S
Stoney
Guest
Even from this distance, it was easy to see how hot it was out there on the line. Third Army had worked methodically thru the suburbs, but the enemy had made our doggies bleed for every foot. The closer they came to the capital, the stiffer the resistance had become, and the resistance had never been soft.
The Long Toms and heavy bombers had torn the buildings to rubble, and the close-support P-47s were working over what was left. Pulverized concrete left a heavy haze in the air, thru which the plumes of flamethrowers could occasionally be seen. Nobody could still be living and fighting there, and yet they were.
Top-cover Mustangs wove intricate lace trails far overhead, but enemy birds had been scarce for weeks. It seemed the enemy had worn out all his machinery and was relying on sheer manpower to halt the tide. Even his vaunted tank corps was gone, burned up as Third Army battled thru the low country to the West.
His factories had been obliterated by swarms of B-17s flying from bases in England and France. B-24s had made the long trip up from Italy and Palestine to smash his refineries. Machinery had done all machinery could do, and here at the gates of Moscow it was up to the dogface American soldier to slug it out face-to-face with the veterans of the Red Army.
General George Smith Patton Junior, Third United States Army, sat down in his command car and wordlessly motioned forward. A one-star leaned over and pointed at a spot on a map, and the driver nodded.
Not long now, Patton thought to himself. Just another couple of weeks, and the goddamned Russian winter will clamp down like a vise, and we’ll be well and truly ****ed. The Russians have been waiting on it, they’ve been counting on it, they know that the snow is their greatest ally.
“The cold beat Napoleon, and the cold beat Hitler, but by God, the cold never met Georgie Patton!” he lectured to no one in particular. “By the time the cold hits, I’ll be roasting my cods in front of a fire in Stalin’s office!”
The General was speaking metaphorically, of course. Stalin’s office in St Basil’s had been pounded to dust more times than once, and it had been days since his voice had been heard on the intermittent Soviet news broadcasts. Stalingrad was in ruins, Leningrad was reduced to rubble, American tanks roamed without opposition all along the line. Only Moscow held out, and Patton was ready to starve every man woman and child trapped in that grey city.
This was the last day of the war of 1946. Marshal Navitov had already contacted the Swiss and asked them to act as mediators for surrender.
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No need for a seperate comment thread, as this is all of the story I have. I can, it seems, only write in fragments. So, throw me your advice and criticism here. Thanks!
The Long Toms and heavy bombers had torn the buildings to rubble, and the close-support P-47s were working over what was left. Pulverized concrete left a heavy haze in the air, thru which the plumes of flamethrowers could occasionally be seen. Nobody could still be living and fighting there, and yet they were.
Top-cover Mustangs wove intricate lace trails far overhead, but enemy birds had been scarce for weeks. It seemed the enemy had worn out all his machinery and was relying on sheer manpower to halt the tide. Even his vaunted tank corps was gone, burned up as Third Army battled thru the low country to the West.
His factories had been obliterated by swarms of B-17s flying from bases in England and France. B-24s had made the long trip up from Italy and Palestine to smash his refineries. Machinery had done all machinery could do, and here at the gates of Moscow it was up to the dogface American soldier to slug it out face-to-face with the veterans of the Red Army.
General George Smith Patton Junior, Third United States Army, sat down in his command car and wordlessly motioned forward. A one-star leaned over and pointed at a spot on a map, and the driver nodded.
Not long now, Patton thought to himself. Just another couple of weeks, and the goddamned Russian winter will clamp down like a vise, and we’ll be well and truly ****ed. The Russians have been waiting on it, they’ve been counting on it, they know that the snow is their greatest ally.
“The cold beat Napoleon, and the cold beat Hitler, but by God, the cold never met Georgie Patton!” he lectured to no one in particular. “By the time the cold hits, I’ll be roasting my cods in front of a fire in Stalin’s office!”
The General was speaking metaphorically, of course. Stalin’s office in St Basil’s had been pounded to dust more times than once, and it had been days since his voice had been heard on the intermittent Soviet news broadcasts. Stalingrad was in ruins, Leningrad was reduced to rubble, American tanks roamed without opposition all along the line. Only Moscow held out, and Patton was ready to starve every man woman and child trapped in that grey city.
This was the last day of the war of 1946. Marshal Navitov had already contacted the Swiss and asked them to act as mediators for surrender.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No need for a seperate comment thread, as this is all of the story I have. I can, it seems, only write in fragments. So, throw me your advice and criticism here. Thanks!