head. “Anything moves, anything makes a noise, I want to kill it. If I live through the stinking war, I’ll be ruined as a civilian. Any time somebody drops a plate, I’ll dive under the table.”
He must’ve had a wide streak of that before the war started. He wouldn’t have made such a good point man if he hadn’t. “You don’t shoot any fucking thing that moves, you don’t dive for cover when anybody farts, you won’t need to worry about living through this cunt of a war,” Kuchkov said. He was surprised he’d lasted as long as he had.
They tramped on. It started to snow, which cut visibility. Kuchkov hung on tight to his submachine gun. If they stumbled over the Nazis, he’d need to spray death around as fast as he could. The rest of the guys in the patrol, except for Davidov, carried rifles. A rifle could kill people out much farther than a PPD could. But so what, when you had to trip over the Hitlerites before you know they were there?
The wind blew harder. The noise it made would also mask approaching enemies. Ivan had to remind himself it would also mask his approach from the Germans.
Sasha Davidov suddenly stopped short. He waved one mittened hand behind him, so no one in the direction he was going could see the motion. Then he flattened out in the snow.
Kuchkov flopped down, too. He was on his belly before he had any notion how he’d got there. The other Red Army men went down, too. They might have been a fraction slower, but no more than a fraction. The really slow fools, the really stupid ones, died fast. Kuchkov had never heard of Charles Darwin, which didn’t mean natural selection failed to operate on the battlefield.
For several breaths, Kuchkov saw nothing through the swirling snow. Was Sasha imagining shit again? Every so often, he did. It was the price you paid for having somebody out front who wouldn’t miss any of the trouble that really was there.
But no. It wasn’t imaginary this time. Out of the snow came a Nazi patrol. They were close enough that Kuchkov had no doubt who they were. Their helmets might be whitewashed, but no one would ever mistake one of those coal scuttles for a Red Army pot. The Fritzes even walked differently from Russians. Ivan couldn’t have said how, but they did.
The wind blew their words his way. German was just ugly noise to him. The Russian word for Germans, Nemtsi , meant something like babblers . But their tone was the same as his would have been: halfway between resigned and nervous. They peered around, looking for Red Army men … but not spotting any.
Pilots always said the trick in aerial combat was getting close before you opened up. Then you couldn’t miss, and the other bastard never had a prayer. It didn’t always work like that on the ground. You had to respect machine guns. Try and close with them and you’d end up dinner for crows and foxes. Here, though …
Kuchkov’s PPD already pointed in the right direction. He squeezed off a short burst, then another and another. The PPD pulled high and to the right if you just let it rip. The other Russian soldiers opened up, too.
Down went the Fritzes, tumbling like ninepins. Their dying shrieks rang through the stuttering thunder of gunfire. One of the Germans wasn’t dead, though. He’d lain down in the snow and was shooting back. Finely machined Schmeissers didn’t always like the cold. They’d freeze up when a German needed them most. Not this one, though. Maybe the guy used Russian gun oil.
Whatever he used, it didn’t help him long. The Red Army soldiers spread out and went after him, staying as low as they could. He soon lay bleeding and lifeless like his buddies.
Sasha looked worriedly toward the west. Would the racket from the firefight draw more Nazis? Kuchkov was worried about that, too, but he also had other things on his mind. He bent down by a dead Fritz and fumbled through his belt pouches. “Fuck me!” he said in delight. The German had not one, not two, but
He must’ve had a wide streak of that before the war started. He wouldn’t have made such a good point man if he hadn’t. “You don’t shoot any fucking thing that moves, you don’t dive for cover when anybody farts, you won’t need to worry about living through this cunt of a war,” Kuchkov said. He was surprised he’d lasted as long as he had.
They tramped on. It started to snow, which cut visibility. Kuchkov hung on tight to his submachine gun. If they stumbled over the Nazis, he’d need to spray death around as fast as he could. The rest of the guys in the patrol, except for Davidov, carried rifles. A rifle could kill people out much farther than a PPD could. But so what, when you had to trip over the Hitlerites before you know they were there?
The wind blew harder. The noise it made would also mask approaching enemies. Ivan had to remind himself it would also mask his approach from the Germans.
Sasha Davidov suddenly stopped short. He waved one mittened hand behind him, so no one in the direction he was going could see the motion. Then he flattened out in the snow.
Kuchkov flopped down, too. He was on his belly before he had any notion how he’d got there. The other Red Army men went down, too. They might have been a fraction slower, but no more than a fraction. The really slow fools, the really stupid ones, died fast. Kuchkov had never heard of Charles Darwin, which didn’t mean natural selection failed to operate on the battlefield.
For several breaths, Kuchkov saw nothing through the swirling snow. Was Sasha imagining shit again? Every so often, he did. It was the price you paid for having somebody out front who wouldn’t miss any of the trouble that really was there.
But no. It wasn’t imaginary this time. Out of the snow came a Nazi patrol. They were close enough that Kuchkov had no doubt who they were. Their helmets might be whitewashed, but no one would ever mistake one of those coal scuttles for a Red Army pot. The Fritzes even walked differently from Russians. Ivan couldn’t have said how, but they did.
The wind blew their words his way. German was just ugly noise to him. The Russian word for Germans, Nemtsi , meant something like babblers . But their tone was the same as his would have been: halfway between resigned and nervous. They peered around, looking for Red Army men … but not spotting any.
Pilots always said the trick in aerial combat was getting close before you opened up. Then you couldn’t miss, and the other bastard never had a prayer. It didn’t always work like that on the ground. You had to respect machine guns. Try and close with them and you’d end up dinner for crows and foxes. Here, though …
Kuchkov’s PPD already pointed in the right direction. He squeezed off a short burst, then another and another. The PPD pulled high and to the right if you just let it rip. The other Russian soldiers opened up, too.
Down went the Fritzes, tumbling like ninepins. Their dying shrieks rang through the stuttering thunder of gunfire. One of the Germans wasn’t dead, though. He’d lain down in the snow and was shooting back. Finely machined Schmeissers didn’t always like the cold. They’d freeze up when a German needed them most. Not this one, though. Maybe the guy used Russian gun oil.
Whatever he used, it didn’t help him long. The Red Army soldiers spread out and went after him, staying as low as they could. He soon lay bleeding and lifeless like his buddies.
Sasha looked worriedly toward the west. Would the racket from the firefight draw more Nazis? Kuchkov was worried about that, too, but he also had other things on his mind. He bent down by a dead Fritz and fumbled through his belt pouches. “Fuck me!” he said in delight. The German had not one, not two, but
Similar Books
