“Mother Anarchy Loves her Sons“ but you’re attacking another Bolshevik detachment

You firmly grip your sling, stepping forward towards the battery of artillery before you. The snow beneath your boots is icy and thick. The first shots go off, ringing your ears as the reds in the distance are caught off guard. You charge forward, seeking cover as you raise your rifle. Your sights lock on a Bolshevik who stands before you. Your finger tightly squeezes the trigger as you justify your own actions, finding solace in nothing but the simple idea of a liberated class. As always, suggestions and criticisms are welcomed with open arms.