My Review of Red Orchestra 2
The freezing winter snow of Fallen Heroes has completely suffocated my reason while enhancing the piercing pain of the cold though my spine, paralyzing my hands to the point where I find relief in the fact that they are frozen to my Mosin-Nagant.
The choice was simple, really - fight for the Mother Land, or die working to death in the gulags.
I should've chosen the Gulag, at least there is hope there.
As the fascist's close in, my comrades and I find ourselves outnumbered, chosen to die as cannon fodder to secure one of the most ridiculous of objectives, for no reason other than to direct kraut artillery to our position.
Out of the corner of my eye I see an MG34 set up, but the cold has turned my vocal cords into sheets of ice and I can barely utter a sound to warn my mates, much less get to cover in time before the imminent onslaught.
To say that we were scared is comical, to say that the dark cloud of fear's grip of death possessed our souls is an understatement.
But we slowly moved forward with what seemed like little to no resistance.
Each of us were only given 5 rounds of ammunition for our rifles, and looking upon the landscape I can see why no one would want to waste giving a soldier any more than that. If I were to fire a single round before my demise, I would count myself lucky - if the cold didn't prevent me from pulling the trigger, a miracle.
Minutes have passed by with what seemed like hours after seeing the fascists secure their positions. Finally we made it to our objective, hugging the ground so hard we can burrow our way to America if we got any closer.
Then it happened.
The grouling pain from the fear and cold that once paralyzed my muscles became warm and vibrant as the 7.92mm rounds from the MG34 came flying over our heads in such succession that we couldn't tell how many shot's have been fired.
The panic that we felt was overwhelming, and the only thing we could rationalize was to fall back to the rest of our group, but that would mean death from our side. So we huddled as close to whatever cover we could find, naively waiting reinforcements.
Soon after, a hail of 9mm rounds came flying into those who were unlucky to find themselves without cover, ripping into their body with prejudice.
That's when I realized I was the only one of our group behind cover.
It became clear that all the commotion was directed at my comrades and I, and a harrowing peace from the silence that ensued became the music that no composer could ever recreate.
But that was quickly short lived as 4 of my comrades laid on the ground, dying in agony - each according to his own wounds - a tune that no matter how much chaos of the battlefield deafening the ear's, could suppress.
The man I had confidence in the most was slowly squirming on the ground, humbled by the engineering of Nazi firepower, laying in the snow which has now become a slushy soup of warm blood, feces, intestines, and ice - and crippling my moral by the severity of his wounds while he childishly seeks reassurance that he will make it out alive, begging for any hope that he cannot find within himself.
As if I had any to spare.
To my left was someone who I only had the pleasure of meeting briefly, but his melancholic cries for his mother had pierced my compassion closer than my own brother could have when his voice cracked with hopelessness as he realized that his loved ones would be waiting the rest of their lives for his return home, never knowing what happened this day.
The gurgling sounds from the 17 year old kid was most gut wrenching. His enthusiasm was short lived by 9mm rounds caught by his throat, chest, and lungs - laying face down in the snow with his eyes closed, knowing that when he lets out his last breath the only thing he can do next is inhale the pints of his own red liquid, choking as if he was just inches away from the surface of a body of water.
And the Fourth? Well, he was the lucky one. Smeared against the wall was pieces of his brain that had not been caught by his helmet as the MG34 pumped round after round in his direction.
Suddenly I was stricken with such rage from having to listen to my comrades slowly find the comfort of death that I immediately wanted to rush into enemy lines and kill every single one of those Nazi scum, but I was paralyzed as I heard the soft foot steps slowly creep up on the other side of the wall that I had found myself spooning.
The booming sound of artillery and warfare started to commence as the Russian's began opening fire on Nazi positions, and now I wasn't the focus of the battlefield.
As soon as I felt that I had gained back my composure to re-enter the fight and take out my vengeance for my comrades sake, a pair of Nazi boots came crashing down within inches of my head, rushing to the other side of the snowy street to suppress the position of my peers.
I was filled with so many thoughts and instincts that I found myself unable to decide where to shoot him. But the rage of my soul was possessed by an unclean thing, and I sprinted over to him with such conviction that the spear of my bayonet came crashing into his back by accident.
As he was trying to figure out what had just happened, I thrust my blade once again into his side, then again into his stomach, then again into his chest, then again into his pelvis, then again into whatever flesh he had left unscathed. The slapping sound of my blade meeting his flesh was satisfying, and now I know that I had avenged my comrades who were the first to die in this encounter.
But his moans echoed into head as if bringing me into another dimension. He was weeping, crying, and sobbing while I stood over him as his judge and executioner, watching the tears pour from his eyes faster than the guts from his stomach.
My heart was immediately filled with sorrow and grief, despite knowing the enemies intentions. Although this man deserved to die as my friends have, I couldn't find it in myself to record in my memories the cries of another grown man - so I ended his suffering swiftly, with a shot to his forehead.
That was the moment that I found myself in error.
As I looked up from the white snow corrupted with sea's of blood, I realized that on my path to vengeance I found myself facing the direction of my own comrades, and could easily be mistaken as a fascist from over 100 meters away, or a retreating Russian soldier, equally as bad.
My fears were instantly validated as I tried to scramble back to my previous position when I saw the muzzle flash that sent the round piercing through the air and finding its way into my face, immediately sending the top row of my teeth into my throat and puncturing a hole in the back of my head, missing my brain but severing my spine.
While the back of my head began to be an extraction valve for my circulating blood, I laid on my back staring at the sky, thinking to myself, "Was it worth it?"
And that was just ONE round. An appreciation for this game cannot be underestimated, and, unfortunately, can never be revealed by the typical CoD mainstream.