by JV Love
The tall one waited a few more seconds, then let go of the door. It slammed shut with a loud, reverberating thud.
"All right then," Dima said, addressing the men once more. "I want you two manning the southern firing points, and we need to have four men serving as lookouts on the roof. We'll rotate every three hours. Those on the . . ."
Felix waited patiently for Dima to finish giving his orders, then approached.
"Comrade Lieutenant," he said, "permission to look around the warehouse? Maybe there's some weapons stashed somewhere or . . ."
"Permission denied," Dima said without looking at him. "I just went through the entire warehouse. I want you on the roof with your scope. We don't know which direction they'll be coming from, so we need to be sure we've got them all covered."
"But if I could . . .," Felix started to say.
"Shut up!" Dima yelled. "Shut the hell up and do what you're told for a change."
Felix stood still and stared at him a second, then said, "As you wish . . . Dima." He walked away slowly, wondering if he'd made the right decision not to participate in a mutiny.
Felix never made it to the roof. He gave his rifle and scope to Ivanovich and then wandered the large warehouse looking things over and mulling his fate.
The warehouse was mostly empty. Nearly everything had already been evacuated by the Russians or plundered by the Germans. In the middle of the warehouse was what used to be a workshop. There were scraps of rusty metal in the corner, a long workbench with a vice, boxes of nails, and an old drill press. Felix was surprised at first to see the drill press, but after he looked closer he saw how old it was and understood why it had been left behind. In the other corner were half a dozen large black barrels. Two of them stood in front of a small door and Felix went over and kicked them. They were empty. The other four were arranged in a diamond formation. He kicked the outer three and found them all to be empty too. Then he moved those out of the way and kicked the fourth. There was something still in it, and he searched for some markings on the barrel indicating what it was. When he didn't find any, he opened the plug at the top and smelled. It was turpentine.
He moved the barrels away from the small door, but found that it was locked. Taking a step back, he lowered his shoulder and then rammed the door open. Inside was an ancient generator covered with dust and cobwebs. Felix opened the tank to see if there was any diesel fuel in it. There wasn't.
He looked around some more, and finding nothing of note, went up to the roof to think things over. There was the turpentine which they could use for Molotov Cocktails, but they didn't have any glass containers. Then he remembered the empty cases of mineral water he'd seen Dima looking through. Those would work. And what about those nails? Those would make excellent bullets, if only they could fire them somehow.
While he worked out some of the details in his head, the men on the roof gathered around him. Ivanovich was the first to speak. "A lot of us stayed because you said you'd lead us back to our lines come nightfall."
Felix was about to say that he'd made no mention of leading them, that he wasn't their commander, and that it was just an idea anyway. But he stopped himself from saying these things because he knew he had to be careful now. Morale was tenuous, and the slightest misstep might just start the downward spiral that would condemn them all.
"Well . . . yes . . . maybe," Felix said. "But we can expect a German attack before then. We'll have to be prepared."
"How can we fight? We barely have any ammunition and only a couple of grenades."
"We'll make our own weapons," Felix said. "I found a bunch of turpentine and dozens of glass bottles. We'll make Molotov Cocktails with them."
"Oh come now," one of them scoffed. "What good are a few Molotov Cocktails going to do?"
"We'll make bombs too," Felix said.
"Out of what? The empty tin cans the Germans left behind?"
"I saw several boxes of nails. We can use those," Felix said.
"What are we going to do? Throw them with our hands?"
"No," Felix said calmly, suddenly realizing how they could use the nails. "I counted at least five unexploded artillery shells outside - some German, some Soviet. Ivanovich, you told me you worked in a factory that made shells, right? So you can tell us how we can get the gunpowder out. Then we'll make one hell of a bomb with the nails."
The men liked the idea. "That would be quite a bomb, huh?" they said. "Those nails would fly in a hundred different directions. The Nazis wouldn't know what hit 'em."
Once everyone heard Felix's plan, they were eager to help out. Those who weren't on duty as lookouts or at firing points helped build the improvised weapons. They worked feverishly in preparation for the eventual Nazi assault. The production of Molotov Cocktails went smoothly. They filled the mineral water bottles with turpentine, then stuffed some gauze from their medical supplies into the end to serve as fuses.
Making the nail bombs was a bit more involved. Ivanovich wasn't entirely sure his plan to get the gunpowder out would work and kept repeating that the German shells might not be the same as the Soviet ones he built. They needed to drill into the shell, which meant they somehow had to get electricity to the old drill press and hope it still worked. Felix went outside to see if he could siphon some diesel fuel out of the bombed-out truck. When he checked the tank, he saw it was empty, as he expected. Either the Soviets or Germans had likely already siphoned the remaining fuel out. But Felix didn't need much - a gallon would do - so he hoped that whoever had already sucked out the fuel had been lazy about it. And he was right. It took him a while, but he was able to get three-fourths of a gallon out.
Felix was pleasantly surprised when the generator started easily and the old drill press still worked. But the good fortune didn't last. They had just started to drill a hole in the first shell when it quit working. They traced the problem to the generator, whose large, well-worn belt had broke in two.
They searched frantically for a replacement belt but couldn't find one. Felix suggested they try the bombed-out truck for a belt they might use. They checked, and it did have a belt, though no one knew if it would work. When they put it on the generator, it was plain to see that it wasn't a perfect fit, but with a little coaxing they were able to get it to work. The smell of burning rubber told them that it wouldn't last long, so they worked as quickly as they could to drill the holes in the shells before it gave out. Since they weren't absolutely sure that the shells wouldn't go off as they drilled into them, they had the bare minimum number of men do the job - one to hold the shell and one to drill the hole. The rest of the men stayed as far away as possible, nervously smoking cigarettes and talking among themselves.
All during this time, no one could locate Dima. Felix went through the warehouse calling his name but received no response. A few looked around outside but couldn't find him there either. The men began speculating. Dima had snuck out. He had a secret plan of escape all along. One man even suggested Dima was in cahoots with the Germans and had agreed to lead his men to this warehouse and have them conveniently run out of ammunition.
In Dima's absence, the men began taking orders from Felix, though Felix didn't pose them as orders. He asked questions and then hinted at the solutions. The men themselves came up with the answer, and volunteered to do it. Every man wasn't needed to help in making the weapons, but Felix made sure that everyone played some role, no matter how minor. Though it was critical for them to construct the improvised weapons, it was even more critical that they regain their confidence.
Felix could see the gradual shift in their demeanor. The despair at their situation lessened, replaced by a determination to fight for their survival. By getting them involved in the preparations and listening to their ideas, Felix bought their trust and, more importantly, restored their belief in themselves as capable and resourceful fighters.
When they were nearly finished, Ivanovich began fretting that the length of the fuses on the nail bombs was too long. Felix assured him th
ey could shorten them quite easily on the spot. Then Ivanovich feared that the turpentine had somehow "gone bad" and wouldn't light. He wanted to test one to make sure they'd work as intended. Felix talked him out of it because he feared the Germans might see the smoke. Since they had so little going for them, it was imperative they maintain the element of surprise - if it existed at all.
As they started making the last two nail bombs, Felix again went to look for Dima. Walking through the warehouse, he heard a thump that seemed to occur every twenty to thirty seconds. He followed the sound to a small room and saw Dima inside throwing his knife into the soft wood of a big bulletin board. There were two things that Dima was never without: one was the pocket watch his father had given him, and the other was this small knife that he folded and hid in his right boot.
Felix knew now without a doubt that something was bothering Dima. The only time he ever practiced throwing that knife was to blow off steam. There were several cigarette butts on the floor around Dima. He was facing away from the door, smoking yet another cigarette and looking out the window. "What is it Varilensky?" he said without turning to see that it was indeed Felix. "Are the Nazis coming yet?"
"No, not yet," Felix said. "Is everything okay, Comrade Lieutenant? We've been trying to find you for the past two hours."
Dima made no reply. He tilted his head back and blew smoke into the air.
"I found some turpentine and glass bottles and we've made Molotov Cocktails to use against the Germans," Felix said.
Dima turned and looked at him. "How did you find this stuff if you were on the roof?"
Felix didn't answer. He felt the anger bubbling up inside him, but tried to breathe his way through it. He didn't want this to turn into another confrontation.
"So you disobeyed a direct order?" Dima added. "Are you testing the warning I gave you earlier?"
Felix wasn't about to answer either of Dima's questions. He wouldn't allow himself to be drawn into that discussion. "We've made some other things too," he said, wiping dust off his pants. "Would you like to come and see?"
Dima closed his eyes and dropped his head. "Why not," he said and sighed. He folded his knife and put it in his boot. "Show me all your glorious weapons."
Felix led him to the front of the warehouse where the men were finishing the last nail bomb.
"What are you making there?" Dima asked them.
"A nail bomb, Comrade Lieutenant," Ivanovich answered, beaming like a young boy who'd just caught his first frog. "We got the gunpowder from some unexploded German shells, and now we're packing it together with the nails."
"We made Molotov Cocktails too," another man said. "We have thirty-six - that's three per person, Comrade Lieutenant."
The men waited eagerly for Dima's reaction. Felix saw the fire in their eyes and hoped Dima would be pleased, but he seemed rather indifferent.
"The only problem is . . .," he began, looking around at the men. "The only problem is that they'll surely come in with their tanks first. The nail bombs won't do any good against a tank, and how are you going to get near enough to throw a cocktail at them. The tanks will cut you down with their guns before you get close enough."
The men looked to Felix for his rebuttal, but Felix had none. He had no idea how they could get close enough. He hadn't thought of that. In their previous encounters with tanks, there were things to hide behind, ways to sneak up on the them. But there was nothing around the warehouse except open space.
The downward spiral started. There was no hope after all.
From time to time Felix looked out over the small wall that ran around the roof, but mostly he sat and contemplated how the Germans were now between him and Katya. His emotions swung from anger to despair. Anger at the Germans for starting the war; despair that it was ending this way. He couldn't accept that fate would destine him to perish in this impossible situation. The voice inside echoed this belief. It told him that he and Katya would be together again, that everything occurred for a reason, and that it was all part of a universal plan to teach him a lesson he had yet to master.
He looked out over the wall at the bombed-out truck and the empty space beyond it. Anger bubbled again up to the surface, and Felix vowed that neither the Germans, nor the Soviets - nor fate itself - was going to stop him from getting back to Katya. This wasn't a game, and there would be no mercy for anyone who tried to stop him. He'd do whatever he had to do. German soldiers were no longer fellow humans to him, but obstacles that had to be obliterated. When he aimed his gun at enemy soldiers, he no longer saw a father, a brother, or a son. He saw uniforms that needed to stop moving, uniforms that kept him from all that he loved.
Felix glanced over at Dima, who was still pensive and distant. He sat against the wall, chain-smoking cigarettes, gazing into the cloudless sky. Felix tried to engage him in conversation several times but never received a reply. Dima stood up and scanned the area north of them with his binoculars. A minute later, he sat down again.
"I'm out of tobacco," he said to Felix. "Do you have any?"
Felix was surprised by the question. Dima knew that Felix didn't smoke and never had. "I don't smoke, Comrade Lieutenant."
"Oh," Dima said, his voice flat and hoarse. He put his knees together and leaned forward until his head rested on them.
"Comrade Lieutenant," Felix said, "are you feeling all right?"
Dima didn't reply.
Felix looked at the horizon once again for signs of the approaching Germans. Seeing none, he walked over to Dima and sat down beside him. A light breeze picked up and it felt good against his sweaty skin.
After a minute, Dima lifted his head up. "Do you remember Vera?" he asked.
"Vera," Felix repeated the name hoping it would spur his memory. "No, I don't remember any Vera."
"Sure you do," Dima said. "She was in our class. Short, with brown curly hair. Shy."
"Vera Nadakov? Is that who you're talking about?"
Dima nodded.
"What about her?" Felix asked.
"I can't stop thinking about her," Dima said. "It's driving me crazy."
Felix was puzzled. Why Dima would be thinking about Vera? He remembered her as a nice girl who was pretty enough, but much too timid to be popular with the boys.
"You know she had a crush on me in seventh grade?" Dima said.
"Really? Vera? I had no idea. You two were such opposites."
"She used to write me love letters and apologize for being so shy around me. They were the nicest letters anyone's ever written me," Dima said. "I remember I even cried once reading one."
"So what happened?" Felix asked.
"Nothing really," Dima said. "She was so quiet and thoughtful and courteous and praised me so much that I felt uncomfortable around her. It's so strange. She was so good, and she told me that I was good too. That made me so anxious I couldn't stand it. If she'd cheated on a test or called me an idiot once in a while, I would have been relieved. But all she ever did was tell me what a good person I was."
"Didn't you hit her with your slingshot once?"
Dima nodded. "Yes, I hit her with a little stone. I did it on purpose. I wanted to make her mad at me. I wanted to hear her curse and call me names, so I flung a little stone at her with my slingshot and it hit her in the side of the head. She started bleeding and they took her to the nurse to bandage the wound. I was suspended from school for three days."
"You'd always told me that was an accident," Felix said, "that you didn't mean to hit her."
"Yes, that's what I told everyone," Dima said, "but it wasn't true. I did it on purpose. When I came back to school, she wrote me a letter saying she still loved me. Can you believe it?"
"Wow," Felix said. "You never told me any of this before."
"The next year she moved away and I've never seen her since. I've never really thought about her since. And now, for some reason, I can't stop thinking about her," Dima said, putting his head down again.
Felix took a drink from his canteen.
He didn't feel a need to say anything. Dima didn't need anything resolved. He only needed someone to listen. Felix patted him on the shoulder a few times and offered him his canteen.
Dima took a drink. "Too bad I don't have that slingshot anymore," he joked, "we could use it now."
Felix laughed and looked at the bombed-out truck again. He thought it strange how one of the tires still held air while the other three were in tatters. Then it hit him. "Dima," he said excitedly, "you see that truck?"
"Yes, what about it?"
"We can make a slingshot," Felix said. "A giant one that could launch the Molotov Cocktails at the German tanks. We can use the rubber inner tube of the truck tire for the elastic band!"
Dima was skeptical. "I don't know," he said, "we'd need a winch to draw it back, and a massive fork to hold the inner tube. I'm not sure how far it could launch anything, and aiming it would be rather tricky. It's a neat idea, but I really don't think it'll work."
"It will work," Felix said. "Didn't you tell me you made that slingshot with your dad? And you were a hell of an aim if I recall. We'll put it on the roof to increase its firing distance, and the Germans won't be able to see it as they approach."
"But we don't even know which direction the Germans will be coming from. They could attack from the front of the building or behind us. Who knows?"
Felix wasn't deterred. "We can make it mobile," he said. "We'll make it so we can aim it in any direction and move it backwards or forwards if we need to."
Dima put his chin on his hand and looked at the sky for a second. "Well, it's worth a shot at least," he said. "Let's give it a try."
They set to work immediately. The mobility part turned out to be the most difficult. After considering several options, they decided to use some large steel rods they found in the scrap metal heap and attach them to the roof facing out from each side of the building. They mounted the steel rods in such a way that they could slide either one slightly forward or backward to adjust their aim. But their mobility was limited to manually taking the inner tube and winch to whatever side the Germans were approaching from.