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

Slipping through the patches of lifting hands, Nikki heard the whispers. “Get him,” they pleaded, “get that Red son of a bitch.”

“Look at him, boys. He knows what he’s doing.”

“He was sent here by the generals.”

“A sniper fighter. He’ll get the bastards.”

“They haven’t forgotten us, lads.”

That’s why Thorvald was brought here, Nikki realized. The generals saw this, the erosion of hope among the men while the Russians built a stinking hero for themselves out of the Siberian Hare.

Nikki made an oath. We’ll get Zaitsev.

He anointed his promise with the misery of these men. He pledged to remember forever the dried rivulets of blood hidden beneath the seven blankets in the street, and in the trench the sickening waft of cologne.

NIKKI FOUND THORVALD BESIDE THE CORPSES. THE Silent nurse, no longer his guide, walked off without a glance.

Nikki told the colonel what he had discovered. He described the layout of the positions in the trench: a dozen men and one machine gun per unit, one unit each behind the five rail cars, with fifty meters between units. The men had heard rattling sounds in the rubble. When any of them had looked up, he’d been struck down instantly by a bullet.

Thorvald listened and nodded.

When Nikki finished, the colonel said, “The cans are on strings. The snipers are pulling them.”

He spoke as if he had devised the scheme himself. Even though Nikki had figured it out, too, Thorvald possessed a peculiar, poised manner of pronouncing facts, which Nikki found reassuring.

“The first bullet was fired at unit two,” Nikki said, looking at the covered bodies to drive his memory. “The second was at unit five. The last three shots were at three, one, and then four. The Reds are skipping around and waiting.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I think we should go down there in the trench and set up between two and three. That’s where I think they’ll hit next. When we hear the can rattle, we raise a fake helmet or something, draw him out and shoot him.”

Thorvald nodded. “Simple. Direct.”

Nikki waited.

The colonel exhaled. “Suicide. Remember, there’s more than one Red sniper operating here. While I’m aiming at the one who shoots at the helmet, the other one has spotted me. No, we stay out of the trench.”

Nikki was dismayed. He wanted to kill the Red sniper while surrounded by the haggard men, to show them how a German soldier can fight back. He envisioned himself and his colonel kindling a spark for them, giving the poor chaps something to cheer for.

Thorvald was going to propose some scheme in which they did their work anonymously; they would be deadly but unseen. The men in the trench wouldn’t know. They would not clap Nikki and each other on the back, would not be watching firsthand when Nikki and Thorvald picked the lock of their cage.

Thorvald had promised Nikki his say. Now he’d had it.

“Follow me,” the colonel said.

He walked away from his rifle, left leaning against the building. Nikki retrieved it, struggling to allay the aggravation in his gut at Thorvald’s brusqueness.

“I found this position while you were in the trench,” the colonel said over his shoulder. “If the Russians are at ground level, we need to be above them.”

He led Nikki to the rear of the building’s skeletal facade. They stepped over a window casing and skittered through trash and concrete. They climbed a metal staircase that had survived the bombings. At the top of the stairs, they made their way along the lip of what had been the third floor of the building. Ten meters in, the floor was gone, collapsed into the carnage below to leave a forty-meter-wide gaping hole. Nikki felt as if he were creeping along the rim of a volcano.

Moving carefully, Thorvald guided Nikki to a set of scorched window frames. Nikki approached one of the openings and looked down. Below was the rail yard, the five German positions behind the rail mound, and the ruined cars on top. Thorvald had brought him to a position twenty meters to the right of unit two.

Nikki estimated a distance of 350 meters beyond the unit and surveyed it with his binoculars. The Red snipers must be there, hidden in the wreckage, crawling in the trenches or snuggled into a crater. Or perhaps they’re gone. The light was dusking now. What amount of killing satisfies the Reds in a day?

Thorvald sat below the window sill. He propped his rifle up and looked into the violet sky.

“The sun’s behind us,” he said. He raised his chin, pointing to the right of unit two. “You watch there. I’ll stay to the left. The moment you see anything, I want to know.”

He’s going to sit up here and wait, Nikki thought. He’s not even going to let me warn the men in the trench. I could tell them to stay down, don’t look up, we’ll get the snipers. I can tell them to put a helmet on a stick, stay down.

He’s using the men in the trench for bait!

Nikki laid the binoculars on the floor. “Colonel?”

“Yes?”

“Let me go down to the trench. I can draw the snipers’ fire. You can get them.”

Thorvald shook his head. “No. I need you here.”

“Then let me warn the men. They’re scared to death.”

Thorvald’s face went taut. “You’ll stay right here, Corporal. Pick up your binoculars. That’s the best way to help.”

“Colonel, those men—”

“Damn it, pick up those glasses.” Thorvald pointed at the binoculars beside Nikki. “I don’t care about those men! Will you understand that? We are not here to save them or accept their thanks. We have an assignment, Corporal! Find Zaitsev. Kill him. Then go home.”

Thorvald’s eyes narrowed. He paused and leaned forward. Nikki saw him weaving his head just perceptibly, like a snake tasting the air. “I will kill Zaitsev. You’ll help me, or someone else will.” Thorvald turned away.

Nikki looked down on the men in unit two. We’re playing God up here, he thought. One of those soldiers is a dead man. I know it. I’m making it happen by watching. I can stop it. But I won’t.

I’m not a hero for those soldiers. They can’t have heroes anymore. Heroes are men, and men can’t save them now. Hitler can’t, Stalin can’t, I can’t—they can’t even do it themselves. Zaitsev is a hero, and he’s going to die. I’m not theirs. I am mine, and I want to go home.

Thorvald owns me. And Zaitsev owns me. They have a destiny, those two. And I’m sandwiched between them.

Thorvald stretched. “No, it’s too dark now. They won’t try it again. Go down and get us some food from the nurse.”

Nikki rose without looking at Thorvald.

“Nikki.” The colonel faced him. His eyes were softer. “You wanted each of us to do what he’s best at. That was how we were going to get him. We agreed.” The colonel drew his knees up against the cold. “That’s what we’re doing. This is what I’m best at. I’m the killer, and you’re my guide and guardian. Don’t break up the team. We’ll get him and we’ll go home together.”

Nikki nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Before he could turn, Thorvald added, “We’ll spend the night up here. The snipers will try again at dawn, I’m sure of it.”

Nikki knew he could thwart Thorvald’s plan. He could give a word to the nurse or slip into the trench after dark to warn the men to stay down, no matter what sounds they heard in the rubble. But he knew he wouldn’t.

“And Corporal,” Thorvald called after him, “bring back those seven blankets.”

DAWN RUMBLED AROUND THEM. NIKKI’S WAKING EARS caught the grumble of tank treads grinding concrete into dust and the rattle of weapons carried in a thousand arms. Orders were screamed above the din. Radios crackled.