Dromin had a spiteful gleam in his eye, and I bit back a curse. An afternoon ceremony meant I’d get no sleep after a night spent scouting, digging, and camouflaging a nest in no-man’s-land, and a morning spent tensely waiting for a shot. Instead of toppling into my bedroll I’d have to get sleeked up in my parade uniform and make the trek across the gully all so I could stand and yawn through hours’ worth of speeches . . .
But I’d have Vartanov in my platoon, and he was worth losing a few hours of sleep. “Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant,” I said, saluting smartly, and rustled out in my leafy splendor.
Kitsenko came out behind me and sauntered along at my side. “I’ll give you a ride in the staff car tomorrow,” he said. “I’ve been sent along to the ceremony as well. Giving you a lift will make up for all the droning.”
“Why do you want to give me a lift?” I swatted a tendril of garland thorn out of my eye.
“So I can steal a kiss,” he said. “Last time you kissed me. I feel I should return the favor.”
“I knew that kiss was going to come back and haunt me,” I retorted.
“Hopefully your daydreams, not your nightmares. Would you shoot me if I laid a smack on you, Comrade Senior Sergeant Pavlichenko?” Kitsenko went on, grinning.
“I might.” I paused to yank some of the vines off my shoulders, making my tone polite but unyielding. Flirtation is all very well in a more civilized place—intermission at the opera, say, while wearing yellow satin instead of a shrub. For a moment I wished that was exactly where I was. But we weren’t at the opera, and I didn’t have the excuse now of not knowing he was my superior officer. “Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant, but I can make my own way to the ceremony tomorrow.”
“Are you sure? I’ve always wanted to attend an awards ceremony with a hedge on my arm. We’ll be a very dashing couple; I sprig up nicely as a spruce.”
My lips twitched despite myself, so I busied myself pulling more bits of camouflage off. “Thank you for speaking up for Vartanov back there. He’ll be delighted to learn he can officially join as a soldier of the Red Army.” Actually, Vartanov had no love for the Red Army, the motherland, or anything else he considered an oppressor of the Ukrainian people, but he hated Hitlerites more than he hated Comrade Stalin. “He’s longing to kill fascists,” I added with complete honesty.
“I like the old bastard,” Kitsenko said cheerfully, hands in the pockets of his overcoat. “He could sneak up behind Father Frost and cut his throat, you can tell. Glad he’s on our side. What’s that?” he continued as I disentangled a flask and a rubber tube from my ammunition pouch. “An enema bag?”
“Another tool from the sniper’s bag of tricks. Vartanov showed me a trail down to a very small section of no-man’s-land—it overlooks a dirt road running within half a kilometer of the German front line. When I fill this with water”—I held up the flask—“and then bury it in the earth around my nest and run a tube through the mouth of the flask up to my ear, I can hear the rumble in the ground that means motorcycles or staff cars are approaching up the road.” I’d lain all night and half the morning next to Kostia in a shallow trench, covered by a scrim of wild rose vines and hornbeam bushes, passing the tube back and forth until we heard the vibrations of a good-sized convoy. “Kostia and I shot the wheels out on the staff car and downed three officers and a gunner.”
“You really are terrifying. Are you sure I can’t kiss you?”
I was tempted to let him, remembering that he’d smelled like pine, and it annoyed me that I remembered that so clearly. “Quite sure.” I resumed walking, trailing vines.
“Why not?” He kept pace easily at my side. “Do you not like junior lieutenants?”
“I shoot junior lieutenants. I shot one this morning. Iron Cross, acne.”