—— Red Army Sniper ——46At night, when we were off duty, I used to go see my friend and
fellow townsman, Vlad Dudin, our company sergeantmajor, who
had not been relieved on this sector either. I would clamber into his
domestic quartermaster’s dugout, lie down on ammunition boxes
or some sacks and enjoy a nap in the relative quiet, stretching out
my weary legs.
Vlad and I had no trouble finding things to talk about. By the
light of a homemade oil lamp fuelled by lowgrade petrol or fat,
we would recall the distant and precious days of peacetime. We
remembered our prewar regiment, the 154th, the border town,
and the beauty of the Karelian landscape. And of course we
recalled our home town of Tambov, our traumatically short youth,
our home, kith and kin. Only we didn’t talk about the girls we were
fond of – there simply weren’t any.
On becoming a sergeantmajor Vlad Dudin set about providing
his personnel with ammunition, uniforms and provisions. And
in his ‘personal’ time he and I would go out into the front line
with a sniper’s rifle. His personal tally already ran to about thirty
exterminated Nazis.
One time we became so involved in our conversation that
dawn had already broken beyond the dugout’s closed door. We
were reminded of it by our regimental wit and master of sarcasm,
Vlad Kozyrev, who had once been a dashing driver. Before the war
he had driven the regimental commander, but had incurred a fine
and been reduced to the ranks. Bursting into the dugout, Kozyrev
shouted at us from the doorway, his eyes sticking out of his head:
‘What are you sitting here for, gabbling nonsense, when the
Nazis have played such a filthy trick on us?’
‘What sort of trick?’ asked Dudin in irritation, expecting, as
usual from Kozyrev, another prank or practical joke. ‘Have you
come here just to blather again?’
‘I’m quite serious! The Germans have put up a plywood sign
with nasty slogans against us. What are we going to do?’
‘Let’s go, Vlad,’ I said to Dudin. ‘Take your rifle and we’ll see
what visual propaganda the Nazis are up to.’