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

The gun was mounted behind a high revetment of sandbags in the center of a twenty-meter-long trench. At one end of the trench, to the gunner’s left, was a bunker entrance blocked by a blanket. The bunker was covered in debris to disguise it.

Shaikin had guided them here in under two hours, on a straight line through sector five, passing two Russian machine gun positions with sector five passwords. They’d entered this corner of sector six through a long, empty trench under the silence and limited visibility of the night and the snow, moving with near invisibility. Shaikin scurried in the lead, followed by Kulikov, Danilov, then Zaitsev. Tania brought up the rear, the place for the second in command. Zaitsev allowed her the proper prerogative. Sector six was hers.

In a crater twenty-five meters from the gunner, Danilov lay on his back catching his wind with deep breaths, his own hand over his mouth. His greatcoat was wet with snow, his shiny black boots were checked, and the knees of his pants were soaked through.

Zaitsev ducked at the lip of the crater, Shaikin at his shoulder. Zaitsev whispered something, then handed his submachine gun over. He slid out under the fine lace of hissing snowfall.

Tania moved beside Shaikin and watched. Kulikov crept up, too. Danilov rolled over and tried to crawl beside Tania, but there was no room and she shoved him back.

Lying on his back, the commissar tugged at her foot. Tania slid down and brought her greased face close.

“Comrade,” she whispered, “while he is gone, I’m in command. You will stay low, understand?”

She did not wait for a reply but turned and resumed her spot next to Shaikin.

In the dark, Tania saw the outline of the Nazi soldier’s head behind the gun, under the umbrella, but no more detail. She’d lost sight of Zaitsev slipping into the enemy trench. She could only imagine the Hare’s movements along the wet floor of the trench, waiting, holding his breath, feeling ahead for debris that might creak or snap to give him away. In her mind she waited with him, held her own breath, flexed her fingers as his must have to dig through the cold dirt and mounting snow. She widened her eyes to increase her night vision with his. She came up behind the guard with Zaitsev, saw the soldier standing behind the machine gun, one leg up perhaps to ease his back; they waited for the man to yawn or stretch or rub his eyes. Then they sprang, slapped their left hand over the guard’s mouth and slashed the blade held in the right fist down and across the neck, cutting the windpipe, deflating the lungs, keeping the left hand clamped over the gasping mouth, then thrusting the knife through the ribs into the heart or the aorta. They leaned the body against the trench, putting a piece of wood or a pipe under the chin to keep the head up. They righted the umbrella, settling it back into the snow, still wondering what color it was in the murky night.

A snowball landed in front of the crater with a quiet thump. Tania nodded to Shaikin. He rose out of the crater, not crawling but walking quickly, bent over. Tania followed. Behind her, Kulikov helped Danilov to his feet and over the crater rim.

Tania slid into the enemy trench behind Shaikin. Zaitsev met them. The Hare took back his submachine gun from Shaikin. Tania saw the blood darkness glistening on his hands, staining his sleeves. Kulikov and Danilov arrived and Zaitsev wagged his finger to send Kulikov and Shaikin to the far end of the trench to check for more sentries. Zaitsev squatted on his haunches on the trench floor, Tania next to him. Danilov sat in the snow.

Shaikin and Kulikov returned. Tania stood next to Zaitsev. She was glad for the cover granted by the dark and snow, but she knew that whatever kept the hares from sight could also hide the enemy.

At Zaitsev’s signal, the group moved. They passed the standing dead sentry under the umbrella and moved to the end of the trench, to the blanket in the doorway.

Suddenly, Danilov elbowed his way past Zaitsev to stand in front before the hanging blanket. In his hand was a pistol. He pushed the blanket aside and stepped into the bunker.

Zaitsev ducked in quickly beside Danilov. His machine gun was leveled and ready. Shaikin, Tania, and Kulikov followed.

Inside the bunker, a lantern dangled from a rafter. The lamp’s light was low, yellowing the still air and the earthen walls. On pegs beside the doorway were hung several submachine guns. Under the guns were helmets and flashlights.

Along the walls were three rows of berths, stacked four to a wall. Uniforms showing the stripes and bars of officers were folded and tucked on shelves. Snoring, easy breathing, and a sleepy mumble greeted the Russians while they formed a firing line.

Tania braced the stock of her submachine gun against her waist. Her barrel was level with the guns of Zaitsev, Kulikov, and Shaikin. The Russian PPSh submachine gun had a rate of fire of nine hundred rounds per minute. She ground her teeth and planted her feet firmly in the dirt.

Danilov raised himself at the shoulders and spoke. “For the ruthless murders of children and mothers, you Nazi predators are sentenced to death.”

Danilov lifted his pistol and fired into the berths. The report filled the bunker. Tania breathed the smoke of the powder. Heads and bodies in the berths sprang up, their voices buried in the hanging bang of the pistol. Before the others could react, Tania squeezed her trigger.

The submachine gun leaped in her hands. The barrel jerked above the berths to spit bullets up the bunks into the ceiling. Tania let go of the trigger to bring the barrel level again.

In that lapse, Zaitsev’s gun roared, joined by Kulikov’s and Shaikin’s. Tania gripped hard and fired again. Danilov stepped back and the four gunners, side by side, blew a gale of lead into the berths.

Tania swept the gun across the bunks, shattering them, ripping everything in front of her, wood, mattresses, flesh, dirt. She could not tell where her bullets struck, mingling them with the pounding rounds spewed by the men at her sides. The bodies in the berths, still shrouded in the shredding blankets, rocked against the walls and spasmed on the beds. The jarring seconds passed and the room filled with noise like a bottle filling with water, the air shoved out and replaced with clattering explosions, smoke, and splinters.

Zaitsev reached out and pushed Tania’s weapon down. She released the trigger. The others had stopped shooting. The room was thick with an acrid haze. Tania’s hearing was blunted by the screams of the submachine guns in the small room. Her head throbbed; the only sound was a heartbeat coming strong in her temples.

The five stood still. Then Kulikov raised the blanket to let the oily cloud roil into the trench.

In the bunker, the lantern’s dim glow strained to reach through the smoke. The berths were shot to pieces. The white innards of the splintered wood showed in a thousand holes. The dirt walls glimmered as if splashed with fresh wet tar. The lantern’s small flame reflected off the walls in wet red dots. An uncountable number of shell casings littered the floor, mixed with shards of wood and tufts of bloodied mattress cotton.

In the raw aftermath, the blasts only now fading in her head, Tania’s nerves jangled. A movement to her left made her jump. Kulikov stumbled out the doorway. Zaitsev was behind him, pushing. A hand grabbed her wrist. Shaikin turned her out past the blanket. Danilov was already in the trench.

Zaitsev spoke to her face; she could not hear him through the ringing in her ears. Shaikin, still holding her arm, began to run, pulling her along until she sped on her own. She followed Shaikin to the end of the trench. At the wall, he jumped up and flopped onto his belly to scramble to his knees. She handed up her submachine gun, feeling the heat of the barrel. She climbed out after Shaikin, then ran behind him through the white falling curtain against the backdrop of night. Her world was silent; the guns had stuffed her ears. She ran in the midst of the hares with the portly Danilov, knowing the Germans could be screaming at her, bullets flying by her, and she would not hear the rifles nor even see the bullets biting the ground around her. She ran, thrilled at escaping death by dashing through it.