Cold Hearts

Sophia could tell by the infrequent artillery shelling and gray, cloudy sky that neither great army was terribly interested in attacking or counterattacking today. The Stadtis were undoubtedly waiting for reinforcements for last big Fall push while the Bloc had orders to hold the city rather than to regain ground.

There was bitterness to the cold wind coming from the North, a heralding of the return of General Winter who would freeze the mud and the flesh from bones. Sophia normally welcomed its arrival, but now it was an ominous figure in her mind. "Hold Moscow until Winter, and then enact the Molotov Protocol." she thought to herself. She shook her head, and continued to the staging area.

She saw a crew of tankers huddled near their resting behemoth. Something was odd about the them. She watched as they stole glances and pointed at the train that had arrived, recruits stepping out and seeing Moscow with the typical bewilderment of country folk. They kept pointing at things, and whispering. Sophia sensed something was off. These men had a nervousness about them. A quiet anxiety. Fear.

Sophia began to walk toward in sort of saunter, one boot in the front of the other. She remembered being taught by a ballerina how to do it in the Commissariat, and the sharp rebukes when she stumbled. She adjusted her uniform, and whistled. An incredibly pallid young breach loader with equally bright orange hair noticed her first. He nudged the driver, his superior, and nodded her way. The men scrambled in the panicked nervousness that comes with trying to suddenly seem to be not suspicious.

"Comrades!" she said cooly, but cordially. "Surely you have something better to do than gawk at the new recruits." she said, coming a stop before them. None of them were looking at her.

"Yes, Comrade Commissar, but we have orders to stand down." the ginger said. She could tell by the twitches at the corner of his eye and slight gritting of his teeth he was holding something back.

"Out with it, soldier." she said, her voice shifting to a commanding, husky tone. He glanced from side to side, but found no salvation in his crew mates.

"Its just, they don't have boots. Why would they send men on an **** against the Bucket, in the mud, without boots?" She held his gaze for a moment until he averted his eyes, and glanced over. He was right. They wore either standard workboots or even loafers. Once she saw that, she began to notice other things. Their ammo belts were sagging instead of bulging, most had trousers instead of fatigue pants, and they were being issued Mosin Nagants, and not even the modern semiautomatic versions.

She nodded at the men, and wordlessly turned. She was a Commissar, after all, and this looked like the rabble from the 40's rather than the brutally armed and equipped modern Bloc soldier. Her saunter turned into a purposeful march as she made her way to the quartermaster's station.

"You!" she said in a commanding tone. The grizzled, scowling red face of the man passing out the rifles spat before he turned to see who was yelling at him. Once he beheld her, he nearly dropped the rifle he was holding. Quickly, he snapped to attention and saluted.

"Comrade Commissar!" he said, his saluting hand quivering. She looked him up and down, and then to the men. They were thin, but not starving. Many had the look of combat veterans. These were no fresh-faced farm boys. She could see that some of their rifles had bent barrels, or even missing bolts. No machine guns. No grenades.

"What is the meaning of this? Who are these men? Why are you outfitting them like this?" she asked harshly.

"I'm... under order from...." was all he got out before the sharp, sudden slap of her gloved hand turned his face to the side. "I must obey my...." SLAP! The man's lower lip had split, and was beginning to swell. "I don't know! Please, Comrade Commissar! I have a large family! I produce strong soldiers! I've given three sons to the Cause already, and another two are fighting now! Please Comrade Commissar...."

Sophia's cold, blue eyes stared into his face in disgust, but realized he was too much of an oaf to tell her anything more. Slowly, she turned to to closest man who was waiting for a rifle. He was tall and bearded, and would have been handsome in another context. The ammo belt he wore was indeed empty, and the tattered rags that served as socks were spotted with old, dry blood.

"Who are you, soldier?" Sophia asked. He tilted his head.

"I am Fedir. Apologies, Commissar. Not speak Russian very well." he replied with a thick Southern accent and with a shrug. She looked back to the quartermaster, and then back to the man.

"Orders?" she asked. That one was clear enough.

"We take Stadti bunker. Bring **** on Fascist scum." he replied, and motioned with his hand to a large group of men filing out of the next train car down. They were all in a similar state. What the Hell was going on? A dark thought crept into her mind. She remembered a time like this before, before the Khruschev Revisions...

"Where are you from, soldier?" she asked, taking a deep breath as he worked out the meaning of her words.

"From Sevastopol. We all are." Sophia exhaled, her fears confirmed. Someone in the Kremlin, whether the Premier or the KGB office, had decided that these men must die so the secret of the Bloc's failure at the Southern port would remain silent for as long as possible. Such foolishness. Newspapers would be smuggled in, or film reels, or refugees. She'd seen it, and been a part of it, before.

She still remembered the cold detachment of her youth she had felt as she carried out her duties as a newly minted Commissar, executing officers and soldiers that had fought bravely but had come up short of their objectives. The Kruschev Revisions had largely put a stop to such slaughter out of sheer necessity. Now, the old Soviet barbarism had returned.

Sophia leaned in, and kissed him suddenly. Fedir's eyes went wide, but a soldier seizes opportunity when it presents itself. Her tongue slid passed his lips as her gloved hands wrapped around him. Fedir's own hands encircled her waist as he drew her closer to him. Sophia held the kiss, her eyes closed, for a long moment as the thought winded its way through her mind. When she opened them, she knew what she must do.

She approached the quartermaster once more. "Give this man your pistol and all of your ammunition. Radio to Depot 144 and have them bring up proper arms and boots for these men. I will be leading them myself into battle." she said. The man hesitated until she unlatched the holster strap of her Tokarev pistol, a hundred newly armed men standing behind her.

"At...at once, Commissar." he replied, dialing in the requisition. He paused for a moment. "For all of them, Comrade Commissar? There have been four trains arrive already. They are already deployed." Sophia snatched the radio out of his hand, and quickly switched frequencies.

"This is Comrade Commissar Sophia Ivanova. Prepare the Night Witches, and await my orders." The radio squelched to a new frequency. "This is Comrade Commissar Ivanova. Fuel up the T-88s, and make sure their is plenty of ammunition." With that, she handed the radio back to him with a scowl.

Sophia turned to address the men, Fedir snatching the pistol from the quartermaster's belt with a wicked grin. She could feel it roll over her like a wave. Despair, horror, and depression were melting away as what was happening dawned on them. Sophia stood tall, her head held high. She glanced to her side to see the tank crew staring in stunned disbelief for a moment. The ginger clapped with a laugh, and scrambled up to the hatch, his Comrades close behind.

"Follow me. All of you." She said. A cheer erupted from the doomed men as Commissar Sophia Ivanova turned to march down the street. "Onward... to Victory!" Fedir cheered, his pistol held high. The men erupted in a roar, and began to march.