Red Sniper

“What else is there to drink, Oleg?” Barkov wanted to know.

“We are dry as the dessert,” the Mink said, his eyes glassy with booze.

“Not for long,” Barkov said. He staggered across the bed of the truck and banged a big fist on the roof, shouting, “Pull over, if you know what’s good for you!”

The truck slowed. They had reached the outskirts of Berlin. Beyond, they could see the city—or what was left of it. Soviet troops now encircled the German capital. Earlier, they had opened fire with an artillery barrage that went on and on, punishing the city with nearly two million pounds of high explosive. Berlin no longer had any fight and there was no military purpose to the bombardment; it was a beating, pure and simple.

When the Studebaker stopped, Barkov and the Mink jumped off, along with several other men in their squad. They were mostly snipers, but there was little need anymore for their services, not when the artillery and tanks were busily at work on what little remained of German resistance.

The road around them was filled with advancing masses of Soviet troops. The scene was chaotic—there was very little order among the men. The officers and even the dreaded commissars kept their heads down, letting the men enjoy the fruits of victory after long months of war.

To the Germans peering from whatever shelter they could find, it looked like a horde of barbarians had arrived. Some of the enemy troops had the facial features of Mongols, as if Genghis Khan’s soldiers had arrived. Others wore sheepskin caps and bandoliers of brass-jacketed bullets draped across their shoulders. If the frightened Germans looked closely, they would have noticed an especially large, drunken barbarian, trailed by a much smaller man, step off the road. A handful of soldiers followed them.

Barkov and his men spread out through the ruins, searching for anything of value. Many of the Russian soldiers were simple peasants, and the richness and plenty of the plunder they found was overwhelming. Some wore several layers of captured clothing—sweaters, suit jackets, raincoats, even women’s fur stoles—it was all too good to pass up. They stuffed their pockets with bottles of perfume, silver combs, and costume jewelry, so that each man seemed to be carrying the contents of a shop wherever he went. Along with the churning of muddy tires could be heard the clink of bottles and the rattle of beads.

By Stalin’s order, every Russian was entitled to ship home a five-kilo parcel. Officers were allowed even more. In this way, many a Russian sister or wife received an expensive German dress or new silverware. The higher-ranking officers took their pick of the plunder, which included expensive hunting rifles, radios, or even artwork.

The Germans saw them as barbarians, so why disappoint?

Mainly, what the soldiers wanted was booze. They ransacked houses and shops, grabbing anything that looked remotely like alcohol. Already, there had been several incidents of soldiers fatally poisoned by drinking industrial solvents at one of several factories the Russians had overrun. It turned out that the Russians could not believe their good luck in discovering the huge vats and tanks of intoxicating liquid. All that booze for the taking! There had been quite a party as a result. As many as several hundred soldiers had died, or were in the process of dying horribly. The Russians were convinced that the Germans had deliberately poisoned them—never mind the fact that the vats and holding tanks clearly stated that the contents were not for human consumption. It was not the way of the Russian soldier to bother with the fine print, even when he had some knowledge of the German language.

“Spread out,” Barkov ordered his squad. “Look at these bomzhi, getting all the good stuff! See what you can find us to drink.”

“I only drink red wine,” the Mink said. He was so intoxicated that he reeled; Barkov reached out a hand to steady him.

“Look at you, Oleg, drunk as a lord! Ha, ha! That’s the spirit.” He looked around at the men. “Don’t listen to him. He’s drunk. Bring back anything you can find, just as long as it’s not that poisoned shit the Germans have been leaving for us.”

“What about women?” one of the men asked, grinning.

“If you find any German women who don’t look like hags, you let me know,” Barkov said. He had already seen plenty of ugly ones, like the women he had thrown a bottle at.

The men fanned out. They had their orders, and when Barkov gave orders, they listened. His men ran from house to house like dogs chasing rabbits. Barkov sat on the fender of the Studebaker and smoked a cigarette, waiting to see what they would find.

• • •

In a cellar nearby, a dozen people were hiding from the Russians and the shelling. So far, they had been lucky. The Russian shells had spared them while knocking down other houses and burying the occupants alive. None of the marauding Russians had bothered with the cellar. There was more than enough bounty in the rooms above.