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Post by Russia on Feb 15, 2011 21:43:49 GMT -5
December 21st of 1939
The day was starting off as just another mind numbingly cold day for the Red Army divisions in the the middle of the Ladoga's Karelian front. The sun was just starting to color the eastern sky when the weary, frozen encampment of the 164th division began to stir and prepare for another day of fighting. Their situation was not a pleasant one by any stretch of the imagination, and even though he was a country, Russia himself would have given just about anything to have been placed in a different offensive position. Granted, he had heard that in their little spot near the Kollaa river, things were not as bad as they could have been. The divisions on the Taipale front had been failing even more disastrously at breaking through the Finnish defenses. The Russian had heard that the Fins there had a perfect vantage point for mowing over advancing Soviets with machine guns.
At least in their section of the Finnish defense line, there was not as much machine gun fire going on. Still, they had thus far failed to break through the Finnish defenses and actually hold their position. Whenever they penetrated the line, it seemed their Finnish foes would stop at nothing until they had carried out a successful counter attack and forced the Soviets back; re-fortifying the line in the process. It was disheartening and annoying at the same time. Russia had never expected their Finnish foes to be a real challenge at all. When he had first been planning the invasion, he had figured it an easy and quick victory. Many of the higher command had also been sure of such a victory. In fact, troops had been warned against going too far and crossing into Sweden by mistake. Unfortunately, they had all been proven dead wrong so far, and fighting to just breach the line of defense was proving to be damn near impossible.
And that was just for breaking through the defense line. His boss wanted him to get all the way to Viipuri and claim the city. Looking around his chilly little camp of frozen Soviets, Ivan had the distinct feeling that it would be awhile before he could report that mission a success.
Pacing close to the tiny fire that a number of tired soldiers huddled besides, Ivan went over the plan for the day in his head. Today would surely be the day they broke the defense line and eliminated all the Finnish opposition. Or at least, that was what he hoped for. He had told himself the same thing for the last few days in a row with no success, but that did nothing to deter him. It only made sense that one of these days he would be right. Either that, or eventually his entire division would be taken out and he would find himself explaining what happened to his leader.
Not that he imagined Stalin would care to much if such a thing did happened. He would probably just send another division to take the place. If there was one thing that Russia had learned about his boss, it was that Stalin was willing to do whatever he needed to win. If that meant sacrificing thousands of Soviet soldiers to try and break through the line, Russia knew he would have no problems at all doing it. And all those commanders that were undyingly loyal to Stalin- and frightened of him as well- would also have no problems simply throwing men at the enemy lines until they were able to break through. The tactic seemed a bit questionable, even to Russia, who was usually fond of straightforward battle strategies. With his power and numbers, the “charge” strategy had worked well before. He realized however, that this was a different terrain than his people were used to having to deal with, and his enemy was far better at using the land to their advantage.
The tall blonde paused besides the fire as one of his men approached him, claiming that they were ready to move out and try their might against the line again. Glancing around at all the weary faces, Ivan thought that none of them really looked ready. Eager to get back to fighting though, he gave them the order to get in ranks and move out regardless. The movement and adrenaline rush could only help to heat them up, which would be important, since many of them did not even have access to tents to try and keep warm in. As it was, frostbite was not uncommon amongst the division, and Ivan had lost count of how many toes and fingers had been lost due to the extreme cold. Being what he was, he suffered far less than his men, but even Ivan found himself shivering and drawing his long coat tighter around himself frequently.
“Move along comrades.” he ordered the shivering mass of darkly clothed Soviets who had risen to stand at attention. Rifles slung over their backs and in some cases grasped firmly in hand, the group started off towards the nearby defense line.
It was sad for Russia to think that many of his soldiers probably would not make it through the coming fight. As violent and bloodthirsty as he could be, he usually did not like to see his own people’s blood decorating the snow. They were his people after all, and being the embodiment of their nation, he couldn’t help but feel an affection for them. Especially since these brave soldiers were not opposing his government in any way, and were for the most part fiercely loyal to him.
It was a short walk to bring their artillery within range of the enemy’s defense line. At least, it felt like a short walk for Russia, who was by this point used to traveling great distances on foot. The snow was falling heavily as the first shots of Soviet artillery rang out over the frozen landscape, and immediately his soldiers drew their weapons in preparation as they moved closer to the Finnish defenses.
Holding his rifle tightly, Russia was quick to slip off to the side, his eyes scanning the area for an object to use as cover. He wouldn’t do his people any good if he charged blindly into the open and took a shot to the head so very early on. The Fins were known and feared for their good aim. Moving closer to the battlefront, he slid behind a thicker looking pine tree and ducked down. Peeking out from behind the tree, he had a decent view of a section of Fins that were returning fire on his men. Leveling his rifle and looking through the scope, he searched for his first kill of the day.
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((I apologize for the long and rather dry intro post. These are always the most difficult for me, and I only hope I didn't put you to sleep with the background stuff.))
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Post by Finland on Feb 16, 2011 1:56:46 GMT -5
Tino was exhausted. It was ridiculous, he thought as he rested propped against a tree, for someone to be so fatigued so early in the morning. It was true that he had been awake through the greater part of the night on guard duty, and it was also true that the cold was beginning to take its toll, but more importantly than these factors, his body, for what it represented, was being drained by this war. Since the beginning of the battles, it was no secret that his people had been severely outnumbered. With little ammunition and virtually no armored divisions, the Finns were fighting an unfair war. The Soviet forces were enormous and they descended upon his country with terrifying strength. It was like watching a freight train barreling towards a house of cards; defeat was inevitable.
When the Soviets had reached the Mannerheim Line, it was uncertain which side was more surprised that it held. Certainly, with the Russians stopped in their tracks, this was a morale booster for Tino and his people. However, enemy commanders had been sending more and more units, stretching the already-weak Finnish defense even more thinly. The Soviets had advanced into Finnish territory, and now they were at the Kollaa River. Tino’s people were skilled marksmen, no doubt, but how many more enemies would they be able to handle before being completely overwhelmed? And could they continue to stop the tanks with motti tactics alone?
“Nukutko?” came the voice of the man near him, shaking him out of his thoughts. ‘Sleeping?’ Tino jerked a bit, looking over to him. The soldier looked no better off than Tino, trembling from the cold and eyes bloodshot from sleep deprivation. And despite these things, through the pain and exhaust, the soldier gave an unmistakable aura of confidence. The way his eyes were hard and fixed on the forest, always scanning for enemy targets; the way he kept his hands at the ready on his rifle rather than keeping them warm by stuffing them into the pockets of his jacket – these were signs of deepest resolve and equanimity. Sisu, they called it. The fear of death was an alien sentiment among the 12th Finnish Division. Tino smiled; his people were truly amazing.
“Ei,” Tino replied with a weary chuckle. No, he wouldn’t sleep if his orders were to guard the camp. Through sore, half-lidded eyes, he could make out the sky beginning to lighten, the black silhouettes of the pines surrounding them becoming more easily visible. A few minutes more and the sun would breach the horizon. A little surge of energy shot through him like a jolt of electricity as he realized the enemy would be approaching soon. Summoning newfound energy, the Finn clamored to his feet, giving his frozen joints and spine a much-needed stretch. Numb fingers managed to strap on skis and he slung his Suomi KP/-31 over his shoulder. “I’m moving forward,” he explained, nodding in direction he was referring to. “I want to flank them before they can advance on our position. Have the others be on alert. Don’t waste your ammo.” With that, he trudged off through the frozen underbrush.
No more than ten minutes had passed when Tino heard the first sharp crack of enemy artillery resounding through the snowy forest. Adrenaline surged through his veins as he unlocked his skis and got down, prone, maneuvering his gun into a ready position. His eyes tracked keenly back and forth, looking for any glimpse of a darkly clad Soviet. It had been the Finns’ fortune that the enemies had been so unprepared for the environment. The contrast of their uniforms against the snow made them easy to pick off, and very few of them could ski, meaning they’d have to stick to the roads without the cover of the trees to protect them. Those that weren’t killed by Finnish gunfire were beginning to feel the wrath of the cold, making for a gangrenous and ineffectual army.
After a few moments, he spotted what he was looking for. He had a vantage point on the soldier, slightly above and behind him. Tino captured the man in his sights and held a deep breath, waiting to fire until he was certain he would kill with the first shot. In moments, the Soviet soldier was on the ground. Tino watched through his scope as blood began pooling under the man, finally releasing his breath. He tried not to think about the deed. Killing was necessary to defend his people and his own independence, but it was never pleasant. As he was reloading, he heard a soft crunch very near his left side. Ever so slowly turning, he felt the blood drain from his face the moment his eyes landed on the target. It wasn’t the fact that it was a Russian that startled him; that much he expected. It was the fact that it was that Russian. Russia himself.
“Venäjä,” he breathed, a bit more loudly than he intended. If Ivan hadn’t figured Tino’s position from the shot he had just fired, he was sure to have heard him. Whipping around his rifle in a panic to maintain the upper hand, he fired blindly in Ivan’s direction, hoping that the shot would land.
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Post by Russia on Feb 18, 2011 0:25:36 GMT -5
It was true that guns were not Russia’s preferred method of killing. He was much more of a physical country, and was more at home bashing his foe’s skulls in with blunt objects most days. Still, he had to admit that watching an enemy drop dead after one shot to the head was somewhat satisfying; as simplistic as it was. He was by no means a seasoned expert when it came to shooting at a range, but he was starting to develop somewhat of a knack for it. He had discovered that headshots - although far more merciful than he would have preferred for such enemies- were the best way to bring down opponents quickly. Shots to the chest were not nearly as effective, even though they had been his favorite spot to shoot at in the past. If he happened to miss the heart, there was always a chance that the enemy soldier would be able to survive long enough to shoot at either him or his men. As much as his forces greatly outnumbered the Fins, he didn’t like loosing people when he could help it, and had thus had switched tactics.
Though the fighting had barely began, he could already see the dark shapes of a few dead Soviets through the snow. It was so very unfortunate that the Fins were such good shots. Even more unfortunate was the fact that a good number of his best military personal had been ordered to die by Stalin, and a load of new, inexperienced men had taken their places. Some of his higher ranking men were pathetically inexperienced in combat, leading to some foolish mistakes and quick deaths. Why his boss had felt the need to kill so many of his own people still eluded the Russian. It was true that they were not necessarily in support of his ideas, or loyal to him, but to kill so many had severely weakened Russia. He could somewhat understand perhaps killing the most troublesome of them, but he did not at all agree with his boss’ decision to go to the extremes that he had. Such purges were something to be done to an enemy nation, not your own.
The artillery was deafening, as were the shouts and cries of his men as they were hit by enemy fire. They seemed to be getting some of the Finnish forces however, and more than once he had focused his sights on the white shape of an enemy, just to see the man drop before he could pull the trigger. The sight raised his spirits somewhat, and the idea that they would overtake the enemy’s position seemed more and more a reality to him. Not wanting to stay in one place too long, Ivan rose from the crouch he had been in behind the tree and made to change position.
There were shots being fired from all over, but a particularly close shot rang out from nearby, and the Russian slowed his pace, eyes scanning the snowy landscape in the direction he guessed the report to have came from.
“Venäjä.”
Russia did not speak Finnish very well at all, but he knew enough to know his own name when he heard it. And it struck him that only another nation would know him for what he was. He was proven correct when he sharply turned his head and was greeted with the sight of Finland himself standing in the general area the shot had came from. “Финляндия.” The Nordic was armed with a rifle, and before the Russian nation could attempt to move, a shot range out. Ivan must have taken the other nation by surprise, because the shot was off and he remained uninjured for the time being. Not waiting for his enemy to prepare for another shot, he drew his own rifle and fired as quickly as he could in the Fin’s elevated direction. Not liking being out in the open, he immediately dashed for the cover of a few snow covered pines.
Finland’s sudden appearance was thrilling, in spite of the fact that Ivan had nearly been shot. If he could severely injure or kill the other nation, it was bound to mean good things for the Soviets. That was how things worked for them, wasn’t it? If a nation was critically injured, it was reflected in their forces. The rest of the fighting going on around him suddenly seemed far less important. Giddy at the prospect of adding another nation to his kill count for the day, Ivan peeked out from behind his cover tree and leveled his Mosin-Nagant in the direction the Fin had last been standing.
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Post by Finland on Feb 18, 2011 22:00:11 GMT -5
“Финляндия.” Tino’s mind hadn’t had a chance to process what the Russian was saying before he fired. When it finally registered, hearing his name in the enemy’s language made his stomach churn sickly, though not as much so as seeing the barrel of the larger man’s rifle aimed at him. He had missed, and now, his gun unloaded, Ivan was in control. Before he had a chance to fully scramble to his feet from his prone position, he heard the bang of the rifle and almost simultaneously felt a sharp pain in his right shoulder. He had been hit.
Giving a strangled cry and a few curses, he managed to copy Ivan’s movements and darted uphill and away from the Russian and crouched behind a fallen tree, its trunk splintered in half by what appeared to be Soviet heavy artillery. His heart was throwing itself rapidly against his sternum as he stretched himself out on his side, entire body trembling from the excitement. Frigid winter air stung his lungs as he gasped in a near hyperventilation. With his torso propped up on one elbow, a shaking hand managed to unzip his thick outer jacket and tug it down below his shoulder just enough to inspect his wound - merely grazed. The low temperatures would stop the bleeding soon enough. For now, at least, he was safe. Tino gave a sigh of relief and attempted to calm himself. He was having trouble hearing anything but the blood pounding in his head and in the position he found himself in, being unable to get a good view of Ivan, he would need to hear the crunch of approaching footsteps in the snow.
He realized that he had left his skis at his last position, not that he stood a good chance of escaping now. However, simply lying there was not an option. If he didn’t reload and take aim soon, Ivan would. Ivan. Where was he? So very cautiously, Tino lifted his upper body up on his forearms, allowing him a quick look at his surroundings. Freshly fallen snow was already beginning to cover the indentation he had made while lying in wait, but he could still see the mud he had churned up while he had frantically scrambled away. Proof of his injury was left behind in the form of dark red droplets of blood, a stark contrast to the bright snow. Ivan would know his shot had been effective. Tino’s eyes twitched back and forth until they fell on the Russian’s form, mostly hidden behind a tree. Seeing the Mosin-Nagant aimed at him put him on alert, the hairs on the back of his neck bristling with an electric chill.
Almost as an automatic reaction, he reached for his own rifle and brought it to himself in a quick, fluid motion, slipping down so that he was sitting with his back against the wood, hidden from Ivan’s view. Tugging his glove off with his teeth, he managed to load a shell and cock his rifle, allowing the gun to rest against the fallen pine as he played in his mind how to fire on the Russian without being fired upon, himself. His people were rather well known for their quickness at springing up from a slit trench, firing at an enemy, and dropping back down before their position was given away. However, he was not in a trench here and the tree he was behind failed to cover his torso when he fully sat up. Perhaps he could distract him with chatter? It was worth a shot, he determined, idly stroking the cold metal of his Suomi’s barrel. “Venäjä,” he said again, doing his best to sound calm. It occurred to him that he had no idea what to say to intimidate the large man. Switching to their shared language, he continued, “How many people was it that you lost to me this week?”
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Post by Russia on Feb 20, 2011 2:54:28 GMT -5
Through the scope on his rifle, Ivan carefully scanned the slightly elevated area where Tino had been standing before he had fired upon him. The powdery snow that was continuously falling had already dusted the mud that had been kicked up, but staring intently through the scope, Ivan’s smile broadened as he saw flecks of gore against the pristine white. A sadistic thrill went through him at the revelation that he had indeed hit Tino with his shot. He hoped it had been in a serious area. It would make his job of taking the other nation out that much easier.
The Fin had done a good job getting out of sight, but he couldn’t have gone very far. No, he had to be lurking about somewhere very close by. The Russian could almost feel it. If there was one thing that annoyed Ivan though, it was the fact that Tino was dressed much better than he was for blending in. Whereas the Nordic was wearing white, Russia was wearing the same heavy, darker brown coat that his people were wearing. He stood out very well against the background, and was mentally cursing Stalin for not issuing them all lighter, more fitting colors for this war. The only way his boss could have made it worse would have been to issue them all black uniforms.
The fact that he was so poorly camouflaged made it almost humorous that he had taken the time to wrap some bandages around his rifle’s scope in order to stop the glare from the sunlight from reflecting off it on sunny days. With luck, Stalin would some day come to his senses and give them all white outfits to wear so Ivan and his men could be as discreet as their rifles. Maybe after enough of Russia's people had died, he would realize his mistake.
“Venäjä.”
The voice confirmed that his earlier assumption had been correct; Finland hadn’t went far. He could tell the general direction the voice had came from, but his violet eyes still could not pick out the distinct shape of the enemy nation.
“How many people was it that you lost to me this week?”
The calmly spoken words made the Russian’s grip tighten on his rifle. If there was one thing he couldn't stand, it was an overly cocky foe. He assured himself that Finland was mistaken if he thought for even a second that he would win this war. No matter how many Russians his forces had killed, there was still only one way this conflict could end, and Ivan looked forward to the day when he would curb stomp Finland for such overconfident statements.
“About the same as last week.” He masked his discontentment with a seemingly lighthearted laugh. “Not that it matters, Tino. You can kill as many of my soldiers as you like, it’s not going to change the outcome of this war.” In the face of the enemy, it helped to act and think as optimistically as possible, despite the fleeting moments of doubt and concern he dealt with from time to time. Usually such doubts would manifest after his men had suffered a particularly devastating defeat and he was left estimating the number of men who had been killed in the day’s battle. With morality so shaky amongst his soldiers, the mentally unhinged Russian found himself oscillating between fierce optimism that he would win, and the disheartening doubt that he would not have enough people to even break the line.
But whether or not the outcome of the war would land in his favor was not his immediate concern. He had a battle to win, and in order to push the odds in his army’s favor, he needed to find and shoot a certain overly confident Finnish nation. “You’re mistaken if you think your little defense line will last, Tino. You have to realize that it’s only a matter of time before we break through and manage to keep our position.”
Frustrated at not being able to see Finland from his angle, Ivan decided he would have to risk creeping closer to the area the other nation’s voice had came from. Going straightforward would surely be suicide though. Just as he was searching for signs of Finland, he was certain that Tino was looking to get a good clear shot at him. Holding his rifle close, the tall blonde moved to the right, trying to circle around using the trees as cover when he could. If he could just get a different view of the area, perhaps he would be able to spot the well hidden Fin.
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Post by Finland on Feb 21, 2011 3:16:38 GMT -5
At first, the Finn almost thought his bluff would be effective. He had hoped to hear the enraged footfall of Ivan charging at him, using the bluntly forceful techniques the Russian was so much fonder of. It would be so easy to shoot him if he was preoccupied with rage.
“About the same as last week.”
Any hopes Tino had of his plan was working were scattered as easily as his breath on the frigid winter wind. And then there was that laugh. That disturbingly cheerful laugh. If he had not have had a relatively strong constitution, Tino was sure that giggle would have prompted him to vomit.
“Not that it matters, Tino. You can kill as many of my soldiers as you like, it’s not going to change the outcome of this war.”
Barely able to comprehend, Tino’s mouth gaped open a bit. It was true that Ivan was cruel, even sadistic, but never before had the Finn heard a fellow nation-spirit say something so careless about his own people. Sacrifices on the battlefield were necessary, but they were not to be made light of. Perhaps it was hard for the Russian, whose land was so massive and whose population so numerous, to find value in a single human life. Perhaps he felt less of a sting when one of his soldiers was killed. However, even as shots rang out all around them, bullets ripping apart his people and blood being shed, Tino could feel every one. Mentally and physically, his bond with his people was intimate – apparently much more so than Ivan’s with his people. Another shiver tore through his body. This time, it was from the chill of the Russian’s aura, not the subzero temperatures around them.
“You’re mistaken if you think your little defense line will last, Tino. You have to realize that it’s only a matter of time before we break through and manage to keep our position.”
The Finn attempted to swallow a hot lump forming in his throat. What if he was right? The Finnish were alone. Tino was alone; neither Berwald nor anyone else was able to help him. He was weakening every day, the average ratio of the battles being one Finn against four Soviets. He boasted the strength of his legendary Mannerheim Line, but he was very much aware that it was just a ruse. Rations on ammunition were very strict. It was luck that when the Russians had carved out roads through his forests that they made them too narrow to maneuver their lumbering tanks, making them susceptible to being attacked and destroyed by foot soldiers armed with Molotov cocktails, but if Ivan’s leaders ordered that more focus be placed on the Finnish front and more armor be sent in, there would be nothing Tino’s people could do to stop it.
His people. They had yet to give in. The soldier that had been assigned to stand watch with him last night certainly showed no sign of submission. Weak as they were, they were holding. Maybe, Tino mused, it was Ivan who was bluffing.
“No. No, you will not take my independence. You will not take Viipuri.” Tino chuckled this time. Not in the sickly sweet way that Ivan had, but with a confident knowledge. “In fact, Ivan, you won’t make it out of Kollaa.”
Now the Finn had to determine if he had broken Ivan’s concentration at all. Brushing the snow from his nose and eyelashes, Tino took his gun and slid it over the trunk, using it as leverage. The burning sting in his shoulder reminded him of the dire need to be cautious, lifting his head over the barrier just enough for a peek at his surroundings once more. To his dismay, Ivan was nowhere to be seen. Looking over the scope, he waited to catch a glimpse of his enemy.
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Post by Russia on Feb 23, 2011 3:00:19 GMT -5
Sneaking around for a better view of the area proved to be somewhat difficult for a man wearing such dark colors. Unless he wanted to risk being seen and fired upon, Ivan had to stick to the trees, which were not equally as thick all over the immediate area. How much easier things would be if there had been a wall of pines to keep behind as he switched positions. He didn’t want to mistakenly wander too far either. He was sure that if he got too far away on accident, whilst trying to stay hidden, Finland would escape. Finding him again could be challenging in all the chaos; all the more so if Tino made his way up to the front of the battle, where he could easily blend in with the other white-clad Fins.
Would the other nation flee if he had the chance? Ivan honestly did not know. The other country seemed fearless in some ways, since he was willing to face down Russia all alone in this war. Just that fact alone contrasted with the idea that Finland would try to escape their little confrontation. But Ivan was terrible at predicting the moves of his enemies. For all he knew, Finland would like the idea of making Ivan hunt for him amongst the thick of battle. There would be a better chance of him being taken out by Finnish fire that way. Of course Finland himself could end up killed by enemy fire as well if that were the case.
“No. No, you will not take my independence. You will not take Viipuri.”
Tino sounded so very sure of himself. So confident in his ability to hold out against what Ivan thought of as such a vastly superior force. Even through the shadows of doubt that tugged at his mind, Ivan was determined to prove the other nation wrong. He would take Viipuri and Tino’s independence, and he would do it with a smile on his face and a song in his heart.
“In fact, Ivan, you won’t make it out of Kollaa.”
A cold fury engulfed the Russian, and it took every bit of self control he had to stop from saying something in response and giving away his new position. He had stopped somewhere off to the right of where he had originally been, and was now surveying the landscape from besides a small pine. He did not want to admit it, but the Fin’s words were infuriating in addition to being distracting, and he found himself looking perhaps too hard for his opponent; his eyes darting quickly from one feature of the frosty white landscape to another.
Then the slightest of motions caught his eye near a fallen tree trunk. The fallen conifer had been within his sight range the entire time, but from his previous position, he had lacked good enough view of the decently sized trunk. As it was, the tree was at such an angle that even from his new viewpoint he could not make out if it was indeed his enemy behind it or a small animal moving. His patience at an end, the somewhat bloodthirsty Russian aimed his gun and fired quickly in the direction of the movement.
“You’re too sure of yourself, Finland. You’re facing a vastly superior foe, and without any help at all. You can’t possibly hope to win.” His words combined with the firing of the rifle were sure to have given his position away, and Ivan hurried to re-load the rifle and try and take aim again.
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Post by Finland on Feb 24, 2011 12:32:46 GMT -5
Tino hadn’t been fully expecting the shot, but fortunately for him, Ivan, in his moment of rage, missed. The shell struck Tino’s makeshift camouflage, splintering the wood a bit before the Finn lost sight of it. Much too close for comfort, Tino flattened himself on the ground and wriggled back a bit, still behind the tree but away from Ivan. From the failed shot, he had gathered that Ivan was now closer than he had been before. However, having had to duck down, he had not seen his exact location. This meant he was now at a disadvantage as Ivan obviously must have known where he was hiding.
“You’re too sure of yourself, Finland. You’re facing a vastly superior foe, and without any help at all. You can’t possibly hope to win.”
The words stung. Ivan, even for his preference of brutish killing rather than skillfully planned attacks, was good at wearing down his enemy through words. He knew exactly what to say to make resistance feel dismal. Tino was alone; that much was true. He reminded himself that it couldn’t be helped, that the other nations were fighting their own battles now, but the nagging feeling in the back of his mind wouldn’t let him forget that even his closest allies, his brothers, had offered minimal help.
A nearby shot distracted him, bringing him out of his thoughts. It wasn’t Ivan’s. The high-pitched click and the direction from which it came meant it must have been one of the submachine guns belonging to his own troops. Hopefully, that meant there was one less enemy to deal with from now on. It’s no different, Tino thought. If they can take down a Soviet, so can I.
Closing his eyes to block out the distractions of the vast whiteness around him, Tino attempted to focus only on Ivan’s voice. The sound had confirmed that he was definitely closer, further uphill. Perhaps to his left a bit. It seemed that he was maintaining a wide berth around Tino’s location, still several meters off. A Mosin-Nagant was only effective at about a five hundred meter range, Tino calculated, meaning the Russian must be at least as close as that.
The Finn dug into his coat pocket with his ungloved hand and fumbled with the cold metal of a shell. It was driving him near insane to fire one shot at a time when his gun was capable of holding over fifty rounds, but with the strict rationing placed on the artillery, he couldn’t afford to fire a large spray. He loaded three bullets and placed his gun on the ground, turning his body so that his legs and back were toward his enemy and so that his head was at the end of the pine opposite the end nearest Ivan. Frustratingly, he still couldn’t spot his target. Though the Soviets were poorly outfitted for the environment, if Ivan had posted himself against a tree, the combination of the dark colors and the falling snow obscuring everything was working in his favor. Tino couldn’t risk giving away his new position by firing blindly and hoping for the best; he needed the Russian to show his face just once more.
“Vastly superior, huh? Yet I’m the one who’s too sure of myself?” Taunting the already unstable man felt a lot like playing with fire, Tino thought. Peeking around the end of the tree stump, he settled himself into position with his rifle once again. “If that’s so, Ivan, why haven’t you taken me already? I’m weak, right? And alone? So just shoot me, Venäjä!”
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Post by Russia on Feb 26, 2011 20:22:40 GMT -5
Ivan looked for any signs that his shot had been a successful hit. It was hard to see anything through the falling snow, but he was hoping that any moment now and a tiny sign of red blood near the fallen tree would confirm that his bullet had struck his enemy. If the movement had indeed been his enemy and not an animal. By his reasoning though, it had to be Finland. Why would small animals be out in the open when there was gunfire and artillery so close? In order to get a better look, he was going to have to move closer, which would mean making himself an easier target.
The Russian paused as he heard a nearby shot. It wasn’t Tino’s, which meant that the fight must have been slowly moving closer to their location. The gun did not sound like on of his men’s so he only hoped that the owner of the firearm had missed his target. Or that maybe the gun had been somehow stolen from its original Finnish owner and used against Tino’s own people. In the back of his mind he knew the odds were against such wishes, but he couldn’t help but hope. He had already lost too many men this war, and often found himself wishing that the Fins were not nearly as great of shots.
He did find himself somewhat comforted by the idea that maybe if Stalin had not killed off so many of his good people, his forces would be better known for their accuracy too. He may not have as many sharpshooter bragging rights as Tino-what with his infamous “White Death” and all- but some of the men who had been sentenced to death had been good marksmen. Ivan had known a few of them personally, and had seen their talent firsthand. So he rested somewhat assured that it wasn’t that Russians were inferior snipers to Fins, but more along the lines of Finland’s leader had not ordered some of his best to be killed.
It was deathly silent for a moment after the nearby submachine gun shots. Ivan held his breath and listened intently for either Tino, or the sounds of approaching footsteps of someone else. The snow had a way of muffling sounds noises though, and hearing nothing, he cautiously started towards the area where he suspected Finland to be hiding. He knew it was a dangerous move, and that he would probably be better off waiting for Finland to show himself. Still, the ingrained “charge and kill” method of fighting that Ivan so excelled at made it harder for him to stay back for so long. He felt compelled to get closer to his enemy.
“Vastly superior, huh? Yet I’m the one who’s too sure of myself?”
Russia inwardly scoffed at the remark. He had only been speaking the truth. As far as he was concerned, he was vastly superior in power, be it physical or political. He failed to see the hypocrisy in calling Tino out on such a thing. Tino’s confidence was definitely just him being too sure of himself. With Russia, it was not a matter of vanity, but a matter of truth.
“If that’s so, Ivan, why haven’t you taken me already? I’m weak, right? And alone? So just shoot me, Venäjä!”
The pale Soviet blinked for a moment as he considered the words. Why hadn’t he already taken Finland? Their forces had been fighting for awhile now. Why was the Fin still able to hide and shoot at him, despite the fact that Russia so greatly outmatched him? And Finland was all alone in this fight. Why was Russia still struggling with him? Either he was not as great and powerful as he thought he was, or- and more likely in his eyes- Finland was not such the weak and easy to claim nation as he wanted to think of him as. He didn’t want to question his own might. Not here, in the middle of a battle. So he was just going to have to either write Finland’s resistance off as luck, or he was going to have to admit to the fact that Finland was not so weak. But he would never tell his enemy that. Never.
“Where would the fun in that be, Tino?” He answered finally. “How do you know I’m not just playing with you?” It was true, he did enjoy games, and playing around with other nations when he had the upper hand. This was not the case in this war, but he was not about to tell Tino that. “And I’ll shoot you soon enough. You can be sure of that.” Approaching the area as quietly as he could, he leveled his gun at the fallen pine and fired a few more shots through the snow. Then the sound of approaching gunfire erupted out again from nearby, seeming louder than before. Closer. He turned his eyes away from the log for a moment to try and peer through the thickly falling snow in the direction of the gunshots.
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Post by Finland on Mar 2, 2011 2:01:39 GMT -5
In the moments of silence that followed his badgering, a faint glimmer of hope that Ivan had finally broken flickered in Tino’s mind. The Russian wasn’t responding. Rapid chops of submachine guns and deep booms of rifles continued to encroach on their position, but that eerily childlike and yet unmistakably masculine voice was nowhere to be heard. Before this battle, Tino would have had no idea how to break someone like Ivan – how to wear someone down mentally by chipping away at their nerves. He was beginning to get a good idea.
“Where would the fun in that be, Tino?”
So there he was. Judging by the origin of the sound, he hadn’t moved.
“How do you know I’m not just playing with you?”
Tino considered this. There was a very real possibility that the other nation was toying with him. He’d been under his control before and he’d witnessed Ivan’s mind games. ‘Fun’ is exactly the type of word Ivan would use to describe such a situation. Admittedly, the longer the Finn and the Russian remained deadlocked in this standoff, the more neurotic the former was becoming. He was itching to shoot, to stand up, to charge. He knew the consequences of doing this, but the temptation was becoming great. He couldn’t lie in wait forever. If he could just get one good shot on his enemy, perhaps he could end the war.
“And I’ll shoot you soon enough. You can be sure of that.”
It seemed the Russian had the same idea. Disabling a nation-spirit’s human body could very possibly turn the tide of the war. But why was his enemy taking so long to gun him down? The Russians didn’t have the same constraints on artillery as the Finns, but Ivan seemed to be taking his time.
Self-reassurance. Suddenly, Tino realized that’s all the words were. Ivan wasn’t assuring the Finn that he would be shot; he was assuring himself that he could shoot the Finn. Something he had said had gotten to Ivan. He had broken through that steeled exterior and prodded at a sensitive chord, and now the larger nation was questioning himself. That had to be the case.
At last, he caught a glimpse of Ivan. Seeing the barrel of the rifle aimed at him once more, the Finn flattened himself out as low as he could just as the shots rang out. There was one, and then two. Possibly a third, but Tino couldn’t tell as the resounding echoes blended together with a flurry of new shots coming from somewhere near them once more. He hadn’t been hit – at least not seriously enough to notice through the numbness of the cold if he had been. It was probable that the Soviet had been aiming for where Tino had last been, but shooting at that angle would put his trajectory off by a few meters. Lifting his head from the snow, he moved his gun to an aiming position. He would catch Ivan before he reloaded.
In a moment of luck, Ivan had stopped moving without completely concealing himself. Though the distance between the two men was too great for Tino to see the other’s face, Ivan appeared to have been distracted by something. Tino took aim and fired at the man as quickly as possible, unloading all three shells in under a second. It felt good to let his automatic weapon do its job, but he pushed the thought aside as he searched through his scope to see if he’d finally shot Ivan.
“Don’t lie to yourself, Ivan,” Tino warned. “You’re not playing around with me. You’re losing your grip, aren’t you?”
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Post by Russia on Mar 4, 2011 1:13:55 GMT -5
The sound of the nearing gunfire had distracted the pale Russian for too long. Turning his attention back towards the fallen pine just a moment too late, three shots rang out in succession, and a sharp pain tore through his side, eliciting the slightest noise from the blonde Soviet. Instantly, he attempted to move to the side and out of range of another shot that might come. The bullet had not gotten him in the chest, but had caught him in left side not too far up from his hip. It was undeniably painful, but nothing that would be fatal. He didn’t want to lose too much blood all the same, and searched for some quick cover to hide behind while trying to bind the injury.
“Don’t lie to yourself, Ivan. You’re not playing around with me. You’re losing your grip, aren’t you?”
Ducking behind some snow covered brush, Ivan silently seethed at Finland’s words. The shot had been his own fault for allowing himself to be distracted like some newbie recruit, but his enemy’s words were infuriating and worrisome. What if he was losing his grip? He usually never made such silly mistakes as giving into distractions; not when he was so close to the enemy. For all his assurance that he was the superior dominant nation here, the fact that he had not just completely annihilated Finland already was something that had been subconsciously picking away at him. His men suffered from low moral as well, which only added to his confused, sometimes outright conflicting thoughts.
The brush was not by no means “good” protection, but it would hopefully hide him long enough to deal with his gunshot wound. Setting his rifle down in the powdery snow, Ivan pulled his dagger out of the strap on his boot. As quickly as he could, he cut a piece of the hem of his long Red Army overcoat off to use as binding. He was not particularly skilled in medicine, but even so he understood the importance of applying pressure to wounds to help slow or stop bleeding. Times like this, the Russian found himself happy that he had not been wearing his favorite inverse-colored coat. That had thankfully been left safely back at his house. He didn’t have nearly so many qualms about cutting on the darker brown coat he was currently wearing.
After tying the strip of wet, snow dusted fabric tightly around himself so that it bound the wound, Russia snatched his rifle back up and peeked out from behind the brush’s frozen boughs. The sounds of the enemy submachine guns could be heard once more over the icy landscape, but he had yet to catch sight of the Finnish soldiers wielding them. He had not been able to catch a good view of Tino himself either, since their first run-in. From the direction the bullets had been fired from, he was now without doubt that it had been the Finnish nation hiding behind the pine trunk.
“I’m not losing my grip. I’m just waiting for the right moment to finish you off.” he insisted softly, moving from behind the bush to attempt and get a more favorable position to shoot from. It occurred to him that with all his movement, he was almost circling the pine trunk like a hungry wolf circling injured prey. What’s worse, Finland could have moved from his hiding spot while he was dealing with his wound.
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Post by Finland on Mar 9, 2011 2:28:30 GMT -5
After the last shot, Tino was almost sure he heard a slight noise. A muffled sound, something of a grunt and whimper, emanated from near his enemy’s last position. He tried to suppress his excitement over the possibility that he might have wounded the Russian. Having not yet confirmed the hit, the last thing his morale needed was such a letdown. He did, nevertheless, allow himself to let his guard weaken for just a moment. Ivan seemed to have slipped into a hiding spot and was not an immediate threat. His back tense from holding the gun and blood seeping from the wound just above his collarbone, Tino sat up with his legs folded under him and placed his weapon across his lap to give his shoulders a rest. Retrieving the glove that he’d shucked off and thrown aside earlier, he stuck the article between his knees to warm it as he pressed on his broken skin with his bare hand.
During this rest, Tino also took stock of his situation. Ammunition was running low. He hadn’t anticipated spending so much time on one enemy. Fumbling in his pocket, he felt at least six more shells. At the rate he was going, he was sure he’d need them all. Ivan had been slowly progressing towards him, closing in on his position from his front and left side. It was probable that the Soviet knew exactly where the Finn was located and was now simply determining the best method of getting near him so he could use his rifle to buttstroke him into a coma, all the while trying not to get shot. Behind him and to his right, Tino’s own people were locked in combat as the frequent and rapidly encroaching gunshots stood to prove. Aside from the pine that he’d made his camouflage, the nearest cover was several meters away, meaning he’d be exposed if he decided to move, and there remained the fact that his skis were too far away for him to effectively retreat.
So I’m stuck here, Tino thought. No matter; I didn’t plan on running, anyway.
Repositioning himself on his belly, once again concealing himself behind the fallen tree, Tino let out a weary yawn. It was at this point that he remembered just how tired he was. The adrenaline rush he’d gotten from running into Ivan and then being shot was beginning to wear off and that dull ache he had been feeling earlier that morning was once again settling in his joints and muscles. The billowy snow was beginning to look surprisingly comforting, almost inviting.
He willed himself to keep it together, just for a bit more now.
Deciding on a course of action was his next step. If it truly was the case that Ivan knew where he was, Tino couldn’t remain there. As soon as the Russian moved far enough around the tree trunk, Tino’s hiding place would be exposed. Even if moving entailed its own risks, it seemed to be the best option for the time being.
As he was loading his rifle, Tino heard Ivan mumble, “I’m not losing my grip. I’m just waiting for the right moment to finish you off.” The composure of his voice was galling simply because it proved that he was, in fact, not in such a state of disarray as Tino would have liked.
“Oh, come off it. We both know that’s a lie,” the Finn retorted, attempting to keep his voice as calm as the other man’s. “It’s been weeks and you’ve hardly advanced on me. The truth is that your people are too ill-equipped to win this war. You’re losing.”
Slipping his glove back over his fingers, now covered in blood from pressing on his wound, Tino picked up his rifle and, hunched over, darted for the nearest tree. He moved towards his rear in the same direction that Ivan had been advancing. Now several meters from his previous location and not knowing if Ivan had seen him, the smaller nation hurried to scope out the other.
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Post by Russia on Mar 11, 2011 17:02:59 GMT -5
“Oh, come off it. We both know that’s a lie.”
Ivan frowned at his enemy’s insistence. He wanted so badly to hear a note of fear in the other nation’s voice; or perhaps doubt. What he didn’t like was an enemy with enough confidence to make him inwardly question his own victory.
“It’s been weeks and you’ve hardly advanced on me. The truth is that your people are too ill-equipped to win this war. You’re losing.”
The Soviet nation tried to shake the thought aside. No, he would prove Finland dead wrong there. It was true that his people were poorly equipped to be fighting in this area, at this time of year, but he was certain that his people would never allow the Fins to win this war. If it took all the resources they had, they would win. Then Ivan would be able to laugh at the conquered Finnish nation and remind him about how silly he was to ever question the Soviet Union’s ability to win.
It occurred to Russia that Finland might also be bluffing with his apparent confidence. Russia himself had been somewhat bluffing with his statement about merely playing with the Fin. There was always the chance that Tino would also try to demoralize his enemy by keeping anything other than confidence out of his voice tones. The hard part was telling bluff from genuine self-assurance.
The wind was starting to pick up now, and the Russian had to reach up and push his scarf around his face better to help combat the chill. Seeing through the thick snow flurry was also becoming a problem, and Ivan narrowed his eyes slightly as he neared the log from his new angle. To his dismay, Tino must have moved from his hiding spot. His eyes quickly focused in on a faint hint of red in the snow, which lifted his spirits. Sadly, it was not a huge pool of crimson, but any amount of Finnish blood decorating the countryside was only an improvement. The smear could have came from his previous injury as well, so he wasn’t sure if his most recent shots had actually caught the other nation.
The fact that Finland was no longer in the area Russia had though he was in put the larger nation on edge, and his eyes immediately drifted to the snow on the ground to look for prints that would give him an idea as to which direction the other man would be in. He didn’t like having no clue where his enemy was. That was a recipe for disaster and pain. Sure enough, there were footprints in the powdery snow leading away from the fallen pine. With the heavier snow fall, they were starting to be covered already, but still there nonetheless. His violet eyes followed the tracks towards a crop of nearby trees, leveling his rifle in the process. He fired two blind shots towards the trees quickly before kneeling down to re-load, hoping that the shots might have made Tino take cover while he shoved more bullets into the rifle.
Through the falling snow, it was hard to see whether or not his plan had worked, but being out in the open was dangerous, and any distractions could only help by his way of thinking. Since Tino had moved, he must have known that Russia was nearing his hiding spot. Which might mean he had a rough approximation at least of where the Russian was standing now.
“Are you ready to stop playing hide and seek, Tino? Let’s move on to more fun games now.”
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Post by Finland on Mar 14, 2011 0:33:16 GMT -5
Tino could feel his face drain of all blood as soon as Ivan fired his shots. He had just moved. How was it possible that the Russian already knew where he was? As soon as the first bang registered in his mind, he dropped into a crouch, back pressed flat against the tree trunk behind him and gun clutched to his chest. His breath caught in his throat until he felt that there would be no more shots fired, at which point he managed to force a shaky exhale. The Finn had escaped injury once more. If Ivan did know where he was, he must not have had a good enough angle on him just yet to hit him.
The wind began to pick up a bit, forcing Tino to pull his face mask up over his nose and cheeks to keep the frigid atmosphere from assaulting his airways. Closing his eyes to keep the snowy blast from drying them, he began trying to calm his racing thoughts. His last move had been unsuccessful, but necessary. If he had stayed where he was, he would have surely been shot. Now, the outlook looked almost as grim. The possibility still existed that he might have shot Ivan. Being what they were, stronger than man because of their connection to their land, Tino knew that his enemy would be able to survive for quite some time even if the wound was somewhere that would have incapacitated a human. Nonetheless, a hit was a hit, and blood loss and hypothermia would eventually take their toll. Hopefully, it would also be reflected in Ivan’s people. Tino could only hope that for each drop of blood Russia himself lost, another one of his soldiers would exsanguinate.
Several seconds passed before he was sure enough of himself to open his eyes. Compounded by exhaustion, the glaring white surroundings made his vision strain and eyes ache, tears gathering along his lower eyelids. Snow blindness was always a threat, and a very dangerous one at that. If he lost his sight, whether by fault of his human body or due to the heavy blizzards in his northern regions, he would neither be able to escape nor aim to fire. There would be nothing he could do.
Just as he was about to take aim, Ivan’s voice rang out clear.
“Are you ready to stop playing hide and seek, Tino? Let’s move on to more fun games now.”
Ivan’s words put the little Finn on edge. Games. There it was again – that sick sense of enjoyment over something like war and death. And that eerily cheerful tone, too. It was at this point that the white-clad sniper seriously began to doubt the effectiveness of his taunts and mind games. Tino bared his teeth behind the warm cloth covering his face, finger on the trigger of his gun.
“Games, Ivan?” he asked, feigning a naïve tone. “Alright. And what kind of games do you have in mind, exactly?”
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Post by Russia on Mar 14, 2011 13:31:56 GMT -5
(Warning: The following post was written on no sleep at all. I apologize in advance for any typos that may follow. Your post just inspired me to write, despite my lack of sleep.)
Ivan closed his eyes momentarily, as a particularly cold gust of wind swept over him, rustling his ash blonde hair, and sending bitingly cold flakes of snow onto the exposed areas of his face. He was glad that he was already numbed from being out in the harsh chill. The sting from the tiny bits of frozen water was barely noticeable now. The only part of his face that felt like it had any heat left was his lower jaw, which was covered by his favorite scarf. Times like this, and Russia desperately wished that they could have decided to invade Finland in the summer. Warmer weather sounded heavenly.
Medical attention also sounded like a thing of dreams to the tall, brawny blonde. The gunshot wound in his side was causing him considerable pain despite the pressure he had put on it to help slow the blood flow. The bullet felt as though it were still embedded within the wound-causing constant irritation-and he did not have the time and tweezers to attempt to pull it out. Not that he was ever good with things like that anyways. He really did lack Toris’ medical expertise when it came to removing small pieces of metal from flesh. Out in the battlefield and with no plans on going back home for a small break anytime soon, he lacked his faithful servant and would more than likely be trying to find a field medic who was fortunate enough to still be alive to remove the irritant. That would be after he killed the damned Fin that had shot him in the first place.
The Russian’s eyes desperately scanned the whitened landscape for any signs of the hiding Finnish nation. The trees where he suspected the other country had taken to hiding behind remained stock-still however and even though not much time had passed since he had fired a few shots, he could feel himself becoming more and more impatient by the second.
“Games, Ivan? Alright. And what kind of games do you have in mind, exactly?”
Ivan knew what kind of “game” he would prefer to play if given a choice. It involved Finland throwing his rifle aside and engaging in hand-to-hand combat with him. If there was one thing the Russian excelled at it was beating smaller nations into submission by physical means. He could stir things up and use his rifle as a billy club against the overly cocky Fin. Sadly, he knew better than to expect Finland to go along with his ideas of a more physical fight.
“Well to begin with, you can come out of hiding and face me like a nation.” he taunted softly, eyes fixed on the tree trunks. “Then we can play a game of ‘who can pull the trigger first.’ That one has the potential to be exciting, don’t you agree?”
Russia moved forward slightly, his rifle menacingly pointed in the direction of the trees. “As fun as our game of ’hide and snipe’ is, I have a battle to win, and other Finnish soldiers to kill when I’m done with you.” His voice gave the impression of pure confidence, but it was colored with a hint of pain as his side began to throb even worse from the movement. A toughened nation by nature, he pushed the discomfort aside as best as he could and continued forward a little more. He had suffered through far worse without complaint-mostly in the days of his youth, when fights involved swords and more brutal, blunt means of attack. Over the years he had been stabbed, beaten and slashed by several different interesting weapons whilst in wars. With iron resolve, he convinced himself that gunshots couldn’t be worse than those, and to show any amount of pain over the shot was surely a sign of weakness and not fitting of a great power such as himself.
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