David Benioff - City of Thieves

“No, I had that Fritz under control.”

“You did not, he had that gun—”

“The day some Bavarian goose-stepper beats me in a fight—”

The argument kept going, veering from an analysis of the chess game and my supposed mistakes to the likely guests at the colonel’s daughter’s wedding to the fate of the four girls we met at the farmhouse. The conversation kept me awake, kept my mind off my numb feet and my legs stiff as stilts beneath me. The sky brightened, shade by imperceptible shade, and we stumbled upon a paved road where the snow was tamped down and the walking was easier. Before the sun had risen to the east, we saw the outer ring of Piter’s fortifications: the trenches like dark gashes in the snow; the cement block dragon’s teeth; the thickets of rusted railroad irons sprouting from the cold ground; kilometer after kilometer of barbed wire wrapped around wood posts.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Kolya. “I want a slice of this fucking wedding cake. What we’ve gone through, it’s only fair.”

A moment later he said, “What are they doing?” and a moment after that I heard the gunshot. Kolya grabbed my coat and shoved me to the ground. Bullets twanged overhead. “They’re shooting at us,” he said, answering his own question. “Hey! Hey! We’re Russian! We’re Russian, don’t shoot!” More bullets ripped through the air above us. “We’re Russians, damn your mothers, listen to me! Do you hear my voice! Do you hear me! We have papers from Colonel Grechko! Colonel Grechko! Do you hear?”

The rifles went quiet, but we stayed on our bellies, our arms over our heads. Behind the fortifications we could hear an officer shouting to his men. Kolya lifted his head and peered toward the trenches, several hundred meters to the north.

“Haven’t they heard of warning shots?”

“Maybe those were warning shots.”

“No, they were aiming for our heads. They don’t know how to shoot, that’s all. Bunch of slobs from the Works, I bet. Probably got their rifles a week ago.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. “Hey! Can you hear me? You want to save your bullets for Fritz?”

“Put your hands in the air and walk slowly toward us!” came the hollered reply.

“You’re not going to shoot us if we stand up?”

“Not if we like the looks of you.”

“Your mother likes the looks of me,” Kolya muttered. “You ready, little lion?”

As we stood, Kolya grimaced and stumbled, nearly falling. I grabbed his arm to steady him. Frowning, he brushed the snow off the front of his greatcoat before twisting to examine his lower back. We both saw the bullet hole punched through the thick wool at hip height.

“Throw down your weapons!” the officer shouted from the distant trench. Kolya tossed aside his MP40.

I’m shot!” he yelled back. He unbuttoned his coat and studied the hole in the seat of his pants. “Do you believe this? Those cunts shot me in the ass.”

“Walk toward us with your hands in the air!”

“You shot me in the ass, you fucking idiot! I can’t walk anywhere!”

I had my hand on Kolya’s arm, helping him stay upright; he couldn’t put any weight on his right leg.

“You should sit,” I told him.

“I can’t sit. How am I going to sit, I have a bullet in my ass! Do you believe this?”

“Can you kneel? I don’t think you should be on your feet.”

“You know how much shit I’m going to get from my battalion? Shot in the ass by fucking amateurs straight off the assembly line?”

I helped as he lowered himself to the ground. He winced when his right knee hit the snow, jarring his leg. The officers in the trench must have held an impromptu conference. A new voice called to us now, an older voice with more authority.

“Stay where you are! We’re coming to you!”

Kolya grunted. “Stay where you are, he tells us. Yes, I think I’ll do that, now that I’ve got one of your fucking rifle bullets in my ass.”

“Maybe it went straight through. That’s better, isn’t it, if it went straight through?”

“You want to pull down my pants and check?” he asked, giving me a pained grin.

“Should I do something? What do I do?”

“Pressure, they say. Don’t worry, I’ll do it.” He untied the drawstring of his down hat, took it off, and pressed it against the bullet hole. He had to close his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. When he opened them again, he seemed to remember something; with his free hand he reached under his sweater and pulled out the straw-stuffed box of eggs.

“Put it under your coat,” he ordered. “We don’t want them freezing. And don’t drop them, please.”

A few minutes later we saw a GAZ rolling toward us, an armored model with thick-nubbed snow tires and a heavy machine gun mounted in the back. The gunner kept the wide-mouthed muzzle aimed at our heads as the car braked beside us.

A sergeant and a lieutenant hopped out and walked over to us, their hands on the butts of their holstered pistols. The sergeant paused beside the discarded MP40 lying in the snow. He considered the submachine gun for a moment before looking at Kolya.

“Our snipers saw the German gun. They did the right thing.”

“Snipers, is that what you call them? Are they trained to shoot men in the ass?”

“Why do you have a German gun?”

“He’s bleeding, he needs help,” I told them. “Can’t you ask these questions later?”

The lieutenant glanced at me, his flat, bored face devoid of all emotion save mild hostility. His head was shaved and he wore no hat, as if he didn’t notice the cold wind gusting around us.

“You’re a civilian? You’re giving me orders? I could execute you right now for violating curfew and exiting the city limits without a permit.”

“Please. Comrade Officer. We stay out here much longer, he’ll bleed to death.”

Kolya dug into his pocket, pulled out the colonel’s letter, and offered it to the officers. The lieutenant read it, disdainful at first but stiffening when he saw whose signature was on the bottom of the page.

“You should have said something,” he muttered. He waved his hand for the driver and the gunner to come help.

“I should have— I was screaming the colonel’s name while you shot at us!”

“My men did the right thing. You were advancing with enemy hardware, we had no advance warning—”

“Kolya,” I said, my hand on his shoulder. He looked up at me, his mouth already open, ready to verbally fillet the lieutenant. For once in his life he understood that it was time to shut up. He smiled, rolling his eyes a little, but then he saw the troubled expression cross my face. He followed my gaze down to where the blood was seeping into the snow, his pants leg drenched. The stained snow looked like the cherry ices my father used to buy me at summer fairs.

“Don’t worry,” Kolya said, staring at the blood. “That’s not so much, don’t worry.”

The driver grabbed him under the armpits, the gunner held him under his knees, and they carried him to the backseat of the still-idling GAZ. I crouched in the space between the driver’s seat and the backseat while Kolya lay on his stomach, his greatcoat draped over him for warmth. We drove toward the trenches, Kolya closing his eyes each time the car jolted over a bump in the road. I had taken the blood-soaked cap from him and I pressed it against the bullet wound, trying to maintain enough pressure to slow the bleeding without hurting him.

He smiled, his eyes closed. “I’d rather Vika was the one with her hand on my ass.”

“Does it hurt very much?”

“Have you ever been shot in the ass?”

“No.”

“Well the answer is yes, it hurts. I’m just happy they didn’t hit the other side. Please, Lieutenant,” Kolya said loudly, “will you thank your snipers for not shooting my balls off?”