Stalingrad Campaign Reflections (1)

Captain Dorki spat in the direction of the Maxim MMG team as they headed back towards Company Head Quarters. "To hell with them, they sat on their arses and shot at shadows." Yes, they kept one half of the sector quiet as a mouse, even claimed to have killed a German officer in a house, but Dorki knew that bullets could not go through thick walls or turn corners. No German dared show his face to the MMG but as a consequence the other half of the sector had burned like hell and took too many of his men. Fifty per cent of his under strength platoon had fallen. The Germans had bled too but it was his troops he only cared for. "The Patrol" bad been bounced back towards the Volga and the Germans were sure to come again fast on their heels, following up their success sensing an easy victory. Damn them!

Dorki took a slug of Vodka and looked up at Lt Pasha. The man was the sole survivor from his squad. He looked broken, ashamed and confused. Dorki had literally run into him, in fact he had knocked Pasha down as he fled in terror from the "Hell House" - elite Panzer Grenadiers had fought his Rifle Section hand-to-hand, dying together in a not so elite fashion. The German's had just been quicker to follow up. For that Dorki blamed himself not Pasha. The man was a hero. In the trench Pasha's uniform was still smouldering from the fury of the German hand grenade attack. Dorki pushed his revolver across the table. Pasha looked terrified - what did his Commander expect him to do? Then it was it true, he was a coward as he feared. Dorki spoke with menace, "Pasha you have been to hell and seen the Devil himself, next time, you take my revolver and you put this bullet in his skull." With that Dorki held up a polished bullet, spat on it, cleaned it his faithful oily rag and handed it to Pasha. The transformed Pasha had eyes of steel, "Yes Comrade Dorki!" With that he turned and headed out down towards the Volga to round up badly needed troops.

Dorki mused. The Devil. He meant it specifically. That tall Aryan Devil. Dorki had caught a glimpse of his counterpart through the haze of battle and burned his features into his brain. He would meet him again. Next time he wouldn't let his men be pulled so easily into a close quarter fight in a house. After Pasha had fought the first combat, a bloodbath to both sides, he had lost Mendalev's squad exposed in a trench. He had left them too close to the house when the Germans followed up. He would have be be more careful, much more careful lest these "elite" Panzer Grenadiers slowly chew his men up piece-meal. He was in a dark mood. After fateful minutes Dorki's eyes met Romanov, a noble name to the most ignoble cold blooded killer Dorki had ever met. Romanov sat in the shadows, adjusted the sights on his sniper's rifle ever so slightly. Dorki had respect but no sympathy for The Devil, especially since Romanov had lost a good friend, a drinking friend, a true blood friend in Pasha's squad. "The Devil's mine" said Romanov and departed into the night. Dorki crossed himself an old habit still practised out of sight of the Commissars .