A little passage I was really proud to write.
For days, the 322nd "Ostland" Infantry Division had been stuck in the swampy taiga to the north of Omsk, fighting over oil refineries within the Azovsky Nemetsky district, home to the Russlanddeutsche - ethnic Germans living on Russian territory, oppressed for decades by the Soviet regime, constantly under surveillance of the brutal NKVD. They had gaunt, sunken faces as they peered out of their homes.
Their village resembled a brutal workcamp, concrete fortifications built into every structure; slit trenches covered every street, dug by hand, the red soil piled up into defensive redoubts. Mass graves - victims of the Bolshevik regime. It was a dark, gloomy place.
The 322nd were welcomed as heroes - liberators by the local people, as they passed through. Most of the people here were to be repatriated to Germany, away from this far-flung border region. A few miles away, the 322nd dug in for the night - believing they had the Soviets on the run.
But, during the darkness of the night - three American attack helicopters roamed low, on the prowl. Night operations were the best way of bypassing German aircover, and these gunships were here to give the Soviet defenders some breathing room.
"This is Lead - target spotted." The pilot reported in a calm, gruff tone. "Three troop concentrations - beginning attack run, over."
"We see you Lead, start putting down some fire. Clear to engage." The radio crackled. Immediately - the three attack helicopters began a fast and low attack run, strafing the German encampment with high-explosive missiles intermixed with incendiary rockets. The grenade launcher in a ball turret on the nose began firing - the 20 mm belly-mounted gun pod opening up.
In a matter of seconds, the German encampment was wracked by a devastating series of explosions. Night watchmen - who hadn't spotted the attack helicopters in time, rushed for cover, while the support squadron SPAA quickly rotated, their radars now only suddenly notifying them of the attack aircraft - only for a well placed, guided anti-tank missile to slam into its engines - detonating the 23 mm autocannon rounds onboard, and exploding it into a brilliant fireball, flipping and smashing onto the hard soil.
The handful of veteran pilots enjoyed their work; raining down fury, smiling like devils as they felt the satisfaction of revenge. Finally though - the 322nd got their act together. Machine gun bursts criss crossed in the dark night sky with streams of tracer, and the pilots quickly circled around, dropping flares and evacuating.
By morning - the 322nd Division, once numbering 9500 infantry, were left with just 2000 combat effective survivors. The Soviet counter attack began early the next morning.
For days, the 322nd "Ostland" Infantry Division had been stuck in the swampy taiga to the north of Omsk, fighting over oil refineries within the Azovsky Nemetsky district, home to the Russlanddeutsche - ethnic Germans living on Russian territory, oppressed for decades by the Soviet regime, constantly under surveillance of the brutal NKVD. They had gaunt, sunken faces as they peered out of their homes.
Their village resembled a brutal workcamp, concrete fortifications built into every structure; slit trenches covered every street, dug by hand, the red soil piled up into defensive redoubts. Mass graves - victims of the Bolshevik regime. It was a dark, gloomy place.
The 322nd were welcomed as heroes - liberators by the local people, as they passed through. Most of the people here were to be repatriated to Germany, away from this far-flung border region. A few miles away, the 322nd dug in for the night - believing they had the Soviets on the run.
But, during the darkness of the night - three American attack helicopters roamed low, on the prowl. Night operations were the best way of bypassing German aircover, and these gunships were here to give the Soviet defenders some breathing room.
"This is Lead - target spotted." The pilot reported in a calm, gruff tone. "Three troop concentrations - beginning attack run, over."
"We see you Lead, start putting down some fire. Clear to engage." The radio crackled. Immediately - the three attack helicopters began a fast and low attack run, strafing the German encampment with high-explosive missiles intermixed with incendiary rockets. The grenade launcher in a ball turret on the nose began firing - the 20 mm belly-mounted gun pod opening up.
In a matter of seconds, the German encampment was wracked by a devastating series of explosions. Night watchmen - who hadn't spotted the attack helicopters in time, rushed for cover, while the support squadron SPAA quickly rotated, their radars now only suddenly notifying them of the attack aircraft - only for a well placed, guided anti-tank missile to slam into its engines - detonating the 23 mm autocannon rounds onboard, and exploding it into a brilliant fireball, flipping and smashing onto the hard soil.
The handful of veteran pilots enjoyed their work; raining down fury, smiling like devils as they felt the satisfaction of revenge. Finally though - the 322nd got their act together. Machine gun bursts criss crossed in the dark night sky with streams of tracer, and the pilots quickly circled around, dropping flares and evacuating.
By morning - the 322nd Division, once numbering 9500 infantry, were left with just 2000 combat effective survivors. The Soviet counter attack began early the next morning.
Ultra-booby hellwans = cute