Molokski stares through the smoke in disbelief. All the tanks have been hit by the enemy and even the mighty T-35 is now a useless smoking hulk. He glances about his men and sees them staring back at him with worried faces.
”Where is Commisar Puchinkin?” he asks
”Comrade Puchinkin is dead” says a rifleman pointing back at a smouldering corpse.
Molokski curses his bad luck and glances towards the strange men from Moscow. With their pale skins and unusual equipment he finds them unusually unsettlig. Their leader, Kapustin has gathered his remaining troops aroud him and is issuing orders with no regard to Molokski and his men. Something akin to anger sparks to life in Molokski’s breast and he beckons to his riflemen to come closer.
”Listen boys” he says in a low voice. ”Those Kremlin bastards don’t give a shit about us, so we’re going to attack in our own way. Gather up all the grenades you can find and follow me”.
For a second, Molokski fears they will refuse but he is gratified to see that though his men exchange glances, they quickly do as ordered. As they moved quietly about the smoking rubble, he grabs one by the arm.
”Not you Fyodor. You are our fastest runner. I want you to run back to the staging post and tell the Colonel what has taken place here. Tell him we need more men as soon as possible. Okay?”
Fyodor nods happily, no doubt grateful to be leaving the battle. He spurts back intot he dusky smoke.
”Where is that man going?” Major Kapustin’s sinister voice comes from just behind Moloski. He turns and stares at the pale face and cold eyes of the officer.
”I sent him for reinforcements ...sir”
Kapustins eyes watch the running man and for a few bizarre seconds, Moloski wonders if the Muscovite is going to have Fyodor shot, but then the tall man brings his eyes back to the burly sergeant.
”Your men will attack from the right” he states. Then without any further interest he turns and strides back to his own group.
”What kind of a strange man is he?” Molokski wonders, but his returning riflemen pull his attention back to the present.
”Sergeant, sir, I found Belinsky’s machine gun!” one of them grins as he holds up a Degtyaraov light machine gun.
”Good, good!” Molokski slaps the man on the shoulder. He half turns to peer through the rubble at the warehouse, the ruined tanks and the old tank factory.
”Listen boys. Heres my plan...”
On the far side of the battle field, Yuri Mosolov wipes at a minor head wound. That damned Polikarpov had sent splinters flying in every direction and his forehead and right cheek had stopped one. Luckily it had been only a glancing blow, but probing the wound with tender fingers he fears his good looks have suffered and his mind continually wanders back to the girl named Natasja who lived in Omsk.
”Sir! Sir?” the voice of the man in front of him forces Yuri to focus his mind.
”What?”
”The tanks sir. They’ve moved off to the west.”
Yuri peers through the smoke and dust trying to remember his objectives. ”What about the enemy?” he asks.
”Their tanks have withdrawn sir. The way to the warehouse is clear. Should we advance?”
Yuri blinks as blood runs into his eye. Irritated he wipes it away, but the eyes of the man facing him seem troubled.
”Its nothing” he mumbles. ”Just a scratch”.
”As you say sir”
Climbing to his feet, Yuri looks about him. Most of the men around him are wounded or dead. He frowns. Is this the aid station?
”Where is Kopylov?” he demands
”The Lieutenant is with the men sir” the soldier replies. It suddenly dawns on Yuri that he has been out of the fight and that Kopylov has taken command in his stead. Indignation and anger course through his body and straightening his dusty uniform tunic, he makes his way toward the twenty or so men he sees clustered together up ahead. In their midst, staring towards the dust and smoke of the distant tanks, stands Kopylov scratching the back of his head.
”Sir!” one of the men springs to his side with a concerned face.
”I’m fine. Its nothing. Just a scratch. Kopylov. Why the hell are you just standing here?”
”The tanks sir...” Kopylov gestures but falls silent upon seeing his commanders face.
”Fuck the tanks!” Yuri pulls out his pistol. ”Take the warehouse now before the traitors get the weapon!”
The men scramble to their feet. One pulls out his bayonet and attaches it to his rifle.
”Thats the spirit Kropotkin!” Yuri shouts above the din of battle, grateful to have remembered the man’s name. ”All of you do the same. Attach bayonets and follow me!”
STARTING
With the tanks having either destroyed each other or moved into fighting positions further afield, the infantry are left to finish the battle for the wharehouse. Both sides start on their side of the table, not closer than 12 inches from the warehouse.
VICTORY CONDITIONS
Loss of two thirds of one side results in automatic loss, otherwise victory is determined by control of the warehouse at the end of the game.
PLAYER ONE (Jan)
Major Kapustin
5 x Aglatean Guards with rifles.
2 x Agaltean Guards with SMGs.
Aglatean Guard with LMG.
PLAYER TWO (Stephen)
Sgt Molokski
10 x Soviet infantry with rifles (one grenade each).
Soviet infantry with LMG
PLAYER THREE (Palle)
Yuri Mosolov
10 x Black Guard infantry with rifles (one grenade each).
Black Guard infantry HMG
PLAYER FOUR (Goeg)
Lt Kopylov
10 x Black Guard infantry with rifles (one grenade each).
Black Guard Infantry LMG
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