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

by David Robbins

  * * * *

  THE SIBERIANS EMERGED FROM THE TREES ON THE EAST bank of the Volga. Two kilometers away, on the far side of the river, they saw a volcanic city. Stalingrad, once home to half a million people, appeared now as if not a single person could be alive there.

  The city was lit by a thousand fires. Above the limestone river cliffs, charred roofless walls stood along avenues clotted with smoking rubble. Red pillars of dust and brick erupted into the air. Buildings swayed and crumbled as if the quaking city were nothing but a jagged shell and something huge and determined below the ground was kicking its way to the surface.

  Lying on the sand, staring at the firestorm across the black, oily Volga, Zaitsev thought of his babushka Dunia’s descriptions of the underworld. A gust blew warm against his cheek. It carried the heat and carbon smell of a furnace. How can men be fighting in that perdition? he wondered.

  Captain Ion Lebedev, a political commissar, settled in the sand next to him.

  “Are you ready, Comrade Chief Master Sergeant?” he asked.

  Zaitsev looked at the zampolit. The man’s black eyes flickered red. His face was split by a gap-toothed smile.

  Zaitsev asked, “Has anyone actually said, ‘No, I am not ready,’ Comrade Lebedev?”

  “We have two hundred men on this shore. A few need prodding to enter that.” Lebedev jutted his nose at the blazing city.

  Zaitsev held no love for the commissars. He’d been subjected to their speeches, their “prodding,” for weeks. He’d listened with less than rapt attention for hours without end, it seemed—on the train, on the steppe, and now, here, in the sand on the cusp of battle. He did not need simple advice on courage, did not like feeling he wasn’t trusted to fight well and die for the Rodina. Zaitsev had been a good Komsomol member and hoped to become a member of the Communist Party. But the Germans had not invaded the Party. Their strike was at Russia. It was for the Motherland he would fight.

  Many of the men feared Lebedev and the other politrooks, and with good reason. Stalin had given these political officers—all loyal idealists—the fiat to maintain the order of the Party throughout the army, from the highest general to the newest private. Their power came from Stalin’s Order No. 227, called the “Iron Hand Rule.” Not only had Stalin charged the commissars with keeping the Red soldiers politically focused during battle, even during the worst of it, they were also to judge on the field of battle each man’s performance. The commissars shared responsibility with the Soviet officers for the troops’ dedication to fighting until the last vessel of blood was emptied. If a man showed himself reluctant to fight, the commissar was to support, encourage, exhort, even threaten. But if a soldier displayed cowardice or retreated without orders, the politrook was to act with an iron hand. Zaitsev, like the rest of the men, knew that, too often, the “iron hand” meant a loaded pistol held to your head. Lebedev handed a scrap of newspaper to Zaitsev. “This was printed in Pravda last week. I show it to you, tovarich, because the men look up to you. They will follow you.”

  “We’re Siberians, comrade commissar. We’ll all fight without articles from Pravda.”

  Lebedev put his palm on Zaitsev’s shoulder. He shook it once gently and smiled with his gap.

  “Read. We have some time before we cross.” The article was entitled “They Know at Home How You Are Fighting.” Zaitsev squinted to read in the shifting light:

  Whether your home is near or far, it doesn’t matter. At home, they will always learn how you are fighting. If you don’t write yourself, your comrades will write, or your political instructor. If the letter does not reach them, they will learn about you from the newspaper. Your mother will read the communiqué, will shake her head and say: “My dear boy, you should do better than this.” You are quite wrong if you imagine that the one thing they want at home is to see you come home alive. What they want you to do is kill the Germans. They do not want any more shame and terror. If you die while stopping the Germans from advancing any farther, they will honor your memory forever. Your heroic death will brighten and warm the lives of your children and grandchildren. If you let the Germans pass, your own mother will curse you.

  Zaitsev returned the sheet to Lebedev. “Thank you, comrade commissar. It takes courage to be so direct.”

  Lebedev patted Zaitsev again on the shoulder. “Yes, it does. I’ll see you on the other side, Comrade Chief Master Sergeant.”

  Well past midnight, the Siberians lay on the beach, watching and listening to Stalingrad scream to them. A flotilla of battered fishing boats, barges, steamers, and tugs appeared. A barge dropped anchor in the shallows in front of them. Zaitsev saw the holes in the ship’s timbers. Two men forward and four aft bailed buckets of water over the gunwales as fast as they could. Supplies were loaded quickly into the barge’s hold. Wooden crates of ammo were shouldered up the plank and lowered belowdecks. Several dozen cardboard boxes were stored; from them came the friendly sound of clanging, ringing vodka bottles. Crates of canned ham from America were carried up the gangway. The Red Army soldiers jokingly called this ham the “second front.” For a year Stalin had begged England and the United States to attack the Germans in the west to ease the pressure on Russia. The Allies always responded with their many reasons for being slow and considered in their actions. For the Russian foot soldier, these tins of sweet, wet, red ham from places such as Georgia and Virginia were to be the only help they would get from the States. The ham alone would have to suffice as the second front.

  The boats chugged onto the Volga. Flares split the glittering night sky. The men stared overhead, trying to pierce the coils of smoke and search for the first hint of a diving Luftwaffe warplane. The dancing light from the city scorched like a fever across their brows, making them blink and sweat.

  Halfway across the river a Stuka whistled past. The men braced, but no bombs or bullets fell. The fighter banked hard and climbed to avoid flying over the flames of the city. The men waited; was there another plane behind this one? When the Stuka was not followed, they let out a sigh as if from a single giant bellows.

  The leaking flotilla pushed to the central landing stage. No more aircraft shot out of the night. Zaitsev read the Luftwaffe’s neglect to attack the reinforcements to be a bad sign; it showed the Germans’ confidence in their taking of the city.

  Ashore, the company huddled against the cool limestone cliffs. Above them, the city teetered and crackled. The river lapped at the stones under their feet, murmuring of tranquility in the darkness, telling the soldiers a thin lie of calm and peace.

  With the dawn came a renewed spirit; none of the men was willing to be seen with fear staining his face. Each set his jaw and shoulders for action. The bravado in their voices climbed with the sun and the sounds of battle filtering down from the cliffs.

  A sooty runner delivered orders to Lieutenant Bolshoshapov. The Siberians were to move three kilometers north along the river to reinforce another company pinned down at the Lazur chemical plant. Their landmark would be a bank of crumpled fuel tanks.

  After a half hour of jogging over the sand, Bolshoshapov spotted the fuel tanks overhead. The pop of gunfire, punctuated by the thump of grenades, leaped over the cliff. The Siberians clambered up the slope and took positions in the rubble. Two hundred meters away a Russian company hunkered down under fire from mortars and machine guns.

  Zaitsev’s unit moved up on the German right flank. The Nazis, surprised by the reinforcements, deployed their machine guns to cover the new threat.

  The Siberians drew fire, and for the first time Zaitsev heard the ripping hiss of bullets fired at him. This was the moment he’d waited for in a confusion of fear and eagerness. Here at last was the ultimate hunt. The rounds whizzing past whispered to him in the hushed voice of his grandfather kneeling beside him in the forest: Get moving, Vasha. Quick. Careful. Silent. Go.

  Without waiting for orders, he slid through the rubble of the first fuel tank. He wanted to get an open shot before the enemy could scramble for cover
from his angle.

  At 150 meters Zaitsev opened up. He knocked down three machine gunners with his first three rounds. Once these guns were silenced, his company leaped from cover and charged the Germans, firing and shouting.

  A whistling yowl dropped through the smoke. Before Zaitsev could move, an artillery shell exploded behind him in the middle of his mates, knocking men off their feet and dropping others onto their faces to burrow for cover. Zaitsev looked back and realized with alarm that one of the three fuel tanks, though badly dented, had somehow not been punctured during the previous bombings. His question whether it still contained fuel was answered by the next salvo.

  The tank blew apart in a thunderous explosion, sending a fireball up and over the Siberians. Flaring fuel rained out of the mushroom cloud. Zaitsev’s clothes dripped with small, hungry flames.

  He tore off his tunic, navy undershirt, pants, and ammo belt. His skin was singed, but his head was clear. He pounded on his crown to make sure his hair had not caught fire.

  Around him, his friends lay dead. Their corpses were wrapped in sheets of smoke; yellow hornets of fire swarmed about their death poses. Through it all the Germans continued shooting.

  Zaitsev fought down his horror. He stared across the smoldering battleground. The Germans had moved and were rearming their machine guns, swiveling their lines of fire. With his eyes moist from the smoke, he dropped and raised his rifle, drawing aim on a Nazi holding binoculars, perhaps an officer directing the attack. Zaitsev’s blackened hands shook; he could not wait for his pounding heart to let the gun sight settle in his hands. This might be his last clear shot before the Germans opened fire or called in more artillery.

  He followed the swaying sight, squeezing for the shot he knew would serve only to give his position away. Suddenly he heard a cry of “Urrah! Urrah! Rodina!” Lieutenant Bolshoshapov leaped from behind a charred brick wall dressed only in his white underwear, ammo belt, and boots. He held his rifle over his head and charged, followed by waves of seminaked, smoking Siberians. Zaitsev stiffened, not believing his eyes. Without thinking, his legs lifted him from behind cover. He took a deep breath and screamed, “Urrah!’’ He pumped his rifle in the air and joined the charge.

  He felt like a demon, running and firing into the maw of the Germans. The sight of themselves, fearless in their underwear and boots, guns blazing, drove him and his company into the Nazi line with a fierceness Zaitsev had never known. He felt exhilarated, bounding over debris, running and shooting. Closing in on the Nazi positions, his wrath grew so intense that, screaming, he crossed his eyes. He lost his balance and tripped over his running feet. Just as he hit the ground, the sailor before him was struck in the chest. The man’s arms flew open, his legs buckled in front of Zaitsev, and he skidded to his knees like a duck landing on water.

  Looking over the body, Zaitsev saw the lieutenant and the men chase the Germans. The Nazis fled down an alley, firing over their shoulders.

  One of the Red soldiers who’d been pinned down helped Zaitsev to his feet.

  “You guys are crazy!” he laughed. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life. In your underwear.”

  Zaitsev touched his bloodied knee. “I tripped,” he murmured.

  The soldier looked about at the many bodies on the ground. He patted Zaitsev on the back. “Go join your unit.”

  The men walked to the spots where they had stripped off their burning uniforms. Each put back on whatever tatters he could retrieve of his scorched navy shirt.

  The company settled in for the night. Fresh uniforms and food were delivered. Couriers brought with them the report of a comment made by Zhukov to Batyuk. The general had been amazed at how much the Siberian sailors seemed to dislike their new army uniforms. Apparently the commander had credited the company with burning the outfits off while still wearing them.

  * * * *

  THE VIOLENCE OF THE LAST WEEK OF SEPTEMBER branded the lessons of house-to-house fighting into Zaitsev’s eyes. Before each attack, he crouched in a trench or a bunker, listening to the advice of veterans who’d survived in the city for a fierce month.

  Often the battles for the buildings became hand-to-hand, the bludgeon as deadly as the bullet, the enemy’s breath and blood as close to Zaitsev as his own. For a large number of the Siberians, the three days’ training on the steppe had been worthless. During their first few days in battle, many of his friends had been killed taking unnecessary risks. But none had run away, and none had died without his weapon in his hands. The days lurched past. The bodies grew in grisly heaps under the smoking skies.

  Zaitsev moved in the rubble with the grace and confidence of an animal. His taut frame and lean, muscled arms pulled him through the debris without rest, keeping enough in reserve to hold his rifle deadly still or whip a grenade almost as far as his big friend Viktor Medvedev. In hand-to-hand fighting, Zaitsev could be savage. His army knife, though bulkier than the skinning blades of his youth, slashed like a talon in his hand.

  The Germans did not adjust well to the special tactics of street fighting. While the Reds captured strategic buildings with small platoons called “storm groups,” the Nazis simply threw more men into battle as if by pouring enough blood on a street they could win it. Sometimes during an attack, bodies piled so high in an alley that the corpses alone blocked the Nazis’ advance.

  At the end of Zaitsev’s first two weeks in Stalingrad, the Germans had fought their way to the Volga in the city center to control the downtown area and the main landing stage of the Russians, Krasnaya Sloboda. By mid-October the Sixty-second Army had been cut in half, north and south.

  The strongest Russian bridgehead was in the rubble of the factory district, five kilometers north of downtown. The Siberians were assigned to reinforce the Thirty-seventh Guards in defending the Tractor Factory, the northernmost of the three huge plants.

  After a thirty-six-hour artillery barrage, the Germans attacked the Tractor Factory in the early hours of October fifth. Zaitsev, tunneling into the debris under a swarm of bullets, saw his first sniper team. The soldiers were small and thin, not powerful warriors at first glance. One man’s helmet was too big for him, covering his ears. He tipped it above his eyes to see where he was crawling. Both snipers carried rifles with scopes attached.

  Even while Zaitsev’s unit dug deeper into the wreckage for cover, the snipers crept into the debris, like hunters, toward their prey.

  * * * *

  FIVE

  TANIA CHERNOVA STOOD ON THE SHORE WITH HER company, 150 soldiers from the 284th Division. In front of her a barge rolled gently at the dock in the black shallows.

  Across the Volga, flames loomed and snapped. German fighter-bombers sprang from nighttime clouds, glowing red on their undersides from the fires raging below them. The planes dove to unleash their bombs at low altitudes. Their engines screamed, wings whistling to bank up and out, speeding the pilots away from the blasts and smoke.

  Tania stared at the misery of the city. This was the heroic battleground of Stalingrad; its name was on the lips of every Russian. Stalin, the vozhd, the Supreme Leader, had made it clear: Stand and fight here at all costs in that apocalypse across the Volga.

  Eleven women were in Tania’s company, each dressed in jackboots and uniforms without insignia. They did not have rifles; as radio operators or field nurses, they would not need weapons.

  On the road to the river, Tania had marched past a hundred artillery pieces operated by women. She could have requested to join them, working the big guns and Katyushas, the fiery racks of missiles suspended on the beds of American Ford trucks. But Tania had spent the last year fighting with the Russian resistance in the forests of Byelorussia and outside Moscow. She’d left the partisans one month ago to come to Stalingrad and continue her vendetta against the Nazi “sticks.” She could not think of the Germans as human. They were pieces of wood, sticks. Men could not do what she had seen the Nazis do.

  In the center of her group, a general with a shaved head w
as ending his speech. “The defenders of Stalingrad need help,” he cried, “to stave off the charging enemy. The Tractor Factory in the northern quarter of the city has come under heavy assault. Soldiers fighting in the factory and throughout Stalingrad are not taking a single step back. But their lives, and the life of Mother Russia, depend on fresh troops entering the battle.”

  The general thrust his fist over his head. He shouted, “Urrah!” Tania and her group raised their fists and bellowed, “Urrah! Urrah!” The eyes around her darted from the cheering general to the blazing city. Fear, she thought; it shows first in the eyes.

  The rickety barge at the dock had been loaded with supplies and awaited its human cargo. The general finished his speech. Guards herded the soldiers into line to board the boat.

  Tania shouldered her backpack filled with cheeses, bread, and a bottle of vodka, all given to her by townspeople along the road. A short man with a thick, hard belly strode to the head of the line. He ran up the gangplank with surprising nimbleness, jumping over the gunwales onto the deck. Tania recognized him as a commissar, a Captain Danilov, who’d addressed the soldiers on the beach before the bald general’s lecture. He called the soldiers to join him, to “step into history.”