Red Sniper

Barkov hadn’t needed to say it; they both knew well enough that marching right into the guns was just what was going to happen. Marshal Zhukov had lined up his army across from the Germans entrenched on Sellow Heights. It was the nature of the Soviet army that generals were expected to out-do one another, and Zhukov could sense the other generals snapping at his heels. Stalin encouraged competition over cooperation. It was better to have the generals at each other’s throats, after all, than at his own.

Stalin wanted Berlin so badly that he could taste it, and he did not care how many men it took to overwhelm the German defenses. Lives meant nothing to him. By default, Marshal Zukov could place no value on the lives needed to sweep aside the Germans. The problem was that the Germans did not want to be swept.

Barkov and Oleg had been fighting Germans nearly every inch of the way from Stalingrad, pushing the Germans back, again and again. It was clear by now that the Germans were not simply giving up, so now here they were at Seelow Heights.

Marshal Zhukov had Stalin himself breathing down his neck to make some progress. Hourly telephone calls from Stalin were not unusual. Stalin wanted immediate results, so Marshal Zhukov had developed a brilliant strategy for a full-on frontal assault. If this was going to fail, in Zhukov’s eyes it was best to do so spectacularly. Artillery was being moved in to soften up the German positions first.

From somewhere in front of the Russian lines, a rifle shot rang out. An officer a hundred meters away crumpled and fell. It was the second officer that the German sniper had shot in the last thirty minutes.

The sound of the German sniper at work was like music to Barkov’s ears. With any luck, he and the Mink could get themselves assigned to picking off the sniper, which would help them avoid the suicidal slaughter that Marshal Zhukov clearly had planned.

Barkov was no coward, but he was a survivor. One did not last long as a sniper without being wily. What was the point in dying stupidly?

Barkov thought about his options. The political officers to the rear would shoot any man who turned back from the front lines. In the Russian army, courage was strictly enforced at gunpoint. The sniper’s rifle was something of a talisman enabling him to move more freely than the average soldier.

“Come on, Oleg. Let us see if we can put our talents to use.”

The Mink understood Barkov’s meaning at once. The two of them headed toward the rear, with the thought that they could move off to the flank in pursuit of the German sniper. Their chances of survival would be marginally better once the assault began.

They hadn’t gone far when a commissar appeared, pointing a pistol at them. There was a dead boy at the commissar’s feet, presumably a young soldier whose nerves had failed him and who had been stopped from fleeing with a bullet from the pistol. Only the fact that Barkov and Oleg were calmly walking, rather than running for the rear, kept the commissar from shooting them outright.

“Get back to your positions!”

“Comrade, we have been ordered to move to the flank to engage the German sniper,” Barkov said.

The commissar did not lower his weapon. Barkov felt his mouth go dry. It was just like a commissar not to have any appreciation for military strategy. Political officers tended to fall into two categories. There were the ones who were too smart for their own good, and the ones who were too stupid for anyone’s good. This one had a lumpy face like a potato and eyes too small for his head, which seemed to put him into the second category.

In addition to being stupid, the commissar was a scrawny man, and if he had not been holding a pistol—and particularly if he had not been a commissar—Barkov would have taken two steps forward and snapped his neck like kindling.

The political officer nodded and waved them on with the pistol. That was the Soviet army for you, Barkov thought. The generals and the political officers were all eager to kill you before the Germans even had their chance.

“That one was a real shit for brains,” Barkov muttered.

The Mink replied, “One of these days you’re going to say that too loud, and it’s then it’s off to the Gulag for you.”

Barkov shrugged, and then he and Oleg trudged on toward the flank, where they set up hides for themselves.

Barkov got behind a dead horse, which was starting to stink, but was good for stopping bullets. On the ground, he appeared heavy and shapeless, like a big sack of grain dumped there. The Mink, who was a much smaller man, got into position beside him and scanned the marshland beyond through his telescopic sight. It was their habit when they worked together that the Mink served as the spotter.

“See anything?” Barkov asked.

“No sign of the sniper. But you could probably hit one of those machine gunners from here.”

“Good idea.”

“Try the one at two o’clock.”