The artillery just wouldn't quit. Thump-thump-thump, the ground kept shaking. and sky is sound like firework party but deadly. Not exactly the Christmas carols he remembered. It was Christmas Eve, by the way. Alexander, one of the True Horde guys, watched a tree get turned into splinters. He ducked back into his trench, took a deep breath, and checked his rifle. Yep, still frozen. He poked at the little smiley face he'd carved into the ice stuck on the magazine. At least that was festive.
Then, between the thumps, Seri yelled. He’d been bringing supplies and caught some shrapnel. They hauled him into the dugout, trying to stop the bleeding. Seri was whispering, “Morphine… ketamine… anything…” He was hurting bad. They didn’t have anything for him, though. Just some bandages and empty promises.
Around 1 AM, but the temperature is warm. its because intensity of the artillery battle.
the order came to evacuate Seri. The task was daunting: carrying him on a cloth stretcher by hand, at night, with only one night-vision device. The man at the front, carrying the stretcher, was the only one who could see.
They carried him through the trenches and into a shattered treeline leading west, a dangerous route even at night due to the ever-present threat of drones directing artillery or dropping grenades.
They were spotted. Mortars began raining down, forcing them to take cover between two large logs. Seri lay between the logs, the rest of the group pressed against them on their stomachs. It was 2 AM. Fear gripped Alexander. It was one of his first combat evacuations, and he had seen enough videos on vr to know the potential dangers.
Of course, they got spotted. Mortars started raining down. They dove between two huge logs, with Seri stuck in the middle. The next hour was a nightmare. Alexander had seen the VR training, knew what a close call looked like. And these were way too close. One explosion lit up the whole area like a messed-up Christmas light show.
He saw the trees, all ripped up and splintered. Then it was dark again, with his ears ringing. He felt the heat from another blast, the snow around him hissing as it melted.
When the mortars finally stopped, they kept going, Seri’s groans pushing them on. They finally made it to the evac point. A truck showed up, they loaded Seri in, and a medic gave them a quick “Thanks, have a good Christmas.” Alexander had totally spaced that it was Christmas. It sure didn't feel like it. No family, no hot food, no presents. Just a wounded guy, his blood on the floor of their dugout. They had carried him one and a half to two kilometers through a battlefield in pitch darkness.
As they stealthily made their way back to their position, around 6 AM, mortars began falling again. Back in the dugout, Alexander quickly became intensely cold. He had been moving and exerting himself all night; his clothes were damp with sweat. He sat shivering, trying to stay warm as artillery and mortars impacted seemingly at random around them. By this point, he was too tired, too wet, too cold, and too depressed to care much about what happened to him.
It was now Christmas morning, the sun rising and artillery stupid battle is stop. Alexander tried to find something to be grateful for, recalling his father’s words: the only thing that can motivate a man is himself. The artillery fire had stopped. He walked into the trench walkway and saw the frost on the branches, the ground, the frozen shovels, the boxes. Everything looked different in the early morning light, the kind that casts a slightly orange hue.
In that moment, he felt a profound sense of gratitude for being alive, that his wife and family were safe. He was grateful that Seri had been evacuated. He began to see things differently. He stopped feeling sorry for himself; it could have been worse. This was war; his corpse could be frozen in a treeline, unattended until spring. But he was alive, and his family was alive and safe.
While Alexander found a fragile peace in the quiet dawn, just a few kilometers away, the war raged on with undiminished ferocity. the Red Army faced a formidable enemy trench, its occupants braced for a long battle. The enemy had assembled a large force complemented by heavy artillery, but nothing could withstand the might of the Red Army. With quick maneuvers and superior firepower, they obliterated the enemy stronghold in no time.
“Damn,” Hazel muttered, scanning the aftermath as they passed the trench. “Looks like the south army stalled. Just look at all this carnage.”
The sight was grim. Bodies of fallen soldiers, both friend and foe, mixed with the wreckage of war, painted a stark picture of the battle's savagery. Blood stained the snow,
Suddenly, the radio crackled to life. “Command here! General Sima's base in Banyan -Ölgii is about to be overrun by enemy tanks! Move fast and assist them!”
Hazel’s heart raced. “Understood! Let’s move out!” she shouted, urgency fueling his words. They accelerated, racing against time to reach the beleaguered general.
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As they advanced, the base came into view, surrounded by enemy tanks. “Damn it, they’ve taken the base! Form a line! Fire on those enemy tanks!” Hazel commanded, determination etched on his face.
The troops quickly took position, but just as they prepared to engage, a thunderous explosion echoed through the air. The Strato Cannon had fired, obliterating the base and killing everyone within its walls indiscriminately.
The Red Army tanks halted, stunned by the sheer destruction. think about pile of ash in middle of white room
“Someone tell me—did you blow the base?” Hazel ask nearby khagan officer,
one bald man with dark grab lowered his binocular and look at her feature first before speak
“Yes, we blew the base. The general must be dead. The enemy was too strong, and we were about to lose it anyway,” came the grim response.
Hazel swallowed hard, letting out a breath. “Understood.”, still in shock at the devastation.
As if on cue, reinforcements from General Sima’s division arrived on foot, breathless and tense. “Oh no, we’re late!” one soldier exclaimed.
“Tell me what happened,” Hazel urged.
“General Sima thought the True Horde tanks would encircle you, so he sent us to support. But they attacked straight at the base instead,” the soldier explained, urgency lacing his words.
“A bad gambit,” Hazel murmured, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.
sHe climbed back into the tank, the cramped space feeling heavier with each passing moment. she hugged Yu tightly, both of them silently processing the situation.
“What do you feel?” she finally asked, breaking the silence.
Yu sat in the tank, staring into the dark night outside. “I’m sad. The base is destroyed, and General Sima is dead. It feels like it’s all my fault.”
“Oh, are you self-blaming?” Hazel replied, trying to lighten the mood. “I don’t blame you or myself. I blame our superiors.”
Yu sighed, looking back at him. “I just wish I could’ve done something.”
“Hey, don’t worry. We’ll get through this,” Hazel reassured her, rubbing her shoulder.
Later that night, nestled inside the belly of a battered tank, Hazel popped her head out. “Hey, Patrick! You still alive?”
Patrick turned, his eyes dull, exhaustion etched across his face. “Why the hell am I still alive?” he muttered to himself, contemplating the absurdity of their situation. General Sima was gone, the chaos was overwhelming, and all he could do was sit and stare at the ruins of their hopes.
“I’m the new commander,” Hazel announced, her voice steady despite the chaos surrounding them. “As the highest-ranking officer, this company will follow me.”
Patrick blinked at her, still processing the day’s events. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he thought, but the weariness in his bones was overwhelming.
“Alright, gentlemen and hardened devildogs,” Hazel continued, rallying the troops with a spark of determination. “We need to head back to the ruins of the base, set up a perimeter, and treat our wounded.”
Nods of agreement spread through the group, though they looked like the living dead, shuffling toward the ruins of their former stronghold.
As they set up camp amidst the debris, Hazel took a moment to check on Yu, who sat quietly on a nearby tank, her gaze lost in the horizon. “Are you okay?”s he asked gently.
Yu didn’t reply; her sad, empty eyes spoke volumes. It was her first encounter with death so close to home, and the weight of it pressed heavily on her heart.
“Alright, at least keep pushing the pedal,” Hazel urged, trying to break the tension.
The next morning, as the sun peeked over the horizon, Hazel gathered the remaining soldiers. “Alright, let’s reorganize. We need a headcount and a rundown of our equipment before we move on.”
The atmosphere was thick with unease, but they complied, counting soldiers and checking the meager arsenal left at their disposal. “121 soldiers, but only 82 can fight,” one soldier reported, the grim statistics hanging in the air like a dark cloud.
“Looks like our only vehicle is our tank,” Hazel mused, scratching his head. “We’ll need to make a makeshift platform to carry the wounded. We’re abandoning the artillery; it’s just too risky.”
They moved through the snowy expanse, the chill biting at their exposed skin as they approached the city—a ghost town, abandoned and eerily silent. The Red Army entered cautiously, their senses heightened, each sound echoing like a warning bell.
“Damn... send two squads of twelve to secure this city, from the outside to the inside,” Hazel commanded.
As the soldiers fanned out, they began the meticulous process of fortifying their new position. They barricaded doors, sealed windows, and prepared traps, transforming the shattered remnants of the city into a makeshift fortress.
“Nearest friendly forces are just a few kilometers away,” Hazel said, glancing around at the fortified buildings. “It looks like we’re in for a long wait until they arrive.”
With a heavy heart and a mind still reeling from the chaos of the previous day, the Red Army settled into their new reality—a band of soldiers bound not just by duty, but by shared loss, determination, and an unyielding resolve to survive against the odds.
On December 28th, two platoons arrived, bringing with them the Stride Tank – a lighter, faster vehicle designed for reconnaissance and quick strikes.
A blue-haired soldier dismounted, approaching Hazel with a grin. “Greetings, Commander! Tetsuya at your service. This baby can hit 105 km/h on flat ground. Smoother than a baby’s bottom!”
Hazel raised an eyebrow. “Speed is good. What about armor?”
“Agility is its armor,” Tetsuya replied. “It can take standard fire, but heavy artillery is a different story. We’ll need to be smart about how we use it.”
“Agreed,” Hazel said. “We can use it to counter hit-and-run tactics.”
“Exactly. But we need to be wary of enemy reinforcements,” Tetsuya warned.
“We wiped out their tank division a few days ago,” Hazel said skeptically.
“They’re resourceful,” Tetsuya countered. “We can’t underestimate them.”
As the sun set on December 29th, the Red Army garrison found a temporary respite. The mood was somber, but the arrival of the Stride Tanks offered a glimmer of hope. They knew the fight for the Altai was far from over. The icy winds whipped across the Altai Mountains, carrying snow and the faint scent of oil, the very resource that had ignited this bitter war between the Red Army and the True Horde