Desperadoes

Having finished eating and drinking, the walkie-talkie finally crackled to life. The orders had come down: all of E Company was to disperse by squad and advance quickly through the danger zone. "Grab your gear. Move out." Just three liang of vodka wasn't enough to get Sokholov drunk, but that bit of alcohol made him sound far more casual when issuing orders. Gao Fei carried his pack on his back, the rifle equipped with the thermal optic resting atop it. Another bag hung across his chest, his own rifle slung over his right shoulder. In his left hand he gripped an RPG-27 rocket launcher, while his right lugged a two-hundred-round belted ammunition box for the machine gun. Moving positions was like moving houses. By rights, infantry leaving their trenches to enter captured enemy positions ought to travel light, but since the penal battalion was leading the charge up front, it was better to bring along as much gear as possible. After all, once the shooting started, God only knew what might happen. If a tank rolled in and they had no anti-tank weapons on hand, they would be sitting ducks waiting for death. All four men carried heavy loads; everything combined weighed close to forty or fifty kilograms. Weighed down so heavily, there was no way they could move fast. The positions Wagner had lost yesterday had been retaken today. And because they had previously occupied them, communication trenches existed between the forward positions and the rear line where Gao Fei and his squad were stationed. However, because they had held the positions for such a short time before, communication trenches were few and far between. If the frontline troops were to shift forward en masse, they had no choice but to leave the cover of the trenches and expose themselves on the wide-open, coverless terrain. The distance ranged between four hundred and six hundred meters. The entire company was essentially advancing in parallel lines; where they would end up once they reached the positions came down to ability. What kind of ability? Speed and stamina, naturally. "Hurry, move! I know a section of trench that has overhead cover. Let's get there first and claim it." Gao Fei had already been feeling weighed down to the point of barely being able to walk, but upon hearing Sokholov's words, he decisively picked up his pace. Right then, Glaski glanced to the left and immediately cursed, "Those bastards from Team 1 are moving so fast! They set out light!" While Gao Fei's team moved like they were relocating households, Team 1 next to them was carrying only basic combat gear, so their pace was inevitably much faster. Everyone knew they wouldn't stay long in the positions they were currently occupying, so pouring labor into extensive trenchworks was out of the question. Naturally, everyone wanted to claim a well-developed trench section—ideally one solid enough to qualify as a proper fortification. One look at their neighbor's speed, and Sokholov knew they couldn't catch up. "Those bastards..." After spitting a curse, Sokholov muttered crossly, "We can't ditch our gear. Just because they grab a fortified section doesn't mean they'll get to keep it to themselves." Heavily burdened, they couldn't move fast even if they tried, but over a distance of four to five hundred meters, it took at most five minutes to arrive. As Gao Fei trudged forward, he suddenly spotted a line of landmines laid out on the ground ahead. Anti-tank mines, spaced two or three meters apart, stretched out in a sparse line that seemed to extend as far as the eye could see. Curious, Gao Fei asked, "Are there really this many mines?" "The Ukrainians laid them. When we push forward, our combat engineers lay mines ahead; when the Ukrainians push back, they lay mines here. But right now the engineers are swamped, so nobody's dealing with them." Advancing further, Gao Fei suddenly caught sight of a corpse. He wasn't afraid, but it made his stomach churn slightly. He quickly looked away, but before he took two more steps, Sokholov barked, "Hit the dirt!" Everyone instantly dropped flat. A moment later, an artillery shell detonated roughly a hundred meters away from Gao Fei. If a shell landed right next to you, dropping prone wouldn't do any good, but if you could hear that incoming whistle, it meant the shell wasn't landing directly overhead, though it was still close enough that getting down immediately was your best bet. At a hundred meters, shrapnel could easily kill a man. After waiting a moment and seeing that no more shells followed, they couldn't tell if it had been a zeroing shot or just a stray, pointless shell. Staying in place was definitely not an option. Sokholov called out, "Keep moving! Double-time, let's go!" He was tired, but galvanized by that shell burst, Gao Fei felt a fresh surge of adrenaline coursing through his limbs, and he accelerated once again. A trench appeared up ahead: a machine gun position jutting out forward from the main line, sandbags stacked on three sides, with a trench running behind it toward the main trench. There were many such protruding machine gun positions designed to create dense interlocking fields of fire, but this was an enemy position, useless to Gao Fei and his squad. Sokholov, leading the way, tossed his gear into the machine gun position and dropped into the trench. Even if they couldn't use the position itself, they could now travel along the trench without remaining exposed in the open. Inside the machine gun position lay two corpses. The bodies were relatively intact, though their uniforms were shredded. The heavy machine gun had been blown over, pinning the gunner beneath it; the hot barrel had seared a scorched furrow across the gunner's face, discoloring the surrounding skin. The assistant gunner still held an ammunition belt in his hand. Gao Fei caught sight of it by accident, and this time he couldn't pull his eyes away. It wasn't that he wanted to stare, but curiosity had struck him. If the position had taken a direct artillery hit, the bodies wouldn't have been left intact; if it had been hit by a hand grenade, it wouldn't have overturned a heavy machine gun. If you didn't know, you asked—it was all experience. "Team Leader, what blew this up?" "A mortar, obviously. Do you even need to ask? Oh, right, you were a blue beret, no wonder you don't know." Russian military police wore blue berets. After having had a drink, Sokholov was getting snarkier. "It's pretty obvious, isn't it? A round came down and exploded outside. The blast wave flipped the machine gun and killed the two gunners who had their upper bodies exposed. There was another guy inside who ran off. Judging by the looks of it, an 82mm mortar." They followed the communication trench leading from the machine gun position for twenty-odd meters. Coming upon a bend ahead, Sokholov suddenly froze. By rights, there shouldn't have been anyone in the trench, but Sokholov's sudden halt signaled trouble. The instant Sokholov stopped, Glaski dropped the ammunition can in his left hand and brought around the machine gun slung over his shoulder that his right hand had been steadying. Glaski was ready to fire at a moment's notice, but Sokholov turned and said, "It's fine. Friendly." As Sokholov turned to speak, he shot them a warning glance. It wasn't out of fear so much as sheer tension. After flashing them the look, Sokholov turned back and called out, "Hey, brothers. How's it going?" No one spoke. Sokholov's greeting was met with silence. Glaski leveled his machine gun across his body, but he didn't pick up the ammunition box. Gao Fei rounded the corner behind Glaski, and then he saw four men sitting against the wall in a wider section of the trench. All four were wounded, but definitely alive. They merely stared at Sokholov with cold, vacant eyes. Beside the wounded, along the length of the trench, lay at least a dozen corpses—some enemy dead, but mostly their own. Every one of the wounded was stained with blood. Their wounds were non-fatal, yet severe enough to keep them from fighting on. There were no critically wounded. If someone took a grievous injury, a merciful comrade would put a bullet in his head to spare him the agony. At least half of the corpses in this trench had died from gunshot wounds to the head. Stared down by those eerie eyes, Gao Fei locked eyes with one of them. A chill crept down his spine, and he quickly averted his gaze. It wasn't cowardice; it was just unnecessary. These men were true desperadoes. Better not to meet their eyes. Sokholov didn't want to occupy this position anymore, but trench sections with dugouts that could support both living and fighting were limited; even if they wanted to switch to another spot, they couldn't. The penal battalion had turned this place into a holding area for their wounded and dead, so they just had to chalk it up to bad luck. Just then, a raspy voice muttered, "Got water?" It was Russian, but Gao Fei understood it. "Got food?", "Got water?", "Got ammo?"—these were the first Russian phrases Gao Fei had made sure to learn. Hearing the wounded soldier's plea, Sokholov immediately replied, "Yeah, we do! You guys have had it rough, brothers. Here, drink some water. Need a hand?"