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

“Go only where I go,” he said. “Move only how I move.”

Nikki bent at the waist and knees. His rifle hung in his hand almost to the ground. He stretched his neck like a tortoise and lifted his head. In this position, which was torturous but made a man as small a target as he could be when running, Nikki moved clear of cover and into the open street.

He ran in bursts, shadowing the contours of the buildings and rubble. His nine charges mimicked his every step. They ducked and waited one at a time behind the debris he chose. They lay panting for breath in the craters and ditches where he had lain. Nikki picked each position with care, knowing that every step he took had to be taken nine more times. He never allowed himself to be without cover for more than ten meters. In that space, a sniper would have to be extraordinarily good or lucky to line him up and hit. If he ran into the sights of a Red machine gun, he might still have time to dive for the ground and scramble behind something, anything. His biggest concern was his nerves; he knew that if he made a mistake, it might kill not him but perhaps the fifth or last soldier behind him.

Twice, rifle shots rang out. Nikki froze. The shots did not find his men and were not followed by more action. They were just the random convulsions of combat in Stalingrad, as if too much silence broke some unwritten rule. He caught his breath, then pressed on.

Nikki had the objective in sight for a long time. The three gargantuan factories stood in a line, their backs against the river—the Tractor Works, the Barricades, and the Red October. Around them for a kilometer in all directions lay open battleground plowed by bombs, the broken machinery of war scattered over it like coal shoveled across a floor. At fifteen hundred meters from the middle factory, the Barricades, Nikki sprinted across the remains of a wide boulevard and tumbled into an abandoned trench. He waved to his men to gather beside him and wait for the rest of the company.

After the grueling three-hour, six-kilometer traverse through the city, Nikki’s reward was nine sweaty faces, their eyes rolling as if to say, Corporal, don’t make us do that ever again.

The Barricades, like the other two factories, had been gutted and dismantled by battle to where it had fallen in on itself. A row of broken smokestacks rose above the giant heaps of steel. From this distance, the factory looked deserted. Nikki knew it was not.

To his left were the ghostly shambles of several stone buildings. The corner structure was the largest. Its top was missing, crumpled at its feet like a skirt that had been dropped. That building will make an excellent strong point, Nikki thought. We can occupy several floors and control the approaches from all sides.

The squad waited in the trench for the rest of the company to arrive. Nikki wondered about Lieutenant Hofstetter’s body.

Where is it now, six hours after being alive for its last moments? Is it being readied to fly home, boxed in pine for a military funeral with flags and honors like we’ve all been promised? Or has it been dumped into an unmarked grave in the Russian sod with a hundred other corpses? Did his arms and legs fly akimbo when he landed atop the other dead, to stay that way into eternity, sliding down the pile, going to Judgment upside down?

I don’t want to die like Hofstetter, a bullet in the brain fired from half a kilometer away blasting out the back of my head. He was just drinking from a canteen, he wasn’t even fighting; he didn’t get the chance to die thrashing or screaming to give his life some sort of send-off, a final moment of note. Drinking out of a canteen: he didn’t know he was marked with the crosshairs of a sniper, a damned killer who crawled away with no blood on his hands.

I don’t want to die like that, branded with an invisible black cross like one of war’s ten million cattle. It isn’t a proper death for a soldier; it’s just an ending. It’s even a bit stupid, a silly, facedown, ripped-open, awful ending.

I don’t want to be buried in Russia, Nikki thought. I want to go home.

In ten minutes the first soldier from the second patrol appeared in the ruins to the rear. Nikki’s men beckoned him into their trench. For two hours, the afternoon sun lowered its gaze and the rest of the company assembled. Captain Mercker arrived at dusk with the last group of ten. There had been no encounters with the enemy. The Russians must be withdrawing, Nikki guessed, to concentrate in the factories and ready themselves for the coming German hammer blow.

Mercker held a quick meeting with his lieutenant and five sergeants and corporals.

“We’re going to take this big building on the corner, gentlemen. I want the men to move in their ten-man squads. Corporal,” Mercker said, locking on Nikki, “you go in first again. You seem to be good at it.”

Nikki nodded. A hell of a thing to be good at, he thought.

“Send word when the building is secure. If we hear action, we’ll come running.”

“Yes, sir.” Nikki collected his squad.

Nikki led the way for his men, ducking and weaving. Bursting in the front door, his squad moved quickly down a long, dark corridor with machine guns poised and grenades ready. They scraped their backs against the walls before erupting into rooms. Every nerve was raw while they scoured the shadows for any sign of Russians. Nikki shouldered the last door. It opened into a large assembly hall, perhaps a ballroom. He sent a private to tell Mercker to come ahead. He suggested the large room at the end of the hall as the place where the unit should gather and spread out to fortify the building.

Once all eighty men were assembled, the captain ran down assignments. Spotters, large-caliber machine guns, and mortars would go to the top floor. Antitank gunners were sent to the middle floors to shoot down onto Russian tanks. For street-level defense, light machine guns and the rest of the men would be on the ground floor. Mess and communications were in the big hall.

Nikki stood beside the door to the hallway. At Mercker’s signal, every man in the unit was to dash to his assigned position. Nikki prepared to fling the door open, plant his feet, and aim his machine gun down the hall to protect the men scurrying up the steps.

“Ready?” asked the captain. “Go.”

Nikki flung open the door.

A grenade sailed past his face. On the other side of the hall a door slammed shut.

Nikki screamed, “Down!”

He flung himself to the floor. The grenade rolled into the crowd and exploded ten meters from where he lay. The blast was muffled. Nikki brought his head up from his arms to see the jerking body of a soldier who’d leaped onto the grenade.

Men recoiled from the door. Every weapon they could handle was pointed forward while they backpedaled. Chambers clattered as rounds were slammed into firing position. Eighty fingers poised on triggers as the boom of the detonation faded. Near the door, alone, the body of the dead heroic soldier lay smoking.

“Russians!” a voice shouted. “Goddammed Russians are across the hall!”

“How’d they get in there?” Mercker was furious. “Damn it, how? I thought we checked this floor!”

The captain stabbed his finger at six men; Nikki was the sixth. Mercker waved them beside the door, then made a fist, his battle signal for them to stand guard.

Nikki rushed forward with the other men. He sat quickly and hoisted his machine gun stock to his cheek. He aimed at the doorknob of the door across the hall. If it moves, he thought, I’m blowing it off its hinges. Another soldier slid along the wall and slammed their door shut.

The captain ordered two heavy machine guns set up and aimed at the doorway in case the Russians mounted a charge. Guards were placed at the three windows into the room. The Reds might try crawling around the side of the building to toss in satchel charges. Secure for the moment, the captain stepped to the center of the room.