Scoped, Dropped, never Mourned
It was dusk, Russian winter setting in. Ominous black clouds rolled and mixed with one another as they passed in the smoked fumed sky. The minds of the average man and the common soldier differ drastically. Common sense is but a luxury and has no sense or meaning when it goes against orders. Back then, I was a soldier... Stalingrad 1943... the heart of the motherland was in the cancerous iron grip of the Nazi advance, the lifeblood of Russia slowly stemming with each day as more and more of the resilient troops of the Red Shock Army were shredded in swaths and salvos and merciless and relentless enemy fire. Pockets of resistance that had numbered in the thousands stuck behind the Nazi frontlines now had been whittled away to less than a hundred.
But the effectiveness of an army is recognised by quality, not quantity... only the skilled, the defiant, the impervious and the strong remained and I was proud to be a part of the resistance.
In the background, cutting through the din of the war in the distance, rolled one of the German's tanks, a Panzer, the backbone of their offense. Blaring through speakers was a mellow but heavy accent of some German officer, speaking in sloppy Russian requesting that any Red soldiers surrender immediately, offering incentives like hot food, warm beds and recognition of their honour and service to their country. These lies and empty promises did nothing but fuel the resistance, power their hate for the Nazi occupation.
As a child, I had been struck by a passing automobile of a rich civil servant in the Politburo, and my father had accepted his "sincere apologies" while he bought him drink after drink, powering my father's alcoholism. The incident injured my leg, and in my teens I was cursed with a bad limp. In peace-time, the recruiters would have laughed at my application, if not been insulted, but the casualties in the army numbered past one million men. I'd been overlooked during the conscription, and when I volunteered to join I was praised, promised parades and Party recognition of my service from the Politburo and Stalin himself.
I didn't believe a word of it, but knowing I was protecting my mother and sisters, and avenging that "one million men" was incentive enough.
But my injury meant I would not charge into heroic battle with my fellow comrades, I was restricted to the rear lines, as a sniper, a spotter for artillery and before the occupation of the city I was training in the use of radio. My sharpshooting skills were invaluable now; hiding in the shadows, creeping and circling potential targets; technicians, officers, generals and other marksmen. My kill count was far beyond my ability to add numbers. I was a symbol of Russian vengeance, defiance and strength.
For the past few days I had been hunting a Nazi general, a man responsible for "trial and execution" of any fool who surrendered or any poor devil who was caught. At one time, I had him in my scope but was too exposed to fire. As I looked through the scratched glass, I had seen into his eyes and witnessed the black heart of the Nazi's beat behind them, strong as ever. Every fibre in my body had yearned to pull the trigger, but I had slunk away to find a better position.
I missed my chance to put an end to his wretched life and now moved, limping through the shadows as I poked my head out into the street. Walls of rubble speared by rusting iron girders forced me to move left. I spotted what was once the Hotel Rykov on the corner of an intersection. As far as I knew it was empty, a perfect place to hole up for the night. I needed sleep, and if not that then rest. I was ill, cursed with a hacking winter's cough. By citizen standards, I was deathly ill. But by the standards of a Russian soldier... I could still squeeze the trigger, so I was in perfect health.
As I crept along the outside of an old bar I glanced up at the sign that hung over it and smiled as I remembered past memories of me fighting with friends inside this very building. Time seemed to stand still as the sign exploded in splinters above my head, my eyes widened.... It was happening so fast, no time to think... I barely felt it as instinct threw my body into the glass window of the bar into safety as another bullet buried into the brick wall outside.
I gasped, curling up before sitting and coughing in fright, a ringing in my ears. An enemy sniper hidden somewhere outside knew exactly where I was... trapped, like an animal. I sat for a moment to collect myself. An enemy sniper in my quarters, trespassing on my hunting grounds, I my breath slowed as the feeling of being under a latent threat subsided. While men feared the strafes of heavy machine guns and the combined fire of the German war-machine, sharpshooters only feared "that one bullet." That one bullet that stopped your heart, destroyed your brain, ended your life... I felt stupid. Normally my instinct could sense when my head was in the cross-hairs; locked in my memories had almost cost me my life. Overconfidence and the thought that I was an "easy kill" would cost him his...
I looked behind the bar to a staircase that ran behind the fragmented shelves, leading up to the tenants rooms and slowly made my way up. The corner of the room had been blown apart, tank shell most likely and gave me a very decent view of the nearest corner of the Hotel Rykov. Bits of wood, pieces of brick and layers of dust settled here, undisturbed by bullets, bombs and bodies for a few weeks at least.
I settled against the wall, peering out, shrouded by the darkness of the cloudy, Russian winter's day. A sniper must immediately uproot from his position if he misses his target, for fear of giving his position away, but only if he can move stealthily enough not to be spotted substituting his sniping position. This careless German moved sloppily.
** In the distance, I saw movement...** quick and purposeful, a shadow passing between one of the many broken windows on the fifth floor of the hotel. I'd found him, and now it was time to end him. I poked the barrel of my Mosin-Nagant rifle through the crumbling brickwork as I lay right behind the remnants one of the walls, watching the fifth floor.
He was armed with a sniper, but he was no marksman. Two attempts to kill a man stuck in a stupid reminiscence out in the open, and he had still missed his me. I felt insulted to be harassed by such an amateur.
My breathing was laboured, my breath misting and twisting around my scope with each exhalation, my eyes stinging slightly from the dust in this decrepit tenant quarters. The wooden back of a free-standing mirror burst into thousands of splinters, following the sharp crack of the sniper rifle across the street. I'd seen him, fifth floor, third window... he was simply blind firing, guessing, nothing more than a "pot-shot."
I watched the figure quickly move to the first window and steadied my rifle, waiting and watching for the moment to strike. I had to be quick and my breath caught in my throat as the helmet appeared from behind the windowsill.
I was sure it was a decoy, and revealing my position or letting my guard down was exactly what this amateur was hoping for. Eventually the helmet dropped out of site and I realised if I was going to end this I would have to make the first move. I reached blindly for a piece of brick on the floorboards, not keeping my eye off the window. In I split second, I used my trigger hand to launch the brick through the air outside, where it smacked off the door of a burst out metal skeleton of a car.
The bang of brick on metal split the air against the distant thud of explosions and sporadic chatter of machine-gun fire. The slapdash marksman spun into view aiming directly at the car, swinging his rifle to find me. With a smirk of satisfaction I fired, a clear cut snapping sound that bounced off walls and buildings.
I saw the figure reel backwards out of sight, painting broken pieces of window in a fluid blood red and I watched the building for a while, breathing slowly, my throat catching every now and again. With I sigh of relief and small coughing fit, I decided that while this room had a chunk of wall blown out of it and enough dust to suffocate someone, it would be easily overlooked by any passing patrols as a sanctuary for Russian soldiers. I slithered under the bed, pulling at my satchel for blankets and a cloth to filter dust, already planning my day tomorrow. The war would not last much longer. It couldn't. The German's, powerful as they were had swept across western Russia within weeks, and now were fighting for months in the heart of Stalingrad. Our struggle against them was taking its toll... it was only a matter of time before we started taking Russia back, city by city, building by building, metre by metre...
And I would fight, every inch of the way, stepping on my one good foot. I was a symbol of Russian vengeance, defiance and strength....