The sky was leaden, the clouds low and heavy, and despite it being mid-August the wind felt cold and grim to Junior Sergeant Stepan Sokolov as he stood next to the train station, wondering where exactly he was.
His briefing in Meiningen had not specified who would be picking him up, beyond a simple rank and name. The other people in the train car had seemed sullen about the train stopping long enough for Stepan to grab his bags and fumble off the train. The train itself had seemed almost resentful as it pulled away, slowly picking up speed, until it clattered off into the distance.
There was nothing around him. Just a single dirt road in the middle of a field in the middle of rolling hills in the middle of East Germany only a dozen kilometers from the middle of the vaunted One Kilometer Anti-Capitalist Zone.
Thunder rumbled in the sky as Stepan spotted a small armored vehicle round the corner that vanished beyond a hill. It slewed in the mud for second, then picked up speed.
A BTR-40? Are you kidding me? Stepan wondered to himself as he picked up his bags and waited.
After a few minutes the vehicle came to a stop in front of Stepan. He noted that the vehicle had a 7.62mm SGMB medium machinegun on the pintle mount, pointing forward. The gun was manned by another soldier, clad in a poncho to protect him from the rain, who stared blankly at Stepan with unfeeling eyes.
The door creaked open and a tall blonde man got out, putting the hands at the small of his back and groaning as he pushed to pop the vertebrae in his lower back. The man looked up, shaking his head at the rain, then walked through the mud up to Stepan. He was wearing the mottled green of the much vaunted Vympel Spetsnaz, with the wide brimmed hat. To Stepan's surprise the man wasn't wearing rank or any other insignia, although he was wearing a pistol belt with an unfamiliar pistol in it.
"Junior Sergeant Sokolov?" The man asked.
"Who is asking?" Stepan grunted.
"Major Vasilek, your commanding officer, comrade," The large man said. He held out his hands. "Your orders and papers, please."
Stepan swallowed a bit of irritation that he was being asked to present his papers in the middle of an empty field to a man who provided no proof he was who he claimed. Still, discretion was the better part of valor at times and he held out the demanded documents.
The large Major went through the papers, nodding, holding up Stepan's ID booklet and checking the photo carefully.
"A tour guarding missile silos in Siberia, then Kolkhoz (collective peasant farms), Spetsnaz training, a year in Afghanistan, another tour of the Kolkhoz, and now here," The Major mused. "I see why you were chosen for here."
Stepan frowned, looking around. He had glanced at a map. There was nothing around here. A few towns on the other side of One Kilometer Anti-Capitalist Zone, but nothing to warrant Vympel being out here.
"You cannot see if from here," The Major chuckled, handing back the papers. "You see any combat against the Afghan Mujahidee, Comrade?"
Stepan nodded. "A few times. They strike from ambush and run away like cowards."
The Major grunted, turning away from Stepan and waving him to follow. "Yet they still own their country. Our very own Vietnam. The giants bled to death by midgets."
Stepan bristled slightly. It was nothing like the American's humiliating defeat by the rice farming peasants of Vietnam.
"That is Senior Sergeant Egorkin," The Major said, pointing at the man on the machinegun who continued ignoring Stepan. "Driving is Sergeant Kuznetsov, who is also our mechanic. Do not drive any vehicles he has not given you permission to."
YOU ARE READING
Third Person - Complete
Historical FictionPFC James Roberts just wanted to serve his country, like his father and grandfather. He left his middle class life to join the military with the hope of making his family proud. Graduating top of his class in Basic Training, attending Advanced Indiv...
