By
Matt Whittaker
(Edited by
Bobby Hardenbrook)
November 13th 1940
Sergeant Dmitri Kostov sat nervously in the rear of the American license-built transport. The buzz of the engines vibrated the whole plane. He shifted uncomfortably in his parachute harness, moving the bulky packages containing his parachute. He gripped his PPSh machine gun, having just received it several weeks before the jump. He had practiced with the weapon, secretly delighting in how many bullets it sprayed compared to his old Great War rifle. He had stuffed several extra drums into his leg bags, not wanting to be caught without extra bullets. He had also equipped himself with a Nagant revolver at his side for a last resort weapon. His own pack contained food for several days, gun cleaning kit and two more drums of ammunition.
Dmitri looked around him at the rest of the paratroopers on the plane. All were young men, all specially recruited to the paratroopers. There were eighteen men in his platoon, all equipped with PPSh guns. Two men carried an anti-tank rifle to deal with any fascist armor that might show up during or after the jump. Two containers the size of coffins contained extra ammunition, a radio and food. The whole division had received extra training in the past few months in order to build up their skills and confidence. The mood of the troops was very high; the war against the fascists in Poland made them almost exuberant. The fascists had been pushed all the way back to their own borders.
The Nazis had released their own vicious counter-offensive though. Within days the Red Army had been pushed far from Germany's borders and into central Poland. A huge Soviet army had been encircled around Warsaw after heavy fighting. Several attempts to relieve the army had been turned aside with heavy losses.
Dmitri's division had been moved to an airfield just behind the lines two days before. They were given fresh uniforms, fed quite generously, and then told of their mission. The commissar was unusually blunt, not feeding them with the usual propaganda. He told them of the poor situation and that things might get a lot worse. The paratrooper's job, he explained, was to jump behind the enemy lines and open up a corridor for the beleaguered army in Warsaw to withdraw through. There would be heavy fighting but multiple Red Army mechanized divisions would launch a local attack right in the vicinity of the jump to help force a gap open. Dmitri's squads mission was to take a small bridge over a river and hold it. Two companies of paratroopers would be dropped within several hours to reinforce them.
Sitting now in the back of the plane, Dmitri felt a cold chill course through his body. This was his first time in combat. He had talked to experienced soldiers and listened to their stories with rapt attention. He was proud to serve his country but had no illusions about the horrors of war.
Dmitri's attention was suddenly pulled away by the sound of exploding anti-aircraft shells. Shrapnel clinked against the thin skin of the slow moving transport. Taking deep breaths, Dmitri silently prayed while sweat built up around his body. Over the sound of the German anti-aircraft fire came the yelling of the jump master as he moved back from the cockpit.
“Mount up, soldiers of the Rodina! Your chance to strike back at the fascists has come!” the burly man yelled over the drone of the engines and the hammering of anti-aircraft fire. At this command, all eighteen men stood single file and faced the rear of the plane. Each had a hand on the man in front of him and attached their parachute hook to the stout wire above them. Dmitri stood at the front of the line, just behind the 1st Sergeant. He double checked the straps for his burp gun and other equipment. The time had come.
All the paratroopers fixed their eyes on the red lamp, waiting for the pilot to give the jump signal. As the jump light switched to green the 1st Sergeant glanced back once, nodded, and shoved open the door in the fuselage of the plane. The man hurled himself into space. Dmitri followed two seconds behind. The cold air hit him like a blast followed by the tearing sound of the parachute being yanked out. The straps jolted his body, causing him to grunt.
He swung from the harness, adjusting himself to get comfortable. The dark landscape below him was lit up by the flashes of anti-aircraft guns which then echoed with dull booms. Tracers lanced all around him and in every direction. Bright explosions and harsh, cracking, detonations marked curtains of detonating anti-aircraft shells. Luckily most of the shells were detonating up among the stream of transport aircraft and not among the descending paratroopers. As Dmitri looked on one of the transports exploded in a brilliant orange fireball and began cart wheeling towards the ground.
For a brief moment Dmitri simply stared in awe at the ghastly spectacle all around him. After a lingering moment he came back to himself. The ground got closer a lot faster than Dmitri had remembered from training. Had they jumped from the correct height?. In the illumination of flares and tracers he saw the Polish village that was near their target and realized the squad was being dropped almost on top of it! Their jump zone was supposed to be half a kilometer to the west!
Dmitri looked around the dark and chaotic night sky, trying to see any of his comrades, but was unable to locate them. He looked down and could now see the individual shapes of hedges, cottages and barns. He braced himself for the shock and when he did hit, rolled with the force of the landing to spread the impact. His parachute billowed to the ground behind him, the straps yanking him off his feet. He tumbled again, reaching for the boot knife strapped to his shin and quickly cut himself free.
As he stood in a crouch, he saw the 1st Sergeant and three other Soviets emerge from a hedge off to his left. He raised his arm to signal his comrades when a burst of gunfire suddenly exploded from a hedge opposite the Soviets. Orange tracers streaked out to cut his fellow soldiers down before they even had a chance to react. Their bodies jerked and went deathly limp as the bullets slammed them to the ground.
Dmitri flung himself on the ground as the fascist machine gunner worked his weapon over to where he stood. He bit dirt, smelling the moist scent of the soil. The bullets chewed just over his head and walked their way around the field and opposite hedge. The deadly stream of bullets moved in another different direction as the gunner aimed at some unseen target.
Dmitri raised his head slightly, doing a mental check to see if all his body parts were moving. He looked carefully into the darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Why he had not been shot he didn't understand but was grateful none the less.
The machine gun stuttered to a halt. Dmitri located the position easily now, seeing the deadly black barrel sticking from a spot in the hedge. He judged the gun to be no more than ten meters away. Still laying flat on his stomach, he reached down into his rucksack and pulled a grenade. He went to reach for his burp gun but realized it was not there! He must have dropped it in his dive to avoid the bullets. Silently he cursed himself.
Dmitri quietly opened the cover of his holster and drew out his Nagant. He suddenly felt a lot less secure without the burp gun. The Nazi gunner suddenly opened up again, tracers ripping across the open ground. Several popping gunshots behind him revealed several of his comrades were alive! He pulled the pin from his grenade and focused on the muzzle flash of the machine gun. He pushed the Nagant a meter in front of him to grab easier when he made his rush.
When the machine gun fell silent again Dmitri heaved himself to his knees. He threw his arm back and hurled the grenade with all his might. Just like in training. He fell back to the ground and counted to three, praying his throw had been a good one. He was rewarded with a sharp BOOM followed by guttural screams of pain. His window of opportunity would not last long.
Grabbing his Nagant, Dmitri struggled to his feet and dashed to the spot where his grenade had burst. German voices sounded ahead of him, some in pain, some questioning. He ran up a small embankment to a mangled scene. The machine gun was knocked to the side, barrel now pointing to the sky. One gray clad fascist lay next to it on his stomach. Another was trying to stand, mumbling in German and a third was just coming to. Dmitri aimed his Nagant and shot the mumbling soldier, spun and shot the barely awake fascist with two more shots. He glanced through the gloom for more targets but didn't see any.
Across the field two more Soviets emerged, shouting to him questions about what had happened to their comrades. He waved his arms, signaling to the others to stay alert for enemy soldiers. It was clear by now that his squad had been scattered in the jump and he had no idea where the rest of them were. As tracers cut into the night sky German sirens continued wailing a peculiar warble that was obviously some kind of air assault warning. To Dmitri it seemed clear that the whole mission was now a failure. The village was heavily defended and his squad was scattered or mostly dead.
“Here's the plan” he told the other two, “we're going to get the hell out of here. This jump is a mess and we three can't take that bridge”. The other two nodded, eyes wide as they looked around at the carnage. Dmitri led the group in the general direction of a road that led East, away from the Nazis. The Soviets in Warsaw were on their own......