War of The Rats - A Novel of Stalingrad - [World War II 01] (40 page)

The colonel hissed, “Yessss.”

“You’ve got them?”

Thorvald answered in a faraway tenor. “Don’t speak.”

Nikki was shackled to the moment, sharing through the binoculars the power and killing art of the Gnössen master sniper. He shuddered with a rush of excitement he knew the colonel did not feel.

The Russian snipers stopped opposite unit two, three hundred meters away. They split up; one moved ten meters to the right in the trench. They were only slightly more than specks through the field glasses, but Nikki felt that he could see them with the clarity of God’s eye. One of the helmets dipped below the lip of the trench. The other stood firm. The standing one was the shooter; the other was the spotter. He must have ducked to lay down his rifle and take up the string and his periscope. Is this the way Thorvald is thinking? Is he following their movements like this, guessing what they’re doing, predicting what they’ll do next? Nikki could not ask, only watch.

He wanted to take his sight away from the snipers for a moment and gaze down at unit two. But he knew it would take him too long to reacquire the tiny shapes of the faraway enemy. He kept his focus on the gray dot, highlighted against the scrambled brown and white background. The other lump did not reappear to the right of it. There, Nikki thought, there’s the shooter. But is it enough of a target for Thorvald to get a clear shot? Is he high enough above the trench? Thorvald won’t waste all our effort just to bounce a bullet off the top of a helmet.

For two minutes they watched the Red snipers. The spotter stayed beneath the crest of the trench to gaze through a periscope. The shooter hunkered down, too low, waiting for the word from his spotter that a target was making itself available before he raised his eye to his gun.

Thorvald broke the silence. “They’re not going for it.”

Nikki was deflated. All this time shivering on the cold floor in this creaking building, sleeping under dead men’s shrouds, and he and the colonel were going to go away empty.

“Nikki, how far can you throw?”

Nikki knew what Thorvald wanted from him. The men in the trench weren’t rising to the Russians’ bait. They’d heard enough of the tin can. They weren’t biting, weren’t going to look this last time. There’s a German attack under way, there’s no way the Reds are crawling toward them. They know this down in the trench. They’re thinking, Fuck the Red snipers. We’ll get them in a few minutes when the attack rolls over their position. We’re not looking.

Thorvald couldn’t shoot. Not yet.

He needed a soldier to raise his head. To freeze the waiting Russian sniper in his scope, perhaps give Thorvald another muzzle flash to zero in on.

He needed a new mystery, a new rattle in the rubble.

The master sniper needed a sacrifice. Now.

Only for a moment, Nikki considered refusing. But his reluctance flew away home, over his father’s farm in Westphalia, into his sister’s arms.

I’m defenseless, he thought. What does it matter? Shit, there’s nothing left of me to defend.

Thorvald asked again. “How far can you throw?”

“Far enough.”

Nikki laid his binoculars down and stood away from the window. He selected a rounded bit of brick that fit his hand well. It’ll fly straight and far, he thought. Far enough.

Nikki readied his feet. “Now,” he whispered.

He threw the shard with all his might. The brick sailed high over the heads of the German soldiers in the trench, like a hard little angel of death. Nikki didn’t see it land, but he knew he’d thrown it far enough.

He stood back from the window, afraid a move forward might disturb Thorvald’s concentration.

Only seconds after Nikki heaved the brick, Thorvald fired. His right hand moved in a blur, off the trigger, to the bolt, back to the trigger. He fired again the moment the smoking cartridge from the first bullet clattered on the floor.

Thorvald ejected the second cartridge and stared through his scope. Then he lowered the rifle and rolled over from the window to pick up the two spent casings.

Outside, tank and mortar rounds crashed to earth. The clamor, missing from Nikki’s ears for the past several minutes, came flooding in on his senses. He wondered how close they were now.

Thorvald stood. A circle was pressed into the flesh around his right eye by the scope. It made him appear to be wearing a monocle. He jingled the two brass shells in his hand, trilling them like tiny bells.

Thorvald looked out across the rail yard.

“All right, Corporal,” he said.

Nikki reached for Thorvald’s rifle.

“I’ll hang on to this for a while, Nikki,” the colonel said. “I have one more chore for you.”

* * * *

EIGHTEEN

WHEN ZAITSEV RETURNED TO HIS BUNKER FROM CHUI
KOV’S headquarters, he walked into a celebration.

The party, fashioned by Medvedev, had gotten under way without the guest of honor. The Bear had told every sector head he could find about Zaitsev’s award, told them that even though Vasha had the medal in his bag, they all had won it.

Zaitsev pushed back the blanket. Viktor, Tania, Shaikin, Morozov, Chekov, Voyashkin, and Danilov each held aloft a half-liter bottle of vodka, somehow secured by Atai Chebibulin, who’d brought them with the evening soup.

The snipers admired the medallion, raised bottles in a toast, and patted the Hare on the back. After half an hour of cheer, Zaitsev called the party to a discussion. He told them of the arrival of the Nazi sniper school headmaster and of the German’s assignment: to kill the Hare, their chief. Danilov laughed a little drunkenly and guaranteed that this Nazi bastard would be made short work of. Zaitsev reminded the commissar that the German had the benefit of his notes in
In Our Country’s Defense
on the Hare’s tactics for the last month, even a photograph of Zaitsev.

Danilov was cowed for a moment, then smiled a black grin and held up his bottle and toasted, “So much the better!” The snipers waited for him to elaborate, but the commissar weaved out under the blanket with a wave, into his own night.

The council lasted until midnight. Each sniper expressed his thoughts on how to snare the Headmaster.

“He’s just a schoolteacher. He’s not a hunter. Go right at him! Challenge him!”

“No. Take your time. Trap him. Wear him down.”

“Use your knowledge of the city. He’s bound to be lost up to his ass most of the time.”

“Get him into my sector. We’ll take care of him there.”

“Prick him, irritate him, distract him.”

“Track him down and kill the fuck! What’s the problem?”

“Don’t wait. Take the initiative.”

“Easy does it. Make him come to you.”

Zaitsev listened. Each of the hares was right, each method they espoused had worked at one time or another. Use a dummy, set up false rifle positions, take prisoners, anger him, sneak up on him, follow him, bring him to you, draw him out, and more. This was the fascination of the sniper duel, little battles that would never be written up in strategy books. There were no classic and historic maneuvers to rely on, as there were in the grand tank battles on open ground or in giant infantry campaigns. There was no hedgehog defense prescribed against an encircling force, no flanking action required against an army’s supply lines, no storm group sent in to nullify an enemy stronghold. Sniper against sniper was primitive and intuitive: it was hunter versus hunter, also quarry against prey. Each confrontation was molded from the characters of the duelists, each outcome the result of those characters. Each sniper carried one rifle. Each man worked in the same terrain, under the same sky. The chances and dangers were as evenly distributed as they got in war.

Zaitsev listened patiently, hearing nothing from his former pupils he did not know and had not considered himself. He would make no plans yet. Better first to learn the ways of this German, then decide. What will he try on me? Will he move or stay in one place? Will he hide or make himself known? Will he—

Enough, he thought, and took a final swallow of vodka. I know all these stratagems and feints. I taught them.

He sent the hares back to the Lazur, assuring them he would seek their counsel and keep them advised. He would also welcome any information they could gather about unusual Nazi sniper activity in their sectors.

Viktor set off on his nocturnal hunt. Minutes later, Tania slid back in.

She stood in the doorway, wordless, uninvited but possessing the room as if it were her own chamber. She moved toward him silently, her eyes fastened to his. She walked past, then behind him. He turned to keep his face to hers. He joined in her movements as if pulled by centrifugal force to circle behind her while she circled. Tania took off her coat and held it out with a straight arm into the center of their orbits. She dropped the coat and unbuttoned her jersey. Zaitsev followed her, prowling behind her, the two tossing their clothes into the center of their ring as if casting flowers onto a pond.

Two hours later, Tania stole away. They had both dressed in silence, pulling their clothes out of the mingled pile in the dark. One of these days, Zaitsev thought, she’s going to leave the bunker with my pants on by mistake. He laughed: I’d better come up with a good tale for Viktor in advance of that one.

The next morning, Zaitsev woke late on his bedroll. Gray light dribbled in with the cold. He checked his watch. 6:45
A.M.
He rubbed his eyes and scratched away the itching discomfort from sleeping on the drafty dirt.

He lit the lantern. His head roved from the lovemaking and the vodka. He dug into his pack to tug off a piece of bread and chewed absentmindedly. Where to start? he wondered. Where do I look for a master sniper who’s looking for me?

He decided to return to sector two, to Mamayev Kurgan, where he and Tania had encountered Thorvald the morning before. Had he known of the Headmaster’s arrival then, he’d have sent Danilov away and, with Tania, taken him on right there.

With Tania. The thought surprised him a little. Yes. She’s good enough. I’d fight with her at my side now.

Well, he thought, up and out. Over to the Lazur, get Tania, and we’ll go hunting in her sector first for this SS colonel.

Viktor burst through the doorway.

“Vasha! The Germans have attacked the Red October. It’s big! Six, seven divisions!”

“Shit. Here it comes.” This must be the Germans’ last bid to capture the city. We all knew it would come before the Volga froze. This is it. November eleventh, dawn. And I overslept.

Zaitsev grabbed his rifle.

Viktor gathered Zaitsev’s pack and extra ammunition, continuing to jabber. “They’re on a five-kilometer front. Between the Banny Gully and Vokhovstroyevskaya Street.”

“Who’s defending?”

“Gorishny’s Ninety-fifth in the factory and the corridor. Lyudnikov and the One thirty-eighth in the shops.”

Zaitsev tossed the last of the bread to Viktor.

“They’ll hold. Where—”

“I’ve already been to the Lazur. I sent every bear and hare I could find over there. We need to hurry. It’s closing up fast.”

Zaitsev flew out of the bunker behind Viktor, his rifle in his fist. With his free hand, he shouldered the strap of his submachine gun. The heavy PPSh and its round, stubby magazine bounced against his spine while he ran. Viktor jangled under an assortment of grenades, cartridges, knives, field glasses, and guns.

Sectors two and three, Zaitsev thought. That’s where the attack is. Kulikov is in two, Morozov in three.