The sudden alarm convulsed "The Captain", he spat the sweet liquorice tea into the fire and stumbled forwards in a half daze waking from his reverie. The evil hiss of the fire, the sweet vapour of the tea and the deadening sense of urgency left a surreal feeling to his thought processes. He knew he was undone, his sentries had been lax and posted in the wrong place. The Germans had infiltrated into the very heart of his position and at this very moment were heading towards the banks of the Volga. The precious crossing points! The action was over before he had begun. To retreat was the only sensible option, but the cold logic of the day was simple. There was no place to retreat to. Out thought and out gunned they would still nevertheless have to attack with what they had to hand and it would be suicide. But so be it, that was the price to be paid and the Devil was doing the asking.
"The Captain" got to a vantage point. Already the dark figures, that unmistakable silhouette of the German Landser, were running down his left flank. All he could do was charge at them in whatever formation he could muster with whatever he could lay his hands on and hope to take some of them with them. Katya would not see him again. It would end here today he knew it. At this moment he knew he was already lost but the pain and indignation of being out thought by Fritz hurt the most. He pulled on this feeling of outrage and with a fire in his belly called "Hurrah" , raising his pistol defiantly skyward. The Siberian hat nearly fell from his head (not the photographic moment of Communist propaganda), he laughed maniacally. He ran and cared for nothing as the deadly buzzing of the bullets passed by, a German MG from the wreck of the Heinkel.
The Soviets caught "them" by surprise, as once they had past the Russian positions direct "line of sight" they thought they were safe. They relaxed. No one in their right mind would dare run across open ground covered by German MG42s. They laughed. This was a piece of cake, their easiest day in Stalingrad. They were the 'crack' ones and had caught the Russians with their pants down. They must have been facing kids, novices, amateurs. Then the expression of horror and shock was stuck on their faces, caught in a frozen moment of time as the blood curdling sounds of the Soviets swarming from all around them overwhelmed their senses. The horror erupted, bodies tumbled, men fell, in seconds two squads vanished. One Soviet, one German. The survivors clinging to rat holes and dead spots. The other 'baseline' Germans were also in shock. Their crack squad was gone. The Soviets simply had ran through the MG zone, the crew had fired high, caught a few but not enough. Things like that were not supposed to happen. It broke the rules. The Soviets are madmen!
Another German squad now had to run the gauntlet. Again, "Raus" and the Landsers came on. This time in the open Landsers fell, but they reached the house, but from the rat holes the Russian emerged and sniped, and hacked, and shot, and threw grenades\and then threw rocks. The path to the Volga was a trail of grey German corpses. Again the attack hung on the wire. Then as it happened, a nameless German NCO moved from the back, a veteran of Poland, of France of the early Russian Campaign. He saw and knew what had to be done. He ran with his section, gathered the other shocked and pinned Landsers together, rallied them, reduced their shock and pushed them forwards with curses to the Volga. His eyes were cold. The pitiful few Soviets remaining hurled curses. All was unwound, left with but a few rounds of ammunition they could only but watch. They had taken a pound of flesh from the Germans put two had been taken from them in return. They were bled white. "The Captain" turned to speak. As he turned the grenade exploded in front of him. He had fought hard, he had fought with mad valour but now he was helpless as he was lifted bodily into the air and knocked senseless. Grey shapes followed in after the explosion. They poked and prodded his body, searched him - were disgusted by his wretched smell. His final bullet would come another day, for today was his first day as a PoW, the Germans dragged him away. The interrogation would follow but The Germans needed to push forwards, one more house, one more street, they could hear the sound of the Volga. Was it their imagination or could they hear new waves of Russians, splashing ashore, their feet still wet from the crossing.
One more battle to come ... Ivan was waiting. Ivan was always waiting.
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