Hereby a short story. It's about snow, coniferous trees, machine gun rattle and artificial moonlight. Enjoy.
1.
They reached a glade. The man at the head, Sergeant F., stopped the others and listened. The forest was teeming with its usual sounds: the bark snapping, the tree tops soughing. One sound, however, had been different. For several moments he stood completely still but he couldn't hear anything in particular. In the mean time he took his time exploring the glade with his eyes: about 50 meters across, bordered by wood to the right and grown with spare bushes and faded grass, peeking out through the snow. At the left a road ran by.
His vision started to get hazy. It was early in the morning and still dark, the artificial moonlight not giving much guidance. In cases like these you easily began to be mistaken, he knew that; alone in the night in a desolate outpost, a clump of trees in a field easily became an advancing line of skirmishers...
He blinked and adapted the eyes. Then he could hear the sound again. It came from the right, clearly something was moving in there. He got down on his knees and made a sign to the squadron to do the same, taking his gun at the ready, releasing the change lever, cocking and continuing to look out.
Now it was a shuffling sound. It stopped and was followed by the snapping of twigs and something hard to describe, sounding like a growl, a grunt.
Now he was prepared for anything. It was too late for orders. He hoped the men intuitively understood what was about to happen. He would dearly have liked to send a guy out to secure the flank though.
The sounds came at a quicker pace, approaching. He estimated the source to the middle of the row of trees, just inside. And even though their position was somewhat exposed, at least they had the lead in some way or the other.
From the shadows a dark shape sallied forth, entering the glade. It ran very fast, had shiny white fangs, four legs and raggy fur. Soon it was gone, disappearing on the other side of the road.
It was a boar.
The Sergeant turned to the man behind and made thumbs up, "all clear", which he sent on down the line. Probably none of the soldiers had understood what had gone by which the platoon leader thought just as well. They had other things to worry about.
Half a minute having passed, he made the "forward"-sign, getting up and going along inside the edge of the wood. The barely audible sounds behind him confirmed that the column had begun to move.
2.
The spruces stand silent and enigmatic, the beard-lichen hanging from the branches, the bluish-purple heather standing out against the snowy ground. Everywhere there's twigs, you have to watch your steps.
From a tree-trunk a scratching sound is heard. The Sergeant looks up and sees a squirrel, judging by the silhouette gnawing at a cone. He wonders if the animals doesn't sleep by this time, but maybe the artificial lighting has upset their daily rythm. Through the tree-tops the light filters down, rather like moonlight but stronger, looking like the light you see during a partial eclipse.
The squirrel sneaks away up the trunk. The Sergeant trots off, assault rifle at the ready. It's cold, about 10 centigrades below zero. He has the camouflage tunic knotted at the neck, the trouser legs tucked into the high bootlegs.
The wood stretches for as long as you may guess. He wonders over its actual size; on the map it doesn't look so big but once you're there it feels more than vast. The distance they have to cover isn't so long, but due to the character of the operation the marching tempo is low. "In case of infiltration, the number of marching steps per minute must not excede fifty", that's what the regulations say, he has read it and he muses over it now as he trots along to the creaking of his soles.
They reach an upward slope. F. calls for his second-in-command, ordering him to take half the force and continue the advance to the left of the road. Half-lying in the slope, the Sergeant watches the dark shapes hasten over the road: crouching, taking small, hasty steps, rifles in hand.
He has the plan of attack drummed into his head, having repeated it so often that its meaning has almost been lost. The scouts have reported an enemy outpost, about 200 meters to the northwest, at a crossing in a glade. There's at least one MG emplacement there, fieldworks none. This much you can know and out of this Sergeant F. has made himself a mental map. And as for mishaps the operation is now too far progressed, there's no time to worry. He throws all inhibitions aside and goes freewheeling, playing by intuition. All orders are given, the men are hand-picked and the whole situation so unlikely that it simply has to succeed.
He knows that the woods right now are full of lurkers like them. They are the division's spearhead; along trails and roads like this one they are infiltrating into the enemy's deployment. He looks at the watch, the uncanny lighting illuminating the clock face fairly well, but now he covers it to make the luminous dots stand out. 0515, fifteen minutes to H hour.
The last of the other section's soldiers disappear in the darkness on the other side of the road. The Sergeant rises and makes signs for line abreast, throwing an eye at each side to see if everybody comes along. Five meters covered most seems to be in place – and if someone is lost now it's all the same, he muses, the main thing is we have our support weapons.
Side by side the soldiers are marching, guns in firm grips, eyes staring under the helmet rims. Each step is taken with caution, a broken twig can alert the whole enemy outpost. From his place in the middle the platoon leader spies about through the trunks, thinking he can see a clearing further on. In turn crouching, creeping and crawling, the odd dozen men approach the final assembly area.
3.
The search-lights move silently over the sky, crossing, interacting, reciprocating, repelling. The light hits the underbellies of the clouds, reflecting down to the ground. The clearing now seems to bathe in light, then to be in twilight. Sergeant F. sometimes has to look twice to really see.
The place doesn't really look as he has imagined. Mentally it has become an ideal clearing with crossing roads, simple and able to survey, the reality however is something else. The crossing itself can't be seen as the terrain is vaguely undulated and grown with bushes and shrubs. At the farther edge of the wood you can see how the road continues in between the trees, and out on the flanks the ends of the crossing road can be seen. In the right hand corner there's an MG emplacement and next to it there's a firing position for riflemen.
Now the platoon lies deployed at the edge of the wood, combat distance 200-250 meters. Five minutes to H hour.
At the left the Sergeant happens to see a shape lying down, now moving. In the dark face the man's eyewhites can be seen, then a smile and a gesture, "OK". Farther away the rest of the section's men can be seen, here the silhouette of a helm, there a gun barrel.
Nothing is visible on the deserted plain. At the road side withered grass is waving in the wind. The tree trunks stand silent and enigmatic. The snow reflects the artificial moonlight. In the distance an owl is calling.
4.
At first you hear it as a distant coughing, then the noise increases, taking the form of an express train passing by, followed by thunder and a prolonged cracking. The grenades pass over their heads to knock out the enemy's rear lines, growing into a continous thunder. Along the whole of the 100 km frontline their guns roar, all of it becoming a mish-mash of whizzes, thunder and a sound like fabric ripping apart.
There's action at the other edge of the wood, shadows moving among the trees and commands being shouted. A minute passes. It is quiet, apart from the bombardment in the distance. Sergeant F. makes a calming gesture at his men. In a hiatus between detonations, he shouts at his second-in-command on the other side of the road. He answers with a faint "here", and F. continues:
”The crossing! On the double!”
At the same time he commands his own:
”MG! FIRE!”
The MG:s howl into action, tracers chasing over the glade, both weapons firing and filling the air with a monotonous rattle. Gradually the point of impact is corrected. By firing alternately the enemy fire trench is completely covered. On the other side of the road a team rushes up, trotting over the crust of the snow. Having barely taken ten steps two men fall, as if hit by the swing of a scythe, soon followed by their comrades. An enemy MG has opened fire. The second-in-command however, collecting his wits, crawls off with a rescue force to the crossing. The MG fire washes over them. Two men is lying in the field, moaning.
The barrels of the own MG:s are smoking hot. The MG squad leader orders change of barrels, one by one. Soon the alternating fire gets going anew.
The Sergeant prepares for action. They've still got the lead but the enemy is in no way passive. Suddenly there's a flash on the enemy left wing followed by a series of bangs, echoing in the glade. The outpost has two MG:s, not so nice. F. summons his sapper squad leader and commands him to press on along the edge of the wood, then attack the right hand MG-emplacement in the flank. The squad goes away, dark shapes accompanied by clanking weapons and broken twigs, disappearing in the twilight. The Sergeant orders a cease fire.
The men take the opportunity to reload, gripped by the excitement of the moment, sweating and breathing hard. Someone coughs. The Sergeant's brain works full-out, his dogged expression revealing nothing. "Don't just stand there - do something!" Acting or not acting, plans getting garbled after contact with harsh reality –
K + 4 minutes.
The enemy has ceased firing too.
5.
Through the bangs of the distant prep fire F. can hear shouts for help from the field, from the two wounded still lying there. He sends a man over to the other side with the orders to go help and rescue them, as the rescue team already sent out seems to have got stuck. The man nods and disappears.
F. regroups his MG-squad sideways. Some men from the other section enigmatically arrives. What to do with them? He sends them on to join the sapper squad.
A smoke-grenade explodes beyond the wounded in the field. The friendly MG:s give cover. Out of the woods, four men dash away to their fallen comrades. Now the tracers crack among the trees above Sergeant F., hitting too high. The ricochetting rounds add yet another sound to the symphony of whizzing grenades and distant thunder,
With a little help from the third man the rescue patrol gets going, saves the wounded and withdraws, dragging the wounded behind them. The impacts reek in their steps. They reach the edge of the wood without mishaps.
F. orders cease fire, adding, "Prepare for advance".
It goes silent, however silent it gets with prep fire in the background.
At the enemy outpost all is quiet.
Suddenly there are some sharp bangs, followed by a battle cry. It's the sappers, having blown up the right hand emplacement; now they cut into the position with leveled bayonets. Where the enemy MG has been, only a big cloud of smoke, dirt and sand falling to the ground is visible.
”Now”, the Sergeant shouts to the MG squad leader, ”now we got 'em. Follow me!”
F. darts away in the woods. They are about to roll up the enemy lines, like rolling up a ball of yarn. Branches and twigs scratch the Sergeant’s face where he runs along, assault rifle in his hand getting stuck in a trunk but he pulls it loose and keeps going. A quich glance to the rear says him that the MG-men trail along, however sagging, with their 15 pound piece and ammo boxes and whatnot...
From the outpost there's violent firing. It lightens between the trees and F. reaches the road, scouting and catching sight of the blown-up emplacement. Near a hole one of his own men is lying, firing against remaining resistance: a fire trench for rifle-men, protected by sandbags. In the ditch the rest of the sapper squad and the rifle group is deployed, firing for all they've got. The enemy MG on the other side of the road gets going.
The sergeant crawls along to the force in the ditch, letting the MG squad relieve them. The sappers then make for the edge of the wood at the same time as F. gives the MG squad leader fire orders.
The friendly group in the crossing has awakened. Employing the terrain for cover and concealement they join the MG squad. The Sergeant, commanding it to lie as a reserve, goes away to the blown-up emplacement.
From here he gets an overview: 50 meters away the enemy lies deployed on a small hillock, just about a rifle group with MG support. At the bottom of the fire trench where he is standing the remains of the enemy crew can be seen, some distorted shapes, severely maimed, half-buried by the collapsing sand.
The whole scene is in ethereal lighting from above. The underbellies of the clouds polarize the searchlight, making the glade bathe in yellow light. There are no shades.
Now the Sergeant waves forth an MG, the men joining him in a flash and getting going, F. roaring and pointing to the hillock. Soon the piece rattles along, garnishing the target with a hail of bullets.
Their adversary has far from given up. Where his men lie dispersed they are reached by smallbore fire and handgrenades from the hill. They seem to have lost some of their spirit. Crouching, the sergeant joins the sapper squad leader, dangerously close to the MG fire. The commanders exchange a few words, an order is shouted and the soldiers produce their handgrenades, cocking them and throwing them at the hillock.
All the while the Sergeant turns to the road, shouting:
”MG cease fire! Follow me!”
The handgrenades, more than half a dozen, fly elegantly up the hill. Even before they have touched the ground, the MG squad joins in. When the grenades explode in the enemy position, the sappers rush up out of their pit, treading resolutely up the slope, storming the trench with short bursts and leveled bayonets. The Sergeant sends the two MG:s to secure the right flank, firing position at the wood's edge toward the road.
The artificial lighting starts to dim a bit. A streak of light can be seen over the tree-tops. At the same time, however, a new light phenomenon has been added: the shiny curves made by the artillery fire. They seem to arise and disappear almost at the same time; however, by the large amount of projectiles in the air the spectacle of light seems to be continuous.
Now a soldiers creeps up to him, a latecomer. F. checks to see if he's OK, says some encouraging words, then sends him away to his second-in-command, ordering him to join with his force.
F. catches his breath for five seconds.
The din of battle in the emplacement ceases. He can see a soldier emerging over the edge, making the all clear-sign. Soon K. arrives, sweat pouring over his face. F. exchanges some quick words with him, watching the men behind him, ready to go. When K. have instructed them they run off as one man, longing for action. By rushes they pass the conquered hillock, disappearing behind a bend. Soon muffled explosions and hurrahs from the other side of the road is heard. The final assault.
Sergeant F. sits by the foot of the hill, producing his radio. Calling he gets an answer, after some moments of white noise and rustle:
”Beta Sigma, I read. Over.”
Sergeant F. exhales, saying in the mouthpiece:
”From Alfa Red. We have taken Point 312. Over.”
He lets go of the switch, hearing the distorted voice at the other end saying:
”Beta Sigma, I copy. Continue as ordered. Over and out.”
The Sergeant tucks away the radio, removes his helmet, wipes his forehead and puts on the helmet again. At the same tome the firing from the other side of the road stops. The second-in-command arrives for report, target taken; the Sergeant thanks him. Having given him new orders, F. summons his squad leaders to pay some compliments, followed by strict orders. They return to their units and put a stop to the loud laughters of the men. Guards are deployed. Those with nothing to do produce smokes, beginning to conversate quietly.
- - -
F. and his men have done their job, having taken and cleared the first enemy outpost. They have fought a small-scale battle and won. And by that the game is afoot, the offensive is rolling, the assault carries on. But how that will end, well, that is, like Kipling used to say, another story.
(Another story indeed. The above can be seen as a teaser for my Swedish language novella, "Eld och rörelse". Click
here if you're interested in this hardcopy volume.)
