23 - Scarecrow
Title: Scarecrow
Characters: Russia, Germany.
Rating: R for violence.
Summary: September, 1941 - Russia fights the Battle of Kiev somewhere out of the rain.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Kiev. September, 1941.
A soldier darted into the alleyway, froze for a moment. Corpses. He lowered his gun from his shoulder, risked a quick look at the rooftops, crept toward the shouting and artillery fire spilling from the opposite street. Thick mud sucked at his boots; he blinked rain out of his eyes. Seven yards from escape, six, five...
There was a loud crack, and he buckled, clutching at his neck. The arterial spray was almost invisible in the rain. He hit the mud face-first, twitching.
Russia smiled and lit a match on the muzzle of his Mosin-Nagant. He touched it to the end of his cigarette, took a deep breath.
He’d been holed up in a doorway for the better part of an hour, waiting for the dregs of the German divisions to trickle past. Eleven of them lay splayed in the sewage which overflowed across the cobblestones. Their blood curled in the puddles.
In every one of their faces, he’d seen someone else.
“Rumor has it that England and France are vying for your attention.”
Russia crossed his arms on the stone railing of the bridge, and watched the Spree ripple and splash beneath him. The evening hustle of Berlin hung on the edge of his hearing as he flicked a look over at Germany. "Rumor is correct. Our last meeting was less than two weeks ago.”
Germany smiled. “That must be satisfying.”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying it.” Russia thought of the distaste in England’s eyes every time the word “alliance” was said, how he returned those stares with little smirks and barbed comments.
It was worth every offhanded remark about the Purge.
“Then an alliance is almost guaranteed.”
It wasn’t a question, but something in Germany’s tone caught Russia’s attention. "Almost,” he agreed. “Unless I get a better offer.”
A pause. They both waited, watching each other.
Finally, Germany spoke. “Let me buy you a drink.” He raised his eyebrows at Russia, and for a moment, he looked as young as he was. “We have things to discuss.”
Russia settled back against the doorframe, cocked his gun, and waited. He could hear the low roar of tanks in the distance, feel their treads in the rumbling ground beneath his feet. Kiev was doomed. The city was surrounded, and the Germans had been squeezing them in for days. And Budyonny--fucking bastard--had abandoned them. Russia had been relieved, yes, but in his absence, the Red army had fallen into chaos.
The tip of Russia’s cigarette flared in the near-darkness, and he cupped a hand around it. Snipers used the bright spot to get a bead on smoking soldiers. Hell, he’d had a lighter shot clean out of his hand in Minsk.
Suddenly, through the rain, a voice shouting in German. Close. Too close. Russia drew back deeper into the alcove just in time to watch the doorjamb he’d been leaning on splinter in a spray of gunfire.
“Shit.” He squinted through the rain, finger tense on the trigger.
Someone was making their way through the fog, their weapon slung low in their hands.
Russia sighted down the barrel of his gun.
“Don’t shoot! God, please don’t shoot!”
Russian.
Thunder roared overhead as another volley sprayed across the alley. Russia grabbed the soldier’s arm, dragged him into the doorway. For a moment, it was all huddled confusion, a tangle of hands and guns and the light of the cigarette. Russia cursed, spat the thing out, and held the soldier away from him, trying to get a look at his face.
He couldn’t be more than sixteen years old.
Russia hosted Germany the next time, and they spent hours drifting aimlessly through Moscow, smoking and talking.
“All economics,” Germany said bluntly. He waved his hand, leaving a small sprinkling of ash on the sidewalk behind them. “My boss doesn’t want to risk losing your financial support, so--”
“--So you’re taking an eternity to reach an agreement.” Russia finished. “You know you don’t have a chance without--well, without my neutrality, at the very least.”
Germany clapped him on the shoulder. “I know.”
They walked on. Russia’s fingers curled in the tails of his scarf, loosened it an inch. He took a drag on his cigarette.
“But things will fall into place soon.” Germany tipped his head back, studied the cloudless sky. “My boss approves of our friendship.”
Russia blinked. “Our what?”
The other nation gave him an odd look. “Our friendship,” he repeated. “We are friends, aren’t we?”
“…Of course.”
It wasn’t until Germany turned away that Russia allowed himself to smile.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
The boy shook his wet hair out of his face, fingers trembling on his gun. “Tukhachevsky, sir. Nikolai Tukhachevsky.”
Russia stared at his face a moment longer, then released him. They really were desperate for soldiers. “All right, Tukhachevsky. Where the hell is your division?”
“I lost them, sir. In the west part of the city.” He looked down at his boots. “I know it’s a dumb mistake, but I’ve never been in a place this big before. My village is thirty miles outside of Chernihiv, and--”
“You’re from Ukraine?”
“Yes, sir.”
Russia nodded and scanned the opposite rooftops for movement. The last time he’d seen his sister, she’d been sick, hollow-eyed, retching and coughing, trying to empty an already empty stomach. Somehow the memory no longer hurt him as much as it used to. He realized, as he signaled for the boy to stay back, that he didn’t care.
Strange.
“Sir?” Tukhachevsky’s whisper was nearly lost in the rain. “Sir, I have a question.”
“Ask it,” Russia said brusquely. He wiped his rifle barrel with a sopping end of his scarf.
The boy shivered on a damp cough. “Who’s in charge?”
“The commander of your division."
“I know that, sir, but...” He leaned to look at Russia’s face, and turned his back to the street. “My commander said that he was going to tell us the truth. And then he said that he wasn’t getting his orders from anyone. He said that Marshall Budyonny left.”
Russia nodded. “He told you the truth.”
Tukhachevsky blanched. His voice rose. “But what are we supposed to do without him? We’re surrounded, and you’re telling me that all the officers are just making this up as they go? You’re an officer, and you’re alone in a doorway! What--”
A blast of gunfire.
The boy stiffened, swayed forward. Blood streamed from his mouth. His eyes, shocked, confused, sought Russia’s.
Russia didn’t waste a moment. Another volley ripped through the air, and he grabbed Tukhachevsky’s body, pulled it in front of him. He ducked against the boy’s chest, braced himself. Shots riddled Tukhachevsky’s back, and Russia had to fight to hold him in place. His blood splattered, dripped into Russia’s hair and eyes. Smoke fizzled in the rain.
Ribbentrop was on his eighth toast (“To allegiance, to friendship, to new beginnings between our nations”) when Russia left the dining room. He knew his boss saw him go, knew he’d have to explain himself. And he would. Later.
Germany was already outside, waiting for him. He was staring at the Spasskaya tower, head canted to the right.
Russia came up behind him. “Left early?”
“Around the third toast.” Germany shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to face him. “To be honest, it’s best to see yourself out once Ribbentrop has a few drinks in him. He tends to wax poetic.”
“I see.” Russia fished a lighter out of his suit pocket. He had a cigarette lit and between his lips a moment later.
A round of applause rushed out through one of the open windows. Germany chuckled. “I trust you’re just as satisfied with the terms of our agreement as they are?”
Russia flashed him a lopsided smile. “Perhaps more so. After all, I haven’t got eight glasses’ worth of toasts bolstering my enthusiasm.”
“And even when you do, you tend to be sincere.” Germany folded his hands behind his back, drawing his body into a stern line.
“That’s because eight glasses isn’t that much.” A cool breeze caught at Russia’s scarf, tugged it away from his skin. He waited a long moment. Then: “When do you plan to start on Poland?”
“Soon. I don’t anticipate him to be very difficult to deal with.”
Russia took a drag on his cigarette. “Don’t underestimate him.”
“He’s huddling against England’s skirts right now, Russia. Give me six months and he’s mine. Ours.”
“I appreciate that.”
Germany nodded. “You and I are in a singular position to sweep across Europe. We can take whatever we want.”
Another timely burst of applause from inside. The two nations grinned at one another.
Eventually, the volley ceased. There was just the rain and the stink of death.
Russia waited.
Faint voices on the rooftop. German orders. The clatter of shouldered guns. But the sniper squad stayed in position.
Goddamnit.
He shifted against Tukhachevsky’s body and shoved the boy into the street. The movement caught the squad's attention, and they rained bullets into the corpse. Torn bits of uniform hung briefly in the air before the rain washed them down. Soon the boy's face was unrecognizable.
Russia thought of scarecrows flying to pieces in the wind.
Germany wasn’t going to leave this war alive.
+++
-The three flashbacks take place in 1939, in April, June, and August, respectively. The Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, colloquially named after Soviet foreign minister Vyacheslav Molotov and German foreign minister Joachim von Ribbentrop, was an agreement which renounced warfare between the two countries and pledged neutrality by either party if the other were attacked by a third party. Each signatory promised not to join any grouping of powers that was "directly or indirectly aimed at the other party." The Pact also had a hidden agenda, partitioning off parts of Eastern Europe to both the Soviets and the Germans.
--The encirclement of Soviet forces in Kiev was achieved on September 16, 1941 when Kleist's 1st Panzer Army and Guderian's 24th Corps met at Lokhvitsa, 120 miles behind Kiev. A savage battle in which the Soviets were bombarded by artillery, tanks and aircraft had to be fought before the pocket was reduced. By September 19, Kiev had fallen, but the encirclement battle continued. In the end, after 10 days of heavy fighting the last remnants of troops east of Kiev surrendered on September 26. The Germans claimed 600,000 Red Army soldiers captured, although these claims have included a large number of civilians suspected of evading capture.
-Semyon Budyonny was the commander (Marshall) of the Red Army. He was relieved by order of Stalin himself on September 13. However, no successor was named, leaving the divisions under their own command. Things went downhill from there.
-Operation Barbarossa, the German plan to attack the Soviet Union. It's remembered for being the largest military operation in human history. And for being a hellava dick move.
-This is a Mosin-Nagant.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: Russia, Germany.
Rating: R for violence.
Summary: September, 1941 - Russia fights the Battle of Kiev somewhere out of the rain.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Kiev. September, 1941.
A soldier darted into the alleyway, froze for a moment. Corpses. He lowered his gun from his shoulder, risked a quick look at the rooftops, crept toward the shouting and artillery fire spilling from the opposite street. Thick mud sucked at his boots; he blinked rain out of his eyes. Seven yards from escape, six, five...
There was a loud crack, and he buckled, clutching at his neck. The arterial spray was almost invisible in the rain. He hit the mud face-first, twitching.
Russia smiled and lit a match on the muzzle of his Mosin-Nagant. He touched it to the end of his cigarette, took a deep breath.
He’d been holed up in a doorway for the better part of an hour, waiting for the dregs of the German divisions to trickle past. Eleven of them lay splayed in the sewage which overflowed across the cobblestones. Their blood curled in the puddles.
In every one of their faces, he’d seen someone else.
“Rumor has it that England and France are vying for your attention.”
Russia crossed his arms on the stone railing of the bridge, and watched the Spree ripple and splash beneath him. The evening hustle of Berlin hung on the edge of his hearing as he flicked a look over at Germany. "Rumor is correct. Our last meeting was less than two weeks ago.”
Germany smiled. “That must be satisfying.”
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying it.” Russia thought of the distaste in England’s eyes every time the word “alliance” was said, how he returned those stares with little smirks and barbed comments.
It was worth every offhanded remark about the Purge.
“Then an alliance is almost guaranteed.”
It wasn’t a question, but something in Germany’s tone caught Russia’s attention. "Almost,” he agreed. “Unless I get a better offer.”
A pause. They both waited, watching each other.
Finally, Germany spoke. “Let me buy you a drink.” He raised his eyebrows at Russia, and for a moment, he looked as young as he was. “We have things to discuss.”
Russia settled back against the doorframe, cocked his gun, and waited. He could hear the low roar of tanks in the distance, feel their treads in the rumbling ground beneath his feet. Kiev was doomed. The city was surrounded, and the Germans had been squeezing them in for days. And Budyonny--fucking bastard--had abandoned them. Russia had been relieved, yes, but in his absence, the Red army had fallen into chaos.
The tip of Russia’s cigarette flared in the near-darkness, and he cupped a hand around it. Snipers used the bright spot to get a bead on smoking soldiers. Hell, he’d had a lighter shot clean out of his hand in Minsk.
Suddenly, through the rain, a voice shouting in German. Close. Too close. Russia drew back deeper into the alcove just in time to watch the doorjamb he’d been leaning on splinter in a spray of gunfire.
“Shit.” He squinted through the rain, finger tense on the trigger.
Someone was making their way through the fog, their weapon slung low in their hands.
Russia sighted down the barrel of his gun.
“Don’t shoot! God, please don’t shoot!”
Russian.
Thunder roared overhead as another volley sprayed across the alley. Russia grabbed the soldier’s arm, dragged him into the doorway. For a moment, it was all huddled confusion, a tangle of hands and guns and the light of the cigarette. Russia cursed, spat the thing out, and held the soldier away from him, trying to get a look at his face.
He couldn’t be more than sixteen years old.
Russia hosted Germany the next time, and they spent hours drifting aimlessly through Moscow, smoking and talking.
“All economics,” Germany said bluntly. He waved his hand, leaving a small sprinkling of ash on the sidewalk behind them. “My boss doesn’t want to risk losing your financial support, so--”
“--So you’re taking an eternity to reach an agreement.” Russia finished. “You know you don’t have a chance without--well, without my neutrality, at the very least.”
Germany clapped him on the shoulder. “I know.”
They walked on. Russia’s fingers curled in the tails of his scarf, loosened it an inch. He took a drag on his cigarette.
“But things will fall into place soon.” Germany tipped his head back, studied the cloudless sky. “My boss approves of our friendship.”
Russia blinked. “Our what?”
The other nation gave him an odd look. “Our friendship,” he repeated. “We are friends, aren’t we?”
“…Of course.”
It wasn’t until Germany turned away that Russia allowed himself to smile.
“What’s your name, soldier?”
The boy shook his wet hair out of his face, fingers trembling on his gun. “Tukhachevsky, sir. Nikolai Tukhachevsky.”
Russia stared at his face a moment longer, then released him. They really were desperate for soldiers. “All right, Tukhachevsky. Where the hell is your division?”
“I lost them, sir. In the west part of the city.” He looked down at his boots. “I know it’s a dumb mistake, but I’ve never been in a place this big before. My village is thirty miles outside of Chernihiv, and--”
“You’re from Ukraine?”
“Yes, sir.”
Russia nodded and scanned the opposite rooftops for movement. The last time he’d seen his sister, she’d been sick, hollow-eyed, retching and coughing, trying to empty an already empty stomach. Somehow the memory no longer hurt him as much as it used to. He realized, as he signaled for the boy to stay back, that he didn’t care.
Strange.
“Sir?” Tukhachevsky’s whisper was nearly lost in the rain. “Sir, I have a question.”
“Ask it,” Russia said brusquely. He wiped his rifle barrel with a sopping end of his scarf.
The boy shivered on a damp cough. “Who’s in charge?”
“The commander of your division."
“I know that, sir, but...” He leaned to look at Russia’s face, and turned his back to the street. “My commander said that he was going to tell us the truth. And then he said that he wasn’t getting his orders from anyone. He said that Marshall Budyonny left.”
Russia nodded. “He told you the truth.”
Tukhachevsky blanched. His voice rose. “But what are we supposed to do without him? We’re surrounded, and you’re telling me that all the officers are just making this up as they go? You’re an officer, and you’re alone in a doorway! What--”
A blast of gunfire.
The boy stiffened, swayed forward. Blood streamed from his mouth. His eyes, shocked, confused, sought Russia’s.
Russia didn’t waste a moment. Another volley ripped through the air, and he grabbed Tukhachevsky’s body, pulled it in front of him. He ducked against the boy’s chest, braced himself. Shots riddled Tukhachevsky’s back, and Russia had to fight to hold him in place. His blood splattered, dripped into Russia’s hair and eyes. Smoke fizzled in the rain.
Ribbentrop was on his eighth toast (“To allegiance, to friendship, to new beginnings between our nations”) when Russia left the dining room. He knew his boss saw him go, knew he’d have to explain himself. And he would. Later.
Germany was already outside, waiting for him. He was staring at the Spasskaya tower, head canted to the right.
Russia came up behind him. “Left early?”
“Around the third toast.” Germany shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to face him. “To be honest, it’s best to see yourself out once Ribbentrop has a few drinks in him. He tends to wax poetic.”
“I see.” Russia fished a lighter out of his suit pocket. He had a cigarette lit and between his lips a moment later.
A round of applause rushed out through one of the open windows. Germany chuckled. “I trust you’re just as satisfied with the terms of our agreement as they are?”
Russia flashed him a lopsided smile. “Perhaps more so. After all, I haven’t got eight glasses’ worth of toasts bolstering my enthusiasm.”
“And even when you do, you tend to be sincere.” Germany folded his hands behind his back, drawing his body into a stern line.
“That’s because eight glasses isn’t that much.” A cool breeze caught at Russia’s scarf, tugged it away from his skin. He waited a long moment. Then: “When do you plan to start on Poland?”
“Soon. I don’t anticipate him to be very difficult to deal with.”
Russia took a drag on his cigarette. “Don’t underestimate him.”
“He’s huddling against England’s skirts right now, Russia. Give me six months and he’s mine. Ours.”
“I appreciate that.”
Germany nodded. “You and I are in a singular position to sweep across Europe. We can take whatever we want.”
Another timely burst of applause from inside. The two nations grinned at one another.
Eventually, the volley ceased. There was just the rain and the stink of death.
Russia waited.
Faint voices on the rooftop. German orders. The clatter of shouldered guns. But the sniper squad stayed in position.
Goddamnit.
He shifted against Tukhachevsky’s body and shoved the boy into the street. The movement caught the squad's attention, and they rained bullets into the corpse. Torn bits of uniform hung briefly in the air before the rain washed them down. Soon the boy's face was unrecognizable.
Russia thought of scarecrows flying to pieces in the wind.
Germany wasn’t going to leave this war alive.
+++
-The three flashbacks take place in 1939, in April, June, and August, respectively. The Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, colloquially named after Soviet foreign minister Vyacheslav Molotov and German foreign minister Joachim von Ribbentrop, was an agreement which renounced warfare between the two countries and pledged neutrality by either party if the other were attacked by a third party. Each signatory promised not to join any grouping of powers that was "directly or indirectly aimed at the other party." The Pact also had a hidden agenda, partitioning off parts of Eastern Europe to both the Soviets and the Germans.
--The encirclement of Soviet forces in Kiev was achieved on September 16, 1941 when Kleist's 1st Panzer Army and Guderian's 24th Corps met at Lokhvitsa, 120 miles behind Kiev. A savage battle in which the Soviets were bombarded by artillery, tanks and aircraft had to be fought before the pocket was reduced. By September 19, Kiev had fallen, but the encirclement battle continued. In the end, after 10 days of heavy fighting the last remnants of troops east of Kiev surrendered on September 26. The Germans claimed 600,000 Red Army soldiers captured, although these claims have included a large number of civilians suspected of evading capture.
-Semyon Budyonny was the commander (Marshall) of the Red Army. He was relieved by order of Stalin himself on September 13. However, no successor was named, leaving the divisions under their own command. Things went downhill from there.
-Operation Barbarossa, the German plan to attack the Soviet Union. It's remembered for being the largest military operation in human history. And for being a hellava dick move.
-This is a Mosin-Nagant.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.