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Book: War of The Rats - A Novel of Stalingrad - [World War II 01] by David Robbins
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Authors: David Robbins
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alone. “Yuri Georgiovich Pankov.” He took Fyodor’s hand. “From Frunze in Kirghizia. I’m originally from Tashkent.”
“An Uzbek,” Fyodor recognized.
“A simple man.” Yuri tapped his chest. “No dreamer like you. I’ve spent my whole life wide awake.”
Tania looked at Yuri’s hand shake Fedya’s. His fingers were thick and powerful, with blunt nails. The knuckles were gnarled from labor. She guessed he had worked on one of the millions of Soviet collective farms. In Fedya’s smooth white grasp, Yuri’s calloused hand looked more like a tan bag of chestnuts than flesh.
“Well,” said Fedya, looking across the river at Stalingrad, “I’m awake now, I can tell you that.”
Yuri smiled at Tania. “And you, little tough one? Miss Sit-by-the-rail? You have a name?”
“Yes.” She wiped her hands on her trousers to clean off the bits of cheese. “Tania Alexeyevna Chernova.”
“And where are you from?”
Tania pursed her lips and hesitated. “New York.”
Yuri’s blue eyes popped wide. “New York, America?”
Fedya leaned over the cheese and bread. “New York City?”
“Yes,” she said in English.
Another bomb blasted ten meters from the port rail. Cold water cascaded. The bread and cheese in front of Tania were washed overboard. Near the bow, a soldier slumped and moaned.
Yuri and Fedya were distracted from their amazement at Tania. All the men on the deck fell silent save for the groaning soldier. His comrades slid aside to lay him down and cover him.
Fedya clutched the vodka bottle. He stood. Tania saw how large he was, with great shoulders and a midriff to match.
A kneeling Green Hat shouted, “Sit down, you!”
Fedya handed the guard the bottle.
“Here, give him this. Come on, man! Take it!”
The guard grabbed the bottle and threaded his way to the wounded soldier. Then Tania’s heart sank: she caught the whistle of an incoming artillery shell, the first one she’d heard in flight. She knew why.
“Down!” she screamed at Yuri and Fedya.
The three huddled together on the deck. The mortar shell struck directly amidships. The deck cracked open into great splinters and blew apart in a ball of flame and debris. The explosion deafened Tania. She flew backward, up and out into the flashing waters of the Volga.
* * * *
SIX
NIKKI TRAINED HIS HEAVY MACHINE GUN ON THE door way. He made sure the gun’s ammo belt was taut. He slid his hand along the broad, round barrel. It was colder than the Russian autumn.
He stared down the machine gun sight. It’s stupid to wait for the Russians to retreat, he thought. They won’t retreat. The Reds die in their holes. They’re not leaving this building. Neither are we.
He imagined himself pulling the trigger—saw Russians burst through the doorway, then twist and fall in front of his machine gun. They came, they leaped at him, he caught them with bullets, and they came, the bodies jamming the hall. The machine gun spit and spit, firing and roaring, mowing them down. And they kept pushing the bodies of their comrades out of the way to get to him. He let the trigger go and the gun kept firing on and on. He ran across the room, ran through the ruins. His unit ran after him, streaming out the windows, while here in this empty room the Reds kept running at the machine gun, falling in front of it, building the mound of dead, falling in front of it, falling . . .
“Mond. Corporal Mond.”
The voice pulled Nikki abruptly from his vision. Captain Mercker knelt beside him. He put his hand on Nikki’s right fist, clenching the grip. Nikki’s knuckles showed the white of bone.
“Easy, Corporal,” the captain said. “We’re all a little tense. Back it off a little.”
Nikki relaxed his hold and wiggled his fingers. The captain offered him a cigarette and a light.
“Mond, you were in the first group. Did you
“An Uzbek,” Fyodor recognized.
“A simple man.” Yuri tapped his chest. “No dreamer like you. I’ve spent my whole life wide awake.”
Tania looked at Yuri’s hand shake Fedya’s. His fingers were thick and powerful, with blunt nails. The knuckles were gnarled from labor. She guessed he had worked on one of the millions of Soviet collective farms. In Fedya’s smooth white grasp, Yuri’s calloused hand looked more like a tan bag of chestnuts than flesh.
“Well,” said Fedya, looking across the river at Stalingrad, “I’m awake now, I can tell you that.”
Yuri smiled at Tania. “And you, little tough one? Miss Sit-by-the-rail? You have a name?”
“Yes.” She wiped her hands on her trousers to clean off the bits of cheese. “Tania Alexeyevna Chernova.”
“And where are you from?”
Tania pursed her lips and hesitated. “New York.”
Yuri’s blue eyes popped wide. “New York, America?”
Fedya leaned over the cheese and bread. “New York City?”
“Yes,” she said in English.
Another bomb blasted ten meters from the port rail. Cold water cascaded. The bread and cheese in front of Tania were washed overboard. Near the bow, a soldier slumped and moaned.
Yuri and Fedya were distracted from their amazement at Tania. All the men on the deck fell silent save for the groaning soldier. His comrades slid aside to lay him down and cover him.
Fedya clutched the vodka bottle. He stood. Tania saw how large he was, with great shoulders and a midriff to match.
A kneeling Green Hat shouted, “Sit down, you!”
Fedya handed the guard the bottle.
“Here, give him this. Come on, man! Take it!”
The guard grabbed the bottle and threaded his way to the wounded soldier. Then Tania’s heart sank: she caught the whistle of an incoming artillery shell, the first one she’d heard in flight. She knew why.
“Down!” she screamed at Yuri and Fedya.
The three huddled together on the deck. The mortar shell struck directly amidships. The deck cracked open into great splinters and blew apart in a ball of flame and debris. The explosion deafened Tania. She flew backward, up and out into the flashing waters of the Volga.
* * * *
SIX
NIKKI TRAINED HIS HEAVY MACHINE GUN ON THE door way. He made sure the gun’s ammo belt was taut. He slid his hand along the broad, round barrel. It was colder than the Russian autumn.
He stared down the machine gun sight. It’s stupid to wait for the Russians to retreat, he thought. They won’t retreat. The Reds die in their holes. They’re not leaving this building. Neither are we.
He imagined himself pulling the trigger—saw Russians burst through the doorway, then twist and fall in front of his machine gun. They came, they leaped at him, he caught them with bullets, and they came, the bodies jamming the hall. The machine gun spit and spit, firing and roaring, mowing them down. And they kept pushing the bodies of their comrades out of the way to get to him. He let the trigger go and the gun kept firing on and on. He ran across the room, ran through the ruins. His unit ran after him, streaming out the windows, while here in this empty room the Reds kept running at the machine gun, falling in front of it, building the mound of dead, falling in front of it, falling . . .
“Mond. Corporal Mond.”
The voice pulled Nikki abruptly from his vision. Captain Mercker knelt beside him. He put his hand on Nikki’s right fist, clenching the grip. Nikki’s knuckles showed the white of bone.
“Easy, Corporal,” the captain said. “We’re all a little tense. Back it off a little.”
Nikki relaxed his hold and wiggled his fingers. The captain offered him a cigarette and a light.
“Mond, you were in the first group. Did you
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