sniper story wip

Cold. It pervades everything, seeping into the joints, sapping your strength. Sheets of white come down – perhaps not even down, but across – and coat everything in metres upon metres of thick snow. The surface gets packed down in places, crunching underfoot, a slip hazard. On fresh, soft snow, our felt boots are quiet, but the Germans too can move silently, their jackboots wrapped in strips of blanket for warmth.

We are used to the winter; we move with ease through the frozen ruins of the houses, the factories, the sewers. We hunt our fascist prey relentlessly across this battered, monochrome wasteland. Their rapid advances of the previous summer have left them overconfident and underprepared, with shortages in critical supplies, little idea of how to fight in such temperatures or urban environments, and equipment that breaks down in the bitter cold.

My group is responsible for a small pocket of the Red October sector. Our hunting ground primarily covers the railyard that runs into the vast complex. It is a mess of bomb craters, twisted iron and trains dashed upon the scorched ground as if the discarded plaything of some demented child. The Germans facing us live like rats in the ruined landscape, sleeping in holes or underneath collapsed girders, huddled together for warmth. We do not know for sure how many remain, but they are on their third officer this week – this we do know, as we were the ones who shot the other two.

Our group consists of three pairs, led by a veteran. He has stalked these grounds for months, and knows the ground better than he remembers his own home. His partner is a fresh student, a former factory worker. Between the two of them, no fascist is able to hide. Their combined knowledge of the steelworks – or what remains of it - is invaluable to the rest of us, seasoned snipers from other areas. My partner, Alyosha, has been with me for the past nine weeks. His original apprentice was killed by mortar fire. I myself had just left the protection of my mentor, and was attached to the group at the same time. By now, we are both of equal skill. We do not care for rank; we make decisions together.

My score stands at thirty-seven, Alyosha's at thirty-nine. Mostly, I have been firing at officers and signals men; I also claimed two German snipers and three machine gunners, two of those in the same day. We carry only a few bullets on each trip out from our hide, and we save our shots for when they will count the most. The effect on the enemy is visible and dramatic. When we first arrived, they were careless, talking loudly and risking a look over their cover to try and ascertain the situation around them. After a few days they stopped peering out from cover. By the end of the first week they communicated only in hushed whispers. Now, they only expose themselves when they have little other choice, and they seem reluctant to fight at all. Their leaders are young and inexperienced, a result of the veteran officers being killed at every opportunity. Many are fearful, knowing that any glimpse of their peaked caps or ornate shoulder-boards will be followed immediately by a bullet. The officers, especially the lieutenants, now try and blend in with their men. They wear steel helmets and try to cover their badges of rank and awards.

Lying in shadow for hours on end, we silently observe them, waiting for just one moment of carelessness that will be our chance. The fascists have a unique terror for snipers, and so we must be careful ourselves, lest artillery be called down on our position. Artillery, especially the well-aimed infantry mortars, are the bane of our kind. Enemy snipers are sparsely distributed and so we do not fear them so much. The fascist invaders do not understand their true value. At any rate, the defensive advantage lies with us. We make good use of it while we can.

“There! There by the overturned truck. Half right. I see something under the collapsed shed.” Alyosha's voice: clear, quiet, purposeful. His slight accent betrays him as west Ukrainian, once a farmer. Now, a killer like the rest of us. He has been shooting since his early childhood.

To avoid drawing attention, I slowly sweep my rifle across to my right. Just as Alyosha says, something is moving under the remains of an old shed. Dark shapes against blackness. I wait, my finger slipping onto the trigger. I can only just feel it through my thick gloves. Again, the shape moves, this time more feverishly; it moves out into the feeble moonlight, and I see grey-green. A fascist. I let him come out from cover, his arms tearing at his heavy wool coat. He scrambles, half-crouched, towards a pile of rubble that the Germans have been using as a latrine. Disentery. He is just a soldier, so I let him go. My bullet is saved for an officer. Next to me, Alyosha simply raises his heavy black eyebrows and shrugs.

This has been the daily routine for over a week now. Our quarry scarcely leave their rat-holes except to run for the latrines. Neither myself nor Alyosha has fired a shot for three days, and even the regular troops around us seem to be conserving their ammunition. The supply situation is still very poor, even though rumours have been in circulation about a giant encirclement by the armies to our north and south. Nevertheless, our side sends out raiding parties by night hoping to seize a Fritz to serve as a 'tongue' for interrogation, and the sporadic bouts of gunfire are occasionally punctuated by a sudden cacophony of artillery explosions and the staccato judder of machine guns.

Alyosha grabs my arm, pulling me away from my thoughts. Another cloaked shape staggers from under the ruins of the shed. Another enlisted man. Not worth a bullet. But he is shortly followed now by a different figure, not as beleaguered as the others, trying to grab at him and drag him back into cover. This new figure wears a simple field cap wrapped in blankets, like so many of the others, but I can see the white flash upon his shoulders that signifies the rank of a German lieutenant. The two tussle briefly before the first figure, hunched over like a madman, lopes off across the railyard.

The officer is young and inexperienced, his face unshaven. He fires a burst after the other man from his submachine gun. The deserter staggers and falls. After witnessing the same scene unfolding on our own side many times over the summer and autumn I feel a brief flicker of cathartic satisfaction, maybe even hope, to know that now it is the Germans who are at the breaking point. Before I have time to push my feelings aside and focus on the task at hand, a thunderclap erupts beside me as Alyosha fires. I watch through my own scope as the fascist falls, landing in a heap in the deep snow that coats every conceivable surface.

A hand appears. One of the Fritzes scrambles for purchase and drags himself head-and-shoulders out of cover, reaching for the body. It's the sergeant. Most likely an experienced man, and perhaps a target worth firing at. I steady my rifle and exhale slowly, squeezing the trigger. The rifle barks and kicks firmly into my shoulder, the impact cushioned by my quilted winter jacket. As the scope settles back over the target, I see the lifeless body slide back down into the wreckage. We do not linger; the Germans will soon begin calling down mortars on our position, and the corrugated sheet we lie under will not offer much protection from the barrage of high explosives and hot shrapnel.  Like rats, we crawl out from under the sheeting and along a gully which leads back towards a large hall overlooking our previous position.

As we make our getaway, there is a sudden blaze of light as a flare whistles up into the night sky. A hail of fire comes from the direction of the enemy position, but not directed at us – our own side answers with gusto, and moments later, the thunderous pounding of artillery. We redouble our efforts, keen to get out of the area in case of a stray shell or burst of machine gun fire finding us. Our side is most active in the hours of darkness, where we hold a terrible advantage over the enemy. The Germans are inexperienced and apprehensive when it comes to fighting in the dark. The constant attacks wear them down, preventing the fascists from getting enough sleep.

Our men, too, are tired. It is a wonder any human can survive such conditions. We snipers are lucky, and fare much better than the riflemen. I feel pity for our brave comrades, but our work is important; without us wearing the enemy down and causing chaos by killing the enemy's leaders, the jobs of the riflemen would be that much harder. They are not envious of us, and they respect us immensely. Everybody does. Many of the more talented snipers in the city are friends with the generals who lead the battle, some even partaking in friendly competition to try and kill more of the invaders than the other. Two men in particular are notable for this: Zaytsev being a friend of General Chuikov, and Chekhov, who is the star of the Guards general Rodimtsev.

Passing a burnt-out tank, we now clamber up and over the edge of the gully, sliding down into a shell crater on the other side. I pause briefly while Alyosha scouts the hall, and watch through my scope as the attack intensifies. A great sound comes up from our men as they charge relentlessly into the enemy positions like waves crashing against the shore, obliterating the childish constructions of sand in their wake. After a few minutes my partner returns, and we now both move into the desolate structure. The hall is perhaps three or four storeys tall, and the ground floor is cluttered with equipment. Six massive generators lie shrouded in snow, their coils frozen and their gears silent. Above us runs a long catwalk, with ladders ascending to the gargantuan panes of glass that make up the ceiling. Alyosha leads, hunched low over his rifle as it swings from one shadow to the next.

We move soundlessly. The battle outside sounds muffled, even distant; in here, the ominous creaking of the steel catwalks and the howl of bitter wind through the smashed skylights are deafening to us. I look down as we move swiftly to the second level, heading for a small office cubicle built into one wall. The floor beneath us, carpeted in white, is scattered with bodies. Brown comrades, green enemy. Patches of red in the snow mark the most recent victims. We slip into the office, and I quietly pull the door most of the way closed so we will not be so visible. Together we drag furniture into the centre of the room, building our position deep within, away from the windows and shrouded in shadow. With our rifles rested firmly on the frozen, splintered wood of an old desk, we are assured accuracy.

We remain in this position for three uneventful hours before I finally sight a target. By now the battle outside has tapered off, with only the odd angry shot every few minutes; the enemy are trying to retrieve their wounded. In this war, everybody is a fair target. We shoot their medics as surely as they would shoot ours. I select one particular man, trudging back towards their lines with a comrade over his shoulders. His squad are covering him well, but he is not safe from us. As my rifle sweeps across his shoulders and levels in the middle of his spine, I let the trigger break.

The shot is deafening inside the tiny metal-walled office, and Alyosha winces beside me. I eject the spent cartridge and chamber the next, ready for another shot, but it is not necessary. The Fritz lies dead in the rubble, the man he was carrying trapped under the body. Alyosha finishes the wounded man, and again our ears ring painfully. After officers and snipers, other specialists are our most important targets. Medics, tank men, machine-gunners and combat engineers – they are all worth a precious bullet. The Germans begin to direct fire back at our previous position, thinking we have not moved, so we continue to wait in our new hide.

***

When at the front, everything a sniper does is at half speed. We move slowly to avoid drawing attention, and to make sure we do not blunder into danger. We build our hide slowly to ensure our movement does not betray our position. We eat slowly, because our meagre ration needs to last much longer. A proper meal can be had later, our priority out here is to kill.

We have been in this hide now for two days. Yesterday was quiet, with nothing to shoot at all day. The Germans seem to be in a desperate supply situation as well, because the only movement we did see was an enlisted man running out to loot the jacket from one of his dead comrades. We have been carefully erasing evidence of our presence; moving furniture around, brushing snow over our bootprints, and policing up the fired cartridges from our rifles. Tonight, we move to a new position, and after two days there we are heading back to our field headquarters.

As Alyosha smooths out the dust and snow disturbed by the muzzle blasts of our rifles, a blood-red glow is cast upon the snow outside. The winter sun is setting, but the smoke hanging over the city is so dense that all other colour is filtered out. The hellish tint is appropriate. The feeble shafts of crimson reach into the windows, feeling out the dark, probing; but we are too far back, and the ethereal fingers cannot quite grasp us. For a moment, Alyosha pauses in his toils, and peers out across the wasteland before us.

“If we can ever rebuild this place, it will be as much a struggle as it took the fascists to destroy it.”

I grunt. It is the best reply I can offer. The time has come to move, and this time I lead out. Slowly, carefully, I place one foot ahead of the other. To slip can mean death. I scan the potential hiding places: corners, walkways, rubble piles. My rifle follows my eyes. Although I cannot see Alyosha behind me, nor hear his silent footfalls, I can feel him there. We are closer than family. It is as though we are connected on some higher level.

We cross the hallway we last paced through nearly forty-eight hours ago once again, and this time head southward along the wall. Once we leave the relative safety of the building, we have some thirty metres of open ground to cross before we can find some real shelter. We will be utterly out of our element, but the white camouflage smocks we wear over our jackets will go some way towards concealing our movement.

As we reach the threshold, I quickly scan the area for likely firing positions, readying my rifle. I nod to Alyosha. My partner dashes forwards, making best speed for a snowbank halfway to the shed that will be our home for the next two days. As he reaches the bank, Alyosha dives. He waits a few moments, then begins to crawl ahead, oblivious to the streams of tracers cris-crossing all around him. My cue to follow is a brief flash of white, Alyosha's arm waving above the pale, snowy seas. I do not hesitate. I know he is covering me now as I covered him, and I cross quickly and in much the same manner. Diving into the half-buried equipment shed, I see the faint glint of my comrade's eyes in the gloom, reflecting what little moonlight enters the rust-holes and gaps in the corrugated iron structure.

It takes nearly half an hour for our eyes to adjust properly to the darkness inside the shed. We set about gently poking and prodding at the holes in the walls, trying to force a gap large enough to see and shoot through. We must work slowly, just in case somebody is watching the shed; the slightest mistake can mean another sniper's bullet, or a mortar barrage. Eventually, we are successful. Alyosha takes first watch, as usual. He sits as if frozen, totally still. He scarcely blinks, and his hands are steady. He has found three iron bars and thrust them deep into the snow, forming a tripod to support his rifle, the muzzle just a few inches back from the shooting-hole.

***

I am not sure how long I have slept. It is still dark outside, and Alyosha still has not moved. Were it not for his occasional blinking, I might think he had frozen to death. I gently tap his arm to let him know I am awake, and he slowly withdraws his rifle from its makeshift cradle and shuffles aside. We trade places, and he dutifully waits until my own rifle is readied before he makes himself as comfortable as he possibly can in such conditions. Within moments, he is asleep, arms still clutching his rifle to his chest as though it were his only child.

My vigil is uneventful. Boredom is the order of the day; the vast majority of our time is spent simply staring into shadows, waiting for something to happen... hoping for something to happen. My eyes grow dry from staring so long. The tiny world inside my scope is still, except for the drifting of snow and the flickering of flames reflected back by the smoke they create. The sounds are otherworldly. The metal of the factory creaks and groans as the wind picks up, its insidious howl fluctuating with intensity. Every so often, a shot rings out, followed by a brief flurry of gunfire and explosions. These firefights seldom last more than a minute or two before tapering off and once again allowing the oppressive silence to consume our world. Over everything else comes the distant drone of aircraft engines, and the far-off crump of the anti-aircraft guns.

For hours, this is my everything. Alyosha is still sleeping, so I have nobody to speak to. I am alone with my thoughts in the most desolate and miserable place on Earth, silently observing this hell through a little metal-and-glass tube. It is nearly dawn before I spot movement, the faintest of silhouettes against the deep purple of the early morning sky.

“Alyosha, they're stirring.” Almost as soon as the words have left my mouth, I hear him shuffling into position. He carefully pushes aside a loose wall panel, and then raises his rifle to his shoulder. After this long at the front, we sleep through the sounds of war effortlessly, but the whispered words of a comrade will rouse us instantly from the deepest sleep.

The lone man, probably enlisted - though it's hard to tell in the half-light - is not worth revealing ourselves for. Perhaps he will unwittingly lead us to a more valuable target, however.

Alyosha glances my way and raises an eyebrow, a faint point of light dancing across his face. It's the world outside, funnelled through his scope and projected onto his eye, a tiny one-man cinema.

The two of us watch the distant enemy as more dark shapes begin to rise from behind an upended slag cart. They move slowly and clumsily. Their lack of coordination suggests they haven't had much sleep, something they have in common with everybody in this corner of the world. Muffled speech begins to carry our way on the wind, and every now and then an abrupt burst of laughter. Even here, some men are able to find humour in damnation.

It is nearly another hour before the distant shapes begin to move in a more disciplined manner. They have carefully climbed out of their hovel and are moving across the snow, rifles held at the ready and eyes wide. They are attempting a surprise attack against our comrades on the far side of the yard. Alyosha and I hold our fire, waiting for the right moment, the right target. We cannot identify an officer in the group, only a junior sergeant. He will have to do. I will fire first, then Alyosha, then we will need to make a hurried exit from our shed.

I carefully track the man as he leads his troops silently through the pre-dawn stillness. He gestures for the men behind him to speed up – he is getting impatient, anxious. He should be. Our own men will soon be fully alert, and seem to have had the better of the last night's fighting. Slowly, the black post of my scope moves with the man, ever so slightly in front of him and level with his chest. It won't be a hard shot at this range. I take up the first pressure on the trigger, breathing out slowly and then holding my breath.

The trigger breaks, and the whole shed vibrates as the rifle kicks against my shoulder. Chunks of snow and rusted iron cascade down from the ceiling onto me, preventing me from seeing the effect of my shot. A moment later, another torrent as Alyosha fires. We both lay flat to the ground, and begin crawling back out of the shed, keeping it between us and our hapless targets.

The Germans are caught off-guard, but it takes them only a moment to realise what is happening. The shots alert our own men, and within moments, the apocalypse begins again. The shed's walls ring with hits, and we desperately flatten ourselves into the snow as bullets crack overhead in both directions. Chancing a quick glance over my shoulder, I can see the dark grey-green jackets of the enemy as they begin falling back in disarray, chased by the vivid green fingers of our machine guns' tracer fire. A man drops face-first into the snow, still. One less target for us.

Alyosha and I have barely made it thirty metres before the firing ceases as suddenly as it had begun. Our comrades have won this battle, and the Germans are stumbling into what cover they can find, dragging their wounded into their hastily-dug trenches.