By: Jonathan Bonazza
It was the winter of 1942, during the peak of the Russo-German War and the Battle of Stalingrad was beginning to lean towards the side of the Germans. As usual, Vasely Titov awoke to the sound to the sound of his alarm clock-radio playing his favorite Jazz music in his small home in Moscow. It was a rather frigid morning, so he slipped on his long underwear and fluffy slippers and proceeded to exit the bedroom. Before heading to his favorite chair in the kitchen, he made a sharp turn toward the door, heading outside to pick up the morning paper and check his mail. Still half asleep, he tossed the stack of envelopes onto the freshly stained, wooden surface of his kitchen table and prepared a pot of coffee. He was usually a very organized person, however it was far too early, and far too cold for that. “What a cold and gloomy morning,” he thought to himself as he opened the newspaper to the front page. “The war is still going strong, huh? When will it end?” he mumbled as he took a sip of his coffee. He looked up to see his wife coming down the staircase. “Good Morning, honey,” he said to her as she entered the kitchen and took a seat across from him. “Good morning,” she replied. Vasely reached behind him and laid the paper on the counter. “Lots of bills,” he said to his wife with a sigh. “It’s just not fair. Why do we have to pay for the war? Doesn’t our government have enough money already?” his wife asked angrily. “I don’t know,” Vasely replied as if deep in thought. Vasely then began to open the various envelopes crowding the kitchen table. Eventually, he came to a very large, white colored envelope addressed from Stalin himself. Confused, he tore it open. Inside was a large document with the Russian seal placed clearly at the bottom. His eyes widened as he began to read the document. “What’s wrong?” his wife asked, fearing his answer. “Nothing, “Vasely replied bluntly, as he tore up the document and threw it into the small trash can behind him. He rose from his seat and exited the kitchen. “I am going for a walk,” he said as he threw on his coat and shoes and closed the front door behind him. “That was odd,” his wife thought to herself, confused. “I wonder what was written in that letter.”
Walking down the frozen sidewalk, Vasely thought about his childhood. When he was but a young boy, living with his grandfather in a small cabin in the mountains, his grandfather would occasionally take him outside and they would shoot the wolves that would get into their trash. Young Vasely picked up on this very quickly. Eventually he became a very good marksman. Call it a natural talent, if you will. He had always enjoyed it. The harsh stench of blood and gunpowder, the lound bang emitted from the rifle upon pulling the trigger, the sense of danger, all of it just made his adrenaline pump. “Maybe being in the war won’t be so bad,” he thought to himself, trying to be optimistic. “It will be just like hunting wolves, only this time; the wolves will be a bit smarter.” When he returned home, his wife was waiting eagerly. “Honey, we need to talk,” he said to her. “Go get Isaiah.” She walked upstairs and returned a few moments later carrying their four year-old son. “What is it, Vasely? What is wrong?” his wife asked again, fearing his answer. “Stalin has recruited me to the Red Army, particularly the 13th Guard’s Rifle Division. “What? No…” she whispered as she began to sob. “I’ll be fine, honey,” he replied. “I am going to be posted as a sniper. I’ll be mostly out of harm’s way.” “What about Isaiah? How can I afford to take care of him alone?” his wife asked. “The government will be sending a pension. It’s not my suggestion, thus I must go.” With this, Vasely rose from his seat and began to pack his things. His wife remained sitting in the chair crying. When Vasely arrived at the Russian base, the chill from the frozen tundra he had just entered from refused to fade. The snowflakes still speckled his coat, glittering in the dim, hanging light fixtures above. “What a shit hole,” he said to himself as he ran his index finger across the damp, cement of the adjacent wall. “You’d think the military could afford better decor than this...” Looking around, he noticed that this was no luxury suite. The air wreaked of the foul scent of sweaty clothes. Not a pleasant scent for even the most rugged of men. As he was walking around he made sure to take mental notes of every nook and cranny in the halls. Vasely was an observant person by nature, never too careful of his surroundings. As Vasely was admiring an old, battered oil painting hanging crookedly on the cement wall, he noticed a shadow to his right. “Greetings, comrade,” a nasally, almost annoying voice exclaimed. Vasely turned slowly, remaining silent, only to see a short, skinny man with a scar on his left cheek. “The quiet type, eh? You best make all the friends you can while you’re here. You never know when you might need to rely on them on the battlefield.” “I rely only on my own witts,” replied Vasely, “Rely on anyone else and that’s when you get betrayed.” The short man sighed, “Whatever. I was ordered to issue your rations and your uniform. Don’t lose them, they’re all you’ll get.” With that, the tiny man turned and walked away.
Shortly after, he was greeted by his division’s general, Gregory Zhukov. “Welcome to the Red Army!” Zhukov exclaimed. “From here on out, you will be under my command. Anny disagreement will be handled appropriately.” “Yes, sir,” Vasely replied. “Head on over to the armory to be outfitted with your weapons and ammunition. As you were told, you will be included in our sniper unit.” “Sir,” Vasely replied again and began to make his way towards the armory. On the way there, the halls were littered with sick and wounded combatants. He felt as if he was walking through hell itself. Frost bite, pneumonia, gunshot wounds, it was all right there in front of him. “Disgusting…” he thought to himself as he approached an old wooden door with the phrase “He who wields a rifle, God shall smite”. Apparently not every soldier was as accustomed to killing as one may think. After waiting in line for nearly twenty minutes, he had reached the weapons bench in which the short, pudgy man on the other side handed Vasely a Dragunov rifle fitted with a telescopic sight and a Tokarov pistol. Along with the weapons, he was granted several boxes of ammunition. “What a beautiful rifle,” he thought to himself, admiring the craftsmanship. He ran his fingers down the brass decoration on the stalk. “I never thought I would actually get to see one of these in person, let alone use one.” He lifted the rifle and held the sights to his eye, making sure to keep the barrel away from anything living, a basic principle his grandfather taught him as a kid. “BANG!” he shouts, thinking back to his days as a child and the wolves. After his short, yet satisfying reminiscence, he began to head towards the barracks.
The next morning, he woke to the sound of the intercom. A bit different than his usual alarm clock, but it was something he would have to get used to. Zhukov insisted they were fitted, had their weapons loaded, and met him at the gates of Stalingrad at 0700 hours. After arriving, Vasely and the rest of his unit were briefed and sent off to various posts in the field. Vasely was posted in a large piece of hollow steel tubing set atop some rusted rafters overlooking the central square. “What a mess,” he said to himself as he glanced around at the crumbled buildings and debris. He tried to overlook the hundreds of dead Russian and German soldiers littering the ground below him. As he was glancing around, he noticed a few German soldiers were scouting the area. “This is it!” he thought to himself as he raised his rifle and began to adjust his sights on his target’s head. He held his breath and pulled the trigger. BANG! The bullet raced through the air entering the target’s forehead, directly between the eyes. “Bull’s eye!” he exclaimed quietly, trying not to give away his position. He proceeded to neutralize the remaining two targets in a similar fashion.
As the war began to break out below, several more soldiers fell to his excellent marksmanship. He let out a long sigh of satisfaction. It had been a long time since he had felt the cool touch of a rifle. Then, out of nowhere, a stray bullet from the fight below ricocheted off of a steel beam near his position and pierced Vasely directly in his left eye, traveling strait through the vitreous body and completely severing the optic nerve. The sharp burst of pain caused him to jerk his head to the right, involuntarily, where a protruding piece of rusted metal punctured his remaining eye. “This cannot be happening!” he thought to himself. They say when you lose one sense, your remaining senses heighten. He could feel the warm blood from the cavity where his eye once was flowing slowly down his cheek. The screams of his dying comrades echoed through his head. The stench of gunpowder that once tickled his nostrils was now burning unbearably. In his head he saw images of his loving wife and his young son. His head began to nod. “I can’t die, not here, not without saying… goodbye to…” The rapid loss of blood began to weaken his body. After a sudden flash of light, everything was dark. “Ah, you’re awake,” a soft voice said as he awoke in what seemed to be a hospital bed. “I’m alive? How?” he asked. “A miracle if you ask me,” the nurse replied. “When we found you, you were near death. You’re lucky those bastard Germans didn’t think to check the scaffolding.” Vasely let out another sigh of relief. “You’ve been out for almost 3 months,” the nurse said. At those words, Vasely quickly jumped up. “The war!” he shouted, “Did we win?!” The nurse grabbed his arm and replied, “Yes. Yes, we did.” “What about my wife, My son? I have to see them!” Vasely shouted as he attempted to jump out from under his confining sheets. The nurse gently guided him back into the bed. “We will notify your family shortly. Please, for now, you must get your rest. Images of 3 months prior replayed in his mind… The realization that he was now blind in both eyes sent chills down his spine… He was too weak, however, for it to really matter. With that, Vasely slowly laid back down. “Good,” he said as he quietly drifted off to sleep.