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

by David Robbins

“Yes, I did.” Danilov held up his left hand for Zaitsev to pull him to a sitting position. The politrook spit once in the dirt. It was in anger, though it seemed one good spit was all he could muster.

  “I saw the bastard’s helmet,” he said. Spittle, veined with crimson, dangled from the commissar’s chin, hanging unwiped and sad. “He was walking along the wall. That’s what I saw.”

  Zaitsev was not surprised. Of course. The Headmaster, the Head Gamesman. Still the freshman bit, is it? Still trying to make me mad enough to jump. His game worked, but he bagged an unintended prey.

  Zaitsev looked to Kulikov. “Nikolay, did you see anything? A muzzle flash, a reflection?”

  Kulikov shook his head. “Nothing.”

  Nor had Zaitsev seen anything. Thorvald had made the first move, just as he’d warned Danilov. And Zaitsev had gotten nothing to show for it but a wounded bulldog commissar.

  “Commissar, allow me, please. I must take a look at your wound.”

  Danilov’s eyes opened a little wider.

  “No. It’s all right,” he replied weakly. “I’d rather a doctor look at it.”

  Zaitsev stroked the commissar’s shoulder gently.

  “Comrade, the wound might tell me something about where Thorvald is hiding. There are ways.”

  Danilov squinted his eyes.

  “It will hurt a little,” Kulikov said from behind.

  Danilov nodded drunkenly. “Yes. Of course. Proceed.”

  Grunting through gritted teeth, Danilov helped Kulikov to unbutton his greatcoat, pulling it gingerly off the right shoulder. The sea green jersey beneath the coat was muddy with blood. Zaitsev cut the tunic away from the wound. He carved a piece of cloth for a wipe and another for a bandage.

  “Hold still. I need to clean it.”

  “As you see fit.” Danilov leaned back against Kulikov.

  A red trickle spilled from the wound’s lower lip. Danilov’s meaty shoulder was thick with black hair. Zaitsev toweled the blood from the area, making Danilov wince.

  “Only for a moment,” Zaitsev whispered.

  The puncture was clean and round. A purple bruise had painted a uniform circle around the hole. This indicated a straight-on bullet path, according to the old lessons grandfather Andrei had taught him on the skins drying on the walls of the hunter’s lodge. Look at the entry wound, Vasha, the old man had said, pointing with his walking stick. The bullet leaves a track against the skin, just like a paw in the snow. Thorvald is probably at ground level. What do you think, Grandfather? It’s hard to tell at what angle Danilov’s chest was turned to the park. But the commissar’s injury has bought us one bit of information, at least.

  “You were facing straight ahead, weren’t you?” Zaitsev asked while Kulikov helped Danilov replace the tunic and coat over the right shoulder.

  “Mmm-hmmm. Yes, I think so.”

  “I’m sorry this happened.”

  It’s his own damned fault, but why add insult to injury? Now isn’t the time to lecture him.

  He rubbed the commissar’s blood from his hands with the strip of cloth. I shouldn’t have brought Danilov along. I should have refused, even after Tania’s intervention. But Tania will have her way; she wanted Danilov here, and here he lies. This is what she intended, the result she foresaw. She coldly sent Danilov to this bullet, manipulated me into allowing it. Why? To help me find Thorvald or to rid us all of Danilov? In either event, the commissar will be leaving Stalingrad alive. He’s lucky. The doctors at the field hospital will take out the bullet lodged in his shoulder, and then, when the river freezes, it’s a sled ride across to Krasnaya Sloboda for you, Commissar. Ah, well. Whom the gods choose to spare, let them live in peace. Perhaps the commissar has spirits swarming about him, protecting him. If so, then spirits, listen to me: go with Danilov. Repay him for his injury in your service and protect him. He has pluck and toughness, even if he’s dangerous and stupid. In the ways of the forest, like an animal, that makes him an innocent.

  Kulikov helped Danilov to his feet, keeping his head low. Zaitsev watched them leave. The two walked in rhythm, attached to each other, skinny and fat like a boy with his hurt pony.

  Zaitsev thought of the bullet in Danilov’s shoulder and the blood he knew was warming the commissar’s side and legs, perhaps pooling in his boots. How did this come to be? Batyuk gave me this assignment, to find and kill the Headmaster. Why? He’s just one man. Why all this effort to wipe him out, why the bullets lodged in Shaikin, Morozov, Baugderis, Danilov, the nurses, the wounded? Why am I sitting here, dueling to the death with a single sniper instead of working in the factories to protect Russian troops, furthering the battle for the city?

  There in Danilov’s aching, wounded posture was his answer. Stalingrad is no longer just a battle for a spot on a map. It has become a war of ideas between Hitler and Stalin, between the generals of both armies ripping up this land, toppling these buildings. Stalingrad is Hitler’s deepest stab into Russia. He won’t allow himself to be stopped here. Likewise, Stalin is making his firmest stand here in the city named for him. Knowing its strategic importance to Hitler, Stalin has marked the city for death in order to preserve the rodinas life. And the real result of these two leaders’ ideas, hatched in the safety of their mighty castles, is dripping out of Danilov right now: blood. Bodies and destruction—these are far more real than ideas, yet so much less important to the leaders. And here, squared off like fighting cocks, Thorvald and I are no longer men but ideas. We’ve been made larger, given importance beyond our bodies. For the watching propagandists such as Danilov, for the opinion makers and the newspapers and the generals, for Hitler and Stalin, it’s the Hare versus the Headmaster, the Russian legend against the German marvel. Whichever of us gets the bullet, he’ll bleed not just blood but a headline and a story; one dictator’s schemes will be furthered, the other’s will be discredited. And one more body will be made cold and dead as the black ink of the newspapers and propaganda that will surely flow with the blood.

  Oh, well, Colonel. Musings won’t kill you for me. I’ll need a bullet. So let’s begin in earnest.

  Zaitsev took up his helmet and put it back on his head; the steel was cold from lying on the ground. He picked up Danilov’s periscope. I saw nothing. Kulikov saw nothing. Danilov saw the walking helmet.

  How could Thorvald shoot without Kulikov or me seeing a flash? The Headmaster is at ground level. But he must be deep in the shadows, hidden in darkness, nestled in it. He can’t shoot without making a flash. Where would he be, to see us but not worry about his muzzle glare or have no fear of a reflection from his scope? He must be in an extremely well disguised spot, someplace I wouldn’t think to look for him, someplace he’s confident I wouldn’t be looking when he squeezed the trigger and his barrel sparked.

  Where is that kind of shooting cell out there? Where?

  Zaitsev reached across the park with his senses and his intuition, creeping with them like a jungle cat among and under the foliage of facts and perceptions. This was how he’d always hunted, as a boy in the taiga, as a man at war.

  He recalled the scene: Danilov was on his feet for two seconds, no more. Thorvald is close to shoot like that, to see so clearly through the mist with the morning light in his eyes. And the even ring around the entry wound? An open mouth whispering in his grandfather’s voice.

  Where?

  First, he has an assistant. Thorvald told him to put the helmet on the stick again. The Headmaster must be close to the wall, behind it or in front of it, to give voice commands to the assistant. Probably within ten meters. How else could he have set the trap?

  Where?

  Zaitsev scanned the terrain through the periscope. He selected a range to his left and to his right, a logical perimeter within which the Headmaster must be to fire the shot that hit Danilov and leave a uniform hole and bruise ring in the commissar’s flesh.

  On the left edge of his shooting range were several ragged craters, a toppled fountain, and a burned-out German tank. The t
ank faced east, toward Zaitsev’s position. He’d looked at this tank a hundred times during the past two days, but now the empty metal hulk bore a new significance. Was Thorvald inside? He could be. It was within range and close enough to the wall to work with an assistant. Thorvald could easily slide under the tank before dawn and enter through the emergency escape hatch. He could shoot out of the driver’s view slit or the hole left where the turret’s machine gun had been salvaged.

  But this was not a position for an experienced sniper, especially a devious one. He’d have no quick escape route in case of an infantry or mortar attack on his position. His vision of the battlefield would be restricted, limiting his targets, and Thorvald had shown no inclination toward being selective with his victims.

  Zaitsev swung his vision north to the right side of the range he’d selected. He concentrated on the wall. He imagined the Headmaster in a lair, calling to his assistant behind the wall. “Put the helmet on the stick and walk with it. Shake it up and down like you’re making popcorn over a campfire. Do it so badly the Hare will feel my hand slapping him in the face!” The periscope brought Zaitsev to the lip of another crater. No, he’s not in an open hole in the ground, he thought. Several humps of snow-covered rubble swelled on the park like white insect bites. He’s not behind any of them, either. On the far right was an abandoned German bunker, a small pillbox made of sandbags, stacked concrete, and wood beams. Could Thorvald be in there? Certainly. Zaitsev leaned into the periscope as if he could send his eyes into the air like hawks, out to the fortification to inspect its features, then carry the details back to him. Zaitsev felt the crevices of the pillbox with his vision, knocking on it, calling out Thorvald’s name: are you in there? How would Thorvald approach this shooting cell? How would he leave it? What were his firing angles? No, he’s not in there. Like the burned-out tank at the other end of the range, Zaitsev could not believe the Headmaster would choose such an obvious firing cell, one a lesser sniper might select. He moved the periscope to the center of the park, inspecting the rubble near the foot of the wall. More piles of bricks, more craters, and some metal sheets littered the ground.

  Zaitsev paused in his search to inquire of himself if he were growing tired. He’d been staring through the periscope for two hours now, since Kulikov left with Danilov. The sun had risen to its noon seat. He checked his hands, eyes, his folded legs, his concentration. Don’t make these guesses and decisions if you aren’t razor sharp, he chided himself. Do you need a rest? If so, then stop. Don’t make a mistake. You must be alert, with your ears up, your nose in the wind. You’re all right? You can continue? Good. Then tell me: is he in the tank, the bunker, in a crater, behind a pile of bricks, in a building, behind the wall? Are you sure, Vasily? Tell me if you’re sure. Is it your instinct, or do you know for a fact? Tell me now.

  No. He’s somewhere else. Somewhere I’ll find him. I am sure, because it is my instinct.

  He is the Headmaster.

  But I am a hunter. I am his hunter.

  * * * *

  TWENTY-FOUR

  HE NOTICED THE MOTION FIRST. A GRAY OBJECT BOBBED atop the wall like a baby bird above the ledge of its nest. The thing twisted left and right, then shook up and down like an angry fist. After watching for several seconds, he recognized it as a field periscope, a favorite tool of the hidden Red sniper.

  “Nikki!”

  He concentrated into the scope to slice the crosshairs through the battle haze hanging on the park. A Russian stronghold at the right corner of the park had come under attack earlier that morning; the attack had faltered an hour before, but smoke and dust lingered above the open ground, catching and reflecting the light like a Berlin drizzle to obscure Thorvald’s vision.

  He turned from the scope. His left eye, closed for most of the morning, was slow to open. The vision of his right eye—his aiming side—was filmed with a translucent, magnified image of the wall on the far side of the park. In the darkness of his cell, the image hovered like a reclining ghost.

  He called again for Nikki; the sunlight dancing around but not into his hole caused the apparition on the right side of his vision to crinkle and disappear like burning paper. He blinked.

  The corporal answered.

  “Yes, sir, Colonel.”

  “Get the helmet and the stick.”

  Thorvald looked back through the scope. Who is this morning fool with his periscope swaying like a seasick child? He can’t be a sniper. He’s too eager, trying to take in the whole battlefield instead of moving precisely, imperceptibly, to avoid detection. No, this periscope is not in the hands of a sniper, at least not a veteran one. It must be a third party, perhaps an inexperienced officer or observer.

  Nikki has confessed that he told the Reds I’m here to kill their Rabbit. This idiot might be someone who wants to record our little war. An intelligence officer, a correspondent for that stupid front newsletter of theirs, whatever. But certainly not a sniper.

  I can put a bullet into that periscope. I could scare the piss out of the clumsy watcher, I could splatter glass all over him and all over Zaitsev, who I’m sure is sitting nearby. Why doesn’t Zaitsev tell him to get down or go away and let a sniper do his work? This is no place for whoever that is. I could twitch a finger and demonstrate that for him. I wonder what the waving periscope would do if I told Nikki to hoist the helmet.

  But I won’t. Because this is too easy. Zaitsev must be baiting me. Yes, that’s it. He’s watching for me to shoot, hanging this target out like a salt lick. I see it now: there’s a trap in that periscope’s single eye. I won’t come out of hiding, Rabbit. You must do better for me.

  That periscope. Stupid. I could put the crosshairs there, right on the mirror and lens. Zaitsev won’t see my muzzle flash. I’m far enough back in the darkness of this hole. He’d have to be looking right at me to spot it. There. Right in the middle of the periscope, if the cretin would hold it still for a moment.

  It would feel good to show Zaitsev firsthand whom he’s up against.

  Wait. Feel the rifle, blend it into the hands. The wood in both palms, skin of the rifle, my blood warming the wood. My cheek against the stock, laid there, resting, still as wood. The metal against my eye socket and the trigger under my finger, smooth, also skin but harder, wanting something from me. The scope pulls my eye in and throws it out bigger, to that periscope. The trigger wants something from me.

  Suddenly, surprisingly, the periscope jumped high above the wall, exposing a helmet and the top half of a man’s torso. The man raised a hand and pointed at Thorvald.

  Thorvald fired.

  What happened?

  The man fell down.

  Damn it! Thorvald thought. Damn it! What happened? I fired.

  He dropped his rifle. His ears rang; the report was captured and showered back on him by the metal roof and the bricks. He skidded away from the opening between the bricks as if there were a dog snapping at him there. He dug his face into the dirt, expecting Zaitsev’s round to come flying in the next instant. He brought his knees up to his chest, balled in the dirt, waiting for the burn of a bullet.

  Seconds passed. Thorvald’s muscles ached from the hard squeeze he’d locked his body into. His heartbeat soared in his temples. His breathing rattled in his open mouth. His eyelids were shut hard; behind them, his eyeballs jumped left and right. All over his body, his skin fizzed with fear.

  Slowly, Thorvald relaxed his grip on himself. No bullet had answered his. Not yet. He moved cautiously, straightening in the dirt, not knowing what motion might betray him. He felt pickled in dread. He hated the sensation of being watched, of thinking the Rabbit could see him through a scope, the nausea of wearing, if only for a second, the cross hairs.

  He saw me. He must have. The damned Rabbit tricked me, he got me to jump at his bait. He must have seen me.

  Thorvald shook his shoulders and legs as though shaking off a coating of ice. He was cold on the outside, hot deep within. The cold was strong on his brow. He wiped a hand across hi
s forehead and pulled back damp fingertips.

  He lay on his back for several minutes to ease his nerves and control his breathing. He looked up at the wavy underside of the metal sheet. Like a coffin lid, he thought. Almost a coffin.

  Why did I do that? Why did I pull the trigger?

  Calm slowly returned to his gut. He could think more clearly now, without panic. Damn Zaitsev for making me feel that. Damn him. I hate the fear, I hate it when it comes.

  He’ll be repaid. He will. Yesterday, this was just an assignment, one that interrupted my work at Gnössen. This was a job I did not want. But now he will surely die. Now this is personal. The Rabbit dies soon.

  But the first order of business, Heinz, is to stay German, stay orderly, even with the fear. It is so, yes? Good. Now proceed, coolly, precisely.

  I wonder, why did I shoot? In fact, it’s not so important. I understand, I pulled the trigger because I was ready to pull it, keyed up. The target got itself shot. That’s the way it works when it works, without thought.