“Wait here,” Kostia asked, “or clear it out?” There were undoubtedly more Hitlerites in there, who’d ambush us given half a chance.
I grinned at my partner. “Clear it out.”
We tore through like methodical wolves, one dugout after another. Pitching hand grenades through doorways, shielding ourselves from the blast, then fanning through with snapped shots and wary eyes on each other’s backs. A corporal with a Walther charged me with a shrill cry; I snapped my pistol up, but Kostia dropped the man with a thrust of his Finnish combat knife. A German captain went down after clipping Fyodor’s earlobe with a wild shot. When we finally cleared out the underground staff quarters, we whooped with triumph to see a portable radio set with transceiver and batteries, rod aerial spearing through the dugout roof. “The reconnaissance officer will dance a jig,” Vartanov chortled, disconnecting the radio for transport—a working enemy radio was such a prize, and here we had earphones, codebooks, and record books. I began dividing them for my men to carry, the blood beating in me: Keep going, keep going.
“Mila!” Kostia’s shout came from the eastern side of the dugout, and rushing to his side, I saw the team of German submachine gunners, at least twenty, struggling up a narrow track through hazel bushes. My platoon closed around me, eight rifle butts hitting shoulders, eight barrels smacking parapets. I called out the calculations that had spliced through my head in a half second, finishing with Adjust for downward aim, boys, don’t miss—and snapped the first shot off, bringing the storm of bullets down.
“How many did you get?” the young captain who relieved us from our position said a few hours later.
“Thirty-five,” I said, and my platoon clustered around me with fierce cheers. I kissed every one of my men on both cheeks like a brother, too choked to speak. Lumbering Fyodor and my silent Kostia, who were both junior sergeants now, old Vartanov and the other men whom I’d nurtured from fumbling green recruits to cool, capable shooters . . . there wasn’t a one who couldn’t move like a shadow through brush or woods now; not a one who couldn’t hold himself motionless in the dark and the cold for six hours straight if that was what the shot required. “Let the Germans bring that third assault,” I yelled over the din as my shouting men carried me on their shoulders back toward our division. “Give my platoon the high ground and enough ammunition, and we’ll stop the whole eastern advance in its tracks!”
“You’ll be decorated for this one,” Lyonya told me that night. “You and Kostia. Dromin is yowling like a kitten in a rain barrel, but he can’t stop the awards coming down from Petrov. You’ll soon have enough tin on your tunic to make a dinner service, milaya. How many does that make on your tally now?”
“Two forty-two.” I went on tiptoe in my combat boots to kiss him. “Being in love is good for my shooting. I swear, every bullet zings along the right trajectory when I know I’m coming home to you . . .”
“For the love of Lenin, woman, did you just say you loved me as you tallied your dead? Classic Mila Pavlichenko.” He kissed me back, and I nearly puddled down into my boots. “You’ve been awarded a leave pass for Sevastopol. I can take leave, too—what do you say to an afternoon in town?”
“A day off? Together?” I’d spent my last half day off trying to find Alexei at the hospital battalion, finally leaving a note for him that I wanted to discuss the finalization of our divorce as soon as possible. I still hadn’t had any response, and I knew I’d have to go track him down, but I wasn’t going to waste a leave pass on Alexei when I could spend it in Sevastopol with Lyonya.
It felt like the strangest thing in the world to walk with him along the winding waterfront path that weekend, an old floral skirt rippling around my knees instead of my greatcoat, Lyonya in an unraveling knitted jumper rather than his epaulets. Arm in arm like any ordinary couple enjoying a Sunday afternoon, looking at the sweeping expanse of the sea, stopping periodically to kiss the salt from each other’s lips. He bought me a posy of early-blooming hyacinths, then rescued it when I started gesturing a little too vigorously at the Monument to the Sunken Ships: “Erected to honor the scuttling of the Black Sea Fleet during the Crimean War! I wrote a paper about that once. One of the few monuments from czarist days to eschew ostentation for simplicity—just that single granite column on a spire of rock, and the lapping waves all around. You know it was designed by—”