Private First Class
January 15th, 2040
10:00:09 CET (Central European Time)
Hussar Line, Poland
Pomf! Pomf! Pomf!
A thunderous herd of artillery impacts blanketed the western horizon, where colorful tracers greeted each other through a series of intermittent waltz of fire. It has been more than a week since the Nightingales were cuddling in the comforts of their blankets, to where they now find themselves lying in the cold snow just behind the first few waves of armored and infantry elements. Announcing its grand opening, Operation Pola saw waves of well-rested Russians sweeping westward, alongside their Baltic allies. With the sun behind their backs, like a multitude of angels descending on their foes, EPAC forces flooded the wooded plains of Warsaw.
The trails of smoke and dancing snowflakes left by the vanguard elements eventually faded to a dim lit layer of gray. The Nightingales have made their peace, and quickly threw themselves at the behest of their harbinger's word. Their lofty, white boots pressed into the foamy soil, like guardians of the heavens, leaping among the clouds of heaven. With their sights forward, and their feet behind them, the frosted legion have found themselves a moon of earth. Craters dotted the white earth, accompanied by an eerie silence of awe and desperation.
Ivan turned his attention towards a disabled BTR-82, which had a broken turret, as well as a few dents and scratches. Pacing himself in a low-profiled manner, with his back towards the sky, Ivan dragged one of the crewmen out of the back, whose gloves were all but gone from the sparks and heated fissure of the limp turret. Examining his patient's conditions, the giant man unrolled his bandages and hydrogen peroxide, with his mind as calm as the Mare Nostrum of summer. Among Ivan's line of wounded, most cases were lacerations and slight contusions with minimal status of immediate off-field extraction - to which he delighted to save his tags and flares. Moving along the line of groaning and muttering soldiers, Ivan's head fell into his crimson hands, as he watched in awe and horror. Within the burning hour, exaggerated numbers became common, while common sense were all but buried deep into the depths of snow. Leaning back against the cold, steely beast of war, alongside his patients, his sky-watch was abruptly interrupted by soothing, but supernatural voice.
"Juhasz, I need to borrow your extra auto-injectors, and a bag of plasma."
"Sure thing... Here ya go, Kat."
The junior sergeant waddled her way through the empty field, before disappearing behind the tall grass beyond the smoking farmhouse. His break was cut short, and Ivan diverted his gaze towards the broken fence, with piles of used dressing seeping the white soil with its scarlet tears. As the sporadic gunfire pulled further away from the horizon into a dead silence, the tranquil woods came to life, whispering unspoken gossips of their uncharted consciousness. Another voice broke the lies of the breeze's tales, calling to Ivan's immediate attention, as he got up from behind the BTR.
"Juhasz! On me!"