Author's Note: All properties are the rights of their respective owners, Sledgehammer, Activision, LucasArts Games, etc.
It's time to go to school at the Stalingrad Academy of Streetfighting.
Guest: Well, you're gonna get a part of what you asked for coming right up. As for the flashbacks that are left after this, that's a tougher one. I have plans, but I can't say they exactly match up with what you suggest. For Polina, the reason is that they're farther off and they aren't finalized, part of it is timelines, history, etc. Lucas is in an even more precarious position because Tobruk and, especially, El Alamein were battles that 'starred' armor and artillery, infantry didn't play a serious part. I simply wouldn't know how to do it in a way that stars Lucas. Also, he's a supporting character, he plays a combat role, does some comic relief, but he's not one of the main characters. If there are people who want a Lucas chapter I can give it another look, but I'm not planning one at this point.
The title of this chapter is the codename for the German strategic offensive into southern Russia, with the objective of taking the oil fields in the Caucasus. On the road to those oil fields, the Heers Army Group South had to get through a city on the Volga river named Stalingrad. Incredibly, from a historic perspective, I don't view this chapter as much of a pain to write. The historical inaccuracies of the first Stalingrad mission are almost all ones that I think were made for gameplay reasons. Without those constraints I can arrange those events a bit more reasonably, so with that in mind, let me know if I was right or not.
The Devil's Company
Chapter 5: Case Blue
Royal Air Force Station Castletown
Caithness, Scotland
0926 Hours, January 1, 1945
"Howdy Master Guns," Curtis drawled at the sight of the NCO in charge. Unlike seemingly everyone else on the base, the mustached Scottsman by the name of Keith was awake, and in good spirits, lacking the hangover that was seemingly made standard issue the previous night. The Pilots and Commandoes, with a week until they departed for Operation Vanguard, had been given permission to head off base for New Years Eve and thoroughly made the most of it, coincidentally making the barkeeps of surrounding towns a fair chunk o' change. "I heard you got something for me."
"That's right boyo," returned the Scotsman as he produced a parcel, "One of the Yanks from the OSS dropped this off. I admit, I've never seen one like this before."
"Because last I heard at Quantico, it was just finishing testing," replied the Marine pilot as he wrapped a hand around what had been an M1A1 'Paratrooper' Carbine, but had been modified with a T17 conversion kit, giving the formerly semi-automatic weapon a select fire lever and full auto capability. When Wright heard the mission he was going on, he'd decided to try and get a hold of a bit more firepower for his time on the ground. With it's 30 rounds of .30 carbine and a 750 rpm cyclic rate, the modified Carbine would certainly do the trick, and its folding wire stock meant it was compact enough to keep in his Corsair's cockpit during missions. "Got any ammo for her?" Doyle nodded, "Can I take some out to the range? I wanna get a feel for this baby."
"Not at all mate, not at all," answered the NCO as he stood from his stool, stopping by one of the shelves to pull out a handful of magazines and lead Wright to the door. Once outside, the ear-piercing crack of a rifle report cut through the morning air. "The only other one out here is the Russian." Wright quirked an eyebrow at that, recalling the few interactions with the Sniper at the O club back before Christmas. It appeared that Doyle saw the look on the Marine's face, "I wouldn't mate, best just leave her alone. She always comes to the range when it's empty and I gather she prefers it that way."
"I wasn't thinking anything like that," assured Wright, "Besides, I'd hate to break the heart of the lovely lady I met last night." His Marine uniform, standing out is it often did, had helped ensure he hadn't welcomed the new year of 1945 alone, and as much as he would have enjoyed spending the rest of the night at the pub with the other Battlehawks, he had to admit to himself that the lack of a hangover was a nice bonus.
That comment still resulted in Doyle shaking his head, "You damn Yanks. Over paid, over sexed, and over here," grumbled the Scottsman as he set down the magazines at one of the stations.
"You're just sore that you're under paid, under sexed, and under Eisenhower!" retorted Wright. Rolling his eyes, Doyle turned and left the Marine with a less than kind gesture, prompting Curtis to add, "And I'm not a Yankee! I'm from Missouri!"
Left alone at the 100 yard range, the Marine inserted the first 15 round magazine and unfolded the wire stock before taking aim. Peering through the ring sight, Curtis began sending .30 caliber slugs down range at the few paper targets set out, plinking away as he chewed his way through most of the ammo the Scotsman had given him. Finally satisfied with his marksmanship, especially since he hadn't fired a rifle since basic in '42, Wright decided to have a little fun as he put in his second to last loaded magazine. With a flick of his thumb, Curtis put the weapon into full-auto and took aim. With a firm squeeze of the trigger, Wright felt the gun press back into his shoulder, the muzzle quickly rising in the fraction of a second he depressed the trigger, during which the gun had emptied a third of its magazine. "Nice," said Wright with a grin, "Very nice," he said before going back to shooting, firing two more bursts to finish off the magazine. "Probably worth going through the trouble of loading the thirty rounders." Just to confirm that, Wright swapped magazines for his last loaded one and raised the rifle, dumping all fifteen rounds with on pull of the trigger, in a move that took barely more than a full second.
Letting out a low whistle, Wright checked that the gun was clear before collecting his spent magazines and heading back into the armory. "So boyo, how is it?" asked Doyle as Wright turned the Carbine back in with a grin on his face.
"Shoots real smooth. I'll definitely be taking her with me when we head out," replied the Marine Aviator. Noting that the range was still practically empty, and knowing he wasn't scheduled to do any flying that day, Wright asked, "You got any .45 I can go hit the pistol range with?"
"Sure do," answered Doyle, pulling out a satchel and passing it to Wright, who confirmed it held magazines for the M1911A1 on his hip. "Head out that door, follow the path over the hill for the pistol range, can't miss it."
"Mighty kind of ya," drawled back Curtis, slinging the satchel over his shoulder and heading out the indicated door, ambling through the chilly morning air. The serene scene was shattered by the report of a gun, only this time it wasn't the deep reverberating crack of a rifle but the staccato snap of a handgun. Coming over the hill, Wright was surprised by the source of that pistol fire, because a slight brunette woman was standing at Station 1, slowly sending out rounds from her handgun. Drawing closer, Curtis saw it was the Russian, clearly less comfortable than with her scoped rifle. "Morning Ms. Petrova," he greeted, startling her as she spun to face him, nearly shooting him on the spot. "Woah there, didn't mean to startle you," he said, offering her his most charming smile, "Just wanted to get a little practice in." Setting the bag down and drawing his forty-five, Curtis noticed Polina's glare but paid no heed. "You celebrate any last night?" he asked, racking the slide to chamber the first round.
The woman inserted a new magazine into her pistol and scowled at Wright before dropping the slide, "I did not come here to 'celebrate' and will not until the fascists have paid for what they did to my home," she declared with a surprising amount of fire in her words before softly adding, "To me."
"I understand," answered Wright, taking aim and firing a pair of shots, nodding in satisfaction at the two neat holes punched in the center of his target. "Over here, they tell us in the propaganda reels that you Soviets got hit pretty hard," he mused, firing a few more shots before asking, "You mind telling me where you're from, exactly?"
"Stalingrad."
Petrova Family Residence
Stalingrad, USSR
0742 Hours, August 23, 1942
Bursting through the door of the family apartment, Serzhánt Polina Petrova of the 511th Medical/Sanitation Battalion, 399th Rifle Division, asked, "Papa, have you seen my…" before she saw what she was looking for. "Again?" she said with a sigh as her eyes fell on her armband, bearing the red cross insignia that marked her role as a nurse. Polina also saw why it wasn't where she had left it, because her father, Boris Petrov, had decided to use the band of fabric to oil his prized Mosin-Nagant rifle, gifted to him upon his retirement as an instructor for a Sniper School. Ignoring her father's somber expression, Polina snatched up the soiled fabric and began to hastily tie it about her arm. "You persuade me to wear this," she hissed, "And then taunt me by using it to clean the same rifle you taught me to shoot with?"
With a slight scowl, Polina refocused her attention on the armband, never able to get a handle on the correct knot, and not helped by the grease that caused the fabric to bunch up. After a few seconds of struggle, and calm, soothing voice spoke, "Stop, stop," insisted her father as he stood, grasping the ends with his scarred hands, reminders of his experiences in the Czars Army during the Great War and then in the October Revolution. "Don't be in a rush to fight, daughter. Glory is worth nothing… when you are dead," he cautioned, a smile lifting his beard as he looked down at Polina.
The nurse was far from convinced, "But this fight… it matters," she insisted hotly.
"You matter, Polina," insisted her father as he rested his hands on her shoulders, slowly squaring her up to him, "You and Misha… are all I have left. I have fought for my country, and I have fought for a cause, but I wouldn't fight for either of those again. There will always be fights, little one, fight in the ones that affect those you care about."
Her temper somewhat cooled, Polina nodded and let out a breath as her father's hands fell from her shoulders and she asked, "When do you leave the city?"
A slight snort and faint smile emanated from the older man, "You know as well as I that there will be no evacuation, even for me." The scowl returned to Polina's face before her father's smile grew, "I have faced these Germans once before daughter, they do not frighten me," but his daughter could tell the boast did not reach his eyes. "I will be here, with you and Misha."
"Special delivery!" called a voice through the door, and Polina had to resist the urge to roll her eyes. Misha Petrov certainly had many talents, a natural leader, outgoing, and inspiring, he had led a construction crew before the war, and was an electrician of no small talent. It was due to that skill set he had been tasked to aid in the construction of defenses for the city and was now aiding in the formation of a group of civilian militia from those who also called Stalingrad home.
"Speak of the devil…" mumbled Polina as she turned to the door, placing a hand on it when she felt a tug on her uniform.
"Hey, be nice," her father chastised.
"I'm always nice!" she insisted with a slight smile and exaggerated extension of her arms, causing her father to shake her head step back so she could open the door and great her older brother. "Misha!" she greeted as she saw her brother on the other side of the door, hefting a milk crate it seemed, bottles clanking inside as he entered the apartment and set the box down on the table.
"Sister, father!" he exclaimed happily, immediately plucking up a biscuit from the plate on the table and taking a bite. "So good to see you both!" declared the Partisan through his food.
"Misha, mind your manners," sniped Polina as she followed her father back to the table, shaking her head at the glance Boris sent her way and took her own seat beside her father.
"What do you have there, son? Empty bottles?" asked the patriarch, turning his attention back to his scoped rifle.
"I'm training fresh partisans," answered Misha as he scarfed down more of his purloined biscuit.
Their father's head fell back and he let out a deep laugh, "Our comrades already know how to drink!"
Polina allowed herself a small smile, it was something she had already seen firsthand in the medical tents. "This will not be filled with vodka papa, they will be filled with petrol and used as firebombs."
"Is it wise to give explosives to civilians?" asked their father, a hint of concern in his words.
"Papasha, you worry too much," replied Misha with a dismissive wave of the hand.
Polina couldn't help but shake her head, "Just do take care that I see neither you or your partisans in my medical tent. My hand may just slip when I am using a scalpel on you."
"Polina," addressed her father sternly, and the nurse grimaced, but did not fight him over this, not at the table, instead picking up the pot of tea and pouring cups for the three of them. "Now sit, son," he instructed.
Misha tried, in vain, to argue. "But I will be late to…."
"Sit!" snapped the former sniper, and Misha took his place across from Polina. "Now," said Boris with a kindly smile, "Isn't this nice? A real family breakfast."
The two siblings exchanged a look while Polina passed her father and brother their tea and raised her own cup. "Bombs and bullets, best way to start the day," she deadpanned.
Raising their own cups, the two men smiled before, it seemed, Misha decided to ruin the moment. Setting his cup down, the Militia leader turned to their father and said, "You know, you're going to get yourself killed having that old rifle in the house, papasha."
Boris threw his bearded head back and let out a bellowing belly laugh, "Now who's worried too much? Do you forget who taught you to shoot? Nyet, you do not. Remember, that of us three, I have killed more Germans than you two put together." His smile quickly faded, and he set the scoped rifle aside before turning to his children, reaching out to take one of their hands in each of his own. Polina resisted the urge to frown as she set her smaller hand in her father's bigger paw, Boris Petrov was not a man known for his sentimentality, and to see so much of it now made her uneasy. "I understand your desire to fight, I felt it myself, many… many years ago. But what matters is not glory or medals, it is those who are closest to you. Promise me, both of you, that you will look out for each other."
"Of course, papasha," replied Misha with an easygoing smile, "I will make sure no man gets any ideas about my dear sister… assuming they want to after experiencing her bedside manner!" he quipped.
The Nurse noticed something in her father's eyes as she met them, a firmness, no, a certain steel in his gaze that she had never seen before. "Da, father. I will take care of Misha," she promised, feeling her father squeeze her hand.
"Blyat!" snapped Misha as he shot to his feet, eyes staring at the clock on the wall. "I need to run. They're waiting for me!" he called as he bolted for the door.
"Wait, Misha!" shouted Polina, "Your… box," she finished lamely as the door closed behind him. Shaking her head, Polina turned to her father and said, "I swear, he would forget to keep his own head screwed on without us."
Her father nodded, smiling faintly, "We truly are saints."
"It looks like I will be taking care of Misha now," sighed Polina as she finished her cup of tea and got to her feet, picking up her brother's crate.
On her way to the door, Polina was stopped by her father, "You help your country more than you know," he assured as he opened the door for her, "And you make your old man proud."
"Spasibo, papa," she replied before leaving her family abode in pursuit of her scatterbrained brother before she herself reported to the medical tents, undoubtedly for another boring day taking inventory.
Royal Air Force Station Castletown
Caithness, Scotland
1002 Hours, January 1, 1945
Polina was surprised how much telling this American about her family brought back emotions she had long kept suppressed. She was also surprised at his response, a faint, almost knowing smile crept upon the Marine's face, "Your folks sound nice, Miss Petrova," he answered in his odd twang, "Your brother reminds me of mine." Raising an eyebrow, Polina then turned back to her shooting, raising her Tokarev pistol and squeezing off a pair of shots. "You mind if I ask you another question?" intoned the American, and Polina sent him a hard glare, hoping that would convey her answer. Alas, it did not. "Who taught you to shoot?"
"My father first taught me to use a rifle at age 14," she answered, turning to cast a hard stare at Wright.
"And who taught you to shoot a pistol?" he asked, and Petrova's expression fell as she shrunk at the question. "Well my old man taught me to shoot a pistol. And I used to love plinking with them when I was a kid, still do." Then, in a single smooth motion, the Marine extended the arm with his handgun and fired, putting shots down range with surprising rapidity until the slide locked back, the gun empty. Any thought Polina had about his lacking accuracy was dispelled when she looked to see the center of the paper targets head carved through by the salvo of slugs. "Got pretty good at it too," he said with more than a hint of cockiness. "You want some help?"
Polina grimaced, her pride dueling with her desire to learn before the latter won out and she nodded briefly. "Well first off, don't take your finger off between shots, same thing with your grip, that's not a rifle you have to cycle." The Soviet Sniper turned to look at the Marine, who had a small smirk on his face, "Don't give me that look, I've been watching you do it. Use your off hand if you have to, hold that gun steady and force your finger to stay on the trigger."
With a low growl, Polina took aim, using both hands like the American had suggested as she squeezed off a shot, watching a new hole appear in the target's head. "Again!" shouted Wright suddenly, and Petrova snapped off another shot, this one flying errantly, but still would have taken off the target's ear. "Not bad, you gotta get used to the pace of an automatic. Still, deadliest nurse I've ever met."
Polina couldn't totally suppress a frown, "I was not a nurse for very long."
½ Kilometer East of Red Square
Stalingrad, USSR
0756 Hours, August 23, 1942
Walking up behind her brother as he was engrossed in a lively conversation with a pair of Red Army guards, Polina set down the crate of bottles, the glass clanking together loud enough to interrupt them. "Forget something?" asked the nurse dryly.
Her brother, taken off guard, stared blankly at her before his eyes drifted down to the crate and then went wide. "You're a life saver," he said with a smile before bending over to pick up the crate, "I will see you at dinner tonight?"
"Unless I have to stay late stitching you back together," deadpanned Polina, drawing a laugh from her brother as he turned back up the road and made for the post office. Gathering her bearings, the Red Army Nurse peered through the throng of vehicles and men clogging the streets of Red Square, and decided to reach her post another way. Spotting a ladder, the woman ascended to the rooftops of the city, having spent many days galivanting about the city as it was built up. Cutting through apartment buildings and crossing over shops, Polina took in her home city, greeting fellow residents she knew well, and taking in the unease that permeated the entire city, despite everyone's best efforts to put up a front of normalcy. Everyone knew that the Fascist Army grew closer with each passing day, their airplanes were the ones that passed by overhead, because the explosions always came from the direction of the Volga River, despite the radio broadcasts claims. Untold thousands of troops had arrived to defend the city, clogging the streets with their tanks and trucks, units that lacked such vehicles had their supplies dragged in on carts behind horses or mules. Rooftops that could support them had anti-aircraft guns placed upon them, often as not manned by women as they scanned the skies for any signs of an air raid.
Descending from the rooftops into Red Square, Polina took in the sight of a massive camp erected by the Red Army, tents covering every bit of ground where they could fit, vehicles fitting in what little space was left. Working her way down to the cobblestone streets and moving towards the Department Store, Polina walked past a pair of parked tanks, each had a man standing atop the turret, shouting angrily ahead of them. Their words were unintelligible over the drumming of diesel engines, but Petrova could see the source of the bottleneck at the main thoroughfare through the camp, a truck towing an artillery piece had broken down, blocking the narrow path completely. As a result, the Nurse had to duck off the main path and weave through the numerous tents towards the one emblazoned with the same symbol as her oil smudged armband.
Waiting for Petrova was the officer in charge of her section, the older woman having her ever present curls, clipboard in hand, and cigarette in her mouth. "Polina, good morning," greeted the older woman as she gave Petrova a once over, "You spent the night at home again I see," she said, gesturing towards Polina's armband. Straightening, Petrova only rolled her eyes a little, waiting for her assignment, "I may have to refer you to the doctor so he can prescribe you some vodka to help that sense of humor you seem to be missing."
Before Polina could reply, something changed, even if the nurse couldn't immediately tell what that was. Peering past her superior, Petrova saw that she was not the only one to notice something amiss, as other soldiers looked around, and even the officer addressing Polina became distracted. That was when Petrova heard a faint whine, high pitched and grating, but distant, and unlike anything she had heard, but before she could figure out what it was, the sound grew closer, increasing in pitch until it was an ear piercing siren's shriek sounding as if it was bearing straight down towards the young nurse.
Craning her neck up and peering into the sky, Polina saw a shape burst through the clouds, a black dot with a striking bent wing on either side. That one plane was followed by another, and then four more, and then another dozen appeared, all descending on the city like vultures. Frozen in place, Petrova could only watch as small chunks seemed to break off the planes before they pulled up out of their dives, revealing the black Iron Crosses painted on their wings and swastikas adorning the bodies.
When the first explosion erupted ahead of Petrova, throwing dust and debris up into the air, fear took hold of the young Russian, only to be supplanted by panic as more bombs detonated all around her. She was not the only one who was such afflicted, as general pandemonium broke out across the entire camp. Soldiers tore off in every direction, seeking their unit or refuge. Polina threw herself into the medical tent, not for shelter, but to grab two of the bags she had spent the last week packing full of medical supplies. Coming back out of the tent, and finding the sun notably dimmed by the smoke already rising from the explosions, Polina turned back the way she came. Sprinting through the camp as the air became thick with acrid smoke, and the screams of the wounded mingled with the rhythmic chatter of the AA guns that were throwing up streams of yellow tracers, Polina, encumbered by thirty extra pounds of supplies, struggled to escape what was quickly turning into an abattoir.
The bombs did not stop falling, more of those awful siren screams cut through the commotion, prompting the nurse to duck into a ditch, only to look out and see the two tanks that had been stuck get turned into twisted hulks of scrap by a bomb that landed between them. Breathing heavily, Polina scrambled up to her feet, darting past the quickly spreading fires and getting to the street out, only to find it absolutely clogged with wrecked vehicles and throngs of fleeing men. Looking back, Petrova saw many of the AA guns were out of action, locations that had once been the source of tracer fire now emitted towering columns of smoke as another flight of dive bombers pulled out of their attack, causing another string of explosions to echo across red square.
For a brief moment, there was a lull, and Petrova entertained the notion that the bombing had come to an end, only for that to be brutally shattered. A string of explosions rocked the ground as one of the buildings on the opposite side of Red Square, and Petrova could only watch as the structure crumbled, and then collapsed onto the vehicles in the street beneath it. Letting out a breath that turned into a hacking cough from the smoke and dust, Polina resumed her original route, climbing up the scaffolding and onto the rooftop, getting clear of the clutter as fast as her legs could carry her before finally clambering onto the roof. Now above most of the smoke and dust, Petrova could see the small specks in the skies above, what must have been level bombers that were now bombarding her home, lethal 250 kilo bombs rained down in racks of eight, explosions rippling in quick succession as whole payloads impacted, ripping the city apart around Polina as she sprinted across the rooftops, propelled by fear and adrenaline.
She had only covered three blocks, but it had felt like three kilometers, the nurse struggling to breathe through her burning lungs, yet pushed on despite the protests of her aching muscles. Her charge took its toll, and the brunette stumbled over some of the rubble that littered the rooftop, losing her footing and falling to the roof. As she began to push herself up, she heard a faint whistle and looked up to see a string of bombs land 30 meters ahead of her, burying themselves into the next building before blasting the structure to pieces. Bricks and studs went tearing over Polina's head as she let out an involuntary scream and sought cover behind a chimney, hearing the brick get pelted by debris. Once the explosions had died down, and her ears had stopped ringing enough to hear the rumble of the bombing continue across the city, Petrova rushed out to scoop up the pair of bags and pressed on into the dust cloud that enveloped the recently bombed out building.
Upon reaching the edge of the building, Petrova found that the next one had partially collapsed against the one she was currently atop, and so the Nurse slid off the edge of the rooftop and onto the rubble. Even as bomb impacts caused the wrecked building to tremble, Polina picked her way through what had once been apartments, stepping over furniture, cabinets and even a few twisted, mangled bodies until she dropped out of a shattered window and onto the street below. Stepping over bricks and shards of glass, Polina found her intended destination, one of the finer restaurants in the city. Forcing open the ajar door, Petrova dashed through the dining room and into the kitchen, soon finding what she was after, the door that led to the wine cellar. Polina knew that the wine cellar had been turned into a bomb shelter by the owner because her brother had helped wire the lights for it. "Hello? Mr. Pavelov? Aleksi?" There was no answer. "Tanya, are you there?" she asked through the door.
The door opened to reveal the grimy, soot covered face of the restaurant owner's wife, "Oh thank goodness, Polina," she set, relief clear as she threw an arm around the dust covered nurse. "What are these?" she questioned, pointing to the bags.
"Equipment, to treat wounded, it was all I could grab," admitted Petrova, knowing that all of the rest was likely destroyed by this point.
"Please, you must help my husband, he was hurt in the bombing," she begged, practically pulling the young nurse inside the shelter. "I don't know what to do," admitted the older woman as Petrova saw the kindly man sitting in the corner, blood soaking his shirt.
"I will help him," assured Polina, "You get everyone else down here that you can until the bombing stops, after that, we will search for wounded." Petrova knelt down beside the wounded man, noting that he barely acknowledged her presence until she lay him on his back and got his shirt off. The man had a been wounded by a piece of shrapnel that was sticking out of the side of his abdomen. The sight of it caused Tanya to let out a heaving sob, "It will be alright," assured Polina, mind racing to recall her training as she began opening the bags, "I will remove that, disinfect, and bandage the wound. It seems he also has a concussion, his breathing and pulse are still good," relayed Petrova as she checked his vitals and then looked at the panicked wife. "You must be calm Tanya," advised Polina, even if she felt her own heart race even more than during her sprint for survival. "Worry will only distract us from the task at hand."
Yet even as Polina began treating her first wounded man, her mind kept going back to her father and brother.
Royal Air Force Station Castletown
Caithness, Scotland
1014 Hours, January 1, 1945
"Damn," cursed Wright lowly, shaking his head as he mulled over the Russian woman's story. "I saw the film reels about Stalingrad, the pictures. And of London after the Blitz, the bombing campaigns. I can't imagine what that's like." There was Pearl Harbor of course, but by the time he had stopped in Hawaii on his way to the Solomons a lot of the cleanup was already done.
"That was only the start," recalled Petrova, her voice shaking ever so slightly, though Wright didn't dare show that he noticed that. "The bombers kept coming, for hours, and a firestorm burned through half the city. My small clinic was soon filled with burn victims I could do nothing to help." Now, anger permeated her words as she stuffed a new magazine into her pistol, "The bombers returned the next day, and the day after that, for the whole week. When they were finished, the whole city lay in ruins. Thousands were killed."
Grimacing, the Marine Aviator racked the slide of his own pistol and put a few shots down range, his mind occupied with the woman's story. "And your air force? They couldn't stop them?"
The Soviet Sniper shook her head, "Nyet, they could not. We quickly learned to know that any planes overhead belonged to the enemy. When I had to go and get more supplies, scavenging from the remains of the city, I learned to avoid being seen by them. Often they would strafe me if I was in the open."
It was then a realization hit Curtis, "You really hate them, don't you Ms. Petrova?"
"The Fascisti? With every fiber of my being," she answered hotly.
But the Marine shook his head. "No, pilots," he clarified. "Is that why you're so frosty to me? Cause I fly?" asked Wright, getting a blank look in return. "Just remember I'm here to help, ya' hear?" She bit her lip for a moment, before nodding once and turning back to the targets down range, closing an eye and taking aim. "Hey, relax, you ain't using that sniper rifle of yours. Open both eyes, aim by instinct. A pistol fight, it's kinda like a dogfight, just action, and reaction. You understand me?"
Surprisingly, Polina flinched at his words. "Da, I do."
Red Square
Stalingrad, USSR
1128 Hours, September 3, 1942
With a heave, Polina lifted a piece of rubble to get at the crate underneath, finding it still, thankfully, intact. Letting out a sigh of relief, the Nurse opened the satchel she had brought with her and began stuffing in a mix of iodine, sulfadiazine anti biotics, and water purification tablets. All of these things were desperately needed at the impromptu field hospital that had formed in the Pavelov bomb shelter, which treated wounded not only from the bombings, but from the increasing fighting that was taking place inside the city itself.
Having secured all she could find; Petrova pulled the bag straps tight before creeping to the edge of the tent. Not hearing the buzz of aircraft overhead, the Nurse poked her head out and checked that there were no Nazi planes in the sky before she slipped out of the ruined tent and picked her way across the demolished camp, taking care to avoid the bomb craters that dotted the square. Nearing the edge of the ruined camp, Petrova paused, hearing something that set her on edge as she peered down the street and felt her heart drop.
Coming down the road from the west was a low, squat machine, its caterpillar tracks clattering loudly as the vehicle crawled towards her, the stubby barrel of the gun protruding from the front of the machine. Behind it was a gaggle of men, and Polina had an awful feeling that those were not friendly troops. Stuck between the ruined camp and a bombed out building, Petrova chose the latter, and steeled herself before she crouched down and scampered across the road. Slipping through a window of the half collapsed, bombed out building, Petrova pressed herself into a dark corner and clutched the bag as she tried to ignore the decayed body of the army officer crushed by the collapsed ceiling. The nurse could not focus on that, not when she could feel the ground vibrate beneath her as the vehicle got closer, with Polina's breathing growing in haste as she heard the Nazis approach, and her eyes darted from the window and then to the body nearby, specifically the pistol still on the officer's hip.
Swallowing hard, Petrova crawled over on all fours and fumbled the buckle of the officer's holster before she managed to yank it off and drag it back to her corner. With trembling hands, the nurse pulled out the Tokarev pistol and chambered the first round, clutching the pistol in one hand and the bag in the other as she hid behind a toppled shelf in her corner, eyes glued to the window. Her heart nearly stopped as a soldier peered through the window, his black uniform and stahlhelm looking just like the art Polina had seen as the barrel of his stubby submachine gun swept the room, causing Polina to slowly slip down out of sight, holding her breath as she hoped she wasn't noticed.
After ten gut wrenching seconds, Polina mustered the courage to peek out from behind her cover and let out the breath when she saw the German soldier was no longer at the window. Her situation was still grim, because she could see the imposing grey painted steel bulk of the armored vehicle trundle past, the assault gun pushing deeper into the city, unknowingly passing Petrova. Waiting until the rumbling of the German vehicle's diesel engine faded, Polina finally slipped out from her corner and strapped the holster around her waist before grabbing her bag of supplies and heading back for the shelter.
Looking down at the backs of the Nazi troops, Petrova wondered when the Fascists had pushed so far into her home before shaking that thought and climbing up to the rooftops. Moving at a slower, more cautious pace, Polina made sure to avoid any chance of engaging the Germans by taking a longer route. Approaching her destination, Petrova was brought to a sudden halt by the sight of a pillar of smoke rising from the direction Polina was going. Her heart stopped for a second, and the Nurse dashed into a building, climbing a staircase and making for a window to see the restaurant.
The front had been totally blown out by the explosion, and the entire structure was belching smoke, licks of flame were visible through the blasted out gaps in the brickwork, and bodies lay strewn across the rubble covered street. Feeling her heart leap up in her throat, Petrova slunk back from the window and collapsed on her knees, burying her face in her hands as she was unable to fully stifle the sobs that escaped her exhausted body. Her two-hour scavenging run, the same one she had made more than a dozen times in the last week, had saved her life, but now she was struck with a sense of aimlessness.
Through shuddering breaths and tear-blurred vision, the Nurse got back up on shaky legs and retraced her steps back down the steps. Staggering to the door and propping herself up against the doorframe, Polina looked out to see that the street was clear and came to a decision. She had to go to her father, get him out of the city, or at least get him to the Red Army, some kind of safety. Getting her bearings, Polina ambled through the streets, half in a daze as her attention was split between looking out for any more Germans, and making sure she didn't step on any glass, rubble, or unexploded munitions.
Approaching her apartment building from the backside, Petrova had to divert into a neighboring building, as the entrances on this side were all blocked by rubble. Climbing up a stairwell and proceeding down a hallways, Polina found an open door to a room that had its wall blown out and across a narrow alleyway, the building she wanted to get inside was similarly damaged. Grabbing a plank propped up against a wall for this exact purpose, Petrova placed it across the gap when she heard the distinct report of a rifle shot echo through the streets. This was answered with a bevy of rifle fire and submachine gun chatter, prompting the Nurse's stomach to drop as she dashed across the plank.
Now on the opposite side of the building from her family apartment, Polina could still make out the sounds of footsteps and shouting, but was not able to make out any specifics. Swallowing, Petrova ascended a flight of stairs to her floor and crouched down as she slipped from the stairwell, reaching back to draw her looted handgun as she slowly moved forwards. The flurry of footsteps she had heard earlier had faded, but caution tempered the anxiousness she felt as she moved down the hallway. Foreign shouts brought Petrova up short, and the sight of shadows on the walls ahead of her prompted the Nurse to look around and see an open door as she ducked into the apartment that was next door to her own.
Pressing deeper inside, the nurse slipped under the partially collapsed ceiling and through the destroyed wall that had once separated her room from her neighbors. Now in her bedroom, Polina took a second before creeping up to the door and easing it open, looking out to see that her home had been thoroughly ransacked; the breakfast table overturned, pictures knocked off the wall, and her father's rifle left laying on the floor. Raising the pistol and walking slowly into the room, Polina saw she was alone before moving to the open window and peering out into the street below.
She almost wished she hadn't when she saw what was happening, Nazi soldiers in dirty but distinctly black uniforms had rounded up Soviet citizens, their civilian clothes dirtied and torn, and lined them up against a wall. From her vantage point four stories up, Petrova could hear the mixture of insults and pleas coming from the Russians, and saw that, standing tall and defiant amongst them, was her father. In that moment, Polina Petrova, Red Army Nurse, made a choice, holstering the pistol and shucking off the bag of medical supplies as she went back to the rifle her father had left behind.
Taking up the weapon and grabbing the pouch of ammunition before returning to the window, Polina pulled the bolt back and topped off the internal magazine, stuffing in one 7.62x54mm rimmed cartridge and slamming it closed. Setting the gun on the windowsill and crouching down behind it, Petrova tucked the stock into her shoulder and pressed her eye to the scope as she began to scan the scene below. A squad of 10 Nazi soldiers was arrayed opposite the Russian civilians, seven wielded rifles and were lined up shoulder to shoulder, facing Polina's countrymen, an eighth held a submachine and was next to them. Behind that bunch was one with a large machine gun resting on his shoulder and then another barking orders, his own submachine gun slung across his back.
Him decided Petrova in an instant, he would be the first Fascist invader she would kill. As Polina mentally rehearsed what she had been taught by her father, slowing her breathing and estimating the range, taking into account how her father had zeroed the PE scope as she brought the crosshair reticle to rest on the bottom of the German's neck. The Nazi troop leader had shouted an order that prompted his men to raise their rifles, and Polina brought the pad of her finger to rest on the trigger as she exhaled and held her breath, watching the Fascisti open his mouth to give another order as the Sniper squeezed the trigger.
Eye still pressed to the glass, Polina couldn't help but watch as the slug blasted off the Nazi's jaw, his body collapsing to the streets, his own blood mixing with the destruction his country had wrought on hers. Focused on her work, Petrova cycled the bolt as pandemonium took hold below, and the stunned soldiers fired their rifles at the Russian Civilians who attempted to flee. Her scope came to rest on the machine gunner, who was turned towards her, arm coming up to point at her position for his squad mates as her father's rifle erupted again, a shot that sent straight into the top of his head, killing him before he could expose her position.
Now the other soldiers rallied behind the man with the submachine gun as he waved them towards the entrance of her building, Polina operated the action of her father's rifle and took aim at a third German, squeezing off a third shot and killing one of the riflemen. The others made for the building, and so Petrova took a breath, "Stay calm, don't rush, don't jerk it Polina," she whispered as she yanked the knob of the Mosin bolt back, ejecting a spent case and chambering the fourth round. Her next shot was somewhat rushed, winging the Nazi she was aiming for, his arm hanging limply as he spun and fell to the ground. With only one bullet left, Polina had to make it count, and so when she saw an enemy soldier stop to try and drag the wounded man to safety, she took her time to line up the shot before firing, sending her last round through the man's head and into the body of his already wounded comrade, causing both to fall still in the middle of the street.
When the report of the rifle died down and the ringing in her ears subsided, Polina was able to hear the pounding of boots on the stairs, the other half of the German squad undoubtedly on their way up towards her. Retreating from the window, Petrova slung her father's rifle over her shoulder and drew her pistol and went back the way she came, heading into her room and then through the damaged wall to get into the next apartment. As soon as she stood up after passing under the collapsed ceiling, Polina could hear the sounds of heavy bootfalls and shouts of "Schnell! Schnell!" from the main hallway.
Creeping to the entrance of the apartment, Polina poked her head out and saw two men with rifles kick down the door to the unit she had just vacated before rushing inside, their superior with his submachine gun behind them. Leaning against the doorframe to steady herself and line up the pistol shot, Petrova nearly yelped when the battered wood audibly cracked, causing her to stumble back into the apartment as the German NCO turned and came towards her. Scampering into the corner, Polina clutched the Tokarev in trembling hands until the Nazi barged in and Polina pulled the trigger, firing not once, nor twice, but no less than five times as the Invader spasmed with each impact. When his bloody, bullet ridden corpse fell to the floor, Polina felt her stomach turn upside down at the sight of her handiwork up close.
But it was a feeling she quickly pushed aside as she heard more foreign shouts and scooped up the fallen Nazi's weapon. Awkwardly grasping the stamped sheet metal of the Schmeisser, Petrova emerged from the apartment and into the hallway, only for the two rifleman to burst out of her apartment. Jaw set, Petrova squeezed the trigger of the submachine gun, her left hand fighting the continuous kick of the fully automatic weapon as she hosed the pair of invaders down in a storm of 9mm parabellum.
When they fell to the floor, motionless, Polina moved down the hall, hands flexing over the gun she held. Moving to the stairwell, the sudden crack of a rifle shot, and feeling of splinters peppering her arm as the bullet embedded itself in the railing of the stairs, prompted Petrova to drop to the floor as she realized the other two riflemen were coming up from the floor below. Looking around, Polina saw a grenade on the belt of a German, and pulled it free, finding it like the Russian equivalent, she unscrewed the cap at the bottom, initiating the fuse before tossing the 'potato masher' into the stairwell.
The screams and explosion assaulted Polina's ears just before the dust filled air assaulted her nostrils, but the building fell eerily silent. Tossing aside the SMG and moving quickly, the Sniper sprinted down the stairs, over the bodies mangled by the grenade and out the door into the street. "Papasha!" she called out, looking about the ruins for any sign of her father before looking towards the wall she had last seen him against. Feeling like someone had kicked her in the stomach, the woman dashed to the still form of her father, the front of his shirt stained with blood.
Crouching down beside him and setting down his rifle, Polina's hands went to her father's filthy and bloody shirt, starting to unbutton it as he stirred. A feeble groan escaped his lips as he looked up at Polina with the same caring eyes she had seen many times before, only there was something different about them, and she didn't want to ponder what that might be. "Da… daughter," he managed, almost pleading. "Polina…."
"I should have been here," she lamented, trying to hold back the emotions she felt as she opened up his shirt. "I can still help you Papasha," informed Petrova, recalling the bag of medical supplies she had left upstairs, "Just hold on, I will be right back."
As she turned to leave, a big burly hand weakly took hold of hers, "No… stay here," whispered her father, and Polina couldn't bring herself to disobey. "It is alright daughter. There is just one thing you can do for me now."
Falling to her knees as she grasped her father's hand in both of hers, Polina managed to rasp, "Anything," as she began to choke up.
"Pr… promise me," said the old man, letting out a weak cough as he fought to draw a breath, "You'll… take care of… each other."
"I will," answered Polina instantly, "I promise."
Her father coughed again, and Polina felt his grip slip away no matter how tightly she held on. "Good… girl. I… love…."
But he never got the last words out as his eyes went dim and head slumped against the brick. Polina could contain her sobs no longer, and began to openly weep over her departed father. She wasn't sure how long she stayed there, not caring if any other Germans happened upon her, but when no more tears would come out despite her heavy sobs, Polina let her head hang in shame as she closed her father's eyes for the last time. With a trembling hand, Polina removed her oil stained, dust covered armband and placed the cloth in her father's hand. "Tell mother… tell mother I'm off to save Misha... as usual," she said with growing resolve as she wrapped his fingers around the armband.
Polina Petrova then picked up her Mosin-Nagant and set off into the war-torn city in search of her brother.
Royal Air Force Station Castletown
Caithness, Scotland
1026 Hours, January 1, 1945
Wiping the tear that had begun to form from the corner of her eye, Petrova looked up at the American, not entirely certain what to expect from him, perhaps fear, or pity, but she got neither. The Marine was stoic, his eyes looking off past her and into the distance before he suddenly spoke, "My mother's German. Immigrated to the states before the First War. I grew up knowing a bunch of other German Immigrants, and now I'm here, fighting them, because they did all that." There was a brief silence as he reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a pack of cigarettes, removing one, "I always thought of them as nice, decent folks," he let out a sharp breath, "You'll probably think I'm nuts, I'm just having a hard time reconciling that is all."
He put the cigarette between his lips before offering Polina one, which the Russian accepted. The Pilot then traded the pack for a lighter, emblazoned with the emblem of his Marine Corps, Petrova noted, before she replied. "My first experience with the Germans was in Stalingrad."
Polina watched as the Marine nodded, lighting her cigarette and then his own as she took a puff. It was an American cigarette, smoother, more refined than the Russian ones she had grown accustomed to, and her thoughts about getting a pack of her own with her winnings was ended when the Pilot addressed her again. "Mind if I ask you something, Miss?" Petrova considered it for a moment, but then nodded once. "The Nazis that killed your father, you said you got them all, right?"
"Da," she answered automatically, removing the cigarette and blowing out a bit of smoke. "Those soldiers that shot my father… Steiner, I killed them all."
Wright nodded, working his jaw as if chewing on her words before he followed up. "And yet, here you are," he said, gesturing to the base around them. "You're still going. Why?" Petrova was taken aback by the question, and she lowered her eyes and went back to the cigarette, prompting Wright to clarify. "After Stalingrad, you could have moved on. Gone back to nursing or be an instructor, hell, just go sell war bonds or whatever. But you didn't."
"All those I said, those were for my family," replied Polina, scrutinizing the American Pilot. "The rest? Those are for me."
With a nod, the Marine went back to his cigarette, loading another magazine into his pistol for more practice, but all with the same furrowed brow on his face. Polina watched him before doing something similar, not wishing to waste more time, but still, she was curious about this American, and what had prompted the question.
½ km South of Post Office
Stalingrad, USSR
1342 Hours, September 3, 1942
It had soon become apparent to Petrova that her promise was easier said than done, having not seen or heard from her brother in more than a week, finding him while evading German patrols had proved to be a significant challenge. Recalling what the few wounded Partisans she had treated had said, Polina was moving towards the Post Office, which the Partisans used as a hideout. She had to stay off the streets, moving across rooftops and broken buildings to avoid the Nazi patrols as the Invaders sought to solidify their grip on the city that bore the name of the leader of the USSR.
The thunderous roar of a cannon rolled through the streets, emanating from the Post Office as Petrova picked up the pace, jogging along the rooftops towards the source of the noise. Getting closer, and seeing the roof ahead of her had collapsed, she descended a fire escape and into the building, creeping through the dust filled, bombed out interior. Drawing closer to her goal, the Sniper could hear the chatter of gunfire, with the report of the cannon providing an exclamation mark to proceedings until she reached the corner that allowed her to see the Post Office. The once proud building was now little more than a ruin, but despite its sorry state, there were flashes of gunfire coming from the building as the Nazi's arrayed outside seemed intent on tearing the building down to the slab.
From its position in the street, the squat Assault Gun seemed intent on doing just that, lobbing 7,5 cm high explosive shells into the ruined structure. It was the source of the thunder as it fired again, kicking up a massive cloud of dust as the vehicle rocked back on its caterpillar tracks, and Polina began mentally counting the seconds as she set up her rifle in the window and scanned the street, picking out the positions occupied by German infantry. When she heard the Assault Gun fire again, Petrova made a mental note of her count as she had to decide which of these Germans she would kill first.
When she heard the roaring report of a machine gun, Petrova swung her aim to the source, sighting the Nazi soldier manning the tripod mounted weapon. Steadying her breathing and finishing her count, Polina's rifle fired at the same moment as the cannon on the German vehicle, it's own report drowning out her rifle's. When the echo of the Assault Gun faded, it was clear that the machine gun had fallen silent. Polina cycled her bolt as she watched the other Invaders through her scope, following one as he scampered towards the silent machine gun. He almost made it too, but Polina's count, and the German crew's reloading of the Assault Gun, finished before he could. Taking a lead, Petrova squeezed off the 7.62x54mm slug catching the Nazi soldier as he spun and fell to the rubble covered ground. Cycling the bolt, Polina swept her rifle's muzzle back to the place from which the vanquished foe had sprinted. Assuming the other man there was some sort of commander, Petrova settled her sights on this man, finger beginning to pull back on the trigger until she reached the end of her count and fired a third time, killing the third man she had set her sights on.
While working the bolt, the Sharpshooter saw her actions hadn't gone unnoticed, and more enemy soldiers were now looking in her direction. Another glance at the building and its rapidly worsening state convinced Polina to take a risk now that her presence was known. Picking out one of the Invaders, she took aim and fired, not watching the effects of her shot as she chambered the last round in the gun and fired again, picking off another Nazi before pulling back from the window.
Moving quickly, Petrova dropped down through a hole in the floor and moved to the other side of the building, changing her angle on the Invaders below. Finding a gap in the brick, the woman lay prone and picked out the remaining troopers amongst the rubble and rubbish. Some had taken cover from the sniper plaguing them, but one was exposed from her new position, and with her Mosin now reloaded, Polina shouldered the weapon and took aim. The Sturmgeschütz fired again, and Petrova loosed her shot a moment later, watching as the German trooper jerk back, falling from cover and struggling to crawl back to safety.
Paying him no further mind, Polina searched for another target, sweeping her rifle across the road until she saw a man attempt to bring the machine gun to bear on her. Even though the gun and mount partially obscured him, it did not save him, as the Soviet Sharpshooter drew a bead on him through the metal and pulled the trigger. Through her scope, Polina could see the man's shoulder get hit, blood and bone erupting out the back as arm instantly went limp, and the no longer supported gun fell awkwardly to the ground, toppling over and pinning the German. His screams filled the air, even from more than 100 meters they were clearly audible, and a clear signal that the German infantry were being hunted.
That prompted the remaining Invaders to unleash a salvo of small arms fire in Polina's general direction, though none of it came so close as to give the Sharpshooter any worry. Nonplussed, Petrova worked the bolt of her rifle again, searching for a target when she saw something unexpected. More men came onto the battlefield, only these were not soldiers, it was a group of men in a hodgepodge of civilian attire emerging from the Post Office. Petrova watched the group stay low and slip to the far side of the street, advancing towards the Nazi Assault Gun through the gap in the German lines Polina had made.
Looking back to those Germans, Petrova looked for the one in the best position to attack her countrymen. Spying one directly in the path of the Partisans, Polina took aim and brought her crosshairs to rest on the man's chest, firing as soon as she had a chance. With their path clear, the Partisans moved along the street towards the armored vehicle while it continued to blast at the Post Office, unaware of the new threat. One of the German infantrymen did realize what was happening, and while Polina was working the bolt, sprinted back to the vehicle to warn its crew.
By the time she had chambered another bullet, the Invader had clambered up onto the Assault Gun and was shouting into the open hatch, only for Polina to fire and a bullet to kill him in the middle of his warning. Watching him slump onto the steel roof, Petrova grimaced while she cycled the bolt, expecting the machine to turn and blast the exposed Partisans. What happened instead was for a Fascisti to pop out of the open hatch and look around, totally unaware of the Sniper about, and he never would since the first indication he got was the arrival of Polina's rifle shot.
With a grunt of satisfaction, Petrova watched the body drop back into the vehicle with the top of its head missing before crawling away from her position and moving to a nearby window, watching what happened next as she reloaded. The Partisans seized the opportunity, rushing from their cover towards the Sturmgeschütz until they had surrounded the machine. Lighting the cloths in their Fire Bottles, a number hurled their improvised weapons at the machine. Through her scope, Polina watched the glass bottles shatter on impact with the vehicles armor and spread their flaming contents, a mixture of petrol and kerosene, across the steel armor, and seeping into any opening. Any gaps in the armor plate, view slits, open hatches, or engine exhausts, let fire into the vehicle where it continued to spread, burning out electrics and forcing crewmen to abandon their positions.
Petrova watched as, one by one, hatches opened and the crew of the Assault Gun tried to abandon their vehicle, only to be shot down by the Partisans that had swarmed the machine. The remaining German soldiers were given the same treatment, and Polina made her way down to meet them. Arriving at the door, Polina watched the last of the Invaders get shot before emerging, stepping into the street and making for her countrymen. Before she could ask about her brother, a familiar voice called out, "Sestra!" Turning, Polina spied the familiar form of her brother separate himself from the mob of Partisans and come towards her. Before she could answer, the Sharpshooter found herself bundled up in a tight hug from her brother. "I knew it was you, with that shooting," he proclaimed proudly, "We did good work, da?"
Looking around at the carnage surrounding them, Polina managed a nod as she opened her mouth to speak, but struggled to get the words out. "Papa…."
Nothing else would leave however, and Misha did not immediately understand. "Yes, he gave you his rifle I see. You use it well; I lost count of the Germans you killed."
The Sharpshooter stared back blankly, shaking her head weakly, "Papa… he's gone," she finally managed. "Misha…."
"How?" he asked simply, all excitement having vanished from his tone.
"Shot, by the Invaders. Lined up against a wall and executed," she choked out, watching as her brother's face went through a flurry of emotions before settling on anger, his eyes narrowing.
"Then we will treat them in kind," he whispered as he made to step past Petrova.
Polina put a weak hand on his shoulder, her grip firm enough to give him pause, "There is no need, I have already seen to that. We must worry about us now, Misha. Do you know where the Red Army is?"
Her brother took a breath, eyes closed, before answering, "They have been pushed back a great ways, but more men arrive every day, coming across the Volga. We have been trying to disrupt the Nazi invasion, but we are low on supplies."
"Then we regroup with the others, tell your Partisans, we cannot stay here for much longer," informed Polina, "I have seen many patrols about, they will be coming this way."
She got a nod back from her brother, "I need to know just one thing," he said, and Polina nodded once. "The Germans who killed Papa, were their uniforms grey or black?"
Thinking back, Petrova answered, "Black."
Her brother's lips went into a thin line. "The SS…" he murmured, "I have heard of these, and seen of what they do to the people of the motherland."
Feeling the embers of anger stir in her, Polina asked, "What else do you know?"
"I know their leader," revealed Misha, "Their leader here in Stalingrad is a man named Freisinger."
Royal Air Force Station Castletown
Caithness, Scotland
1038 Hours, January 1, 1945
"You're shitting me," blurted Wright as the Russian looked up at him, causing him to shrink slightly, "Pardon my French miss, but… ain't that the same sonofabitch we're after now?"
"Da," answered Petrova with a nod of her head, "He is the same son-of-bitch," she finished with the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. Curtis let out a bark of laughter before going back to his cigarette while Polina lamented, "And now he causes even more trouble… if only I had killed him in Stalingrad."
"If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride," answered the Marine automatically. He saw the curious expression the Soviet Sniper gave him, and decided it was preferable to usual daggers she glared at everyone before explaining. "It was something my old man always told me. It means you shouldn't pin everything on hope, it's up to you to make it happen. We're gonna make this happen, we're gonna nail this guy to the nearest outhouse door."
"I will not nail him anywhere," declared Petrova hotly, the daggers coming back out, "I will shoot him in the head."
Wright snorted as he dropped his cigarette on the ground and stamped it out. "Works for me."
Closing Notes: This will be the last flashback for a little bit, time to progress the main plot forward, but there will be a few more later down the line. Stalingrad is such a tough one to write because it was massive and complicated, one of the most important battles in human history, there are entire books written on the subject. Capturing even a few moments of it is enough to fill a chapter, like this one.
Stay Frosty, Misfit Delta out.
