“No idea. Then, too, it may be better with six lights going in a room.”
“Yes, sir. Maybe, sir. Except I’ve tried it with six men and it’s still less than ideal.”
Range G6, Camp Budapest
The moon had set a little after eight thirty in the evening. Even had it been up, as a new moon, or nearly new, it would have provided approximately zero illumination.
Everyone in both assault platoons, plus the supernumeraries, had been through Range G5 at least twice. Some had had to go through it a half dozen times before they could reliably be expected to identify and engage enemy targets, while sparing civilian ones, quickly enough to presume the enemy targets hadn’t had enough time, had they been real, to kill either the soldiers of the assault platoons or the targets representing civilians.
They’d also gone, by buddy teams, through Range G6. But that was in daylight. Now they were going to do it again, as many as could be gotten through before dawn. Indeed, without tents, wrapped only in their overcoats and blankets, the men of the grenadier company lay in neat rows, sleeping until awakened by dyads to go through the range. It was darker than—as Platoon Sergeant Kostin said—“three feet up a well-digger’s ass at midnight.”
“Sotnikov,” the platoon sergeant said, nudging the guardsman with his boot, “wake up your pal Sobchak and go report to the ready gate. Aim for the beacon fire.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Sotnikov rolled out from his blanket roll, then began to shake the man next to him. “Our turn, Sobchak. Get your gear on and let’s go.”
“Sure,” said the other, as he likewise emerged from semi-warm bedroll into bitter, biting, icy cold. Aloud, Sobchak listed the items he donned. “Helmet… on head… magazine bag strap, over right shoulder… nemetskiy dynamo light… chain around neck, light in front… water bottle… over left shoulder… left boot… on… right boot… on… machine pistol… in hand… bolt handle in safety notch. Okay, let’s go.”
Wearily, the pair trudged up to the medium-sized bonfire by the ramped entrance to the range. There were two pairs ahead of them, which caused an inner groan, right up until the German mess chief handed them mugs of steaming soup.
“Keep warm,” said Feldwebel Taenzler, in the broken Russian phrases he’d picked up since arriving in camp. “More—plenty more—if want.”
“Spasibo,” said Sobchak, echoed by Sotnikov.
“Bitte schoen,” replied Taenzler, with a friendly smile. He was fairly confident that all the Russians had picked up at least that much German during their time in the POW camps. And, if not, the tone and smile surely cover it.
As the pair nursed their soup there were sounds of heavy but intermittent automatic fire, as well as shouted commands, coming from the other side of the fire. A couple of minutes after those ended, First Sergeant Mayevsky came back to bring another pair forward. Ten minutes later, and then it was the turn of another pair. Finally, with two more pairs waiting behind them, the first sergeant came to get them. His speech was unusually civil.
“Listen boys—Sotnikov and Sobchak, isn’t it? Come over here to put your backs to the fire; you’ll need all the night vision you can muster for this one.
“Now this is a lot harder than the ones you’ve done so far. The nemetskiy lights really aren’t quite up to the job. So here’s my advice: stay pretty close to each other. That way, neither of you will get in front enough to get shot down by your own partner. Talk; talk a lot. Watch out for furniture you might trip over. And here’s a couple of pieces of string. Tie your machine pistols to the pull rings of the dynamo lights; it will allow you to start them up without losing any control of your weapon.”
“Hey, that’s clever, First Sergeant.”
“It was Corporal Shabalin’s idea; I can take no credit.”
Mayevsky waited a couple of minutes, while the two tied the pieces of string. “Okay, are you ready?”
“Sure, Top,” answered Sobchak.
“Sure,” Sotnikov agreed.
“Move ahead to the first window frame and announce to the Captain who you are and that you are ready. Just like the other ranges, he’ll tell you ‘Flash!’ to indicate you are to proceed. Remember to shout ‘Romanovs down’ in both English and Russian before you enter any chamber. Now, good luck.”
“Thanks, First Sergeant.”
Silently, then, the duo began their descent into the earthen ramp that led down into the trench. The limited light from the fire by the range gate ended there. There were no sounds but those from their own footsteps. Even that was limited by the ground, churned up but hundreds of pairs of feet already today.
“I don’t think they could have made this any creepier if they’d tried,” said Sobchak.
“What makes you think they didn’t try?”
“Good point… Oh, shit…”
“What’s the matter?” asked Sotnikov.
“Hit my fucking head on the…”
“Who’s down there?” asked the voice of the captain, unseen above.
“Sorry, sir, we misjudged how far in we were. It’s Sotnikov and Sobchak. We’re ready, sir.”
“All right,” Cherimisov said. “Flash!”
Both men gave a tug downward on their machine pistols, pulling the chains and causing the tiny generators in their lights to whir to life. By the glow, limited though it was, they could make out the window frame.
Sotnikov took up a position on the left bottom corner of the frame, scanning ahead. He knew that the target array for this rendition would be different from the ones they’d engaged earlier, in daylight.
Sobchak leapt through the window frame, rolling once on the other side before rising to one knee. His light went out before he could find a target, so he gave the MP18 another yank downward, before returning the stock to his shoulder. His eyes swept left and right but saw nothing untoward. In a second or two, Sotnikov had taken a position to his left.
“Me, forward,” said Sotnikov.
“Go,” agreed Sobchak. Giving the light another pull with his MP18, Sotnikov walked forward warily. He heard movement ahead, just as the light dimmed out. When he pulled the chain again, there was nothing there.
Was it in this section or the next one? I couldn’t be sure.
Sobchak heard Sotnikov say, “Your turn.” He gave the light another pull, even as Sotnikov’s also sprang to life.
Overhead, the captain said, “You’re awfully slow, gentlemen.”
“Yes, sir. But we can’t see much and I think there’s something ahead of us.”
Suddenly, a dark target dropped almost directly in front of Sobchak. He pulled the cord for his light and fired, hitting it several times, he thought. Well, at this range it’s hard to miss if you can see the target.
The noise is somehow worse in the dark, thought Sotnikov. Maybe it’s the surprise.
“Sobchak, where are you?”
“I’m set at the corner,” said Sobchak. Below him, almost before he’d finished saying it, Sotnikov was peering around the same corner.
How the captain knew they were there they couldn’t be sure, but he said, “Flash!” almost immediately.
“Romanovs down!” they both shouted, pulling the cords to their lights and jumping out, ready to fire. In the light they saw two dark targets, to either side of the chamber, and a light-painted one in the center. Two bursts and the targets went down. They made it to just past the light-painted target before their lights died out again.