It was hard to fight the enemy in the air as the planes dodged and turned like angry bees determined to sting until they were dead. Yet, it was harder still to fight hysteria. Perhaps the only Russians who weren’t afraid were the dead ones in the water.
Vlad didn’t know which of his travelling companions cracked, screaming over and over again, ‘What’s going on? What the hell is going on?’
Anton, the ever-dutiful soldier, answered him, at the top of his voice, ‘We’re under attack!’
Vlad continued reciting his poem in his head, repeating each line twice, to make it last longer.
And then someone said something that made perfect sense, considering they weren’t even half way across the Volga, ‘Turn back the boat, it’s much too dangerous!’
More and more of the passengers took up the chorus, ‘Turn back!’ They had to shout over the gunfire. Heads, drenched from the splashing of fallen bodies and exploding bombs, turned towards the man who was steering the boat. He stared straight ahead, looking neither left or right, ignoring the pleas coming at him from either side of his vessel.
Standing beside him was an officer of the NKVD. Just before they boarded the boat, he had handed out leaflets, that nobody would have time to read, entitled, What a Soldier Needs to Know and How to Act in City Fighting. Some of the men thought they’d make a good substitute for toilet paper, and were happy to take more than a few sheets.
The Special Police officer looked younger than most of the men on board, his nose was crooked, his eyes were dark, unfriendly and far too near one another. It would have been hard to picture him laughing heartily; he had that sort of face. As the men continued to call for the boat to be turned around, he briefly silenced them by shaking his head and declaring, ‘We are going to Stalingrad, do you hear?’ His words had no effect on the soldiers, except to add to the chaos.
A tall man, who stood a few feet away from Vlad, flung his arms in the air, and cried, ‘This is crazy! We’re never going to make it!’
His companions agreed, their heads turning this way and that in search of support.
The young officer was enraged. ‘How dare you say such a thing! Remember who you are and what your duty is to your country and to Stalin.’
The tall man ignored him, and shouted at the others, ‘Let’s take the boat, or maybe we’re safer in the water?’ With that, he shoved his way to the edge of the boat, having obviously made up his mind that he was going to swim for it.
‘Stop right there, coward!’ The NKVD officer produced a small gun and pointed it at the rebel. ‘I command you to stay exactly where you are.’
The planes continued to spit out their bombs, but the men on Vlad’s boat had their own battle to contend with.
‘I warn you. I will shoot anyone who attempts to escape.’
The tall man was bewildered. ‘What is this? Are you the enemy? You would kill your fellow Russians?’
He received only a black look for a reply, which was not enough to stop him from throwing his right leg over the side of the boat and calling to his mates to follow him. He was dead before he hit the water. His fellow passengers stared as his body drifted away from them to join the hundreds of other corpses who had lost the fight before it even started.
‘Now, unless you want to end up like him, stay right where you are. Understood?’
Nobody said yes and nobody said no. However, it was enough; the officer put his gun away, much to everyone’s relief. Leo and Anton stared at one another in horror while Vlad kept his back to them, to hide a single tear that slowly trickled down his face.
The rest of the journey was made difficult by the choppy water. Waves rushed here and there as if also trying to escape the bombs. A couple of men vomited over the sides, seasickness on top of everything else. As they neared their destination, the officer of the Special Police addressed the men once more, ‘Once we reach the bank you will be targeted by the gunners who will do their utmost to keep you from reaching the city. You must keep going, no matter what.’ With these words, he patted the pocket that held his gun, making it clear that he would use it again should anyone fail to do as he said.
Vlad could already hear the shooting and the screams of fallen men whose boats had won the race to Stalingrad. He felt frozen inside and out. However, it was a warm night and he wasn’t actually cold, only terribly afraid – afraid to stay in the boat and afraid to leave it too. He found himself remembering a history lesson, from months ago, or, at least, remembering the part where Mr Belov talked about the word ‘pilgrimage’.
‘We make hundreds of journeys every day, most of them are quite small but they are all important to us. Life, my boys, is one long pilgrimage, but you don’t have to be a hero to be heroic. Facing up to each day as best you can, striving to be the best you can – that can be enough of a crusade for most of us.’
Okay, Vlad thought, desperate to make sense of the situation he was in, this is a pilgrimage. I can only do my best and nothing more.
Someone asked in a timid voice, ‘When do we get our guns?’
Vlad was appalled that the matter was only being raised now. Maybe it was the sight of the officer’s gun that reminded everyone in the boat that they should have one too. The men looked at their neighbours, expecting them to have the answer to this very important question.
Once again the NKVD officer spoke up, ‘You ask about guns? Well, don’t worry, there are plenty of guns in Stalingrad, just help yourself.’
There was a pause before a voice asked respectfully, ‘Where are they being held, comrade?’
‘Why, in the arms of the Germans, of course.’ The NKVD officer smiled to show he was serious. ‘The battle begins here. Get into the city and nab yourselves a German gun. Use your fists, your heads and your feet. Give them the beating they deserve, every last one of them.’
Vlad did his best to shut out the horrified whisperings around him, as his fellow soldiers wondered, ‘How do I kick a man who is firing a gun at me?’ Leo chuckled to himself. He seemed so far away from Vlad, though only two men stood between them. Anton, meanwhile, was doing his best to find the perfect attitude for a Russian soldier. He nodded his head vigorously while trying, as discreetly as he could, to catch the attention, that is, earn the approval of the officer. Watching him, Vlad felt, in spite of everything, a rush of something, like pride or love, for this dimwit bully who was always so annoying back home.
Anton found his voice and began to suggest that it was possible, that what they were being asked to do was possible, ‘I’ve been in loads of fights with fellows twice my size. See, it’s dark, so we can surprise them, can’t we? There has to be rocks and stones. Now, a good rock thrown hard can do just as much damage as a bullet.’ He looked around, hoping for someone to agree with him and was rewarded with a few faces, especially from the tougher-looking men, seeming to consider his words and then shrug in agreement. This never happened in class where he was always on the outside of what was really going on.
The officer allowed himself a brief, tight smile, pleased to see, for the first time, a spark of hope in the men’s eyes, even though he believed that most of them would be dead in another few minutes. ‘Not long, now,’ he said, in a cheerful way that didn’t help.
Fortunately, no one could read his thoughts, so the soldiers concentrated their concern on getting their hands on a gun. How could they have possibly known the horrible truth, that the boats were emptying out hundreds of unarmed Russian soldiers in order to force the Germans to use up their precious bullets on them? The officer knew this and did not have an opinion on it; orders were orders after all. It was only fitting that Russian lives be sacrificed in this way for Russia. In fact, the officer, who never bothered to give these men and boys his name, allowed himself to pretend that he envied these soldiers, for they had been especially chosen, almost by Stalin himself, to perform this noble sacrifice – of themselves – in the name of the Motherland.