Astafieva was losing consciousness, the thick fingers around her neck constricting both her airway and the blood flow to her racing brain.
She struck out, connecting with the large American, her efforts in vain as the man continued to throttle the life out of her.
Warm liquid splashed across her face, once, then again, as a bayonet exited the man’s shoulder, and then his chest.
The animal sound that came from him penetrated her cloudy mind, but still he clung on, determined to take her with him.
Astafieva saw the blur as a rifle butt, swung with desperate force, smashed into the left side of the dying man’s head, propelling him to the right and breaking his hold.
The gurgling stopped as she regained her senses, the unconscious GI asphyxiated by a combination of snow and blood.
Her saviour, Ponichenkarova, dropped to her knees, the exertions of the kill making her breathless.
“Renata… are you… alright… thought… the bastard had… killed you.”
Astafieva gingerly felt her neck, grimacing with the pain of the severe bruises that were declaring themselves.
Words did not, actually, could not come, so she just nodded.
To show her willingness, she took up her Mosin rifle and dragged herself up to the edge of the position.
Ponichenkarova’s SVT had no ammunition left, so she discarded it in favour of the American’s Garand.
Rummaging around in the dead man’s webbing, she pulled out some spare chargers and tried to work out how to load the weapon.
Astafieva’s rifle cracked, startling her in her moment of concentration.
A croaky voice revealed that the younger woman was feeling very vengeful over her brush with death.
“Got you, you bastard.”
The rifle clacked as the bolt was worked, followed by another shot, and a repeat of the triumphant croaking.
Ponichenkarova thought she had the American weapon worked out so raised the rifle and picked a target.
‘An officer. Good!’
Towers was flung to the snow by the force of the blow on his right hip, the pain of the strike immediately cutting through the anger he was experiencing as his men were being killed and wounded all around him.
Ponichenkarova had hit her target but, in another sense, hadn’t.
The bullet had actually struck the main body of Towers’ Colt automatic, wrecking the weapon. However, it failed to penetrate the skin and left only a heavy bruise, although it would be a little time before the shocked officer realised that he hadn’t been fatally wounded. His misery was complete when blood started to flow from his old wound, opened when he hit the ground and impacted with a rock beneath the snow.
“Good gun.”
She was impressed with the capitalist weapon, slotting in the first charger, having fired the three rounds she inherited with the rifle, hitting everything she aimed at.
Astafieva slapped her arm and pointed.
“There, Serzhant… they’re getting round us!”
A group of American soldiers had overcome one position, and were using a hedgerow to get behind the main defensive line.
Both rifles aimed at the group and let fly.
Neither hit their targets, but the men dropped instantly into cover.
Two small explosions quickly followed, and chemical smoke started to drift over their position.
“Move! Quickly!”
Ponichenkarova grabbed Astafieva and rolled them both out of the position.
Both of them heard the thuds and braced themselves.
Two grenades exploded simultaneously.
Dina Ponichenkarova squealed as a piece of metal cut across the back of her left calf as, simultaneously, another destroyed her left ankle.
None the less, she again grabbed her companion and dropped back into the position, bringing the Garand up as dark forms took shape in the smoke.
Astafieva fired the first shot, and was rewarded with an animal like scream as one of the attackers was struck in the belly.
The leading shape transformed itself into a crouching runner, an M3 submachine gun spraying bullets as he charged.
Two of them struck Ponichenkarova, one in her shoulder, missing everything of importance and passing through into the snow beyond.
The other struck her left arm, shattering the humerus just above the elbow joint.
Astafieva, having just put down another of the grey shapes, transferred her aim to the closer target, ignoring the tug as one of his rounds carried away her epaulette.
She shot him in the neck, and the dead body dropped to the snow like a rag doll.
Turning back to the other attackers, Renata Astafieva was swatted to one side by an exploding grenade.
The pain was intense as her right chest and side were peppered with fragments. The force of the explosion ripped part of her clothing away, exposing soft pink flesh lavishly decorated with fresh blood.
An American rose above the position and shot the screaming Ponichenkarova in the chest, silencing her noise in an instant.
He dropped in beside the wounded Astafieva and looked around, seeking further targets and threats.
Finding none, he examined the wounded girl, paying particular attention to the curved breast exposed by the explosion, the erect nipple leaking a steady stream of blood where the minutest sliver of metal had slashed the aureole.
He squeezed the soft female flesh hard, not caring about the pain he inflicted, causing the blood to run more freely from the nipple and a previously unnoticed wound on the underside of the perfectly rounded form.
He looked around again and made a decision.
He ruffled up Renata’s skirt, exposing her thighs, and quickly worked to expose much more.
Astafieva struggled,but a single short punch knocked the fight out of her for long enough to allow the soldier to roll on top of her, unbutton his fly and release himself.
A loud crack brought Astafieva out of the cocoon the blow had sent her to, as did as the sight of the would-be rapist’s head exploding, as a Garand round punched through bone and brain.
Remarkably, the man was still alive, or at least breathing by some automatic response, his ability to understand, talk, speak, and remember,forever destroyed by the passage of the bullet.
Ponichenkarova let the rifle slip as her strength failed, the extraordinary effort of raising the Garand hastening her end.
Astafieva rolled over to the dying woman.
Even in death, Ponichenkarova had something to say, and she tried as best as her destroyed lung and blood loss allowed.
“I’ve always loved you.”
Ponichenkarova had never let on, but Astafieva had always felt that the older NCO treated her differently.
“I know, Dina,” she lied, “And I love you too, Lapochka,” which wasn’t a lie.
For the few seconds they had left to share together, both knew they would never have what could have been.
Dina Ponichenkarova coughed, and a huge stream of blood fell from her mouth and nose.
“Lapoc…”
‘Sweethea…’
The old NCO died, her staring glassy eyes providing a warning that Renata Astafieva saw too late, the movement reflected in them translating itself into a stunning blow to the back of her head.
“You fucking bitches, YOU FUCKING BITCHES!”
The incensed GI shot Ponichenkarova’s corpse in the face three times, destroying it utterly. He turned the Garand on Astafieva.
The uncovered breast, the skirt pulled up exposing shapely thighs, the surrender in the girl’s eyes, one, or all of them, gave him a moment’s pause, and the rifle lowered as more basic thoughts replaced revenge.
Checking around quickly, he propped the rifle against the snow bank and dropped into the position and on top of the wounded Russian.
A hand worked hastily on his trousers and Woods was quickly ready. He entered her and drove himself as deep as he could, the pain of the experience focussing Astafieva’s stunned mind, but not giving her the tools to prevent the violation.