Nencho: Steel Legs

Gray, cloudy skies premiered the oncoming downpour, soaking the bleach white ground far below. The soil soon became a reflection of the sky, patches of yellow-pigmented plants becoming little islands in a rolling sea of gray. Rain patters against the roof of a log hut, resting beside a field full of ripe, yellow uzbek melons. The hut’s door slowly opens, a strong clean shaven brunet man, barely older than an adolescent, tip-toeing out. He was wearing a brown coat with a leather belt wrapped around his waist, tan baggy pants, gray felt boots and a broadcloth cap. The man has a cloth sack slung over his shoulder, laden with all his personal belongings. Once he was far enough from the hut, he quickened his pace, trudging along the muddy road towards a village off in the distance. The man heard echoes of something like a fair in the village; the banging and crashing of a band muffling the rush of a hundred men crowding the village. The few dozen denizens of this normally quiet village were displaced by the noise, most forming groups under yellow leaf trees seeded along the road. The man approached one group of older villagers.

“Have they left yet?” The young man asks an old farmer.

“Did your father finally let you leave?” The farmer smiled as he asked the young man.

The young man looked away, a dogged look on his face.

“You’ll break your mother’s heart… they’re still waiting for the rest of the villages to send men.” The old farmer said as he pointed to the mass of men crowding around the stage with the band.

The young man tried to push into the crowd, but the excited mass of men forced the young man to stand far from the stage.

A chubby, bushy black-bearded man climbed on top of the stage, the band quickly going silent. The crowd followed suit, shushing each other and pointing to the speaker on stage. The man wore a black cap, yellow hip-length jacket with a leather buckle around the waist, black pants with red stripes and black knee-high leather boots.

“Sons of Zahyuma, thank you for coming to this momentous undertaking.” The man’s booming voice echoed through the men’s ears.

“For far too long, we have lived like bugs under the federal boot, forced to give a king’s ransom or face utter annihilation.” The man said, his otherwise jolly face twisting with burning hatred.

“No more! We will not kneel and beg for scraps while we have the words ‘Freedom!’ beating in our hearts!” The man cried as a yellow flag was raised above his head.

Written on the flag in red was the cyrillic word for “Freedom!” outlined by a red rectangular box.

“We fight for our wives, children and forefathers! We fight the fascists, federalists and communists! We will live or die for Zahyuma!” The man cried over the thunder, the crowd of men driven to shout “Freedom! Freedom!” as his chest heaved with pride.

“Follow me to the wagons, if you can’t find a seat then hang off the side!” The man pointed to a couple large wagons hooked to caterpillar tractors.

The young man rode the surge of bodies towards the wagons, joining the men’s fervor to take a seat for the adventure. The men in front had the luxury of taking the choice cart benches, some not even trying to hide their smug looks as others had to sit on the floor. The young man was not so lucky, following the speaker’s suggestion and hanging off one of the wagon’s rails.

The speaker climbed onto the tractor pulling the young man’s cart, strapping the Zahyuma flag to the smoke pipe. After giving it a symbolic kiss, he turned the tractor key. The tractor rumbled to life, other drivers following the man’s example. The tractors jostled their wagons forward, down a mud laden road out of the village.

“Hey! my name’s Ilko, what’s yours?” A blond, gaunt and stubble faced man sitting in the wagon asked the young brunet, shouting over the boisterous men and rumbling tractors.

“Nencho. I-I’ve never gone farther than the village before.” The man said, looking at the unfamiliar fields of sugar beets and pumpkin patches.

“I never even left my camp before. But here we are! Off to far flung locales to fight some Boris or Gorki.” Ilko said, making a gun out of his fingers and firing it at the innocent pumpkins.

“Boris? Gorki? Who are they?” Nencho asked with a perplexed look.

“Nicknames for commies and feds. There’s also Durbo for a fascist and Zeke for a nationalist; Polski, Ukran… and I guess us Zahz now.” A heavy set, bearded brunet sitting next to Iklo explained.

“Sorry, didn’t catch your name.” Iklo said, raising an eyebrow at the man who could easily eat him.

“Zhivko, I’ve been reading books my entire life. Learned those terms in a political pamphlet.” The man said as he shook Nencho’s hand and nearly crushed Ilko’s.

“I was just wondering where they are taking us. This isn’t the road to the capital Yanitsburgh or towards any battlefront.” Zhivko said, standing up and peeking his head out of the wagon to get a better look at the surroundings.

“Maybe we’re going to one of those big towers the boats dock with? We could be crewing a battleship!” Ilko said, excitement seeping from his voice.

“You mean a launch tower? I’ve never heard anything about a launch tower let alone seen ships coming down from space.” Zhivko said, sitting back down and scratching his chin in confusion.

Nencho was about to say something before he heard something buzzing. He waved his hand around his head to shoo away whatever flying insect was drooling over his delicious skin, but stopped as he noticed the buzzing become louder. Nencho looked frantically about him, stopping as he saw a black shape among the parting clouds. Ilko, who had been chatting with Zhivko and was about to ask Nencho something, paused to follow the strong man’s eyeline. He froze as he saw the growing black form high in the sky.

“What in the world is that!?” Zhivko turned around to see what they were looking at and gasped in horror.

“Biplane! Biplane flying towards us!” Zhivko yelled at the top of his lungs.

The men frantically looked around to see where the plane was, shouting in panic as it was heading straight for them.

“Get out of the carts! Hide in the ditches!” The black bearded man shouted, him and the other drivers stopping the tractors and then diving into the nearest ditch along the road. The men bumped, elbowed and shoved each other as they streamed out of the carts.

The closer the plane came the more panic stricken the men became, the ones stuck in the back of the carts climbing and even crushing other men to crawl over the railings. Nencho, Ilko and Zhivko ducked into the ditch, splashing into ankle deep sludge and nearly drowning under the wave of frightened men. The plane was now close enough that you could see its twin, black coated wings and silver round body clearly against the gray sky. Nencho heard loud cracks and whizzing past his ears, looking up from the ditch to see green beams of light flashing from the plane's nose. The beams were pushing what looked like tiny comets at the wagons, each one striking up a geyser of charred dirt or shredding a wagon’s steel frame like paper. The comets tore into the tractors, one after the other billowing with smoke, fire gushing out of its smoke pipe or exploding, leaving nothing but its mangled tracks behind.

Nencho caught a closer look at the plane as it made a second pass. It had teardrop eyes with small black pupils, bleach white scleras and long red caruncles painted on its slender nose. A steel gauntlet holding a man’s severed head on a spear painted on the tail sent chills down the Nencho’s spine. Before the plane flew out of sight, satisfied with its quarry, the pilot looked back and waved goodbye to the mud soaked survivors.

“Accursed air raiders will end this war before it even begins!” The bearded man roared, climbing out of the trench dripping with sludge.

The men surveyed the burning wreckage, covering their faces from the steel kindling. The men sighed with relief; the only victims were their personal effects.

“What do we do now?” One of the men asked the bearded man.

“We march.” The portly man said, before he started to trudge down the muddy road.

The men reluctantly followed their leader, leaving what remains of their belongings and starting a disorganized march towards who knows where.

“The only thing I regret is not taking my pocket bible.” Zhivko said as he held the charred remains of a leather bound book.

“Gonna miss not having a pair of fresh socks after this trip.” Nencho said, pulling his foot out of the mud, the poor man forced to leave his boot in the mud.

“Good thing I didn’t take anything with me! Always pack light or not at all, my father used to say.” Ilko said as his light frame let him walk freely through the gray sludge.

“Are we close yet?” One of the tractor drivers asked the bearded man.

“Sadly, no. Hopefully before nightfall, but only if we keep this pace.” The portly man said, the men groaning with weariness.

The rain eventually subsided, giving relief to the soaked marchers.

“Ah, what an adventure! We’ll definitely see exotic locales at this pace.” Zhivko complained as he fell into the mud.

“I’d take this over harvesting the same, fat melons for the rest of my life.” Nencho said as he helped Zhivko to his feet.

Though the clouds dissipated, the world around the exhausted men grew dark.

“Any longer on my feet and they’ll soon fall off!” Ilko moaned as he rubbed his legs between every step.

“I see fire!” One of the drivers shouted, pointing to a bright red flicker in the darkness.

The men, reinvigorated by this discovery, picked up their feet and pressed forward. The campfire soon came into view, surrounded by a couple men sitting with rifles slung over their shoulders.

“Lieutenant! What happened to you? You look like a mole!” One of the men said as he approached the portly man.

“A Turk bandit destroyed government resources, giving us a good scare in the process.” The lieutenant said, pointing at the sweat drenched marchers behind him, their bodies coated in layers of dirt and grime.

“How did our surprises fair? Were they attacked while I was gone?” The portly man asked the soldier, taking him aside as the men crowded around the fire.

“Just as you left them sir, nothing’s come looking for them.” The soldier said, pointing to someplace obscured in the darkness.

“Good, we have no time to waste.” The lieutenant remarked, pushing his way to the center of the men.

“Sons of Zahyuma! You’ve been brought here to become one of the very few called Babas, riding around on steel legs like that old witch!” The lieutenant said as he and the armed soldiers lit wooden torches.

The bearded man led the ‘babas’ out into the dark night. He couldn’t hide a smile as he neared rows of dark shapes, the others murmuring to each other in confusion. The lieutenant walked up to one of these shapes and held the torch close to the object.

The men were a mix of emotions, they either were amazed by the distinct shape of a walking tank or underwhelmed by its rigid, bolted plate exterior.

“These are our stahlbeine men, steel legs that will smash through cowardly infantry and crush any position under our feet!” The bearded man said, climbing on top of the walking tank.

“Who will ride with me?” The men grew silent, avoiding eye contact with the lieutenant. A man made his way to the front, standing to face the others.

“What is your name?” The portly man asked, taking him by the hand.

“Nencho. I will ride with you!” The strong man told the lieutenant.

“Nencho, my name is Lieutenant Kubrat, commander of the 93rd Leg Tank Company, and I will lead you through the deepest pits of hell.” Kubrat declared, clapping his hand on Nencho’s shoulder and with the other shook the strong man’s hand.

“I’ll ride with you!” Ilko said, raising his fist in the air. “Let’s ride!” Khivko shouted, inspiring the rest of the men to follow. Kubrat, with his face filled with joy, puffed his chest out.

“Two men to each tank, There’s plenty for everyone!” The jolly man shouted, opening the top hatch and squeezing inside the stahlbeine.

“Take the driver’s seat, I’ll take the turret.” Kubrat called out to Nencho while the other men scrambled for a tank.

Nencho slipped inside the hatch, taking a seat on a flat, steel plate.

“Turn on the light over your head.” Kubrat said as he turned on an orange light in the turret, cursing as it shocked his finger.

Nencho felt around for the light, squinting his dark adjusted eyes as the light came on. Beside him were two clutch levers, connected to thick bars running to the very center of the walker. Kubrat popped the turret hatch open, sticking his head out.

“There are paper instructions plastered inside the tank, follow them carefully!” The lieutenant called out to the men.

Nencho saw his instructions posted behind the right clutch.

“1. Start the engine with the red switch in the turret.” Nencho said out loud.

“Ah, it must mean this one.” Kubrat said, the portly man squeezing past what Nencho assumed was ammo to turn a red knob on the exposed engine.

The pistons turned inside the block, guttering as the engine roared to life.

“2. To turn the turret, use the electric crank found on the left side. No need for strained wrists?” Nencho read the exact words of the paper, yelling over the drowning engine.

The turret turned back and forward, making a loud scraping noise.

“That doesn’t sound or look good, ha ha!” Kubrat said as he watched sparks flying out of the turret ring.

“3. Open the cannon breech by pulling down the lever on its left side. Load 45mm orange HE or red AP shells into the breech, closing it once it fits snugly. Do not pull the firing cord located on the cannon until you have an enemy target in your sight. The machine gun takes 7.62mm green bullets, 47 pan mags. All ammo can be found in boxes along the turret's hull.” Nencho told his lieutenant, a concerned look crossing the bearded man’s face.

“Thirteen high explosive and five armor piercing. six mags worth of Tokarev. We’ll have to make every shot count.” The portly man said as he squeezed around the guns, searching for any boxes he could have missed.

“5. To move the walker, firmly grip down the lever clutches, releasing the tank’s pelvis. Begin pushing and pulling the levers back and forward, alternating the left and right levers like you are walking.” Nencho took a deep breath.

He gripped the clutches, being pushed down into his seat as the steel legs lifted the tank off the ground. He thrusted the right lever forward and pulled the left one back. The tank lurched forward, its foot stomping against the dirt in front of it. Nencho pulled the levers back to their starting position, or neutral as it was written at the bottom. The tank shifted forward to straighten up its right leg, moving the left leg forward to stand straight.

“Ha ha, you’re a natural!” Kubrat said, patting the strong man on his shoulder.

“6. To turn side to side, release the left clutch while holding the right if you want to turn right, and vice versa.” Nencho did this, hearing the mud churn beneath the tank as it pivoted on the loose left leg.

“The last thing written on here says, ‘Thank you for your purchase from Magadan Tractor Works’?” Nencho said, looking at the lieutenant with a confused expression.

“Where do you think this beauty came from, a tree?” Kubrat chuckled as he patted the strong man’s hat.

“I think we’ve had enough time with familiarization, wouldn’t you agree?” Kubrat said to Nencho as he stuck his head out of the turret.

“Babas, now it is time we face our fears and meet the enemy fist to fist. Follow me!” The lieutenant commanded the other tanks, the men sticking their heads out of the walkers to shout in agreement.

“Head towards the south. The enemy is crashing against our men holding one of our towns.” Kubrat told Nencho, closing the turret hatch.

Nencho drove the walker forward, a cacophony of pounding and thumping filling the pitch black night.

“How far away is it?” Nencho hollered over the pounding of metal feet.

“We should be there within the hour, hopefully before Gorki has leveled the place to the ground.” Kubrat yelled while having one eye in the gun sight, the only way to see outside of the turret.

Cool mist sprayed over Nencho through the open hull hatch, a welcome relief from the boiling interior of the tank.

“I see fire in the distance!” Nencho said, red dots reflecting light off the night sky.

“Yes, that’s where we’re going.” Kubrat said, the faint sounds of popping coming from the fires.

Nencho wiped cold sweat from his chin as the eerie sounds of crying and shouting echoed throughout the landscape. The steel legs stomped closer to the fires, weaving their way through a cratered, lunar landscape that was once that morning a cabbage field. The light from the fires was casting dark shadows through the charred skeletons of trees and farm houses, obscuring the babas’ vision. Nencho took a wrong step. The strong man panicked as the walker slid down the side of a crater.

“Nencho, what happened??” Kubrat asked as he rubbed his bruised forehead.

“I-I didn’t see the hole- I-I-“ The lieutenant stopped him.

“Well come on, we have legs! Climb out of this hole!” Kubrat said, his jovial smile filling Nencho with confidence.

The strong man took a deep breath and held the clutches tight. Nencho felt Kubrat place a hand on his shoulder, settling the strong man’s nerves. “That’s it! Nice and steady.” The lieutenant said as the walker ground its legs in the side of the crater.

The tank climbed slowly out the side of the crater, Nencho sighing with relief once on solid ground.

“Ha ha, the first enemy defeated!” Kubrat laughed, patting the strong man’s arms.

“Where do they think they’re going?” Nencho asked as the other walker’s passed by them. “They must think that we’ve gone on ahead. We better hurry before they leave us behind.” Kubrat said, a worried expression on his face.

The tank trudged along the crater edges, the babas being careful not to repeat their accident. The walker reached the edge of the field, pushing through a tangle of smoldering thickets. The town was now in sight, fires eating away at any silhouetted building left standing.

“God forsaken Gorki’s don’t know the meaning of mercy.” Kubrat said as the tank marched towards the village.

The babas could see the other walkers moving close to the town, some veering towards the flanks while others moved into the village center. The men were rattled by the echo of a loud crack. The men spun their heads around to see where it came from. The babas froze in horror. A walker on the left flank burst into flames, billowing into an inferno.

“They’ve engaged cannons! Drive faster, into the village!” Kubrat yelled, Nencho’s heart pounding as he strained his muscles.

The booms and bangs of tanks attacking and being destroyed hammered their senses. The walker raced into the village, the sounds of gunfire echoing down every street as tanks were pelted with rifles, machine guns and even grenades. “Close your hatch Nencho!” Kubrat yelled, the sound of metal rain drumming out his voice.

Nencho pulled his hatch closed, barely escaping bullets flying into the tank. Comets smashed into the metal interior, next to the strong man’s head. Nencho’s ears rang, feeling hot liquid run down his jowls as he struggled against the shock. Kubrat tried to get the strong man’s attention, but could only watch in bated breath as a shell punched through a walker next to them, tearing one of the steel legs apart. Kubrat kicked Nencho’s shoulder, turning his face towards the lieutenant.

“Nencho! We need to move!” The strong man read from Kubrat’s lips.

Nencho took his hands away from his ears, his hands stained red as he gripped the clutches. Kubrat kicked the strong man’s left shoulder, guiding his driver around tangled swarms of blue shirts, brown pants and white capped soldiers firing their weapons at the walkers looming over them. Nencho felt his hearing slowly return to him, the sounds of cursing and a hail of bullets waiting to greet him.

“Kubrat, what do we do?!” Nencho asked as he peered through his tiny vision slot, seeing men climb on top of their tank.

“Fight!” Kubrat shouted as he loaded the machine gun. Bullets rattled out of the turret, sending the soldiers jumping and diving away from the green spray.

“Take that you federal scum! No wraith will rule God fearing men!” Kubrat yelled, the gun mag making a chink sound as the last bullet was spent.

“I see a machine gun down the street!” Nencho said, spotting flashes of green light against men wearing yellow jackets, huddling in dispersed craters and hiding behind collapsed walls of sandbags.

“Thank Constantine our troops survived! Let’s give them an armored angel.” Kubrat said, loading an HE shell into the gun breech.

Nencho drove the tank forward, climbing over the collapsed remains of a brick church. The yellow jackets were shocked by the sound of steel legs stomping behind their backs, but soon began a war cry as they saw the welcome form of a friendly tank. The yellow jackets made way for the walker to crash through, the tank crushing a barricade made of house furniture under its feet.

The babas heard the rat-a-tat of machine guns against their armored shell. The tank turned to face the machine gun, seeing the pea-shooter hidden inside the carcass of a bus. Kubrat pulled the firing cord, the cannon rocking the tank backward. A flash of light beamed out of the barrel, muting the fires filling the streets. The beam missed the machine gun, shearing the roof off the bus.

“Closer Nencho! We need to get closer!” Kubrat yelled, the screeching clutches signaling the charge.

The walker raced towards the machine gun, the white caps panicking and abandoning their position.

“Don’t let them escape! Run them down!” Kubrat shouted, the steel legs crushing what was left of the bus under its feet.

The turret rattled as bullets chased after the retreating white caps. The Gorkis’ jumped into any hole or crevice big enough they could hide in.

“Ha, we have them on the run!” Kubrat said as he reloaded his machine gun.

Excitement rushed through Nencho as he saw the enemy run from his wake, the feeling of power clouding his mind. The two babas were completely focused on their running quarry, not seeing what was around the corner. Sitting among the embroiled remains of two walkers was a large cannon, its barrel pointed straight at the vulnerable walker. The gun roared to life, a beam of light racing through the air and punching through the tank turret. The shell tore the armor off the back of the turret, showering Kubrat in molten steel pellets. The blast blew the hatches off the tank, the steel plates clattering to the cobblestone street below. The walker staggered, its steel legs straining as Nencho struggled to keep the tank from tipping over.

“Necho, to the right!” Kubrat shouted, patting out embers in what remained of his beard.

Nencho swerved the walker towards the cannon, the white caps rushing to load another shell into the breech. Kubrat loaded HE into the tank cannon and fired without hesitation. The shell ripped over the wreckage, smashing into one of the cannon wheels. The cannon was violently rolled sideways, its gunners disappearing within the blast of smoke.

“Ha ha! Trying to kill God fearing men, you pagan dogs!?” Kubrat hollered as he patted Nencho’s shoulders in celebration.

Nencho released his grip from the clutches, the walker resting on the ground as he clapped his hands. The babas were shocked by a clattering sound hitting the back of the tank.

“Get down!” Kubrat yelled as he threw Nencho face first into the driver’s seat, the lieutenant ducking as far down as he could within the turret.

A tied bundle of grenades exploded against the tank’s rear, ripping the turret off and throwing it far in the air. Nencho was rocketed out the driver’s hatch, tumbling into bullet strewn remains of a taxi. Nencho’s vision blurred and the side’s of his vision became dark. He clambered to his knees, then rested against the side of the taxi. The walker was engulfed in flames, the steel legs crumbling from the collapsing hull.

“Nencho? Are you… are you out there?” The feeble call of Kubrat came from the tank turret, resting upside down in the middle of the road.

Nencho tried to stand on his feet, but only managed to crawl on his hands and knees to the shredded turret. Nencho looked into the decapitated turret. His stomach seized as he saw Kubrat, his charred, top half the only thing surviving the blast.

“Nencho, we did it! We threw the… the enemy back.” Kubrat said, reaching his destroyed hand out to Nencho.

Tears streamed down the boy’s face as he gripped what was left of the man’s hand.

“Why are you crying? We won my boy! They won’t hurt my… our families anymore.” Kubrat chuckled, before coughing profusely.

Nencho heard the sounds of shouting men echoing off the ruined buildings.

“I-I’m sorry Kubrat, I have to go.” The boy struggled to say, slowly releasing the man’s hand.

“Why be sorry? Live Nencho! Find your wife! Sow your seeds! F-For… for Zahyuma!” Kubrat said, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

Nencho saw shadows of men with rifles against the walls of flaming buildings. He left Kubrat in that street, his mind riddled with despair. He trudged through the ruins of the once flourishing town, past the crushed hedgerows of the border and into the nearby forest. The trees gave shelter from the searing heat of the inferno, pulsing light filling the dense foliage. Nencho collapsed on the side of a road. His body was stained with mud, ash, sweat, blood and tears. The boy had no energy left in him. Not even enough to crane his neck to see what was thumping down the road.

“Nencho?!” The strong man’s eyes flew open as he heard a familiar voice.

The ground shook as steel legs marched up to Nencho, the walker stopping beside the strong man.

“It’s him! What in the heavens are you doing here?” Ilko said as he climbed down from the tank turret.

“Where’s your tank? Was it knocked out as well?” Zhivko asked, climbing out of the driver’s hatch.

“Kubrat… h-he’s…” Nencho tried to explain, but had no strength left to say it.

“...Our tanks were destroyed within the first few minutes. Some cowards abandoned this one, so we saddled her up.” Zhivko said, picking Nencho up in his arms.

“We thought we were goners, but I guess the Gorkis couldn’t handle a bloody nose and ran away.” Ilko said, rubbing the back of his head while he opened the driver’s hatch for Nencho.

Zhivko sat down in the driver’s seat, resting Nencho at his feet.

“Come on, there might be survivors.” Zhivko said to Ilko, who climbed into the turret.

The babas marched out of the forest, ignoring the smoking remains of walkers as they searched around the village.

“Steel Legs dead ahead!” Ilko said, pointing to a circle of intact tanks.

Men were shouting and hollering in the middle of the circle, yellow jackets joining them. The babas stopped their walker just outside the circle, Zhivko letting the tank rest on the muddy ground.

“What’s with the celebrations?? Men are dead and dying all around you!” Ilko said as he jumped out of the tank.

“We were all supposed to be dead. But then you babas came spitting fire and blew the Gorkis away!” One yellow jacket said, an empty bottle of wine raised in the air.

“Come on, liven up a little! Ha ha!” One of the babas said while he drunkenly danced with a yellow jacket.

“Excuse us babas, but my men have been ground into meat paste for the past few weeks. Victory was never in our minds.” A gray bearded yellow jacket said, walking up to the newcomers.

“Captain Sadik, commander of the 93rd Leg Battalion. You were supposed to come three weeks ago. Where’s your commander?” He asked, looking over the babas.

“He sacrificed himself.” Nencho said, being held up by Zhivko.

“I see… You men fought a bloody, chaotic battle today. Try to rest on your laurels… or like some, drown in your misery.” The captain said, shaking hands with Ilko, Zhivko and finally Nencho.