(APH) Stalingrad

The Entrance

With every single shove of the sea that lay before the beach, the dots noticeable in the sea known as boats struggled to keep themselves afloat. Water landed on the soldiers within the boats, efficiently slipping a few off their feet and into their comrades, who pushed them back up. The men and women were all hesitant, unable to find anything to hold onto other than themselves and the sides of the boats; some let out their sickness into the dirtied, brown water that was below the bundled boats of soldiers. One of them muttered prayers in his native Russian, his throat swelled up and tears running down his cheek; he shoved his comrades out of the way, making a quick path, and scattering to the side of the boat to jump out of it. Before his feet could kick off the metal, wet floor, his body was met with the feeling of sharp bullets striking his sides, and his escape proving worthless; the soldier's body flipped over, deceased and lifeless. An officer holding a PPSh-41 machine gun proceeded to reload with a new batch of bullets, as well as everyone turning their attention to it.

"Watch what happened to him. Now do not leave--or you'll disgrace your honor of Mother Russia," a voice came up from the front of the boat, holding onto one of the many poles of it. He wasn't an officer, but a soldier, but he was above them all, Ivan Braginsky, his name was, stood, "Do not disappoint everyone here and die from dishonor--die strong, not cowardly." He turned his attention back to the beach, holding onto the iron-scoped Mosin-Nagant, which he held tight to his chest. With eyes closed, Russia only remembered how beautiful the city was before all of this happened: the perfect monument of a strong government, only for it to be devastated by the betrayal of one of his now-former friends. Though, he left the imaginary reminiscing as the distant sounds of propellers and cracked skies approached the many boats from above.

Ivan's eyes widened as he glanced to his right, watching one of the boats close to his getting approached by strings of gunfire; lines of men and women fell over like dominoes and blood escaped every one of them. Before he could even shout out a word, that same boat exploded in flames. Debris from the boat landed within his boat, striking and injuring officers and soldiers alike; Ivan nearly lost his grip as the waves intensified from the explosion. "C-crap," he stammered, holding tightly onto the pole. Soon after, the planes left the area, and the boats proceeded forward, leaving those destroyed by the forces of the aerial bullets behind.

All the barricades at the top of the hill were covered by several Nazi and Hungarian soldiers, behind them from a distance, were two people: Ludwig and Elizabeta, resting in a campfire; "I have my doubts about them: those Soviets--zheir only tactic is flawed by zhem running towards us, I assume, by their boats approaching de veach." Elizabeta could only agree with a simple nod, as she had a spoonful of beans to eat. "Itz stupid, zhey could die out there eazily, and yet zhey still go forward."

A German soldier ran towards them, "ZIR! THE MEN HAVE ARRIVED AT THE VEACH, YOUR ORDERS?"

Ludwig, before he could even bite into the hamburger, glared at the soldier, "Fire. All of your bullets are to hit zhose fledglings. You hear me?" Acknowledging this without question, the soldier saluted and ran back towards the barricades and the MG42s. He turned his attention back to Elizabeta, who had finished the can, and lifted a Kar98k, "Should we get leaving, then?" Ludwig only responded with a nod, the two standing with their weapons in hands, and left for the next set of barricades.

Ivan left the boat, his mind in the horrific thought of the distance between the boats and the one that had exploded. His mind was a total mess at this point, but the only thing stabilizing him from hitting the bumpy, poor sand. "Get in line, single file," he coughed before belching and sickening himself out, finally letting a liquid hit the sand; running his sleeve against his mouth, he stared at the officers hand the soldiers a Mosin Nagant, however, it was in the order of: one is handed a rifle and the one behind them receives a clip, all repeating in a cycle. "Let's go, all of you," he spoke without hesitating, walking forward, before watching soldiers from the other side get knocked down by bullets to the limbs by the MG42s that sat at the top of the sandbag barricades. They were ripped from piece by piece thanks to them, Ivan could barely watch, but he ran with his soldiers to the debris and cars that stood in the beach.

He peeked slightly over a car's hood, before some bullets skid and struck through the windows of the car, striking the head of one Soviet soldier. Ivan ducked, staring at the soldier that cowered, trembling, next to him. "Don't panic," his voice was more soft, "I'm here. Here. Take this," he handed his scoped rifle to the soldier, taking the soldier's rifle, "Now, breathe; a hastily-breathing lung brings harm to snipers." The soldier slowly nodded, leaning the Mosin Nagant on where the car's windows would've been, as well as Ivan using his arm to rest the rifle too, and peeked into the scope, the scope's cross-hairs locked dead-on right on a Nazi's arm behind the barricade. "He'll move; wait for them to reload, then you can shoot, comrade," he smiled.

There was a dead silence that came from several more gunshots, as well as distant jingling sounds, indicating reloading.

Reluctantly pressing the trigger, a bullet shot from the rifle, and struck the Nazi soldier in the arm; he let out a cry before the soldiers pushed forward to another layer of cover. Bullets struck down another few soldiers, their corpses bursting out with excessive blood, Ivan only winced as an arm landed near him and glared over at the ruins of a building that some men were hiding in--along with that: an antenna. "Alright, comrade, follow me," he waved his arm back, holding onto the soldier's arm, and dragging him along the sand; gusts of sand were picked up as the tiny bullets struck the sand at gradually accelerating speeds. "I'd like you to remember this wise advice, comrade, the man with the rifle shoots--the man without one follows...you wouldn't want a bullet up your ass, so I very recommend following what I say, or else you'll die, da?" he quietly cracked a smile while the soldier trembled but awkwardly laughed.

Reaching the ruined tower, Ivan leaped down with the soldier behind him, "When are we getting more reinforcements, comrade?"
The officer holding onto the gray wired box, and with an round phone up to his ear, responded with a brief rise of his finger, pausing the two before looking back at them, "Ivan-sir, the planes'll arrive soon! Just listen real close, sir, those planes will struck hard and the beach'll shake!"
Ivan chuckled, "Alright, I have no-one to throw into that place, so we're all good, right, comrade?" he turned to face the soldier, who sweat nervously, and responded with a quiet "yes".

Eventually the sounds of propellers were distant and approaching; Ivan had a shining smirk on his face, eyes closed, as they got closer. "You never told me your name, comrade, what's it?"
"Oh, name's Alex, sir," the soldier held onto his helmet with his hand.

As Ivan cracked a smile, the artillery bombs fell and exploded the men behind the MG42s, sending pieces of them scattered, while the Soviets ran up, shouting for victory as officers lagged behind, poking for any survivors. Alex and Ivan eventually caught up, thieving magazines from the Mosin Nagants of the deceased and eventually picking up a StG 44 (a sleek one, duly noted). The white-haired Soviet leader then stood in front of the Soviets, "I believe that was good work, comrades, I hope for better than what just happened. A pipe to the back of the head would've been your punishment for sluggish working but it's all fine," he chuckled. Eventually he waltzed up to the beaten body of a Nazi soldier--who still had breath within him; the others left, leaving Alex with Ivan; "Comrade, this's what happens to you in a war, so you better not turn your puny brain off, OK?"
"R-right, comrade."
He held up a cylinder pipe, "Watch carefully, these people take a lot of hits," he spoke before horrifically bludgeoning the Nazi soldier on his head, smiling while doing so, "when you find men like these--you hit 'em real hard, and you don't want 'em living either, they're gonna retreat, tell their mamas they got hurt, and get everyone in trouble," he laughed maniacally. "But that's fine, we torture them before that happens--you ever saw what happened to our men after Stalingrad was taken over? They beat them brutally. I think we deserve to hit them back--eye for eye, you see." Ivan could care less about the sticky, crimson liquid landing on him, nor the eyeball that escaped the skull--for the head was an amalgamation of muscles, flesh, bones, and blood; he stood up, "But it's okay to vomit, comrade--you'll get used to vomiting from seeing those men bleed--but soon you'll not want to, ever."

Alex couldn't help but let out his sickness on another Nazi soldier near him.