DECEMBER 28, 1942 – 9:00 P.M
A service was given to Commissar Pavelonva and the others who had died during the artillery attack yesterday. Instead of being buried, their bodies were loaded onto rowboats and dumped into the river. Colonel Voronin believed that this was a more convenient, yet honorable way to dispose of our comrades' bodies.
After the last man was cast into the river, General Badanov stepped up onto a stack of crates and ordered the men of the division to crowd around him. Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Badanov began:
"I know most of you have just begun the first stages of mourning for your brothers, comrades. But, a few blocks away from here, dug in on a fortified hotel overlooking a wide courtyard, are the fascist pigs that committed this atrocity, comrades. We have already been given a chance for revenge. I know now that our strength is limited, but if we conquer this last obstacle, comrades, I promise you that you will not have to fight anymore."
There was no response, but you could tell the men were so badly beaten and below minimal morale that they were on the verge of mutiny. Badanov seemed to be aware of this and continued with his speech. "I understand you are tired, my friends. I understand you are weak and hungry. Despite the large amount of supplies coming from across the river, I know you are not ready to fight. We have all been fighting this battle a long time and I feel the same as you do. But I beg you to do this one last thing for me and I promise—I swear—that you will be brought off the line."
The men continued to look at Badanov with blank expressions.
Hesitantly, I stepped forward with my hat in my hand.
"What is your plan, sir?"
Badanov looked down at me for a long moment before cocking his head over to Voronin, who stepped forward.
"The Germans are dug in well inside a five story high hotel on the north end of a substantially large courtyard. They have machine guns on all levels, along with mortars and anti-tank explosive weaponry. Tank obstacles and land mines have made it impossible for any of our armor to assault their position, so Zhukov has decided to send in a division of infantry. We are those infantry, comrades. The plan is simple, however…a basic fire and maneuver."
Badanov interjected. "The Germans will have substantial fire over us, so we will combine machine gun teams with regular rifleman squads to create an advance consisting of firing, moving up to cover, covering the firing team, and moving. This maneuver shall be repeated over and over again until we reach the hotel and are able to assault their positions." He looked over to the company captains, who were standing in a straight line beside the car. "Captain Komarov's L Company and Lieutenant Bezrukov's B Company will spearhead the assault, with Captain Nevski's company following soon after and Captain Volkov's men providing fire from the rooftops of the rear buildings. Once we make it to the hotel, we will wait and regroup before going in. It is imperative that we take at least some prisoners, so do not fire at everything."
The General and Voronin looked at each other.
"Did I forget anything?" Badanov asked.
"No," Voronin said before looking out to the crowd of men. "Again, we regret having to send you in, comrades. We know we are asking a lot from you. But this is for Mother Russia. Will you not do anything in your power to keep her safe? We are so close to winning back Stalingrad. Let us finish what we have started."
With a wave of his hand, Badanov ordered for the men to disperse and prepare for the upcoming fight. I walked over with Durasov to an ammunition crate to help distribute weapons and ammunition to the others. A few minutes after being to do this, however, Colonel Voronin came over to us and ordered me to come over to the side with him. He waited till I was but a foot from him before reaching into his pocket and handing me a small silver star.
Confused, I took the star and looked up at Voronin.
"I am promoting you to Junior Lieutenant, Toufexis." Voronin said. "Hook that onto your shoulder insignia and report to Captain Nevski as his new executive officer."
Dumbfounded, all I managed to say was. "Sir, I…"
"Nevski hasn't been his usual self. He needs help. He needs you."
He gave me a small smile and patted me on the shoulder before walking away to talk with General Badanov. I smiled to myself and quickly stitched the star onto my sleeve insignia. I turned back to the ammunition crate and Durasov, walking back as if nothing had happened.
Durasov looked at me and said, "What did the colonel say, comrade?"
I shook my head and whispered, "Nothing."
DECEMBER 29, 1942 – 5:00 P.M
I am sorry if my tears smear the ink in which I am writing with.
It was in the early hours of the morning in which the 13th Guard Rifle Division set up offensive positions opposite of a highly-defended German hotel. Colonel Voronin had us line up in three rows with the machine gunners aimed down our rears.
This made it perfectly clear that there would be no retreat.
There were also five flag bearers; General Badanov believed that, by the end of the fighting, at least one of them would be alive to plant their flag atop the hotel's roof. Nevski's bodyguards stood at the helm of our advance in a tight circle around their captain, who carried around his neck a silver whistle. Durasov sat beside me, one of the five flags resting on his shoulder. I made sure that he had a weapon, so once given his flag, I took the sling from a rifle and wrapped it around Durasov's other shoulder, tightening it to a point where the weapon didn't bounce or move about when he ran.
I don't remember what happened next, but all I recall is hearing a whistle and running forward as fast as possible towards the hotel. The Germans didn't fire on us and we made it all the way to a thicket near the center of the courtyard. Nevski ordered us to halt and wait as Colonel Voronin and the machine gun teams regrouped with us.
Out of breath, Voronin began to give out orders. "Komarov and Bezrukov, you take your men and push towards the flanks of the hotel; Nevski, push forward to the front. Wait until Volkov's machine guns are in place before you charge."
"Yes colonel." said Komarov.
"Yes colonel." said Bezrukov.
"Yes sir." said Nevski.
My heart was pounding immensely and I was finding it hard to breath. I didn't understand why the Germans hadn't begun to fire on us, as we were the most vulnerable charging to this position. Maybe they hadn't heard us coming; maybe they didn't know we were here. Durasov looked at me for some form of guidance, yet I had none to give him. I had a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach that told me that the Germans knew we were coming.
Volkov's men came and quickly set up their machine guns amongst the cover of the thicket. Ahead of us was a twenty yard strip of flat land with only a few tank obstacles scattered about. I was sure that there were mines hidden somewhere over there and that we would eventually run into them, but hoped that it would merely be a couple of machine gunners firing down on us. That was my biggest fear.
Stepping on a mine would be like signing a death warrant; nothing could save you.
Nevski turned towards me and the company. Using his hands to guide us from cover, he said, "Alright, comrades, let's move out. Tactical column: three by three with the flag bearer in front."
We all stepped out from the bushes and lined up in the formation Nevski wanted. His bodyguards formed around us as Nevski moved beside Durasov, who was obviously struggling with the flag. He didn't make any move to help the flag bearer, instead telling him to "hold fast" and not to stop once the Germans started firing on us. I was behind both of them, and as Nevski made Durasov even more nervous, my trigger finger began to twitch. I knew in my heart Elias needed to die, but I struggled to comprehend that the only thing that would kill him was a bullet fired from my own weapon.
But, before I could do anything, the man standing next to me fell from where he stood. Blood sprayed out and splattered across my face. I jumped and watched as a crimson puddle formed up around an ugly hole in the young man's cheek. Two men fell beside him, riddled with bullets, as I and the rest of my division scattered in all directions. I dove underneath a bench, looking on as dozens of men charged forward against a hard current of machine gun fire.
It was like a dance.
Durasov came up behind the bench, having abandoned his flag. He leaned down so we were face-to-face and he said, "Andrei! We've got to keep moving!"
I looked up to him, closed my eyes, and shook my head. I wasn't going out into the open; I wasn't going to die. Leave war to the military scholars. Leave war to the idealistic martyrs. Men like Nevski are like prostitutes to conflict, whoring themselves to bullets and blood and death. Durasov grabbed my shoulder and pulled me from underneath the bench, dragging me away to better cover. Once well situated behind a fountain, Durasov made sure I still had a weapon on me and left to help the others.
I understood why he abandoned me.
The Germans were shoving everything they had in our faces; men dropped like flies; explosions were dispensed like candy and the ground was peeled away as if it were an orange. From what I could see, there were three machine guns and from the trails of smoke there were two mortars. I could see the German flag perched up on the roof, skipping as the breeze blew around it. A couple enemy troops stood scattered about in front of the building, firing rifles and throwing grenades, but they soon retreated back to their comrades' positions as our forces surged even further.
I held my breath.
Cradling my rifle on my lap, I pulled back my sleeve and looked down at my watch, despising what I had to do next. But—despite the agonizing hope that I wouldn't have to do this—the second hand soon rotated from the third to the sixth tick mark in quick succession.
Three seconds, I thought sweat dripping from my forehead despite how cold it was.
Two seconds, I took the sling on my rifle and wrapped it over my shoulder.
One second. I leapt up from where I sat, turned towards the German positions, and fired a round from my rifle. Taking a deep breath, I charged head-on across the courtyard. Immediately—so quick that I wonder if they had been waiting for me—a dozen Germans opened fire on me. None of them were very accurate, so bullets rippled around me, looking like rocks skipping across the surface of a pond. I saw a mortar shell soar over my head, crashing down amongst a pack of my comrades behind me.
I saw Alexei.
He was with the rest of Nevski's bodyguards, crowding around their leader as he attempted to move down towards the German positions. He tried to shove them away, raising his sidearm and firing at the rooftops. I ran over to Alexei, ducking down as bricks were chipped and bushes were torn apart.
"Alexei," I said. "Cover me! I need to get to Captain Nevski!"
The sergeant turned towards me, but took a moment to process what I was saying. He then had a look on his face as if he were going to say something, but then…a bullet slammed into his ear, spiraling out through his shoulder. I caught him as he fell, cradling him as blood foamed up in his mouth and his eyes stopped blinking and glossed over. I had little time to mourn him, though, holding back any tears.
I rested Alexei's body on the ground before racing over to cover.
The battle raged all day. Once, there was a quiet period after the last man ran out of ammo; but the mortars never truly stopped firing down on us. They would fall down like a hail and the chorus of rifle fire rolled up and down the courtyard like the most incredible symphony. All day long, the medics raced back and forth, grabbing those wounded and stealing them from the field on their stretchers. We never retreated, but soon, after the Germans finally ran out of their mortar ammo and stopped firing their machine guns, we were ordered to form up into small groups and try to get some rest.
After a few hours, when the Germans had completely quieted down, Nevski came up and down the lines—his bodyguards following shortly behind—ordering all the men to stand up and load their weapons. I found Durasov, who was hurt in his shoulder and could barely stand on both feet. I told him about Alexei, but he didn't seem very affected by it.
"You're not upset?" I asked, lighting a cigarette.
He shrugged. "I barely knew the man. Did you expect me to get the reaction I had when Nikita, Sokolov, and Belinski had died? I'm upset; I'm just not falling to my knees and crying distraught."
I wanted to say how callous Durasov was, how coldhearted he was, for not caring about Alexei's death, but I couldn't blame him. It was sad that he was dead and he would be missed; that was why I almost cried, because death is sad and it is normal to feel pain, but I don't feel anything for him now. When I was in the moment—bullets spraying all about and people being killed—I couldn't handle it, but managed to keep calm.
I barely knew Alexei; though I met him over a week ago, I've only known him for one or two days, as I was in the hospital, apart from him, for the most of that time. So I wouldn't consider him a "brother in arms" or a comrade. He saved my life and I am grateful for that, but I doubt I shall remember his name should I live through this war.
I looked at Durasov for a moment before turning my head towards Nevski, who now stood ahead of us with a flag in one hand and a submachine gun in the other. He looked down at us all, cowering behind cover as he stood ready to charge once again at the enemy. We hadn't made much progress across the courtyard, because, as I looked out to the area in front of me, I saw a long stretch of shattered brick and stone, shredded grass, and mangled bushes. Bodies lay scattered across the mess and had already begun to attract bugs.
It was disgusting.
I gagged several times.
Turning back to look at the end of the courtyard with our machine guns, I saw Colonel Voronin talking into a radio with General Badanov behind him, barking at his inferiors to get ready. Mortarmen had been brought up and were in position and the machine gunners were ready to go.
I loaded my gun and swallowed.
Nevski waved his flag up and down in the air as a gesture for us to start moving. We kept low and scurried after him as he charged towards the hotel. His bodyguards pushed through us, creeping up close behind their leader. I motioned for my men to keep quiet, looking to Durasov, who was loading his weapon as he ran.
I gave him a thumb up.
He nodded.
One of Nevski's bodyguards motioned for us to pick up the pace.
My heart was pounding; I could barely breathe. My legs felt like they were about to fail and I wished I wasn't running. Durasov was beside me, his wounds hindering him from running any faster. We were both breathing heavily and I could see Durasov couldn't go for much longer.
Luckily, we made it all the way to the side of the hotel. Nevski quietly ordered everybody to pack up against the walls. He planted the flag in the ground and we waited while all remaining 30 men came around the entrance of the hotel. Nevski's bodyguards were the only ones not touching the wall, instead looking out to the courtyard in case of any enemy appearances. Nevski slung his weapon around his shoulder and grabbed the doorknob.
I heard Germans talking inside. Rushing up to Nevski, I laid a hand on the door and looked up at him. Before he could yell at me for getting in his way, I pleaded for him to listen, which he did.
But he didn't hear anything.
Nevski looked at me with a frown. "Step aside, Andrei, I will not have you or anyone else stand in the way of victory."
He pushed me aside and opened the door.
At the sight of Nevski's form towering above a group of armed Germans in the first room was a menacing sight, but he could do nothing as they raised their guns and fired.
"Auf diese sowjetischen Bastarde feuern!" one of them called.
I don't speak very well German, but from what I could understand, the man had said, "Fire at the Soviet bastards!"
Time slowed.
Nevski's body shook with every shot, but he did not fall backward. About one hundred bullets slammed into his body before he finally collapsed onto his knees and dropped his weapon. He looked down at his mangled body once before taking in one gasp of air and falling backward. Nevski's bodyguards poured into the room firing their weapons, with everyone but Durasov and I following suit.
My heart pounded even harder.
I dropped my rifle and went to Nevski's side.
Durasov standing behind me, I took the captain's hand. Through bloodied lips and breaking teeth, he brought me close and whispered, "Forgive me," before lowering his head back onto the ground.
And he died.
His body broken and his lungs punctured, all his breath escaped him in one final sigh. Though tears rolled down my cheeks, I felt no grief; I felt anger. My face felt hot and my nose flared. The Germans had caused so much death and pain and misery that I now realized that they deserved no mercy. I understood Nevski's debatable philosophy; when you are at war with someone and you show them no compassion, you will win.
I stood up and looked at Durasov.
He rested his hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry, comrade."
"What for?" I asked, shaking my head.
"You were his friend were you not?" he said with a confused tone.
"I was…with Elias Nevski. The man you see lying before you is nothing for than a shell. The real captain died a long time ago; he died after the Germans plagued us with their filth." I looked at him. "I hope this war never ends; I hope the Germans never surrender; I hope that I will go so far as marching all the way up to their Führer and be given the privilege of shooting him."
Durasov hesitated. "What are we going to do?"
"Leave him here," I said. "We still have a battle to fight."
We looked at each other for a moment, exchanging a brief glance before we walked into the hotel. We continued to climb all the way to the roof, where the rest of the men raised their fists and rifles and hats in victory as the German flag was cut from where it hung and drifted all the way down to the ground, covering Nevski's body completely.
How ironic.
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