then he grabbed something metal. He clutched at it without looking and blindly swung for the side of the Polish's soldiers head.

The man tumbled off from atop him and Moeshe very briefly realized in the back of his mind that the man's helmet had fallen off after he'd head-butted him. And that helmet was now in his hands. Meeting the Pole's face. Repeatedly. And eventually the other man stopped trying to fight . . . and he just stopped moving. Leaving Moeshe panting, with a dirt-smeared face, and bloody hands clutching at a battered helmet. With shaky legs he rose up and stumbled over to his rifle and left the helmet to retrieve his weapon and rejoin his squad in case the fight was to continue.

 

[Oncaro]

Runrunrunrunrun DROP! One. Two.

Runrunrunrunrun DROP! One. Two.

On and on he kept moving, weighed down by the second Panzerfaust, though his gaze was focused almost entirely on the new Matilda which was still struggling to get free. The Polish infantry around it were sending a fair amount of fire his way, bullets whizzing past him, and as he dropped again, he heard an explosion ahead of him. Looking up, he saw that a grenade had cleared out those infantry around the tank... and left pieces of them scattered around. Some were unlucky enough to still be alive, screaming in pain that Wilhelm hoped he'd never have to experience, though at least one was looking dazedly at the stump where his lower leg used to be, eyes glazed over.

But once again, he shunted these images from his mind as he ran forward. He had a clear shot at the tank now-- or as clear as he was going to get-- and he didn't wait this time to make sure he was absolutely close enough to score a hit; as soon as he felt he was in range, he dropped to his knees, aimed at the Matilda, and fired.

He didn't have to look to see that he hit. But he looked anyway, briefly covering his eyes with his forearm as the Matilda went up in flames, and probably killed any remaining soldiers taking cover by it to boot. Tossing the useless tube away, he readied his rifle, caught his breath, and looked around.

Several of those that had been alive before were dead as shrapnel from the tank had hit them. But one of the Poles was still alive: The one who had lost his leg. Wilhelm, surprisingly calmly, walked over to him, noting his chalk-white skin and the blood pooling in the grass. He wasn't going to make it.

Wilhelm's eyes traveled up and looked to the man's face. In all honesty, he didn't look much older than Wilhelm himself. His ear was mangled, and there was blood around his mouth. The man tried to say something, but just wound up spitting blood. Judging by the blood soaking his shirt around the lower torso, his internal organs were shot.

Wilhelm watched the man's eyes as they traveled to his rifle. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he meant by it.

Thumbing the safety off his rifle, Wilhelm took aim. The Pole's eyes met his again, and Wilhelm remembered something his father had told him shortly before he left for basic training.

"Wilhelm, if you ever find yourself with an enemy too wounded to carry on... Look him in the eye and make it quick for him. He deserves that much."

He didn't look away from the Pole's eyes as he fired a round into the man's heart. The man gave a single jerk, and was still, his eyes staring into a place Wilhelm could not see.

Bringing back the bolt of his rifle and ejecting the spent casing, Wilhelm chambered another round, looked forward, and began to run to the treeline.

He didn't notice that he had been shaking the entire time.

 

[Chask274]

When the squad leader's orders for bayonets came, Alfred felt his heart rate jump as the realization that they'd now be moving to close range set in. Drawing the blade from its sheath on his belt, he locked it into place on his rifle's muzzle, trying to stop his hand from shaking as he did so. After checking his rifle to ensure a full 10 rounds were loaded and moving to a crouch, he looked over at Elias. "Be careful, Elias... And please stay safe."

When the order came, Alfred stood and sprinted for the treeline with a cry that was as much anger as it was fear. Cresting the berm, he found himself face to face with a Pole. In a knee-jerk reaction, the grenadier leveled his rifle and buried the bayonet in the man's stomach before wrenching it sideways. Turning, Alfred snapped off two rounds into the guy charging him with a bayonet of his own. Breathing in short, ragged breaths, Alfred pressed on through the trees. Rounding a larger tree, he spotted a trio of men hiding behind a fallen tree, with one of them prepping a grenade. Raising his rifle, Alfred shot the man just as he was about to throw it, causing the explosive to land in the lap of the would-be grenadier's comrade. There was just enough time for a panicked curse before the trio disappeared in a cloud of smoke and fire. Looking around, Alfred suddenly spotted an enemy taking aim at him, and threw himself to the ground just as the round cracked through the air where his head previously was. Returning fire with a panicked three round burst, Alfred breathed a sigh of relief when he heard a cry of pain and a thud. "How many more of these guys are there?!"

 

[Tristar]

The aggressive actions of first squad was commendable, delivering death with such daring and speed that even the numerical disadvantage did little to change the outcome of the skirmish.The loss of their second tank sent the Polish attackers-turned-defenders into disarray, shattering whatever was left of unit cohesion as riflemen fled from the outskirts of the woods, hoping to escape with their lives. A short burst from Mosemann's sub machine gun stopped a coward dead in his tracks, falling face first as the rifle fell from his hands. As life quickly fled from the firs example, the rest of the polish soldiers found the call of life in captivity far more tantalising than being gunned down like animals. The remaining three defenders dropped them r weapons, calling for a ceasefire in their native language to the victors, their horrible guttural language alien like to the ears of the German soldiers. Though words could not convey the intended message, the gesture alone was understood by the squad leader who quickly yelled at his men to stand down, waving them down. "You two, " he said, pointing at Morse and Alfred. "Secure the perimeter. The rest of you, watch the prisoners. Bonbach!" He called out for his second-in-command. "Run to the Leutnant, tell them we've neutralised the enemy and have prisoners."

The gefreiter nodded, sparing one last look at their captives before dashing across the fields, raising his rifle aloft. Spotting the hand signal, Leo immediately ordered his men to stand down, just as the rest of the platoons halted their suppressive action, supportIng infantry dropping to a knee as keen eyes surveyed their surroundings. Leo stood up to receive the rifleman, his face flushed from the strenuous activity. "Herr Leutnant! We have eliminated the enemy and have captured several prisoners." Leo released his breath, unaware that he had held it in for awhile. When the same grenadier who had killed the first tank ran back, dodging bullets before returning with another panzerfaust, the officer expected the worse; maybe even losing more men. Yet they came out victorious, even claiming captives, which the officer was certain no other unit had done yet. Perhaps it would shine a better light on him than the Hauptmann had witnessed.

The captain, from word of mouth was supposed to be reasonable. How far could he trust those claims? "Good work gefreiter. Have the men bring them up, the Hauptmann will surely want them sent up to battalion HQ for interrogation." "Jawohl Herr Leutnant!" Then, looking as though he hadn't just dashed across a field under fire, engaged in melted and ran back again, the gefreiter sprinted off, his foot falls padded by the grass beneath him. Their first combat experience, over.

He just wished it didn't have to start so poorly. His feldwebel puffed his cigarette, spying the woods that squad 1 had bravely charged into, his mind slowly working around. His elderly thoughts usually had some wisdom to them, even if it must come with the stench of tobacco. ". . . I just realised we haven't had lunch."

So decreed the oldest member of the platoon, watched incredulously by the platoon commander who wondered how exactly this man had survived Hell.

 

[Jinan B]

The melee had passed by in a blur of gunshots and shouting, images flashing past Elias' eyes as his survival instinct drove him to shoot, stab, and shove at whatever enemy was within his gaze. After what might have been several minutes, but seemed no longer than a single moment the remaining Polish soldiers turned and ran from the battlefield, while several men simply surrendered to them instead.

As Elias made his way back to the rest of his squad, watching carefully to make sure that there were no other soldiers ready to take advantage of their calm. Before he had reached the group, however, his legs almost gave out below him suddenly, his fatigue catching up with him now that the danger was over.

Elias had often found himself wondering what battle would truly be like. A chance for glory that he held no interest for, a hellish fight to simply survive another second. Granted, it was closer to the second thought than it might have otherwise been, but still Elias could not have said that it was what he was expecting. All in all, he thought that he would be more afraid.

He looked over the rest of the group as he reached them, noting gladly that Alfred was both alive and seemingly well enough to be sent to secure the area. Hopefully the other squads had faired as well as they had, and had not shared the fate of Squad 2.

He glanced over the 3 Poles who had decided to surrender rather than flee, glad that they would not have to end more life than was necessary. These men wouldn't cause any more death in the war, and when it was all over they would be able to return to their own families just as he would. "Let's hope that we fair as well in our future battles as we do in this one then." He said to no-one in particular, his voice making its way slowly back to the monotone reserved for daily life.

 

[Oncaro]

By the time Wilhelm had gotten into the forest, he could tell that the back of this Polish unit had been broken-- almost certainly because of him, because he had taken out their force multipliers in those two tanks. This realization, however, was dim, and he disregarded it quickly as he moved past a tree-- and very narrowly avoided gutting a Polish soldier whom had taken that moment to emerge from his hiding spot behind said tree, instead colliding with Wilhelm.

Cursing, Wilhelm stumbled back, and readied his rifle. The Pole he was looking at looked, rather appropriately, terrified, and he fell on his ass, putting his hands up to his face almost as if in prayer.

"Proszę, nie zabijaj mnie! Poddaję się, poddaję!" the Pole babbled, but Wilhelm couldn't understand the words; and even if he could, he wasn't listening. He was looking at the Pole himself.

The young man looked like he had barely reached manhood, and was surprisingly scrawny. His hair was matted and messy, likely from the sweat that coated his face and soaked his shirt. His eyes were frantic, and he kept repeating the last word over and over. Wilhelm had heard enough.

"Shut up!" he barked, and though the Pole couldn't understand the words, he flinched, getting the message.

"Up!"

The Pole stared.

"Get up, you stupid bastard! Did your mother give birth to you in a cave like some animal?" Wilhelm said tersely, grabbing the man by his shirt and lifting him up. He gripped the scruff of the man's neck and led him away, toward where he noticed the rest of 1st Squad congregating; or at least the Bäumer brothers were.

"Got one of my own," he called to them, noting they'd already gotten some prisoners of their own. "Where's Bachmann? I owe him a beer for helping me with that second panzer," he said, looking to the twins. Neither seemed to be terribly shaken up after their first taste of combat. But perhaps that was just the mental shock setting in.

 

[Chask274]

As the final Polish soldiers were either killed or surrendered, Alfred felt the tension drain from his body. Both he and his brother had survived their first battle without injury, and for that he was thankful. Responding to his squad leader's orders with a curt nod and a "Yes Sir", Alfred walked back over the berm and took a position behind a tree, scanning the words for any movement. As Grenadier Fuchsbauer came through the trees with another prisoner, he grinned at the man's comment and glanced over. "It's us who owe you a beer, Fuchsbauer. If you hadn't gutted those panzers like you did, things might have been much worse, especially once the rest of the company showed up..."

 

[Tristar]

The gefreiter burst through the trees, hopping down clutching his rifle with excitement as he reported back at Mosemann's side. "The Leutnant wants the prisoners brought back." he said rapidly, the adrenaline of combat stimulating a level of high within the young man. In the night to come he'd be hit with the train of sudden realization, if only to acknowledge how close they all had come to dying. Stuck in the present however, the NCO propped himself against the trunk of a tree trying to catch his breath. The squad leader grinned himself, acknowledging his superior's orders. Circling a finger above his helmet, he shouted out for the perimeter guards to close in and jerked his chin at the rest of the squad. "Get them moving across the field- one of them runs, you shoot to kill." With the rest of the squad acknowledging his orders, squad 1 proceeded to clamber their way out of the woods to reunite with the rest of their company.

Meanwhile, Leutnant Oestrovsky, their platoon commander was not having such a grand time himself. Standing at attention before his captain, the junior officer could only think of horrible things for his own fate, an execution squad being a distinct possibility. The captain gazed across the field, his aide looking disapprovingly at the burning wreck that was Leo's shame to carry for a long time. The captain sighed, massaging his temples before waving for his aide to move along. "We'll discuss this later, Leutnant. Have what's left of your men to mount up, we have a schedule to keep."

"Jawohl Herr Hauptmann!" cried the officer, grateful yet anxious of what was to come. Returning to his platoon leader's side, Leo gave the order to mount up. Feldwebel Hauffer only nodded mutely as though he had been expecting it all along. Really, there was no other option. "Men!" he cried out to the platoon as squad one's war trophies were lead away by another platoon's squad, back to regimental headquarters for interrogation. "Lock bolts and mount up, the day isn't over yet." He walked amongst the men, waving his helmet to emphasize the urgency of the order. Leo looked around for his halftrack, raising his hand to signal Erwin the half-track gunner when he saw the familiar silhouette.

Clambering into the back of the half-track, he assisted the rest of his HQ up into the back of the vehicle's compartment, pulling up Feldwebel Hauffer up the last as the rest of his unit returned to their mounts, squad two's death sticking out like a sore thumb in the distance. The company revved its engines, and first platoon hung back to the rear as another platoon was assigned to the vanguard- all things considered, the men had performed superbly: it was simply the matter of deciding how badly did Leo gimp his unit for his lack of attentiveness. The sun had risen above, the half track still hadn't magically grown a roof and the wind had yet to build up, leaving the occupants of the half tracks sweating like pigs, if combat hadn't made them swine already.

---------------------(Intermission)---------------------​

The drive to their destination was part cathartic experience and part a roller coaster of emotions for the officer. The town, Grodzisk Wielkopolski had been marked as the staging area for the assault on Poznan by the regiment making it an important sector for their side of the campaign. Along with the panzer brigades of their division, the panzergrenadiers would assault the town along with three other companies, facing an unknown number of polish defenders. Leo, who already had a sour taste in his mouth at the mention of the Polish resistance, could only anticipate more grief for him.

God damn it all.

The rest of the regiment's assets had been drawn up, ranging from field guns to light artillery. The company had driven past the bell-knockers, the ground shaking in consistent intervals. "Preliminary bombardment!" Feldwebel Hauffer explained to the men in the half-track. "Soften up the defenders before we go in for the kill!" As altruistic as their intentions was, Leo didn't appreciate having his ear drums shattered with each shot- how the Heer managed to locate enough deaf men to operate their cannons was a mystery to the Leutnant.

The company was just a little ways off the town, and as they drove up the hill the men could spot the taller buildings of the town, sometimes spotting a shower of debris as a round exploded. The tank brigade in the convoy was a sight to behold themselves, rolling about in their Panzer IVs and IIIs, their commanders enjoying the breeze from the open hatches.

A trip through the countryside as it were. . .if only it wasn't this country itself.

 

[Chask274]

Breaks in action, especially those that consisted of long rides in the half-track, had a nasty habit of giving one too much time to think. If it wasn't for the fact that the events of the battle were still being processed by him, Alfred would more than likely be sickened by the thought that he'd ended seven lives. Instead, he forced himself to look ahead to the assault on the town. "So, is there any strategy as to how we're going to be hitting the town once the cannons stop?"