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

A bullet ricocheted off a brick lying just below the bell, splitting it into bits and dust. Danilov fell to the floor of the trench as if scalded. Tania and Zaitsev stooped quickly.

The commissar stared into Zaitsev’s eyes. “What was that? Who the hell’s shooting?”

“Stay low,” Zaitsev replied.

He snagged his backpack and scrambled with it to the right. He pulled out his periscope and hoisted the mirror and lens above the top of the trench. Surveying the field quickly, he saw nothing of note against the rumpled white slope but the two dead machine gun positions.

He lowered the periscope. Just a German sniper who got caught napping, he thought. We woke him up with the broadcast and artillery and now he wants to get in on the show a little late. He figured he’d wait for someone to retrieve the loudspeaker. Clever move. I would’ve done the same. But I wouldn’t have fired at a hand. I would’ve waited for a head.

Zaitsev decided to let the Nazi sniper have his fun. Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow with Tania and take care of him. Maybe not. He’s probably not worth it.

He looked up at Pyotr. Take him down, he thought, give the cotton boy a rest. Put him back up tomorrow and drill this snotty little sniper.

Zaitsev scooted over to Pyotr. He reached to pull the dummy down by the arm; suddenly, the cloth head snapped back. Pyotr’s helmet rang out and jerked, flying off to fall backward. It hung there, caught by the chin strap wrapped around the neck.

Zaitsev leaped away. He looked at Tania and Danilov, and the faraway sound of a rifle report skittered down the hillside. Their eyes were fixed on Pyotr’s head.

Zaitsev looked up at the dummy’s face. In the center of the once featureless visage was a hole. Stuffing peeked out to give Pyotr a ragged nose.

Zaitsev hoisted his periscope again. This sniper must be in my killing zone, he thought. He must be. There’s no other alley from which to see Pyotr’s head.

Before he could focus the periscope, another bullet ripped into the cloth face. The round clanged into the helmet strung behind the neck. Pyotr shivered but stood firm against the pipe.

Zaitsev was rocked. This bullet had struck within moments of the last, perhaps as fast as four seconds! The report of the rifle skipped by, faint and distant.

Another shot slammed into the helmet, fanning Zaitsev’s amazement. It followed the bullet before at an incredible clip. Maybe three seconds, three and a half. Pyotr’s head joggled back again as if in surprise himself.

Zaitsev flung his shoulder against the trench wall, lifting his periscope. He scanned the target zone furiously. The periscope had a range of 350 meters. This sniper must be inside 250 meters to have that kind of accuracy and speed, he thought. But the sounds of the reports were eroded, as if they’d rolled down from far up the hill.

Even if the enemy sniper was close, this quality of shooting was hard to explain. So fast to be so murderously accurate. Maybe it was a team of snipers taking turns with their shots.

Another bullet shook Pyotr. This one passed through the neck and cut the leather strap when it banged into the helmet. The helmet clattered to the floor of the trench, spilling the four spent slugs onto the trench floor. Zaitsev saw nothing. No muzzle blaze indicated a sniper’s position; no bobbing head or cigarette smoke, no movement against the icy backdrop betrayed any of the hill’s white secrets.

Shit, thought Zaitsev. Where is he? He’s got to be close. I must’ve missed him, looked right past him. Them.

This is ridiculous, he thought. He lunged to the pipe buttressing the dummy and yanked it down. Pyotr fell and tumbled across his lap. The wisps of stuffing protruding from the holes made a skewed pair of eyes, a nose, and a small, marveling mouth.

Zaitsev picked up the fallen helmet. He took from its bottom the four smashed bullets and hefted them in his hand.

Tania scooted over to him. She shook his outstretched leg.

“Let’s go, Vasha,” she said. “Somebody is crazy out there.”

Zaitsev did not move or take his eyes off the shells. Deep inside him, he caught a glimpse, just a flash, of the two gray eyes of fear glowing in the shadows. The eyes crouched; the fear snarled once.

He closed his fist over the spent bullets. Tania jerked again on his leg.

“Vasha, let’s go. We’re in somebody’s crosshairs. Somebody who’s very damn good.”

Zaitsev looked up at that. He licked his lips. His mouth had gone dry.

NIKKI ARRIVED IN THE ANTEROOM TO OSTARHILD’S OFFICES at dawn. The colonel walked out lazily just after nine o’clock. “There’s no hurry,” he told Nikki. “The sun doesn’t shift to our backs until well after noon. Have some Dutch coffee.”

He led the colonel first to the spotter’s hill, 102.8. From there they could view the entire battlefield: the factories to the north, downtown to the south and the river islands.

All morning Nikki carried the colonel’s rifle and pack, which was stuffed with food. He didn’t mind; Thorvald shared his stores liberally, proclaiming he wouldn’t be in Stalingrad long enough to eat half of what he’d brought.

After they’d roamed for an hour up and down a trench network below the crest of Mamayev Kurgan, Thorvald stopped and gazed down the slope. Nikki pulled up beside him. A Russian loudspeaker on the hillside far below them had cranked up, prattling in an irritating, tinny treble. The narrator’s German was so riddled with accent that the words were almost unrecognizable.

“Can you make out what he’s saying?” the colonel asked.

“Barely.” Nikki grimaced.

“Oooo.” Thorvald shook his head. “That’s bad German.”

The speaker seemed unaware of his shortcoming. He shouted with conviction into his microphone. The awful metallic noise slicing up and down the hill would likely induce a headache long before the words could inflame any Germanic passion.

Nikki had begun to appreciate Colonel Thorvald. The man possessed a sense of humor, a lost thing in Stalingrad. He was clean, with no lice on him yet. He was generous with the cheeses and breads he’d brought from Berlin. Nikki liked his talkativeness, his confidence. He had not insisted that Nikki bring along his rifle. Though Nikki had yet to see him shoot, he suspected that Thorvald was what he said he was: the best.

Nikki hunched in the trench next to the colonel, admiring the man’s white parka and pants. The outfit seemed to suck down into the snow on the trench floor. He must be nearly invisible from a distance, Nikki thought. He looked down at his own gray-green coat and filthy gray pantaloons.

Nikki had listened to the Russian agitators before, at least once a week during the heavy house-to-house fighting of September and October. He and his mates had laughed at the lectures then. In those days, the German army had been powerful, secure in its belief that the Reds stood no chance of holding the city. They’re just squeaking like mice in a trap, the boys all had said.

Now everything was different. Now the message was not to be laughed at. The best he could do was ignore it even while the words drilled into his ears from the amplifier below.

The German soldier has been lied to, the loudspeaker blared. Russia is peaceful; come over to us and eat well. Consider the terrible harvest in your homeland this year, consider the hunger of your children and parents. Nikki tried to tune out the words, to hear only the scratchy warble and buzz of the shouting voice.

“He should turn it down,” Thorvald snickered. “It’s up way too loud.”

Nikki closed his eyes. This is old news, this is miserable propaganda. The colonel wants to wait here and listen to this shit, fine, let him, so he can go back to Berlin and cackle about it there with his students and opera friends.