“I’ve fired at men, too. Hundreds of times with my battalion, aimed at hundreds of enemies.”
“This is different. The way we kill, you see their faces. If they’ve washed that morning, if they’re meticulous with their uniform or sloppy; if they’ve had a haircut recently.” I was the one to hesitate now. “It’s—intimate. You feel that afterward.”
“Not during?”
“Not for me. When waiting in a hideout . . .” I hesitated again. “I don’t feel any emotions then. I fold into place, and I wait there. Telling my rifle to be sure and steady.”
“You talk to it?”
“Oh, yes. I know her better than I know myself. She’s a little more ornery than my last rifle, a little fractious.” I kissed the barrel’s cool black metal. “But she’s reliable.”
He looked at me. He smelled of gunsmoke, and so did I. “Do you see their faces afterward?”
“Not anymore.” Not often, anyway.
“But you still—” Nodding at the tremor in my hand.
“I know enough now to know it goes away in a little while. Same as the eye fatigue.” I rummaged for my cigarette case. “This helps. I didn’t used to smoke, but my friend Lena said it would only be a matter of time, and she was right.” I lit up, drawing the calming smoke into my lungs.
“This helps, too.” He pulled a flask from inside his breast pocket, offering it to me.
“Get yourself a cloth-covered flask.” I swigged. The rough vodka tasted like pine sap. “You don’t want the metal glinting, giving away your position.”
“Rifle, flask, knife, two ammunition pouches—” He ticked his way through a list of a sniper’s gear. “No helmet?” Glancing at my bare head.
“Not for me. Shell damage during that Romanian attack with the priest—my ears aren’t quite what they were.” Almost, but not quite, and almost was a drop-off as deadly as a Caucasus ravine for someone like me who dealt in fractions. When you lived by Don’t miss, there was no room for almost. “A sniper has to become all ears, and a helmet makes it harder for me to detect faint sounds.” I laid my rifle aside. “Hand?”
He held it up, fingers stone-still. His eyes smiled.
“Good.” We sat, passing his flask back and forth, looking over the busy encampment. The battalion would be pulling up stakes and retreating through Odessa very soon now. Word was we’d be merging with two other battalions from the 54th. There’d be a big push then.
“Will you be my partner?” I asked simply.
He answered just as simply. “Yes, Pavlichenko.”
“If you’ve got my back out there, you can call me Mila.” I offered him a cigarette. “What’s your name, K. A. Shevelyov?”
“Konstantin Andreyvich.” He lit up, drawing down a curl of smoke. “Kostia.”
Watch, now. That’s a day in the life of a sniper. One hunt. Twenty-eight kills. And I’d found my my partner, my shadow, my other half.
Chapter 9
My memoir, the official version: On the morning of the second day of October, our mighty military machine moved crisply into action at Tatarka, organized and efficient.
My memoir, the unofficial version: It was about as organized and efficient as a monkey shit-fight in a zoo.
THE MORTAR BATTALIONS and rocket installations struck the invaders first—a roar as deafening as a dragon’s, and the huge yellow blazes of flame enveloping the enemy positions to the west and southwest of Tatarka might have come from a dragon, too. I went in with the rest of my battalion a few hours later, across black earth baked into a hellish dreamscape. Dugouts, communication passages, firing points, all surrounded by tall grass and hazel bushes and wild apple trees—everything scorched into ash. My squad of newly trained marksmen followed me in silence. They’d boasted before the battle of how many enemies they’d take down, but now in the face of victory they were white-faced. There is nothing pleasant in such a horrifying triumph of death over life, even the death of a hated enemy. Half my men vomited when they first smelled the strange sweetish aroma of the dead.