Rust Skies (Iron Crucible Book 5) by T. K. Blackwood

Author:T. K. Blackwood [Blackwood, T. K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chromatic Aberration
Published: 2024-05-18T00:00:00+00:00

18

"Again!" The eternal mantra of Soviet military training. So, the inductees did it again. Climbing laboriously back inside the BTRs and waiting for the captain to blow his whistle. Their movements were sluggish, tired, worn down from fatigue, but they did it all the same.

The captain stared, eagle-eyed across the drill field until the APCs were filled with men and then blew the whistle again, setting General Strelnikov's left ear ringing.

The conscripts piled out of the APCs in a flood of uniformed bodies.

Strelnikov felt sympathetic pains in his elbows and knees as he watched the inductees bang them on hatches, rifles, and each other. Men's legs became tangled as they debarked, stumbling and falling. He could hear their swearing even from his distant vantage point.

"Sloppy," Colonel Sidorov said bitterly from beside Strelnikov. "Too slow. Half of them are already dead."

Strelnikov didn't disagree. He watched as the conscripts fanned out and threw themselves to the ground, arrayed for battle around their APCs. A BTR was little more than a "battle taxi," a means of conveyance to get soldiers into the fight. Once arrived, soldiers would need to fight dismounted. Of course, they weren't designed that way. It was intended that soldiers be able to fight from inside the BTR using the rifle ports along the APC's flanks. Utter madness. Strelnikov had seen countless BTRs burned up and blown out, their human contents obliterated or roasted to charcoal-black mummies. No, to survive and to fight they would have to get out quickly—often under fire—and so they practiced disembarking over and over.

The captain waited until the maneuver was finished and looked to Strelnikov for approval. Though his expression was impassive, Strelnikov saw pity in his eyes, pity for the men worn out from the same maneuver. Strelnikov answered with the mantra. "Again."

"Again!" the captain called.

This was the Soviet way of training, repetition. They were taught what to do, when to do it, and how, and then that operation was repeated until it was perfect, flawlessly executed. In this manner anyone could learn anything. The Red Army was dependent on vast masses of conscripts, many of them uneducated. Sometimes they spoke no Russian at all. To that end, trying to teach a soldier why something should be done became far less important than teaching him how. It was like teaching a monkey to ride a bike. They did not need to understand why it should be done, only that it must.

"Again!"

"You see what we are dealing with," Colonel Sidorov said, turning to Strelnikov. "These men couldn't find their asses if I gave them a map. Hopeless. They've sent inductees from all the SSRs. I have at least five languages being spoken in my regiment now."

Strelnikov remained impassive, watching the drill carried out again.

"They aren't ready to be called Guards," Sidorov finished.

"The men who earned that title are all dead outside of Zagreb," Strelnikov reminded him. It was a bitter truth, one which Sidorov visibly winced at. The 121st Motor Rifles—the so-called "Zagreb Guards"—was like the Ship of Theseus.

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