Fantasy Swords Over Stalingrad

[Incognito]

Swords Over Stalingrad

Hello - This is an idea I've been kicking around in my head for a month; it started as a 'what if WWII didn't have guns' question and morphed into something a lot deeper. I've written some short stories in my off time, but I wanted to get a feel for how others might engage with this world, or if it was even appealing to a general audience. I realize its a stark departure from the typical role-play set up, but I think that’s what makes it exciting to me.

Your Story Begins

Bloody Stalingrad

November, 19th, 1942; the Soviet counter-offensive at Stalingrad begins. You are one of the soldiers fighting in this battle. Your chief concern is survival. The engagement over the city of Stalingrad will become the bloodiest, most costly battles in the modern history of warfare. The sword-based combat means that in five months the USSR will suffer 1,830,618 casualties with only 227,764 wounded. The crumbling city makes organized engagements nearly impossible; most fighting is smaller battalions killing each other in skirmishes, but the ever-present threat of the Nazi's crossbows looms over you.

A Fight for Every Inch

German forces have overwhelmed Stalingrad and soon you’ll be right in the middle of it. At your back, the unforgiving swords of the Soviet officers, demanding that you fight until your last breath; at your front, a vicious, well-trained Nazi assault force that is fighting tooth and nail to keep hold of a crumbling city.


The air is thick and filled with ash as fire burns throughout the city, throwing billowing columns of black smoke high into the atmosphere. Your only comfort is the rifle in your hands, and the pitted bayonet attached to it’s front. You’ve lost track of those who arrived in the train alongside you; the mass confusion on this side of the Volga, as the Officers sorted you into groups, made staying together impossible.


You’re guided into a boat, one that looks poorly made and unsuitable for the river crossing. It smells sour, both sweat and vomit heated up by the powerful diesel engine mounted in the front. You feel dizzy as you’re shoved and jostled by dozens of other men who are forced onto the boat. It was never meant to carry this many people. By the time everyone is onboard no one can move; your shoulders are pressed against those around you. You spy dozens of holes in the floor at your feet, where German arrows have pierced the thin metal but not the entire hull. Water sloshes around your boots; there is apparently a leak.


The roar of the engine is deafening as the pilot throttles the propeller to full. Toxic fumes belch from the front and wash over the occupants; they are harsh and burn your sinuses and throat. You hear one man vomit, and another shouts with anger as the bile hits him. There are no apologies, and soon another begins wrenching. You are barely thirty feet away from the dock at which you started and already the waves are tossing the small craft around like a leaf on the wind.


What feels like a lifetime passes in a blur as you concentrate on not throwing up what little food you’ve had. Your vision is swimming and if you weren’t packed so tightly into the boat you’re fairly certain you would have fallen down by now. Every time you look up the battered silhouette of Stalingrad looms larger and larger in the distance. Part of you is desperate to get off, believing that anything would be better than this torture; the rest of you know better. You try not to think of the wounded, half-dead you saw being brought off the boat before you boarded.


There is a crunch and whine as the metal side of the boat scrapes alongside the dock. An officer stands on the dock itself, sword drawn in one hand, the other waving frantically. He shouts at those closest, bellowing for them to disembark. The nauseous and discombobulated conscripts scramble as quickly as they can, tripping and all but throwing themselves onto the dock. The officer continues to roar, grabbing men by their collars and pulling them free of the craft, then shoving them forwards. “Go, go, go!” He screams again, and again.


You’re one of the last to get free of the rocking boat, just as the pilot shoves it into reverse. You feel the officer’s hand on your jacket and your world spins as you’re tossed forwards. You stumble down the dock towards the black, scorched ground of the beach. You look up, rifle in hand, and prepare to look death in the eyes. Don’t blink.