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Red Moon:

Wolves of Stalingrad

Part 1

Franz Lehmann fired his scoped Kar 98k. The bullet went right where he intended it to go, into the chest of a lone Russian soldier that thought he could cross a wide street. The man fell, his momentum carrying him a few more feet until his face met the broken pavement where he would stay. Several more Russian soldiers ran by before Franz could chamber another round. They didn't even look down at their fallen comrade. Few did when it became common place for a sniper to pick off random people from half a mile away.

Franz watched the street for a few more minutes, missing two shots and hitting one more. His aim was not the best since he was not trained to be a sniper, but he was better than many of the others who had been. He found the gun on the remains of its previous owner near the Red October Factory, where he was missing half of his face. Now Franz took up the mantle of sniper and supported German soldiers as they tried to force the Russians over the Volga.

The Red Army only held onto a sliver of land on the west side of the river, but the industrial buildings created a natural defensive position. The few defenders fought with a ferocity that was stoked by their Commissars who threatened them with death if they turned back. Red October Factory was now a close quarter's hell-hole for most of the people there.

From his positon on the third story of a bombed out warehouse, Franz had a view of much of the carnage. He could see the river in the distance where Russians spilled into the city in anything that floated while machine guns and planes fired at them. They looked like ants to him, angry ants trying to defend their nest that was being kicked. Add enough fire and eventually the nest would just burn out. That was the hope, keep hitting them over and over again until there was nothing left to defend.

Another Russian poked his head out from behind a building, looking to see if it was clear. Franz immediately aimed and fired. The bullet hit the wall next to the man's head, inches away from killing him. Not close enough. The man ducked back behind cover where he would stay. The close call was enough to convince him to wait until nightfall where Franz would be next to useless.

"Shit." Franz breathed out. He didn't chamber the next round, instead he stepped back from his perch that was made up of the rubble of the collapsed ceiling. He rubbed his closed, bloodshot eyelids. He had been there since before the sun had risen and now it was well on its way down. He would call it a day, a rather successful day. Six kills, one of which was an officer. He would have rather have made it seven, but a miss was a miss.

Slowly, he walked down a makeshift set of stairs and went to leave the abandoned building. The warehouse was out of the way and strategically unimportant to taking the city so Franz didn't have to worry about being accidently stumbled upon by a passing patrol. His route back to his barracks was another story. He had to cross heavily contested grounds that often changed hands hourly. It was currently in the hands of the Russians who were using a captured Panzer as a pillbox, using its still working machine gun to fire a constant stream of lead down a street that Franz had to cross.

Several German soldiers hunkered down in a trench that had somehow been dug right into the street. They periodically fired back, but kept their heads down while the bullets pepped the ground above them. The machine gun chewed through ammunition fast enough that it was only a temporary annoyance. Once the tank ran out of, the German's would launch a counter attack to take the building that was behind the tank for the third time that day.

Franz stopped at the side of the street and waited while the Russians wasted their bullets of targets that weren't stupid enough to peak up long enough to get shot. At this point, everyone knew the basic rules of combat. Those who didn't quickly died.

One of the soldiers looked up from the trench. His helmet stained with mud and specks of blood, matching his once grey uniform. He spied the scope on Franz's rifle. "Hey you?" He pointed at Franz.

"What?" He replied annoyed, knowing fully well that they were going to ask him to help them out when they attacked the building. A sniper was a valuable commodity. While a soldier could stand in the face of a full out assault where the enemy was clearly visible, the kept their heads down when a sniper was picking them off. People didn't like dying unexpectedly.

"You don't mind helping us out?" The other soldiers around the man nodded in agreement and looked at Franz with some form of perverse hope.

Franz really didn't want to, but if he refused then he was damning a good lot of them. His skills with the rifle and scope would guarantee that a few extra soldiers who had fought alongside him for months would be able to rest their heads on a pillow for the night. "Okay." He finally agreed and settled down where he was and waited.

It didn't take long for the machinegun to stop firing. The hood of the tank popped open and two Russians scrambled to get out of their now defunct death machine. Franz shot one right in the head as he began to clamber off the side while the other one was ripped to shreds from the hail of bullets that came from the other Germans.

Faster than Franz could realize, the street was engulfed in even more bullets at German's swelled out of the buildings and the trenches and rushed forward though a stream of new gun fire. Many fell in seconds and Franz quickly took up a prone position, using his muddy poncho as camouflage as he scanned the surrounding buildings for muzzle flashes. He fired mechanically at Russians. He did so until, just as fast as it had started, the gun fire stopped.

Looking up from his scope, Franz saw as the red, white and black Nazi flag was draped out of a window on the second story by two cheerful Germans who began to sing.

Franz scowled at their behavior. They must have been replacements who still thought that war was glorious. It was nothing but that, and the narrow street that they had just charged up was proof of that. Cries and moans of agony slowly rose from those who were unfortunate enough not to be given a quick death. The injured, both German and Russian laid among the bodies of nearly fifty soldiers.

Walking up to the nearest set of groans, Franz came up to the soldier who had asked him for his help. He was clutching at what remained of his left leg. A bullet had entered his upper thigh, shattering the bone before exiting, leaving a gory mess that needed immediate attention.

Kneeling down next to him, Franz pulled out his emergency aid kit that he had been saving for himself. The man needed it more.

With slow and precise movements that had served him well enough when sniping, Franz bandaged up the leg tightly. He ignored the screams of the man who fought off the urge to punch the man who was saving his life.

The bleeding stopped when the last knot in the bandages were tied off and the screams ceased and turned into heavy panting as the wounded man continued to clutch his leg. He looked up at the sniper, recognizing him and gave a quick nod of appreciation for helping, both for the medical aid and for sticking around. He had seen how he shot several people who had been aiming at him and knew that without the sniper he would have been dead, not simply losing a leg.

Franz stayed with the man until medics arrived in stretchers that were permanently stained red with the blood of those who rode on it before. As they man was lifted onto the stretcher, a gunshot rang out. No one even flinched at the sound because a lone gunshot right after the battle was common. Neither side could care for the enemy wounded and could not risk them crawling away either. A bullet to the head killed them quickly and silenced any pleas for mercy.

Several more quick pops from a luger that the officer in charge of the area quickly faded as the last of the Russian wounded were disposed of. No one said anything if they had any objections. Medicine was beyond valuable and it was needed to care for those who hadn't just been shooting at you.

With his job done in the area, Franz quickly left before the Russians launched a counter attack to take the building back. It was too important to simple leave in the hands of the enemy since it overlooked the main part of the factory. When the German's held it, they could call in artillery strikes right on top of Russian positions with deadly accuracy. When the Russians held it, they were given a relatively strong defensive position that kept the Germans out of the heart of the factory. It would continue to be a heavily contested area for several weeks.

The way back to the barracks was rather dull as Franz clambered through more destroyed buildings and ran across crater ridden streets. He moved fast since Stalingrad was a sniper's playground. There were so many places for a lone gunman to hide in and pick off people like Franz had been doing. Everyone only went into the open when they had to. Most streets had trenches that were dug out by shovel to let people pass through without being exposed and those that didn't have trenches were left like that because snipers killed anyone who began to dig.

The barracks were a series of basements that had been connected through tunnels that were once used by the Russians, but now they served the German army. It was well insulated and surprisingly complex which allowed for the easy movement of soldiers to and fro. There was also a makeshift hospital for the wounded, a radio station and an armory. It had served the Russians well, allowing them to keep most of their soldiers out of the artillery that bombarded the city daily and it was theorized among the generals that used the system as well that there were many more systems of connected basements all across the city.

Franz found it cozy though the smell of hundreds of unwashed bodies had a hard time escaping. He had grown as used to it as possible since he had been fighting alongside nearly everyone there since the beginning of the war. He had been there during the final stages of France and now he was here in Stalingrad where the fighting was now the bloodiest in the war. Thousands died on a daily basis, but Franz felt honored to be there, with what he truly believed to be the best in the entire German army for they had been tasked with taking Stalingrad, the city that held the name of the Soviet dictator. He did admit that fighting in Africa under the Desert Fox as the Allies referred to Rommel would be better. Russians were nothing like the British. The British were more likely to offer a cup of tea rather than a bullet.

Nodding to the sentry who stood guard outside of a baker's shop that had its windows blown out and bread long gone, Franz walked down the stairs into the basement network. Lights hung low from the ceiling on thin wires that snaked their way to a diesel generator that sat above ground due to the exhaust. It gave off a low light that was almost comforting if it wasn't so dusty all of the time from the dirt and plaster that fell with each bomb or artillery shell that exploded nearby.

Weaving his way through the narrow tunnels that were congested with people, supplies and even a dog that someone was playing fetch with, Franz entered a large concrete room that was located underneath a large factory building that had completely collapsed. Rows of beds and sleeping bags lined the walls in rows. People weren't assigned any particular bed since people came and went randomly to go about their business. Stalingrad was different than many battlefield in that aspect. The only standing orders that the average soldier had was to kill the enemy. Occasionally an officer would take volunteers for an assault, but other than that, many soldiers picked a spot where they could do some good and went there each day. That was what Franz had been doing, he spent all day at the warehouse, terrorizing anyone not in a German uniform, and then returning here. It was a monotonous cycle, but it was one that worked for him and kept him away from the bloodiest of battles.

Franz walked over to one of the empty beds and sat down on it. He was exhausted and wanted nothing other than to just sleep the whole day off.

The bed next to his had a few soldiers playing cards on it and they were discussing the day.

"I heard that the Russians are mobilizing a massive army across the river." A blonde haired man in his late forties spoke up as he looked over his cards and frowned at his horrible hand.

"Let them come." A short and stout man said. "We'll kick their asses right back into Siberia if they think about continuing to reinforce their meager hold in this city." He thought about betting some money to boost his confidence despite having the worst hand he had seen in their entire game session. He went ahead and put down five marks and the blonde hair man folded.

"I'm not worried about Russians at the moment." A younger lad said now that it was his turn to either match the bet or fold. "I hear a pack of wolves has moved into the city and are now picking off some of the outer patrols." He laid down five marks to match the bet but did not raise it any.

Franz laid down, resting his head on the flat pillow and kicked up his feet onto the bed without taking off his boots. He hadn't taken off his boots in several days since his feet had remain dry and he didn't want to lose them. Supply convoys were being harassed by the Russian air force and there was a shortage on footwear that left some with rags for shoes. He closed his eyes, but listened in on the friendly banter.

"Wolves?" The short man snorted. "You're afraid of wolves? You need to get your priorities straight." He looked down at his cards on more time. He could bet one more time and hope to bluff his way to a win. With five more marks, the man took his stand, hoping that the young kid had a worse hand or like his impression of his courage, would falter and fold.

"I hear they're big ones." The kid tried to defend himself while quickly matching the bet without batting an eye. "Like really big, larger than a man." He threw his arms up and out to show them.

"They're just animals looking for food in this desolate land." The blonde man rested his chin on his elbow and watched the game slowly unfold as the short man and the boy showed their hands. The boy won easily with a full house, beating the short man's random assortment of numbered cards.

"Fuck this game." The short man grumbled and let the boy take his winnings that would just sit in his pocket since there was nothing to spend his money on. "And if there are wolves, then they shouldn't be too hard to take care of no matter how big they are. They will go down just as fast as anything else with enough bullets."

"They've been killing patrols." The kid pointed out and stuffed the marks into his shirt pocket. He stood up and reached for his helmet that had a large dent in it where it had saved his life from a stray bullet. "If they can do that, then..." He stopped thinking about what would happen if he came across one of the wolves.

"You said it was a rumor." The stout man reminded him and he too got up. He already had a helmet on and his MP44 was strapped to his back.

"A rumor has to start somewhere." The blonde man said. He remained seated, he didn't have to go on a patrol unlike his two friends.

"Yeah yeah." The short man rolled his eyes and checked his pockets, making sure he had a few extra ammunition clips. The logistics of the siege of the city were in disarray and it was impossible to know exactly where the enemy was. Patrols often ran into the enemy far behind the front lines and it was better to be safe than sorry. "Be back in a few hours and then I'll win my money back."

"You wish." The kid nudged the short man with the butt of his Gewher 41. "You're going to make me rich by the end of the war." He laughed and the other two joined in. The short man was by far the worst card player of them, but his higher rank gave him the ability to suffer higher betting losses than the others.

"We should go out and find these wolves." It was the last thing Franz heard before the two wandered out of earshot. His curiosity was piqued by the thought of having wolves wandering around the battlefield. The thought of going out for a hunt while on a patrol himself was enticing. He had never seen one before and he imagined that a pet would go nicely with his ragged uniform. The thought of having a wolf's head as a hat, much like the romans brought a smile to his face. It wasn't likely to happen, but why the hell not.