It's back, as promised.
I will be continuing my UK AAR as well, over summer I was really busy. Now that school has started again I will need something to distract me
So, let's go! City on the Volga, rebooted, rewritten, and ongoing!
Starting with a bumper update and all new content...
By Alex T Harvey
©Alex T Harvey
Nikolai Kulikov steadied himself on the side of an unnamed rowboat, and stared down at his newly issued rifle, taking in every minute detail, every scratch, every chip, every burn mark on the stock. He felt the cool weight of one of the ammunition clips in his hand, and saw hellish reflections in the smudgy brass. Mustn’t look up. Mustn’t look up.
Kulikov hoisted up his right leg to check the lacing on his boot, then traced a finger along the stitching. They were nearer to their destination now, and everything around him was tinted crimson. Mustn’t look up, but even the sight of that dull glow had his stomach knotted and his face white. He turned back to see what the other men in the boat were doing. There were about half a dozen behind him, some rowing and some sitting in the middle of the boat, up to their waists in the bloodstained waters of the Volga, staring up and beyond their lieutenant.
Knowing he had to, Kulikov turned around. He had seen their final destination once when he had first arrived on the eastern bank, and found it so horrible that he had since forced himself to avoid the sight of it. But now he forced himself to look. He was going there, so he had to be able to see it, had to be able to seize that fear and destroy it. He was reminded of one of his Uncle’s many, many sayings – “There is no other way to lead than by holding your head up high and staring down whatever you most fear, for fear is an illusion of the spirit.” So now, reluctant to take one of the old man’s utterances to heart, he steeled himself and raised his head.
The city ahead was massive – almost twenty miles from north to south and packed with buildings of all shapes and sizes, many of which had been newly built less than a year before. But where there had once been a beautiful, modern city, there was now a bombed out shell. There was not a house or apartment block standing untouched, and bombers circled and strafed the wrecks constantly, as if seeking to destroy every last vestige of what had once been home to more than half a million souls and was now nothing but a city of the dead – the city on the Volga, Stalingrad.
The entire city seemed to be aflame – and Kulikov had never seen such flames. They rose hundreds of feet in the air in some places, twisting maelstroms of red and yellow and purple, coils of thick black smoke rising up to the clouds, as if the sky itself was burning. Tracer bullets, mortar fire and crude rockets filled the air, and there was the sound, always, of men screaming, men fighting, men dying, a muffled cacophony in the distance. The rumble of heavy artillery was a constant backbeat, hammering out a rhythm to the struggle, punctuating the silence with booms and plumes of dust and rubble.
Even though it was night, there was no darkness. The light from the roaring fires cast an appalling half-light for miles in every direction, the constantly disturbed waters of the river reflecting it in a thousand ghostly candles. The eyes of the men in the boat had a scarlet gleam as they gazed, terrified, at the horrendous ruins of Stalingrad.
This is Hell, and we are the demons, thought Kulikov, gripping the ammunition clip so tightly he felt he must have made a slight impression in the metal, his nails shredded already by biting them and holding onto the side of the boat, Or are we merely fresh sacrifices, sacrifices to appease the battle?
Whereas before he had been unable to look at Stalingrad, he was now unable to tear his eyes away. They watered from the ash, dust and heat as he struggled to force them to blink, his defences stripped away by terror, his soul bared and exposed. The fearsome scene questioned his courage; Kulikov had never seen war before, never been in battle. He had hoped, idly, when he was younger, that some day he might. He had ached with boredom, sometimes, wishing the struggle could start anew, that the Red Army might be called into action to destroy the Bourgeois Imperialists of the West and unite the world in Socialism. He cursed his past impetuousness as the boat rocked from near misses – artillery blindly firing at the river. The enemy certainly knew about the constant stream of reinforcements being trickled into the shattered metropolis.
The sight of the battle sent some men mad, he had been told, and they turned their weapons on themselves as soon as they saw it. Others were merely terrified, and tried to find resolve in their ideology, their religion, the thought of their loved ones, anything, anything to stop thinking about a war that had seemed to far off, and was now a hundred metres away.
But some, when faced with the horrific scene, were… changed. They stared the crucible of war directly in the eye, and their fear, doubt and rage was fused into a tight little ball of the will to survive, and kill. They were hardened, emotionally flash-frozen, caring only about staying one step ahead of the invader. They slept little, and ate less, and there was a mad glint in their eyes sometimes when they spoke. This was what Kulikov had been told, and he had been told he should hope that this happened to him, give him some spine. Kulikov could almost hear his Uncle berate him now.
---------------------------
Bearing a sheaf of unorganised papers in his arms, Captain Nikolai Kulikov ran through the December snow which crunched loudly under his boots. Trying to keep his cap balanced, he tilted his head forward, using his elbows to push his way through a crowd of soldiers, and having the welcome side effect of avoiding eye contact. He didn’t like looking peasants in the eye; Uncle said it was unseemly for a party member to associate with them, especially farmers. They were reactionaries waiting to happen, he had often told him over dinner, because they were, at heart, un-socialist in their thinking. They wanted land for themselves, whereas a true socialist wanted the land to be farmed for the good of the people.
Kulikov had also heard stories of officers being killed, looted from and then buried in the snow, the stories increasing in their frequency as the German army had advanced deeper into Russia. Now, in December 1941, less than six months after they had made their cowardly attack, they were within sight of Moscow.
The snow did not crunch as the soldiers hurried past; their “boots” were strips of cloth wound tight around frostbitten feet, or Wehrmacht boots wrapped in bandages and filled with newspaper to stave off the unforgiving, never ending cold of the Russian Winter. The soldiers passed, and Kulikov, not looking back, carried his offering of papers to a low, ugly building that squatted in the middle of the snow, a modern incongruity in the Moscow suburb of Tsarist-era architecture. He waited for the soldier standing guard to open the door for him, and entered.
A voice, muffled by a carefully placed hand and therefore unrecognisable and unpunishable, said, in a tone of mock-warning. “Oh, General Bagration’s here.” There was a ripple of laughter across the desks of the office, which Kulikov ignored as he stalked past. ‘General Bagration’ was one of the kinder nicknames his fellow staff officers had given him.
“Off to see Big Uncle,” muttered someone else, “Hope he doesn’t give you the rod again.” There was more adolescent sniggering, Kulikov whirling round to see the crowd of Lieutenants and Captains all chuckling over their work, steam streaming from their mouths in the cold. All laughing at him.
“Are you fucking peasants or what?” he retorted, realising a whine was creeping into his tone. “Act like officers, why don’t you?” He spun on his heel and continued to his Uncle’s office. Aware, dimly, of someone murmuring in reply, “Why don’t you? Nepotistic Trotskyite.”
His Uncle’s office was, in this situation alone, a brief respite. Placing the dog-eared papers on the old man’s desk, Kulikov saluted smartly and stood to attention. His Uncle heaved his red, jowly face into position to look him in the eye to acknowledge the salute, before allowing his searchlight gaze to check his nephew’s uniform, barely perceptible twitches betraying his disappointment whenever he saw a crease, a tear, a misaligned button, each tiny uniform infraction a microcosm for his nephew’s abject failure as an officer – no, as a man. Kulikov could see it in the old bastard’s eyes and hear it in every sigh.
“These papers are a mess,” said the old man, “Have them organised, properly, and straighten them up. Then have them burnt.” He leant back in his chair and picked up a telegram card from his desk, holding it between thumb and forefinger. “STAVKA orders. Fascists are ten kilometres away. I imagine we can expect artillery quite soon.” He sighed again. “Your cap is not on correctly, how do you expect the men to respect you?”
“Yes, Uncle,” replied Kulikov. He turned to leave, and stopped. The old man didn’t know, of course, that every single other member of his staff despised their newest and youngest member, and who could blame them? Men who had worked in the Army for 20 years were lucky to become a staff officer to his great and illustrious Uncle, the model socialist and leader of men. But not so for Nikolai Kulikov, promoted to his Uncle’s staff immediately out of officer school so the old man could keep an eye on him. They were right. It was nepotism, pure and simple.
You’ve been through this so many times, he told himself, just do it. Stop being such a worthless coward and tell him. He gritted his teeth and turned to face the desk again, staring down at the inkwell to avoid that piercing gaze. He said, “I want to go to the Front, General Irumov.”
His Uncle leant forward and slowly removed his glasses. After a moment, he said, in a low and menacing growl, “You ungrateful little shit.” He stood, his heavy oak chair thudding to the floor as he hauled up his bulky frame. This time, he was less quiet, and the menace had been replaced by indignation and anger. “You ungrateful bastard! I have done so much for you, Kulikov.” Kulikov prepared himself for the tirade, knowing it would be a variation on an oft-repeated theme. He mentally ticked off the list as the old man progressed through it. “I took you in when your father died,” Check. “I raised you as my own son – despite the expense. “ Check. “I put you through officer school, I appoint you to my staff, and you repay me by spitting in my face and shitting on my kindness? You want to go to the Front, you say? Do you even know what it’s like on the Front, boy? You’re not a frontovik, you’re an administrator!”
Kulikov spent several minutes crafting the perfect response: “Yes, Uncle, I am a good administrator, but clearly nowhere near as experienced as anyone else on your staff, and thus I believe it is best for the Army, and the Motherland as a whole, for me to transfer to a front-line unit, or at least a position of responsibility, instead of being your aide. It is clear to me that I was appointed thus because I am your nephew and you wanted to keep me safe and out of danger, but this has caused friction with the other officers under your command. And, frankly, Uncle, I am sick of your constant insults, belittling of my ability and intellect. And as for your dismissing me as weak and feminine and then threatening to have me shot if you see me with a woman, it’s so hypocritical it makes me want to vomit, especially from what I’ve heard from the other men about your unorthodox interpretations of a female typist’s duties, you fat, greedy bastard.”
He said, “Yes Uncle. Sorry Uncle.”
---------------------------
Kulikov blinked, and moisture found its way onto his bloodshot eyes. They stung so foully that he could scarcely believe it; it was almost as if the sight of so much death had scoured them. He looked ahead and down at the approaching jetty, the one structure in the whole city which was not actively burning. There were a few sparse pockets of regular soldiers guarding the boats, a whole company of NKVD men, and, of course the wounded. So many wounded.
Kulikov had been warned about this as well, once more by his Uncle, the same man who had advised him on so much – whether he’d asked for advice or not – the same man who had told him what happened to men who saw battle for the first time, and found themselves tested in their hearts and minds, and found out who they were. Kulikov didn’t believe this. Men were men. He’d seen Stalingrad, and he wasn’t a changed person. He was himself, he was Lieutenant Nikolai Kulikov. He was all he could ever be. He was also utterly terrified.
The sight of the wounded was appalling – hundreds of men in red and brown stained bandages, some of them with stumps where there had been legs, torn sleeves were they had once held rifles with their arms, others with entire halves of their faces blown off. And then there was the stench. Kulikov had been told he would become accustomed to death, and to the stink of death, and to the sight of death, and to causing death.
Now, all he could do when his senses were assaulted by the jetty was vomit violently over the side of the boat and into the scarlet Volga. The men around him were similarly overcome, clasping their hands over their mouths, crossing themselves, or still staring up at the blazing tower blocks. Tattered hammer and sickle flags adorned hastily erected lean-tos and burnt factories, their deep red hue one of the few colours in the city.
That was what Stalingrad had become; a city of white buildings and green parks was now a battleground of grey, red and black, the smoke and ash, the flags, the dead. Lovers had strolled through those streets less than two months previously, but these had been supplanted by tanks and soldiers. Kulikov felt the boat impact the jetty, sending a shudder through his spine. They had arrived. There was no way back. He swore at the pain in his eyes, at the disgusting taste in his mouth, at the prospect of death, at the Third Reich, at his Uncle, and many other things. If the ground had swallowed him up then and there, he would have welcomed it.
Resolve gripped him. He had a duty to perform. He had a platoon to lead. They had a battle to win. He jumped onto the jetty, his legs almost betraying him they wobbled so much. He steadied himself, and resisted the urge to be sick again as another wave of stench hit him. He raised the Mosin-Nagant that had been pressed into his hands on the east bank, and slipped in the clip. There was a satisfying click, and Kulikov looked back, wistfully, at the other side of the river. It wasn’t even visible past the shroud of smoke.
They were committed. There was no way back, not even the sight of the eastern bank. Kulikov remembered the slogan – “For us, there is no ground behind the Volga.” For all he knew, past the pall of smoke there was no ground, no Russia, no Germany, no world. His new Earth was Stalingrad. The men scrambled out of the boat, and Kulikov forced down his fear, his anxiety and his disgust at the sight of all those wounded. The best way to survive on what the enemy called the Ostfront and what he called Home was to fight, and to the last man. There was no other choice. There was no way back.
Kulikov had never killed a man before, and found the idea daunting to say the least. He had told his Uncle with great trepidation, expecting another tirade, another speech about why he was worthless compared to his father, why he would never amount to anything.
To his shock, the old man had softened, his face had drooped, and there was weariness in his usually flinty and piercing eyes. What was it he’d said? “Everyone has that feeling. Some may try and hide it, some may try and ignore it, but everyone gets it. Even if it hits them a second before they pull that trigger, they get it. Going ahead anyway, pulling back a piece of metal and stealing a man’s life away, it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do. And once you’ve done it, his face will never leave you. You’ll remember it for the rest of your life.” After that, Nikolai had been dismissed half-heartedly from his Uncle’s office. The old man had never spoken of that day again, not for ten years. That look had never come back. Maybe that was how he dealt with what he’d done.
I will be continuing my UK AAR as well, over summer I was really busy. Now that school has started again I will need something to distract me
So, let's go! City on the Volga, rebooted, rewritten, and ongoing!
Starting with a bumper update and all new content...
CITY ON THE VOLGA
By Alex T Harvey
©Alex T Harvey
Nikolai Kulikov steadied himself on the side of an unnamed rowboat, and stared down at his newly issued rifle, taking in every minute detail, every scratch, every chip, every burn mark on the stock. He felt the cool weight of one of the ammunition clips in his hand, and saw hellish reflections in the smudgy brass. Mustn’t look up. Mustn’t look up.
Kulikov hoisted up his right leg to check the lacing on his boot, then traced a finger along the stitching. They were nearer to their destination now, and everything around him was tinted crimson. Mustn’t look up, but even the sight of that dull glow had his stomach knotted and his face white. He turned back to see what the other men in the boat were doing. There were about half a dozen behind him, some rowing and some sitting in the middle of the boat, up to their waists in the bloodstained waters of the Volga, staring up and beyond their lieutenant.
Knowing he had to, Kulikov turned around. He had seen their final destination once when he had first arrived on the eastern bank, and found it so horrible that he had since forced himself to avoid the sight of it. But now he forced himself to look. He was going there, so he had to be able to see it, had to be able to seize that fear and destroy it. He was reminded of one of his Uncle’s many, many sayings – “There is no other way to lead than by holding your head up high and staring down whatever you most fear, for fear is an illusion of the spirit.” So now, reluctant to take one of the old man’s utterances to heart, he steeled himself and raised his head.
The city ahead was massive – almost twenty miles from north to south and packed with buildings of all shapes and sizes, many of which had been newly built less than a year before. But where there had once been a beautiful, modern city, there was now a bombed out shell. There was not a house or apartment block standing untouched, and bombers circled and strafed the wrecks constantly, as if seeking to destroy every last vestige of what had once been home to more than half a million souls and was now nothing but a city of the dead – the city on the Volga, Stalingrad.
The entire city seemed to be aflame – and Kulikov had never seen such flames. They rose hundreds of feet in the air in some places, twisting maelstroms of red and yellow and purple, coils of thick black smoke rising up to the clouds, as if the sky itself was burning. Tracer bullets, mortar fire and crude rockets filled the air, and there was the sound, always, of men screaming, men fighting, men dying, a muffled cacophony in the distance. The rumble of heavy artillery was a constant backbeat, hammering out a rhythm to the struggle, punctuating the silence with booms and plumes of dust and rubble.
Even though it was night, there was no darkness. The light from the roaring fires cast an appalling half-light for miles in every direction, the constantly disturbed waters of the river reflecting it in a thousand ghostly candles. The eyes of the men in the boat had a scarlet gleam as they gazed, terrified, at the horrendous ruins of Stalingrad.
This is Hell, and we are the demons, thought Kulikov, gripping the ammunition clip so tightly he felt he must have made a slight impression in the metal, his nails shredded already by biting them and holding onto the side of the boat, Or are we merely fresh sacrifices, sacrifices to appease the battle?
Whereas before he had been unable to look at Stalingrad, he was now unable to tear his eyes away. They watered from the ash, dust and heat as he struggled to force them to blink, his defences stripped away by terror, his soul bared and exposed. The fearsome scene questioned his courage; Kulikov had never seen war before, never been in battle. He had hoped, idly, when he was younger, that some day he might. He had ached with boredom, sometimes, wishing the struggle could start anew, that the Red Army might be called into action to destroy the Bourgeois Imperialists of the West and unite the world in Socialism. He cursed his past impetuousness as the boat rocked from near misses – artillery blindly firing at the river. The enemy certainly knew about the constant stream of reinforcements being trickled into the shattered metropolis.
The sight of the battle sent some men mad, he had been told, and they turned their weapons on themselves as soon as they saw it. Others were merely terrified, and tried to find resolve in their ideology, their religion, the thought of their loved ones, anything, anything to stop thinking about a war that had seemed to far off, and was now a hundred metres away.
But some, when faced with the horrific scene, were… changed. They stared the crucible of war directly in the eye, and their fear, doubt and rage was fused into a tight little ball of the will to survive, and kill. They were hardened, emotionally flash-frozen, caring only about staying one step ahead of the invader. They slept little, and ate less, and there was a mad glint in their eyes sometimes when they spoke. This was what Kulikov had been told, and he had been told he should hope that this happened to him, give him some spine. Kulikov could almost hear his Uncle berate him now.
---------------------------
Bearing a sheaf of unorganised papers in his arms, Captain Nikolai Kulikov ran through the December snow which crunched loudly under his boots. Trying to keep his cap balanced, he tilted his head forward, using his elbows to push his way through a crowd of soldiers, and having the welcome side effect of avoiding eye contact. He didn’t like looking peasants in the eye; Uncle said it was unseemly for a party member to associate with them, especially farmers. They were reactionaries waiting to happen, he had often told him over dinner, because they were, at heart, un-socialist in their thinking. They wanted land for themselves, whereas a true socialist wanted the land to be farmed for the good of the people.
Kulikov had also heard stories of officers being killed, looted from and then buried in the snow, the stories increasing in their frequency as the German army had advanced deeper into Russia. Now, in December 1941, less than six months after they had made their cowardly attack, they were within sight of Moscow.
The snow did not crunch as the soldiers hurried past; their “boots” were strips of cloth wound tight around frostbitten feet, or Wehrmacht boots wrapped in bandages and filled with newspaper to stave off the unforgiving, never ending cold of the Russian Winter. The soldiers passed, and Kulikov, not looking back, carried his offering of papers to a low, ugly building that squatted in the middle of the snow, a modern incongruity in the Moscow suburb of Tsarist-era architecture. He waited for the soldier standing guard to open the door for him, and entered.
A voice, muffled by a carefully placed hand and therefore unrecognisable and unpunishable, said, in a tone of mock-warning. “Oh, General Bagration’s here.” There was a ripple of laughter across the desks of the office, which Kulikov ignored as he stalked past. ‘General Bagration’ was one of the kinder nicknames his fellow staff officers had given him.
“Off to see Big Uncle,” muttered someone else, “Hope he doesn’t give you the rod again.” There was more adolescent sniggering, Kulikov whirling round to see the crowd of Lieutenants and Captains all chuckling over their work, steam streaming from their mouths in the cold. All laughing at him.
“Are you fucking peasants or what?” he retorted, realising a whine was creeping into his tone. “Act like officers, why don’t you?” He spun on his heel and continued to his Uncle’s office. Aware, dimly, of someone murmuring in reply, “Why don’t you? Nepotistic Trotskyite.”
His Uncle’s office was, in this situation alone, a brief respite. Placing the dog-eared papers on the old man’s desk, Kulikov saluted smartly and stood to attention. His Uncle heaved his red, jowly face into position to look him in the eye to acknowledge the salute, before allowing his searchlight gaze to check his nephew’s uniform, barely perceptible twitches betraying his disappointment whenever he saw a crease, a tear, a misaligned button, each tiny uniform infraction a microcosm for his nephew’s abject failure as an officer – no, as a man. Kulikov could see it in the old bastard’s eyes and hear it in every sigh.
“These papers are a mess,” said the old man, “Have them organised, properly, and straighten them up. Then have them burnt.” He leant back in his chair and picked up a telegram card from his desk, holding it between thumb and forefinger. “STAVKA orders. Fascists are ten kilometres away. I imagine we can expect artillery quite soon.” He sighed again. “Your cap is not on correctly, how do you expect the men to respect you?”
“Yes, Uncle,” replied Kulikov. He turned to leave, and stopped. The old man didn’t know, of course, that every single other member of his staff despised their newest and youngest member, and who could blame them? Men who had worked in the Army for 20 years were lucky to become a staff officer to his great and illustrious Uncle, the model socialist and leader of men. But not so for Nikolai Kulikov, promoted to his Uncle’s staff immediately out of officer school so the old man could keep an eye on him. They were right. It was nepotism, pure and simple.
You’ve been through this so many times, he told himself, just do it. Stop being such a worthless coward and tell him. He gritted his teeth and turned to face the desk again, staring down at the inkwell to avoid that piercing gaze. He said, “I want to go to the Front, General Irumov.”
His Uncle leant forward and slowly removed his glasses. After a moment, he said, in a low and menacing growl, “You ungrateful little shit.” He stood, his heavy oak chair thudding to the floor as he hauled up his bulky frame. This time, he was less quiet, and the menace had been replaced by indignation and anger. “You ungrateful bastard! I have done so much for you, Kulikov.” Kulikov prepared himself for the tirade, knowing it would be a variation on an oft-repeated theme. He mentally ticked off the list as the old man progressed through it. “I took you in when your father died,” Check. “I raised you as my own son – despite the expense. “ Check. “I put you through officer school, I appoint you to my staff, and you repay me by spitting in my face and shitting on my kindness? You want to go to the Front, you say? Do you even know what it’s like on the Front, boy? You’re not a frontovik, you’re an administrator!”
Kulikov spent several minutes crafting the perfect response: “Yes, Uncle, I am a good administrator, but clearly nowhere near as experienced as anyone else on your staff, and thus I believe it is best for the Army, and the Motherland as a whole, for me to transfer to a front-line unit, or at least a position of responsibility, instead of being your aide. It is clear to me that I was appointed thus because I am your nephew and you wanted to keep me safe and out of danger, but this has caused friction with the other officers under your command. And, frankly, Uncle, I am sick of your constant insults, belittling of my ability and intellect. And as for your dismissing me as weak and feminine and then threatening to have me shot if you see me with a woman, it’s so hypocritical it makes me want to vomit, especially from what I’ve heard from the other men about your unorthodox interpretations of a female typist’s duties, you fat, greedy bastard.”
He said, “Yes Uncle. Sorry Uncle.”
---------------------------
Kulikov blinked, and moisture found its way onto his bloodshot eyes. They stung so foully that he could scarcely believe it; it was almost as if the sight of so much death had scoured them. He looked ahead and down at the approaching jetty, the one structure in the whole city which was not actively burning. There were a few sparse pockets of regular soldiers guarding the boats, a whole company of NKVD men, and, of course the wounded. So many wounded.
Kulikov had been warned about this as well, once more by his Uncle, the same man who had advised him on so much – whether he’d asked for advice or not – the same man who had told him what happened to men who saw battle for the first time, and found themselves tested in their hearts and minds, and found out who they were. Kulikov didn’t believe this. Men were men. He’d seen Stalingrad, and he wasn’t a changed person. He was himself, he was Lieutenant Nikolai Kulikov. He was all he could ever be. He was also utterly terrified.
The sight of the wounded was appalling – hundreds of men in red and brown stained bandages, some of them with stumps where there had been legs, torn sleeves were they had once held rifles with their arms, others with entire halves of their faces blown off. And then there was the stench. Kulikov had been told he would become accustomed to death, and to the stink of death, and to the sight of death, and to causing death.
Now, all he could do when his senses were assaulted by the jetty was vomit violently over the side of the boat and into the scarlet Volga. The men around him were similarly overcome, clasping their hands over their mouths, crossing themselves, or still staring up at the blazing tower blocks. Tattered hammer and sickle flags adorned hastily erected lean-tos and burnt factories, their deep red hue one of the few colours in the city.
That was what Stalingrad had become; a city of white buildings and green parks was now a battleground of grey, red and black, the smoke and ash, the flags, the dead. Lovers had strolled through those streets less than two months previously, but these had been supplanted by tanks and soldiers. Kulikov felt the boat impact the jetty, sending a shudder through his spine. They had arrived. There was no way back. He swore at the pain in his eyes, at the disgusting taste in his mouth, at the prospect of death, at the Third Reich, at his Uncle, and many other things. If the ground had swallowed him up then and there, he would have welcomed it.
Resolve gripped him. He had a duty to perform. He had a platoon to lead. They had a battle to win. He jumped onto the jetty, his legs almost betraying him they wobbled so much. He steadied himself, and resisted the urge to be sick again as another wave of stench hit him. He raised the Mosin-Nagant that had been pressed into his hands on the east bank, and slipped in the clip. There was a satisfying click, and Kulikov looked back, wistfully, at the other side of the river. It wasn’t even visible past the shroud of smoke.
They were committed. There was no way back, not even the sight of the eastern bank. Kulikov remembered the slogan – “For us, there is no ground behind the Volga.” For all he knew, past the pall of smoke there was no ground, no Russia, no Germany, no world. His new Earth was Stalingrad. The men scrambled out of the boat, and Kulikov forced down his fear, his anxiety and his disgust at the sight of all those wounded. The best way to survive on what the enemy called the Ostfront and what he called Home was to fight, and to the last man. There was no other choice. There was no way back.
Kulikov had never killed a man before, and found the idea daunting to say the least. He had told his Uncle with great trepidation, expecting another tirade, another speech about why he was worthless compared to his father, why he would never amount to anything.
To his shock, the old man had softened, his face had drooped, and there was weariness in his usually flinty and piercing eyes. What was it he’d said? “Everyone has that feeling. Some may try and hide it, some may try and ignore it, but everyone gets it. Even if it hits them a second before they pull that trigger, they get it. Going ahead anyway, pulling back a piece of metal and stealing a man’s life away, it’s the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do. And once you’ve done it, his face will never leave you. You’ll remember it for the rest of your life.” After that, Nikolai had been dismissed half-heartedly from his Uncle’s office. The old man had never spoken of that day again, not for ten years. That look had never come back. Maybe that was how he dealt with what he’d done.
