The Last Patrol

The turning point of World War II, Stalingrad. On Hitler's maps during Operation Barbarossa, the surprise attack on Stalin, Stalingrad was just a name and a dot. No one in the Whermact guessed that it would lead to the downfall of Hitler. In the short work of a year, German troops had conducted a blitzkrieg on Russia and had stopped at the Volga, the only crossing Hitler would use was Stalingrad. The reason it was defended to the last bullet, or attacked, was the symbolism of Stalins pride city. If Hitler took this, he felt he could crush the Russians.

Within the first months of the Battle of Stalingrad, the Stavka (Russian High Command) gave orders to hold the city at all costs. On November 1942, Operation Uranus was carried out. It included massed tanks and mechanized infantry moving around Stalingrad to take the Don, which was a river near the Volga and cut off the 6th Army into the kessel (German for pocket), it is approximated that 50,000 were trapped inside this pocket. Hitler bent on domination, and living in a world of flags and maps, was unaware of the reality. Stalingrad was officially taken by the Russians officially on January 1943. Within two years, the Reich fell due to expending resources and manpower on the hasty and unplanned disaster.

In this story, The Last Patrol, I have used a first-person view to show the final days before Operation Uranus, when the front line constantly changed and houses were fought over for months. I will use dialogue, foreshadowing, interior monologue, naming, sensory descriptions, specific narrative action, similes, pacing, conflict, and suspense to give vivid detail and life to the story. Readers see the battle through the eyes of Private Andrei Fedorov of the Russian Army's 13th Guards Battalion, a twenty-five year old man with a dark secret of having a traitorous family who served in the Imperial Russian Army. He believes that serving Stalin will redeem his past and protect him. He meets Adrik and is confronted with the possibility of not having to sacrifice. Duty and interest conflict during Andrei's last patrol into the cold, dark streets of Stalingrad.

The harsh ice made my feet feel like bricks as my squad stepped over the bodies and wreckage of a bygone skirmish. The misty morning lit by the fires of burning buildings is peppered with the soft putters of machine guns and the subtle crack of a Mosin-Nagant rifle.¹ I have lost the count of nights I have been in this city, if it can be called a city anymore. I can only remember that it is 1942, and the first snow happened a few nights ago.² All that remains are the ghastly walls of a seemingly distant era of humanity. Here humanity does not exist. Here you live by your gun. People kill apathetically, thinking about it just as much as breathing. This place is Hell, and the only angel to protect you is Stalin. Sergeant Mikhail Ivanov stopped in front of us, giving the signal to get down. I held my breath and heard the slow crunching of boots.

"Meine Zehen sind tot!" A German soldier exclaimed loudly.

"Sie möchten uns erhalten Sie getötet Verzögerung!" His sergeant whispered harshly.

Comrade Fyodor crawled forward towards Mikhail and whispered. "I can infer a small amount of German, they speak of cold feet and silence, I believe they are planning to raid our rear lines. Let us show them no mercy."

"He is correct comrades! Let us give them the taste of steel!" Agreed Mikhail, "For Stalingrad!"

He got up and fired upon the dark silhouettes with gleaming helmets. There was no discord between us. We rose up to charge with him. I sprinted across the street to set up a crossfire point. A comrade was hit by a grenade blast from under his feet, his body flying into the air like a doll. I had a German in my sights and fired, down he went with a yelp like a dog. The Germans set up a Maschinengewehr 42, a feared weapon with its seemingly relentless firepower.³ The carcass of the car that I hide behind is filled with holes. A bullet zips into my leg. Suddenly the morning is illuminated by a barrage of mortars, their sounds met with that of more German troops.

"Andrei!" Shouted Mikhail, "Tell our comrades that we need the Katyusha rockets and as many men as we can get!"⁴

I nodded in reply and stood up to run down the the seemingly endless street to our trench positions. My leg became numb, like an iron ball and chain was dragging me down. I soon reached the winding trenches. By the increasing mortar and gunfire I knew the battle was becoming heated.

"Where is Rodimtsev?!" I shouted above the mortar fire at a lookout. The Germans must have found our trenches because the mortars began to rain down right over me.⁵ One shell hit meters away, the dirt and rocks hit me in the face. I scramble down into the underworld of the trenches for cover. More mortars hit, I grab the lookout by the cuff and pull him down.

"Where!" I repeat, this time in his ear because he is a green and can't handle a barrage.

He points a shaking finger down a small thin trench, "50 meters!"

I head towards Rodimtsev's bunker. Within half a minute, I run into a dark lit room. The air is strong with blood, the wounded are piled up. Dirt from the ceiling trickles down with each deafening blast.(Narrative Action)

"Sir, Private Andrei Fedorov reporting! Sergeant Ivanov requests fresh men and rocket strikes!" I reported to General Rodimtsev, the leader of the 13th Guards Rifle Division, my division.⁶

"Ah, Private Fedorov, I was just about to send a runner up to Ivanov. I can give you ten men and one Katyusha rocket. I want them to goto good use, you are a diligent and brave man to come here through this mortar fire, you will be a temporary noncom."⁷ He replied, "Now get back up there, we will outflank them when the sun sets. I have faith in you that you will hold out."

I saluted and ran out. Ten men followed me as we scrabbled up the walls of the trenches. Down we ran through the streets back into the fight. A soldier screamed as he was shot in the neck. No one picked him up, the wounded must fend for themselves. Ivanov turned around and saw my squad with a glint of joy in his eyes.

"Lenin be praised! Do you have a marker?" He asked me as I shuffled into his foxhole.

"Yes sir!" I replied, pulling out a long cylindrical smoke grenade. I pulled the pin and let it fly. "My men, put some fire on that machine gun! Those who have Nagants, come with me!"

Two men and I moved into a house and climbed the stairs, inside the house bullet ridden toys and cribs of young children are strewn on the floors. This must have been a nursery. We arrived on top of the house.⁸

"Now! You two take up positions on the corners, I will fire from the apartment on the left!" I ordered while leaping across the small gap between the apartment and the nursery.

Within minutes, I heard the cracks of Mosin-Nagants, along with replying screams and silent guns. I reloaded my PPSh submachine gun to lay down more fire on a second machine gun behind a rubble pile below us.⁹ Then I heard the all to familiar shriek, I covered my head, pressing it into the cold concrete roof. The building shook from the blasts and a small bakery crumbled to dust across the street. More shrieks, complimented with their white streaks from the sky. The Katyusha observers must have seen the smoke grenade. I move over to my rifle men and tap their helmets for their attention. "Get out of here, more rockets are coming down!" We begin to run down the stairwell as a rocket detonates above us, parts of the building crash through. One rifleman behind me slips and crashes down the stair way, his body laying disjointed down below. With a horrid splintering sound, the stair way begins to give way. I pulled my remaining rifle man out of the way into a room as the stairs come apart under his feet. The two of us slump in a corner and catch our breath.

"Thank you Comrade!" He panted.

"I am Andrei Fedorov. Comrade, what's your name?" I breathed out, gulping loudly after speaking.

He muffled a cough in his arm. "Adrik Kyznetsov, whats your history Andrei?"

"Well, I grew up on a small farm before the collectivization and my mother died in the famines. I then moved to Moscow for work, now I am here.."¹⁰

"Hah, we are the same then, I lost my brother to the famines."

"Yes, but Stalin is good to protect us through the famines and the war."

"You believe it? You believe Stalin is protecting us? You believe he fought in the revolution?! You believe he is like Lenin?! You revere him?! How can you believe in him? The ones who care for us are only family and friends, no one else!" He spat with a strong disgust.

"I can believe in him, he has stopped the Germans, he has led us"

"He didn't lead a gosh darn thing! He didn't stop them! We did! We did with our guns!" He snarled as he shook his weapon. "You've been blinded! The whole point of Communism was for no oppressive government and plenty of prosperity for all! Yet he portrays himself as a god, there is no god!"¹¹ He stared at me, his eyes laced with confusion. "What makes you follow him?"

"Well, seeing you are not a party member or a secret police agent, my father was a colonel in the White Army and fought the Communists.¹² We lived during my childhood as bourgeoisie, when the revolution happened and my father died, my mother and I fled to the rural areas to hide and take up a new life. I now fight because the famines were Stalins punishment for our deeds. I fight to give my life on the front lines for him, and its time I do that."

I began to stand up slowly and knew in my mind that I must give my life, it is the only thing that can redeem my father for becoming a traitor. Dusting off a German helmet, I donned it and picked up an officers coat. With the grenades I had with me, I b tie their pins with twine together to make sure they would go off simultaneously.

"Andrei! You don't have to do that, you can live to fight another day! This city is getting to you!"

I refused to hear him and descended down to the bottom floor. The Germans were no longer firing, the skirmish was over, yet I knew where they were hiding. This was the end, I would escape this hell and redeem my family with this last action. My jaw is crushed in, I fell to the floor on my knees. The salty blood runs down my chin and splatters on the floor.

"Russ abschaum!" One shouted loudly over me.

The Germans found us. My hands grip for the twine, searching franticly inside my coat. More jabs with a gun butt into my side, I curl desperately trying to cover my exposed belly.

"Russ! Where is your Stalin now!" A second German hissed in broken Russian. I heard the click of a safety, then a burst of bullets tore into my leg.

"Die Russ!"

The world went black and silent.

"He is waking, where is the morphine?!"

"Darn it! This tube is out too!"

"Just hold him down!"

The world explodes into view, everything is vivid and detailed. I feel the pain hit me like a solid wall. A sharp object jabs into my leg, the pain begins to dull. The blood pounds in my ears. I look at my legs and see one covered in bandages with a splint attached haphazardly. The blood soaked rags were dark and yellow with disinfectant that did virtually nothing against virulent diseases such as gangrene. I am inside a office or library with the tables used as stretcher. My right eye is covered and my head feels like it is under a T-34 tread.¹³

"Where am I?" I manage to ask over the throbbing pain.

"Field Hospital of your battalion, the 13th Guards. A man carried you here on his back but died from his bullet wounds. He said that he was with you when Germans attacked the house both of you were in."

I knew he was talking of Adrik, why had Adrik carried me here. He saved my life, but why? He should have saved himself to fight another day! (Interior Monologue) My mind races with the question. Did I not do the same, I had no care for life, I believed that we are Stalins tool. We are human. I am human, I am my own tool. Duty over interest, but only to an extent! A mortar strike began, the paint flecks falling on my face, then I hear the explosions of heavy artillery. The creaking treads of tanks pierce the lulling evening, machine guns begin to putter with their words of death. The red sun casts long shadows across the street. German troops roar and shout as they charge towards our position. Comrades move forward and take cover behind unidentifiable ruins. The doctor over me bends down to pick up his scissors, only to have a bullet tear through his shoulder. I roll off the table and crawl towards my weapon that lies by my coat. I grab my gun and check the rounds, half full. A grenade blows the door open turning the oak into small splinters of wood that shower the room and leave a strong smell of a burning forest. A German stumbles in and sees me, his face obscure in the dust as time slows down. He sees me through the ocher mist. Do I pull it? I can't fight for Stalin anymore! I shall no longer be servile! I muse as he brings his sub machine gun up to shoot me. I fight for life and the right to live the rest in peace! Stalin no longer has control! My bullets hit him one by one, each one like a nail in a coffin as he falls to the ground. I loose another round clipping another German in the leg as he runs by.

The tank comes closer, its machine guns roaring. If it comes any closer, I will be vulnerable to its weapons. Grabbing my grenade rigged coat I have an idea, the twine is just long enough for me to throw it outside in the way of the tank. There is a slim chance of blowing the tread. The tank comes into view, its mammoth gray hulk casting shadows of death over me. Its exhaust belches the smoke of Russian bodies. I hurl the coat and put my head down, I have no time to get behind cover. Pulling the cord, the resulting blast scorches my arms and head. Raising my head, I see the behemoth in flames, one tread spinning into the soft snow, its crew baling out only to be picked off by Russian snipers. The thuds of T-34 tank guns come closer. Leaving the remaining German troops are trapped between the field hospital and the tanks. The last streams of sunlight illuminate the smoke over the city. I pull myself to a standing position by holding to whats left of the doorway. Rodimtsev has outflanked the Germans, like he had promised. A comrade runs over and helps me on to a tank. On the hull, I can see the inhabitants of our now useless forward trenches coming towards the tanks. Many pile onto every tank holding on to the small handles with the limber ones sitting on the barrel. Rodimtsev walks up to me from the command tank.

"Private Fedorov, you have done well, I shall see to it that you get a medal for your comradeship!"

"Thank you sir!" I reply with a hearty cough. "Sir, where to dig in next?"

"Dig in?" He laughs with glee. "We shall dig in no more! Chuikov has massed tank armies with mechanized infantry around Stalingrad, we shall punch around the city and take the Don."¹⁴ To emphasize the plan he pounds his fist into his palm. "Once we take that river, we can close the pocket and seal the Germans in the city they wanted so badly! Best of all, we are one of the battalions detailed to attack the Don!" He shakes my hand heartily. "Well Sergeant Fedorov, I hope you can have the same valiance in the fights to come just like today!"

"To Berlin!" I shouted out into the sky.

"To Berlin!" Replied my battalion.

The tanks start up, the column moving through the streets. Their sandstone paint is fresh, no scratches could be seen, new blood and power for the Russian Army. Swirling dust surrounds us as we drive towards the Volga bridge.¹⁵ It was true, the war may be ending! My right arm is sticky with blood, I lose grip of my weapon, and I do not feel the bullets in my body. Yet my body is filled with the hope that one more day alive holds the promise of a life after, a life without war, without apprehensiveness, a life without Stalin.

Historical Refrences: Antony Beevor's Stalingrad

Writer/Editor/Everythinger: Michael Leija (Me)