They stopped in front of another door. Gromov said, “I think this is it.” He jabbed angrily at the door with his thumb, turning to address the men. “This room has a perfect view of the Germans blocking up that square. When it’s clear, you two,” he nodded at the burly soldiers holding the MG34, “Will set up the machine gun in a window frame, and then we’ll show the Krauts that they’re not the only ones who can play with fire. Now, you’ll have to get close and beat them, I don’t want to alert the bastards in the street below.” His words were quite quiet, but each was clear, and his tone was level and commanding. The soldiers nodded and raised their rifles, then advanced on the door. Gromov pulled Kulikov with him and pressed against the wall, near to the door, steadying his weapon. He turned to the lieutenant. “Do you still have that grenade I gave you?”
Kulikov murmured “Yes,” and pulled out the stick. Trying to remember his training, he raised the weapon over his shoulder and prepared to throw it. Gromov nodded, and motioned for him to pull out the pin, which Kulikov did without thinking.
“Now!” yelled the Captain, his leg lashing out. His boot met the door, which snapped open. Kulikov threw the grenade, felt Gromov’s hand grab his shoulder, and was forced down. The soldiers crouched, and tried to follow their Captain’s frantic orders, “Get down! Cover your faces! Wait for it!” The lieutenant flung his arms around his face, squeezed shut his eyes and pressed his forehead against the floor.
One second later, the opposite room exploded. Kulikov heard the bang as the grenade went off, felt the hot air rush down the corridor, felt the rain of sawdust and lumps of plaster patter across his neck and shoulders. There was the sound of breaking glass as the windows in the room gave out, and there was the sound of directives being shouted in German, punctuated by screams of agony.
Kulikov looked up, grabbed up his rifle. He leapt to his feet with the soldiers, and for once moment felt the collective energy and determination of the group of men as they gripped their weapons and prepared to channel their anger through their gleaming bayonets. Then, Gromov yelled “Urrah!” The Russians took up the cry, and with an almighty “Urrah!” the whole mass of men surged forward and into the room ahead.
The next few minutes were a confused whirl of bayonets, rifles, arms and legs. There were several men who had survived the blast with minor injuries, and an uncertain amount of others who had been wounded but were still more than capable of putting up a fight. The Russians gave them one – everywhere Kulikov looked he saw men holding their rifles like clubs, beating the enemy senseless, or sticking them, sometimes five at a time, with their bayonets. When those confused few minutes were over, Kulikov found himself standing over a dead German, his bayonet dark with blood.
Gromov was crouched next to a wounded soldier, his middle and index fingers pressed against the young man’s neck. He looked up the one remaining sergeant, shook his head, and stood. The sergeant pulled out a small knife and knelt down. Gromov moved between Kulikov and the sergeant, and nodded respectfully. “Well done,” he said, his voice still harsh, but with a slight tremor in his tone. “You’re still alive.” He smiled, turned to the men with the MG34, and pointed at a convenient window. They scrambled to get the weapon set up, Kulikov and the Captain joining them.
