Chapter Text
“The Pumpkin Twins”
by Locutus2366
edited by Todger65, 'Morgan The Magnificent', BreezyJoy
(Story Code: M28g10g10, blowjob, consensual, twins, orphans, mild wartime violence)
Synopsis: An American, Wilson, is a lowly private serving in the Ukrainian army. Separated from his squad during a dangerous night recon mission, he takes shelter in an abandoned farmhouse. There in the cellar beneath their destroyed home, he finds two orphaned little girls. The twins join him on a journey into an unknown, and possibly dangerous future.
Part 1 – Not Again
“No!” Wilson complained. “I just had a rotation at the 'Burn Pits'! Just ask Major Chornovil, it was last week at the main encampment.”
Smiling with mild amusement, Lieutenant Starkovich speaks loudly, but clearly, “That was then, but this is now, soldier.”
Wilson cringes. “No, you don't have to translate that, Senior Sergeant Danko. I've heard that one before. Aaah, let me guess. That was there, and this is here! Or some bullshit close to that, right...”
Sergeant Danko is the one and only shitty English translator in their unit. Chuckling softly, “Yes, Private Smith. You are most correct. Many of the other members of your squad are busy with other important tasks. It falls to you to complete this vital mission.”
Wilson looks over at the other members of his squad and smiles as they wave back at him. One of them, his buddy Ivas, even blows him a kiss. “Okay, Sergeant... Get to the rat killing! What does the good lieutenant want?” he asks pensively, glancing to the side in the direction of the lieutenant.
Wilson Smith, a twenty-eight-year-old from Nashville, Tennessee, stands quietly as the junior officer tries to persuade him of the importance of some upcoming mission. Wilson knows the drill. He spent four fun-filled years in the US Marines. He even received a meritorious promotion to 'Captain' for his efforts in the final evacuation or thoughtless tragedy of Afghanistan. Two weeks after his promotion, Wilson resigned his commission.
But here, as a volunteer in the Ukrainian army, he's only a private. It would be pretty hard to command men when you can't speak the language. He's here to help these people repel a foreign invader who doesn't care a thing about civilian casualties. The more dead civilians, the more free land will be available when they win the war. Well, not on Wilson's watch. He lost both his parents when the war broke out. They were visiting family in a little village near the eastern border when the Russians basically wiped it off the map. Men, women, and children were butchered by the hundreds, including those closest to him.
Every confirmed kill means another Russian family will have to grieve the loss of a loved one. Just as he has in this senseless war. Maybe one day they will wake up to the horrors their leader has inflicted on a peaceful neighboring country. But that won't likely be the case. It all goes back to money and power. The normal, everyday people in Russia think about the same things we all think about and desire. A home, a decent job, and the ability to take care of their family.
It really doesn't matter to Wilson; he's here to help, and help he will until he feels like he's done enough. He waits for the lieutenant to lay out his mission plan to the sergeant. They take a few minutes to talk it out before the sergeant looks back at Wilson. He almost laughs when he passes on the lieutenant's request.
He says, “It's either a night recon patrol or the fire pits. Both are equally important, but he will let you decide which you prefer.”
Wilson isn't a bit surprised by this request. The good lieutenant loves to play this game with him. This is the lieutenant's way of asking nicely. He knows that Wilson is the best he's got at night recon missions. He usually saves this nonsense for the times he's got an important request from headquarters... something he needs done right.
Wilson smiles at the lieutenant and the sergeant. “I'll take the burn pits this time. Which ones do I start with?” he asks nonchalantly.
The lieutenant gives him a curt nod and a few more terse instructions for the sergeant to relay to Wilson. Turning on his heels, he heads back towards the command tent.
The sergeant smiles at the retreating form of the lieutenant and says, “He wants you to leave around 0100 hours. The other three squad members will meet you at our eastern observation post.” he chuckles. “He said the burn pits could wait for another day. This mission is better suited to your abilities.”
Wilson laughs at the sergeant. “I thought I had a choice.”
Laughing out loud, “You did, but the Lieutenant decided you made the wrong choice. He needs you to find out what's in front of us. The enemy has been too quiet, and that has the leadership concerned. He needs to know whether are retreating as they appear or secretly building up. He wants you in charge of this recon patrol. The others who volunteered, too, can speak some broken English, so you should be okay.”
Wilson ponders if he should ask the next question. “Okay, so how many of the other volunteers outrank me?”
The sergeant continues to smile at Wilson. “As part of the regular Ukrainian army, they all outrank you. But tonight you will be a temporary sergeant under my command.”
Chuckling without mirth, “So does this mean I get a raise in pay for the next 24 hours?”
Sergeant Danko brings his hand up to his chin and scratches the itchy stubble. “Yeah, I guess so. I will raise your base pay from zero to zero plus zero. Will that be adequate?”
Wilson grins back at the cagey old veteran soldier. “That will be more than adequate, Sergeant Danko...” he says, coming to attention and snapping off a crisp salute for the sergeant.
The sergeant's smile brightens. Spreading from ear to ear, he returns Wilson's salute, “Dismissed, Acting Sergeant Smith.”
Wilson plants one foot behind him and does a perfect military about-face, and strolls off towards his squad's tent. Once inside, he hurries over to his cot and pulls out his equipment locker from beneath his bed. He opens the lid and begins to lay out his combat gear. Helmet, Kevlar vest, night vision goggles, first aid kit, three assorted MRE's, an assortment of his favorite snacks, compass, matches, flashlight, rain gear, backpack, shovel, ax, tarp, e-blanket, water purification filter, a small American flag, and his four high-capacity ammo magazines. The rest he will have to go to the armory to get.
He throws his ammo mags in his utility bag and heads over to the armory for his weapons and ammunition. The armorer has already been alerted to his upcoming recon mission. He hands Wilson his M4A1 rifle with a 'silencer', (4) M67 frag grenades, (2) M18 smoke grenades, (2) flash bang grenades, and (165) rounds of 5.56 mm rifle ammunition. For his backup weapon, he's given a MK26 9mm pistol with one stacked magazine and 12 rounds. Putting everything carefully in his utility bag, he goes over to a nearby table to double-check that everything is safe to handle but combat-ready. He loads his four extended-capacity mags and his one standard-issue mag.
Wilson picks up each item, giving it one more quick inspection, and places it with care into his utility bag. When he finishes, he sees a small identification tag hanging from the handle of his bag. He missed it before, so he bends down and picks up the tag. The tag has been marked with four chevrons stacked on top of each other.
He smiles at the playful jab from his squad-mates. They've obviously heard that Wilson has been given command of the recon patrol tonight. Even though that is all quite temporary, they are enjoying giving him a subtle hard time. All in good fun. Turning, he stands to wave goodbye to the armorer.
He's standing at attention and saluting Wilson. In broken, heavily accented English, he mumbles, “Good luck, Sergeant,” and smiles broadly.
Using his limited Ukrainian vocabulary, Wilson says. “Me, thank you help.” and returns his salute.
He's not sure he likes this new attention, but he can't worry about that now. He needs to prep his gear and check his weapons. Even though he received his weapons from a qualified armorer, it is his responsibility to clean and service his weapons to ensure they are combat-ready.
Wilson strides across the camp until he enters his squad's tent. Near the back, under a bright work light, is the table used for weapon servicing. It has all the tools, lubricants, and cleaning solvents that are needed to keep their weapons in good working order. Placing his utility bag on his bed. He takes his rifle and semiautomatic pistol to the table for cleaning. It takes him a little over an hour to clean and reassemble both weapons.
Finished, he returns to his cot and starts to organize and pack his gear for tonight's recon patrol. A recon patrol of four people is a bit on the light side, but there are just not enough soldiers to defend their position and support the other units scattered along their offensive front. Their combined forces are continuing to push the Russians back towards their western border. The turning point came when the United States started to provide advanced aircraft and heavy armor... i.e., tanks.
The Russians have been retreating ever since. Hopefully, this war will end soon, and the needless destruction of a peaceful neighbor will be over. But until then, the Russian scourge continues to do what it does best: burn and pillage the countryside.
It takes him another hour or so to get everything just right. His backpack and Kevlar vest are ready, as are his weapons. With all the i's dotted and t's crossed, he is ready for something to eat and then some rest.
He walks over to the mess tent and finds a few of his squad already there, eating. The menu tonight is way better than usual. The always-present pot of steaming hot Borscht and bread is there 24/7. But in addition, they have made a Chicken Kyiv, with lumpy mashed potatoes and peas, along with a lovely layered apple cake. Of course, these dishes all have Ukrainian names, but Wilson has trouble remembering simple words. Learning the even more complicated words for food dishes is beyond him. All he knows is that this is one of the better and rarer nights of decent food.
Walking into the massive tent, everyone in the entire 'Mess' has heard of his temporary upgrade to acting sergeant. As he turns with his tray of food, they all enjoy saluting him as he goes by. Smiling at them all, he nods his head this way and that, acknowledging as many as he can. It's all good-natured fun. The constant stress of day-in and day-out threats to life needs a little laughter mixed in, once in a while.
He finally makes it to his assigned table, where all his supposed friends stand up and give him a salute as well. Laughing at his discomfort, they tell him, “Good luck... Don't get lost... Stay safe... “ and a few others he doesn't know the meaning of. At long last, he sits down, and everyone returns to their food and the normal conversations about wanting to be home with their families.
Wilson eats quickly, and before anyone can start in on him again, he ducks out a side door with his tray in hand. He strides around to the cook's door and drops off his empty tray. Back in his tent, he lays everything beneath his cot. Flopping down on the canvas surface, he's ready to get a few winks. To help him mellow out, he puts in his Bluetooth earphones and starts to listen to some music. The noise will muffle out the comings and goings of his squad-mates. His alarm will wake him at midnight.
The music slowly relaxes him until he drifts off to sleep. Wilson gets about four hours of sleep before the alarm wakes him up. The lights have been turned down low, and everyone not on guard duty is in their cots, either asleep or trying. He makes his way out of the tent to the latrine. It takes him a couple of minutes to finish his business and return to the tent.
He donned his night mission fatigues and combat boots. Then, with the care of a trained soldier, he puts on his lightweight body armor and the rest of his gear. All except the backpack and his rifle. Wilson looks around at his resting squad-mates and hopes to see them sometime tomorrow, but if he doesn't, he wishes them well.
Shouldering his backpack, he carries his rifle outside the tent and heads towards the eastern checkpoint. It's about a 500-meter walk up a small hill to the lookout post. He stops about 50 meters short of this guarded position. Keying his communication unit, he requests permission to proceed.
The sergeant in charge answers quickly, “Permission granted... acting Sergeant Smith.”
“Shit, I wonder if everyone in the world is going to tease me about that stupid promotion?” he thinks to himself as he starts to walk the rest of the way up the hill.
At the top is a fenced perimeter and an observation tower erected behind a big oak tree. The tree helps to camouflage the tower.
Sergeant Danko walks up and salutes him like all the rest. Then he extends his hand for Wilson to shake. Then he says, “Sorry, I couldn't help myself. The others aren't here yet.”
Wilson points at the tower and asks, “Is it okay to go have a look around?”
Danko is all business now and answers curtly. “Yes. They are expecting you.” He chuckles quietly, but doesn't refer to him as a sergeant.
Wilson, all business too, climbs up the aluminum ladder to the top and into the small tarp-covered observation enclosure. There are four active observers watching the surrounding countryside. Their night-vision scopes are constantly scanning the terrain to the east of their position.
No one acknowledges his presence except the two relief observers and one sentry. One hour on, a half-hour rest. They smile at him but leave him to his business. Fun and games are over now. He's here to take a good look around and plan out his initial recon route. In total, this little hill and tower are about 250 meters above the surrounding landscape.
Without a word, Wilson selects a pair of night-vision binoculars and starts to look at the best routes to move in an easterly direction away from their current position. There are several possible routes to choose from. Including several small waterways and three different tree lines that lead in the right direction. He decides on the tree line on the far right because it extends well into the distance. It tracks in a southeasterly direction, but he can always adjust as he gets further away from their compound. Recon patrols are not very black-and-white. They're intended to gather information beyond the line of sight. Without satellite capabilities, the Ukrainian forces have to go old-school. Which means nice long walks in the countryside, hoping you see the enemy before they see you. He talks with the extra observer on sentry duty and tells him they will be going through the wire in about fifteen minutes.
Returning the binoculars to their storage location, Wilson moves to the ladder and descends to find the rest of his patrol-mates waiting for him. He knows each of them well. Igor, Georgiy, and Yuri, all corporals, are about the only other Ukrainians, besides the Senior Sergeant Danko, who can understand him reasonably well.
They all come to attention, snap off a crisp salute, and then a quick smile of acceptance. He returns their smile and salutes them back. Then they hand him his backpack and rifle. Wilson quickly shoulders his backpack and accepts his rifle from Igor. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, he walks up to each of the veteran soldiers. They're standing in a loose line, ready for him to check their gear.
Moving along the line, he quickly inspects their equipment. They are all like him, a savoy veteran. Each has their equipment at the ready. Finished, he stands in front of them. They go over the communication call signs and hand signals they will use during their patrol.
Then Wilson, standing in front of them, asks. “Okay, does anyone have any questions?”
Hearing no response, he continues, “Right then,” he pauses, pointing over his shoulder at the tower. “I've decided to use the concealment of a tree line that works its way to the southeast of our position. The trees will provide good cover for about four thousand meters before we will need to stop for a quick reconnoiter. Single file through the perimeter, and then standard diamond formation from there. Any questions?” he asks for a final time.
Hearing none, they move up to the enclosure gate and the two sentries standing guard. Wilson, keying his communication unit, requests permission from the 'Command' to carry out his orders.
Lieutenant Starkovich answers a moment later, “Proceed on mission, Sergeant Smith, and good luck.”
Wilson smiles at the words he's heard before, but not when he was in command. They have a different ring and meaning now. He's responsible for these men and the outcome of their assigned mission.
His answer is short and to the point. “Will do, sir.”
With that, the sentries open the outer gate and signal Perimeter Control to deactivate grid 1. The sentry nearest the opening reminds Wilson and the others, “Remember the grid patterns for each zone. Only the zone you're in will be deactivated, so be careful and watch for the infrared markers,” he warns. He calls into the com unit, “Is Zone 1 down, over?”
A few seconds later, his communication unit confirms, “Perimeter Control. Zone 1 is down. Send the patrol out.”
The sentry replies, “Roger... out!” as he turns to look up at Wilson. “Alright! Good luck.”
With that, Wilson and the others move through the gate in a single file. Wilson, in the lead, moves straight ahead approximately 50 meters when he sees the first infrared marker.
The hillside, leaving the observation post is littered with small shrubs and a few trees. The ground is covered in the typical lush green overgrown grass mixed with a variety of weeds. The fall weather has been cool, but nothing winter-like yet. It takes Wilson and the other three about thirty minutes to work their way out of the perimeter defenses. Those defenses are a deadly mix of various types of anti-personnel mines and other apparatuses specifically designed to stop both ground troops and light armor.
After they've exited the defenses, Wilson pivots and, using an infrared light signal, they are clear. The observers can see them beyond the defenses, but protocols are protocols. His com unit chirps for the final time. He and others switch to their field channel. Still in a single file, Wilson leads them towards the tree line and the route he has chosen.
Wilson finds a lightly used game trail that runs just inside the overhanging canopy. The trees are well into their colorful autumn change, and the path is already covered in fallen leaves. Other than game tracks from what appear to be deer and possibly a fox, there are no other signs of usage. This is exactly what Wilson wants to see as they move along at a comfortable pace.
The small patrol is soon out of sight of the observation tower and starting to move into the area where they need to be more diligent and careful as they proceed. They have no way of knowing when they might encounter the enemy or other defensive measures set up by the retreating Russians. Wilson motions for them to stop and brings them in close to discuss his plan for a quick reconnoiter of the area. Igor and Georgiy both have small surveillance drones. He has them pull out their gear and, from beneath the cover of the trees, make a sweep from the north to the northeast and another from the northeast to the east of their position.
They stay hidden for the next half hour while Igor and Georgiy use the drones to sweep the area. Other than a few abandoned and destroyed farm buildings, there is nothing of interest. The tree line has now joined a small meandering creek going in roughly the direction they want to go. They need to continue forward until they can safely observe the territory to the east and south of their current position.
Wilson changes their line of advance from a single file to a diamond pattern. There are two men on either side of the tree line. One inboard towards the fallow fields, and the other towards the stream bed and the overgrown fields on the other side of the stream. Both banks of the stream bed are often lined with small thickets of underbrush and small trees. These provide excellent cover as they move forward.
They continue their guarded advance for approximately another ten klicks when Wilson, moving through a dense thicket of brush, stops. Less than a hundred meters upstream is an enemy patrol. Eight heavily armed troops on either side of the stream are moving toward them.
The rest of his squad is unable to see him, so he keys his communication unit and, in a commanding voice, says, “Halt. Cover.”
Almost soundless, his men move quickly to take cover behind trees or on the ground. But there are simply too many to fight, and they are too close to their positions to pull back. Without a thought for his own safety, he keys his communication unit again. “Fall back when I commence firing. Regroup and get recon to the south and east of our position. Up-link data to command and return to base. That's an order.”
Wilson hears three subtle clicks on the communication unit. His squad members might not be happy with his order, but they understand why he's doing this. Complete the mission and return as many soldiers as possible to base. He gives his family one final passing thought and looks around for some way to survive this firefight. Then he sees what he's looking for... A single point where he can strafe both columns without exposing himself to their fire.
Dropping to the ground, he crawls down the grassy embankment and hops over the small stream of water. He flops behind the small cluster of rocks he'll use for cover. Wilson will probably only have time to empty a couple of magazines before he needs to toss a couple of grenades among the survivors and make a run for it. The stream is his best bet, and going upstream away from his men may work in all the confusion. The logical path is usually to go downstream, but they might not check upstream until he has time to make his getaway.
In the time it has taken him to get ready, the two columns are almost abreast of him. Clicking his M4A1 to semi-auto, he smiles at the stupidity of the single-file columns this patrol leader has chosen. He's about to lose most of his men in an ambush.
Wilson takes aim at the rearmost soldier in the left-hand column. With a muffled thunk, the soldier drops to the side. The next in line follows the first and crumbles in a heap. Then all hell breaks out. Several of the soldiers from the other column have noticed their comrades falling. Without pause, Wilson flips to full auto and strafes the remaining six soldiers in the left-hand column. Ejecting his partial mag, he slams in another. Bringing his rifle to bear on the right-hand column, he drops the hammer on that group as well. Death has come among them with a quiet suddenness.
As soon as his attack starts, it stops. His parting gift to his Russian friends is two M67 grenades, one for each column. As soon as the sound of the exploding grenades fades away, Wilson takes to the water on a dead run. He is already through the remainder of their formation before they have time to take note of his passage. He continues to leave the sound of chaos behind him as he drives his body onward at a dead sprint. About 400 meters further up the stream bed, he finds a small tributary coming in from the right. It's a good-sized, overgrown irrigation ditch.
Wilson decides this is as good a place as anywhere to go, so into the ditch he goes. Crouching over, he moves along the bottom of the slow-moving, water-filled ditch. He's not leaving any tracks, but the silt he is stirring up will give away his position just as well. He needs to find a better place to hide and let the silt settle back down to the bottom. He pops up every once in a while to take a look around. The noise from behind him has faded into the distance. But it won't be long before they are searching high and low for the assassin who just ambushed sixteen of their number.
His men will be long gone before they head in that direction. The Russians won't go very far westward, fearing another attack from a larger Ukrainian force. Another klick along the irrigation ditch, and he spots a burned-out farmhouse and outbuildings. The place has been attacked or bombed. The original, old-world, two-story rock home still has three partial side walls standing. But the roof has collapsed along with the second floor. There's nothing but a charred mound of debris on the main floor. The outbuildings have fared even worse. There is not much left of the walls or roof. Everything is now piled on top of the farm machinery stored inside. All in all, this farm won't be habitable any time soon. Everything is overgrown with weeds and brambles. From its general appearance, no one has lived here in a very long time.
There's not much cover in the ruined farmhouse. The roof and 2nd floor rubble are nothing but a pile of destruction. There is nowhere to get completely out of sight. Just a convenient place to get cornered and end up dead.
Wilson continues to slowly move up the irrigation ditch until he can see the east side of the house. Then he sees it, a small, irregular hole that could lead into the cellar beneath the old stone farmhouse. It's just big enough for him to crawl through. He glances to his left and sees a small bridge across the ditch. Not really a bridge, but a couple of thick wooden planks laid across the dirt banks. Right beside the bridge is a low, hanging, smallish tree. Like a willow, the branches are dragging the ground. This will be a good place to come out of the water and still be out of sight.
He has just slithered out under the small tree when he hears a muffled curse in Russian. Looking back towards the irrigation ditch and the way he came, there are six armed soldiers. One of them has slipped on the muddy bank and has slid into the water. Cursing, he struggles to climb back out, while the others laugh at his clumsiness.
Wilson gulps audibly. This isn't good. He's screwed whether or not he stays under the tree or gets back into the ditch. His only chance is the hole leading into the cellar. They are laughing at their comrade and not looking his way.
As quietly as possible, he breaks cover and rushes toward the small opening into the dilapidated farmhouse. Diving headfirst, he curls up into a ball and rolls as he hits the floor. He's made some noise, but not much. He quickly surveys the destruction in the cellar. Not as bad as the upper part of the house, but there is still plenty of broken household stuff littering the floor. Moving to his left, he gets behind a couple of shelving units that have toppled over.
Listening closely, he hears the Russian troops getting closer to the house and to the hole. Still laughing at their friend, one of them spots the opening. He calls out to his buddies, and they all gather around the opening in a loose semicircle. The one that fell into the irrigation ditch gets down on his hands and knees to take a quick gander into the cellar. They are still giving him a load of shit for falling in. Their coarse laughter continues behind him when he finally calls out, “Net!” and then pauses, “Nikto...”
He backs away from the opening when I hear someone else say, “Granata!”
Wilson has heard that word before. They're about to toss an insurance grenade into the cellar to make sure nothing is coming out of there alive... present or not. Moving quickly, he heads towards a partial, heavy brick wall near the back of the cellar. He storms around the corner and skids to a stop. There in front of him are two dirty little girls. The one nearest to him has a small kitchen paring knife raised to protect them.
He only has time to mumble the Ukrainian word for 'friend' before he hears the metallic thud of a grenade hitting the floor behind him. His mind quickly assesses the threat. He laughs, “At least it's an old F1 and not one of those damn RGD-5's.” Already moving, he throws himself over the girls when the darkness takes him.