David Robbins - War of the Rats - A Novel of Stalingrad

The door in the plane’s midsection opened. A duffel bag was tossed out. A man jumped down behind it and landed heavily. He picked up the bag and walked through the slashing snowfall.

The plane’s motors spit and the propellers whirled to life. The figure approached. He wore a long, black woolen coat without insignia. His hat was ebony felt, broad-brimmed and stiff, new. A brown muffler crossed his face below his nose. The hat’s brim guarded his eyes.

To the rising sound of the engines, the man handed his bag to Nikki, then strode past him to the waiting staff car.

Through the bulk of the stranger’s coat, Nikki gauged him to be rather round, no taller than himself. This is the supersniper from Berlin, he thought. I expected to meet a titan, a rock-jawed veteran with eyes of blue granite. Oh, well, that was my own romance. This seems to be a soft man hurrying past me to get into the car and out of the cold. He must be very, very good.

Nikki started the car and steered off the runway. He did not slide the heater knob out, deciding to let the engine warm up before bringing in the air.

“Where’s the heat?” the man asked through his scarf. “You could have let the car idle while you waited. It could have been warm when I got in.”

“Yes, sir. I apologize.” Nikki looked in the mirror. “Your plane was delayed, sir. I didn’t want to waste fuel.”

Nikki pulled out the knob to let cool air flow into the cab. The two rode in silence along the dirt road leading to Ostarhild’s headquarters. Nikki stole glances in the mirror at the stranger. Only after the cabin had warmed did the man uncoil the scarf and push up the brim of his hat.

He smiled, catching Nikki’s eyes on him in the mirror. “What’s your name, Corporal?”

“Nikolas Mond, sir. From Westphalia.”

“Ah, yes.” The man nodded and looked out the fogged window at the gripping snow. “I’ve hunted there many times. Geese mainly, but wonderful ducks, too.”

The man seemed to want conversation. The blue-gray eyes in the mirror waited for a reply.

“My family has a farm there,” Nikki said. “Every harvest, we throw corn on the open fields. The ducks practically fly into the house and land on the supper table.”

“Yes.” The man laughed. “I love the taste of stupid ducks better than the smart ones.”

He took off his hat and gloves and laid them across his lap. His hair was cut short, light brown like the winter-dead steppe whisking by the car windows. His skin, cream pale, was stretched taut over pads of fat about the neck and ears that softened the angles of his face. Nikki noted the smallness of his ears, nose, and mouth, and how his eyes dominated his face as if they were two blue ponds and the rest simply gathered there to drink. When he blinked, it was slow and deliberate, but his head moved quickly, in staccato bursts. It made Nikki remember barn owls on the farm.

Nikki guided the staff car onto the paved road. A swastika fluttered on the front left fender to mark the passenger as important. Nikki drove slowly, guiding the car through droves of soldiers on foot. The men appeared to be ambling aimlessly, huddled against the snow. Some were wrapped in blankets. Many had stuffed newspaper under their helmets and inside their coats, evoking the image of scarecrows.

A horse-drawn cart stopped in front of Nikki. He brought the staff car to a halt. The soldiers on either side would not give way. Nikki did not want to blow the horn at the shuffling men, but he had to get through.

“It’s all right, Corporal,” the man in the backseat said. “Wait a moment.”

Nikki looked at the load in the rear of the cart. Piled high against the rails were bodies, stiffened, clutching at nothing. Their heads were bent at violent angles. Bare feet protruded from the tangled mass of gray-green uniforms; boots and socks had been reclaimed by the cold hands of the living. A delicate shroud of snow nestled and built in the crevices of their crooked elbows and bent legs, unmelting white filling in eye sockets and open mouths.

An officer spotted the staff car waiting behind the cart. He ordered the men walking along the shoulder to make way. The officer waved Nikki around the cart. Nikki saluted the officer and turned onto the shoulder. The officer did not take notice.

In the mirror, the man’s great eyes were closed, his eyelids like drawn curtains. He said, “You know who I am?”

“Yes, sir,” Nikki replied. “You’re SS Colonel Heinz Thorvald from Berlin.”

The colonel opened his eyes. “From Gnössen, actually. I’ve been there for the past year teaching. Berlin is close, though. I go in for the theater every so often. Do you like the opera, Corporal? They have it in Westphalia, I know. I’ve been there.”

“No, sir. There’s never time on the farm.”

The eyes closed again. “No, I don’t suppose there is. The British bombed the State Opera House in Berlin. The Führer had it rebuilt. They’re opening it at the end of this month. Wagner’s Die Meistersinger. I want to be home for that.”

Nikki concentrated on the road. Now that it had cleared, he stepped on the gas, speeding his passenger, the most dangerous longdistance killer in the entire German army, the supersniper Heinz Thorvald, to Lieutenant Ostarhild’s offices.

OSTARHILD WALKED INTO THE SNOW TO GREET THORVALD. He came to attention and saluted. Nikki opened the rear door of the car. The colonel returned the salute and followed the young officer into the office. Nikki came with the colonel’s bag.

Ostarhild poured the colonel a cup of coffee and offered a seat beside a coal brazier. Nikki hadn’t seen the stove or the coal before. The lieutenant had scrounged them up for Thorvald’s visit.

The two officers exchanged pleasantries about Berlin and Stuttgart, Ostarhild’s home. The pheasant hunting around Stuttgart, it seemed, was wonderful.

The lieutenant warmed Thorvald’s coffee. He used the break in the conversation to shift to the colonel’s assignment.

Ostarhild took from the top of his desk a collection of articles with translations attached by paper clips. The articles were from In Our Country’s Defense. That morning, Ostarhild had let Nikki read them. The lieutenant handed them now to the Berlin master sniper.

“Colonel, these were written by a Red Army commissar. They directly concern your target, Chief Master Sergeant Vasily Zaitsev. It seems a simple hunter from Siberia has become quite a hero for the Russians.”

Thorvald looked into his coffee.

“And quite a problem for you, yes?”

Ostarhild folded his hands. “More so than even these clippings tell. Zaitsev, nicknamed ‘the Hare,’ has become the head of a sort of impromptu Russian sniper school. In the past two weeks, more and more names have appeared in these articles, all students of his. You’ll see them marked in the translations. Medvedev. Chekov. Shaikin. Chernova. The commissar believes some of the pupils rival their teacher in audacity, but none has surpassed him in skill. The Hare has taught three dozen snipers to work directly along the front lines. With their average range of three hundred to four hundred meters, they’re doing no small amount of damage deep behind our lines. We’re losing men to these snipers, yes, but worse, we’re losing morale at a fearsome rate.”

Thorvald looked up. “Three to four hundred meters. That’s not so good for an expert sniper.”

Ostarhild shook his head. “According to these articles, Zaitsev’s is five hundred to five fifty.”

“Mine,” Thorvald said quietly, “is better.”

Ostarhild waited for the colonel to finish his coffee and slide the cup to the corner of the desk.

“Colonel Thorvald, I have orders to assist you in any way I can. I’ve made provisions to quarter you here at my office. There is a room here that you may make your own until you complete your assignment. I’ve also arranged for one of our snipers to be your guide. Beyond this, what else can I do for you?”