War of The Rats - A Novel of Stalingrad - [World War II 01]

by David Robbins

  “Get him.” Zaitsev clamped his teeth.

  The rifle lashed out. Through the periscope, Zaitsev saw the German’s head snap back, his hands flying wildly into the air. The body slumped down from its upward jerk. Two black dots leaped up beside it, the tops of more German helmets. When the soldier next to them burst, the frightened men under those helmets jumped. Then they dove below the level of the railroad mound that was their sanctuary like startled turtles dipping beneath the surface of a lake.

  Zaitsev lowered the periscope to look at Baugderis. The dark-skinned farmer from Tbilisi dropped the string and shrugged. Kulikov chuckled.

  “I can’t believe it,” Kulikov said when Baugderis crawled up behind him. “How stupid can they be? What’s that, Zviad?” He turned to Baugderis. “The seventh one?”

  Baugderis shrugged again. “Seventh. Eighth.”

  Kulikov was excited. “Let’s move over to number five. We haven’t hit them in a few hours. They’ve forgotten us by now.”

  He looked at Zaitsev. “Want another one, Vasha?”

  Zaitsev shook his head. He’d arrived when the sun was high and the shadows hid nothing. The hunting had been good. He’d bagged two Germans quickly, then spotted for Kulikov and Baugderis.

  “No, Nikolay Petrovich. I’m going to check on Shaikin.”

  He turned to crawl away. Kulikov grabbed his sleeve.

  “Vasha, why are you making the rounds? Sector six this morning, here now, Shaikin next? This isn’t how you hunt.”

  Zaitsev raised his eyebrows.

  Kulikov let go of the sleeve. “I’ve seen you sit in one place for three days with the same bullet in your chamber.”

  Zaitsev shouldered his rifle. He blinked at his friend.

  Kulikov pressed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” Zaitsev scowled. “Do your job, Nikolay. I’ll do mine.”

  Kulikov’s voice came over Zaitsev’s shoulder while he scurried behind the girder. “Go back to your bunker, Vasha. Take a rest. The Germans won’t make a move without you, I promise.”

  * * * *

  ZAITSEV PUSHED THE BLANKET ASIDE FROM THE DOORWAY. Inside the dark bunker, the air was stale with lantern fumes. He pulled the blanket down from its nails to let cold, fresh air roll in. The last glow of dusk trickled in. He laid his pack and rifle in his corner and sat just inside the doorway, near the cleanest air and the best light, to look through his sniper journal.

  Seven kills today, he thought. One machine gunner with Tania this morning in sector six, two more in sector two with Kulikov and Baugderis, and four with Shaikin and Morozov in an unplanned ambush in sector five on the slope of Mamayev Kurgan. All of a sudden, Morozov had perked up from his periscope. “Look! A whole unit! They’re running, right over there. What do we do?”

  Two of the Germans were dropped before Morozov could grab his rifle and join in.

  That’s one hundred and sixty-two kills total. That’s good, Zaitsev thought. More than any other sniper, more than Viktor, almost more than any two of the hares combined.

  I’m exhausted. Seven kills in three sectors. Kulikov was right. It’s risky, stupid, selfish. Why did I do that? The four with Shaikin and Morozov in the late afternoon were just good luck, the right place at the right time. The sector-two kills with Kulikov took patience but involved very little risk. We moved often, we were smart, Kulikov and Baugderis were well prepared. They almost seemed to be enjoying themselves. The machine gunner with Tania this morning, that was tougher. I didn’t even see the first one, Tania did. She got him. I hit the second. That could have been bad. My own fault. Too impatient, didn’t look the area over closely enough before I went to fetch Danilov. Too damned impatient around Chernova. How does she stay alive? And the enemy sniper. Somebody damn good, Tania said. Unlikely. Must have been two of them trading shots at the dummy. Too fast for one man, three or four seconds between rounds, beyond three hundred fifty meters. Dead center on Pyotr’s head, a face in the cloth. Two men, must have been.

  Zaitsev breathed deeply. The fumes in the bunker had cleared out. Night settled into its nest over Stalingrad. He moved to his corner in the dark, on the cold dirt floor. The evening chill pecked about his legs.

  The sound of boots hurried around the corner.

  “Vasha!” Viktor stepped into the doorway, a huge silhouette. “Vasha, are you in here?”

  “I’m here.”

  Viktor stepped into the bunker. “What are you doing here in the dark? Why is the lantern out?”

  Zaitsev sat still, knowing that Viktor could not see him. “I suppose because you didn’t refill the lantern this morning when you came back.” Fatigue tarnished Zaitsev’s voice.

  The Bear peeled off his backpack and dropped it on the floor. “Fuck your mother. I’ve been looking for you all day.”

  “Why?”

  Viktor reached into his pocket for matches.

  Zaitsev sat up. “Viktor?”

  The Bear moved to the lantern. He raised the windshield and struck the match. The wick did not drink the flame.

  “Viktor, I just told you. It’s out of fuel.”

  Medvedev struck another match and held it up, illuminating his big, frowning face.

  “I’ve been following you since before noon,” he said. “Why can’t you stay in one place? Sector six, sector two, sector five . . .”

  Zaitsev pulled his arms over his chest and crossed his legs. He looked up at the Bear, still irked with him.

  Medvedev dropped the match. He spoke in the darkness. Zaitsev heard a huge smile on his friend’s lips.

  “You won the Order of Lenin, Vasha.”

  Zaitsev uncrossed his arms.

  “This morning, right after I got back in, they came looking for you. A bunch of commissars. Vidikov was with them.”

  Vidikov. The vice chief of political intelligence. Viktor is serious. I won the Order of Lenin.

  “I’ve been two steps behind you all day. Chuikov wants to see you.”

  “Now?”

  Viktor lit another match. He reached down with his free hand and pulled the Hare to his feet with ease. Zaitsev felt Viktor’s power and excitement.

  The Bear laughed. “Excuse me, but I didn’t question Vidikov for an appointment on your behalf.”

  He gathered up Zaitsev’s rifle and pack, shoved them into Zaitsev’s hands, then pushed him toward the uncovered door, propelling him into the night.

  “Go, my hero. You son of a bitch.”

  Zaitsev quickened his steps to a rising thrill. Viktor’s voice bellowed through the dark over his shoulder.

  “Go and get it for all of us. You son of a bitch! Hurry!”

  * * * *

  ZAITSEV’S PATH TO CHUIKOV’S BUNKER LED HIM ALONGSIDE the Volga. The river was a two-thousand-meter-wide ribbon of unbroken darkness. No boats risked the crossing, fearful of the jagged ice floes swarming under its surface. No planes rent the night sky, no red and green flares burst and sailed down. It was all brooding, waiting, punctuated only by the grinding of the ice giants in the river.

  Running, Zaitsev realized that he knew very little about the man he was going to see, the defender of Stalingrad, the commander of the Sixty-second Army, General Vasily Ivanovich Chuikov.

  He knew the city had become a pyre for the Germans under this commander. But what else was a proven fact about Chuikov? The man had never run beside Zaitsev through the blistered nights and spitting bullets, hadn’t dived for cover under the metal heaps in the factories or helped him stanch the spraying blood of a comrade’s wound. Chuikov was just a name. A man who made decisions from his bunker with his staff around him, with women running his radios, with food and a cook and plenty of good soldiers between him and the Nazis. Zaitsev pondered how he would soon feel in the presence of General Chuikov.

  He arrived at the command bunker and informed a guard that he was expected by the general. The guard, a burly private, escorted him into the bunker, then stood behind Zaitsev while they waited in a doorway.
A tall, slender man in the next room looked up from a sheaf of papers and approached, peeling off a glove. He thrust a warm and dewy hand out to Zaitsev.

  “Chief Master Sergeant Zaitsev. I am Colonel Vadim Vidikov. Come in. Come in.”

  Vidikov led Zaitsev past a table covered with radio equipment. Two men plugged and unplugged wires, never saying a word. There were no maps in the bunker. Zaitsev guessed it was because the Red Army controlled too little of Stalingrad to worry anymore about charting it.

  “General Chuikov has been waiting for you all day, Comrade Zaitsev,” Vidikov said. “He admires you greatly.”

  Vidikov pushed open another heavy wooden door. Inside, lit by three candles and a lantern, sat a short, thick-necked man. His nose and lips were heavy, almost swollen, under a shock of wavy black hair. Dark stubble took his chin into the fur collar of his officer’s coat.

  “Chief Master Sergeant Zaitsev,” Vidikov said, closing the door behind him.

  The stocky man stood at once, his hands left hanging at his sides. He appraised Zaitsev up and down.

  “You are a very important man.”

  Zaitsev was surprised. The man who had just stood at the table had not said these words.

  He turned quickly to the shadowed corner. The voice had come from there.

  Out of the dimness walked a man shorter than Zaitsev, rounder almost than Danilov. The top of his head was bald; the hair on the sides was shaved close, white as the driest snow. His eyes were the blue of a clear, frostbitten sky. He held out a hand, puffy and soft. Zaitsev knew such a hand could belong only to a commissar.

  “My name is Deputy Nikita Khrushchev. I am Comrade Stalin’s political adviser in Stalingrad. I wanted to meet you personally, Comrade Zaitsev.” Khrushchev pointed to the man standing beside the desk. “This is, of course, General Chuikov, your commander.”

  Zaitsev looked at the three men. The power in this room was not of his sort. He felt uncomfortable when Chuikov approached him.

  “We are very proud of you,” the general said, “all of us. You have done Russia a great service.”

  Zaitsev muttered, “Thank you, general.”

  Khrushchev floated forward. The size of his shoulders and belly, the white of his skin and hair, made him seem as cold and large in the bunker as an iceberg.

  The deputy spoke. “You are a member of the Komsomol, yes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. By tying up the arms and legs of the Germans here in Stalingrad, do you realize what we Communists have done?”

  Zaitsev shook his head.

  “The Party has taken upon its shoulders the weight of the world, not just that of the Soviet Union. The world is relying on our toughness and battle skill to keep the enemy here, to destroy them here. You see only the horrible details of the fighting. But believe me, the effects of what is transpiring in these streets and houses are worldwide. The Americans, the British, even the lowly French spill their coffee every morning when they read in their newspapers that we are still here.”

  Khrushchev’s girth jiggled at his own humor. Behind him, Vidikov laughed at the back of the deputy’s bald head, at the icy white crystals of his rim of hair.

  “The world press is calling it ‘Fortress Stalingrad.’ And that is what it is. That is what we have made it. I can tell you, Comrade Stalin knows your name. Because of men like you, he avoids shifting troops south. He does not have to weaken the defenses of Leningrad and Moscow to reinforce Stalingrad.”

  Chuikov, motionless while Khrushchev spoke, sensed his turn in the ceremony. He picked a small medal from his desk, a round bronze medallion that hung from a red ribbon. On the emblem’s face was the familiar goateed visage of V. I. Lenin, in profile, staring slightly upward against the backdrop of a five-pointed star.

  The medal lay in Chuikov’s palm.

  “Comrade Zaitsev, there is so vast a land beyond the Volga. Can you tell me how we will look into the eyes of our people there if we do not stop the Germans here? You know the motto of the Sixty-second Army?”

  “Yes, sir. ‘Not a step back.’ “

  “Do you believe it?”

  Zaitsev looked at his general, taken aback by the question. How can he ask me that? he thought. These fucking Communists, always asking you if you’re brave, if you can cut it, if you’ll die for the Party defending the rodina.

  Why are they asking me this, to test my resolve? The Nazis don’t test it enough for them every day? Do I have to come in here to this safe bunker dug into the side of a cliff behind a shield of Red soldiers and have it tested again? I’m a fighter, a hunter for the Red Army, for their fucking Party. I’ve proven myself. What have they proven? Just give them what they want and get out of this bunker.

  Zaitsev turned to Khrushchev. In a full voice, he said, “For us, there is no land beyond the Volga.”

  Khrushchev nodded. His gaze, though fixed on Zaitsev, was inward. He spoke to himself.

  “There is no land beyond the Volga,” he repeated quietly, rolling the phrase on his tongue. “Yes. Yes.” The stout little deputy addressed Chuikov. “Give him the medal, General. The Sixty-second Army has a new motto. Vidikov, print that. Tell the men the noble hero Zaitsev said it. That we are all bound by it. For us, there is no land beyond the Volga.”

  Khrushchev clapped Zaitsev on the back, turning to leave. “That’s the way, young Komsomol member,” he said with a laugh. “That was very good.” Then Khrushchev nodded at Chuikov, said, “General,” and quickly was gone, with Vidikov following in his wake.

  Chuikov handed Zaitsev the medal. “Vasily Gregorievich Zaitsev, I award you the Order of Lenin for your efforts in founding the sniper movement in the Sixty-second Army, and for your courage in battle.”

  The general patted Zaitsev on the arm. He smiled and looked around the room. “Looks like it’s just the two of us. Oh, well. We’ll get ourselves a parade in Moscow sometime, eh?”

  Zaitsev looked at the medal. The bronze was thick, with some weight to it. It’s odd holding this, he thought. I have one of my country’s highest honors in my hand, but I’d rather he hand me more ammunition for my hares. The copper in this medal might’ve made three bullet jackets.

  Chuikov stepped back. Zaitsev looked up and met his gaze.

  “I wouldn’t pin that on, Vasha,” the general said. “Not for a while. Keep it in your bag. It’ll stay clean that way.”

  Zaitsev slid the medal into his coat pocket. He smiled at Chuikov. At least he lives on this side of the Volga like a soldier, Zaitsev thought. Not like that fat white rat Khrushchev. I’ve never seen that one over here, never even heard of him before. He’s probably trapped by the freezing river on this side with the rest of us; he’s handing out medals to pass the time.

  “May I go, sir?” Zaitsev fingered the medal in his pocket. He’d show it to Viktor that night, and maybe Tania. But no one else. Of course, Danilov will insist on seeing it and writing about it. Damn, he thought. I’m a hero. Hero. Why did the word sound so repulsive in the mouth of Khrushchev? He made me feel like a show pony. Vasily Zaitsev, the hero trotter.

  Chuikov pulled out both chairs to his table and motioned Zaitsev to sit. Zaitsev moved his hand toward the door, beseeching quietly, again, to be allowed to leave.

  “Not just yet, Vasha. Someone else wants a word with you.”

  Zaitsev sat. Chuikov reached under his desk for three stubby glasses and a bottle of cognac.

  Through the doorway stepped Colonel Nikolai Filipovich Batyuk, commander of the 284th Division. Zaitsev jumped to his feet. This, he thought, is my leader. Batyuk, the tall, skinny Ukrainian with the famous circulatory problem, the colonel who sometimes can’t walk for the pain in his legs and has to ride on the back of one of his aides. Old Fireproof Batyuk. I’ve heard of him stepping out of a smoking bunker beating out sparks on his tunic, shouting orders like a mad fishwife.

  Zaitsev saluted. “Colonel. Sir.”

  Batyuk returned the salute.

  The two stepped forward
and shook hands.

  “Congratulations, Sergeant. General Chuikov approved your Order of Lenin with me. You deserve it.”

  Zaitsev had no answer. If they say so, he said to himself. It’s in my pocket, anyway.

  Chuikov poured three glasses of cognac.

  “Na zdrovya.” Chuikov hoisted his glass. He faced both men one at a time and threw back the liquor. Batyuk and Zaitsev wished Chuikov his health in return and drank. It had been months since Zaitsev had tasted any alcohol other than vodka.

  This has been quite a day, Zaitsev thought, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. The medal in my pocket, the sticky cognac on my tongue, Tania in the warm pile of clothes, seven kills in three sectors, a toast from Chuikov and Old Firepoof. Quite a day.