The Sniper's Kiss

Chapter Fifteen

The medics’ station at Medved was in a barn across from headquarters, close to the road and thus accessible to ambulances. The 109th Rifle Division had one chief medical officer in charge of triage, two nurses, and three field medics / stretcher bearers. A fourth had been killed in the battle to take the town.

As Alexia entered, it was quiet. She’d noticed wounded men only cried out if they were in pain or needed water, but if the staff was able to tend them, they lay quietly, sleeping if they were lucky, staring at the empty air in fear if they were not. The two nurses, Tasha and Nina, saw to their needs all day and all night, even sleeping in the medical tent until the ambulances arrived to transport the ones who survived the wait.

At the entryway, next to the boxes of clean bandages and tins of disinfectant, Nina was pouring water from a pitcher into a mess cup.

“Can you tell me where the American woman is?” Alexia asked. “They brought her in yesterday from the crash just north of here.”

“She’s over there in the corner.” Nina pointed with her chin and carried her water in the opposite direction.

Alexia stepped carefully around the wounded lying on bundles of straw. A couple of them, the less seriously injured, said hello, obviously just wanting someone to talk to, and she glanced down, smiling. But she continued on, drawn toward the form on the floor in the corner.

Finally she stood over the woman. The swollen face was half covered by a makeshift bandage. Visible beneath the blanket that covered most of her was the winter coat of a civilian, but not the one she remembered. Even her hair—disheveled, bloodstained, of uncertain color in the dark—didn’t help.

Alexia knelt down next to her.

“Mia?” she said softly.

The woman turned toward the sound. “Who’s that? Are you the medic? Can you give me some water, please? I’m so thirsty.”

Alexia almost toppled back. It was Mia’s voice. Weak and trembling, but unmistakable. She stood up, joyful, confused, with a thousand questions. Without speaking, she returned to the front of the station and poured water from the nurse’s pitcher into one of the cups. Wending her way back, she knelt down, lifted Mia’s head, and tipped the cup carefully into her mouth.

Mia allowed herself several long swallows, then turned her head slightly, signaling “enough.” “Thank you, whoever you are.”

“You can’t see anything at all?” Alexia asked.

“Your voice,” Mia said weakly. “You sound just like someone I know.”

“Mia, it’s me, Alexia. Remember me? From Moscow? The church at Christmas?”

Mia groped to the side until she felt her hand. “Of course I remember you. I’ve thought about you for months. I can’t believe it’s you.” She chuckled weakly. “So you made it to the infantry after all.”

“Yes. I’m a sniper, in fact. But what are you doing here? What brought you back to Russia?”

Mia grasped Alexia’s hand in both her own. “A mission for the White House. To investigate missing shipments.”

“But how did you end up in an airplane over Belarus?”

“It’s a long story. I’d rather tell you in a more private place.”

“All right, tell me later.” Alexia’s grasp tightened on her hand. “But you know a German fighter shot you down. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed in the crash.”

Mia chuckled softly. “I’m sure I was saved by a bale of rubber boots. I held on to it like it was my mother. One other man survived, and the Germans pulled us both out. They shot him, though, because he wouldn’t talk. And then your people rescued me.”

“Unbelievable. Are you in much pain?”

“Just my head. I’m sure I have a concussion, and I can’t see much. What I see has holes in it, empty spots, mostly on one side. But that’s from my good eye. The other one is covered by a bandage.”

Alexia stroked the exposed cheek with the back of her fingers. “Still, those are lucky wounds. You can walk, and the hospital in Novgorod will take care of your eye.”

“I don’t want to go to Novgorod.”

“I don’t understand. Why—?”

“Senior Corporal Mazarova.” A soldier stood in the doorway of the barn and called out to her. “You are ordered to report to headquarters. Immediately.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll come back as soon as I can, dear Mia,” Alexia said breathlessly and kissed her quickly on the cheek before hurrying after the messenger.

Mia lay dazed on her straw. The joy at her reunion with her Grushenka guard was overwhelmed by the knowledge of being hunted and, worse, the sense of being physically helpless.

The sudden noise and activity around her told her more wounded were coming in. She sat up, tried to make sense of the fragmented images in her good eye, but could discern only two blurry figures carrying a stretcher and laying another wounded soldier next to her. The patient was apparently unconscious.

Moments later, Major Bershansky reappeared. “I’ve just sent a report to STAVKA of your presence here, so my superiors, and eventually yours, will know you’re alive. Once you’re in Moscow, you can contact your embassy. In the meantime, rest, and let the nurses take care of you until the ambulances arrive in the morning.” With that, he disappeared again, and she was left alone with her thoughts.

She lay for a long while, struggling to analyze her predicament. Just how trapped was she? She felt along both her arms and shoulders and realized she had complete use of them. She could bend her knees, was sure she could even walk with a little help. She simply had a crashing headache and couldn’t see clearly.

The soldier who had just been placed next to her was regaining consciousness and now moaned weakly. “Water,” the soldier gasped. “Please, water.” It was a woman’s voice.

Mia remembered her own frantic thirst and reached across to touch the woman’s shoulder. “I’ll try to get you some, but be patient. I can’t see.”

“Please,” the wounded woman gasped. “Take my mess tin, in my pack.”

Mia groped for the pack, rummaged inside for the tin, and found it. “So far, so good,” she muttered in English, then struggled to her feet. She peered with her one unfocused eye toward the only spot of light, the daylight at the entrance. She took a single step, then bumped a shoulder against a post. A jolt of pain shot through her already throbbing head. Shit. It was intolerable not to be able to see.

Angrily, she began unwrapping the bandage that was loosely wound around her head. The gauze stuck where the blood had dried on it over her eyebrow, but she pulled it away carefully. Finally it was off and the bloody eye was exposed. Unfortunately, it was glued shut with more blood that had oozed down from her wound.

She tottered for a moment, furious at herself and at everything that blocked her. Then, cursing, she continued forward, creeping inch by inch, groping at the air in front of her.

When she reached the entrance, it was unattended. The nurses, she assumed, were tending other wounded. “Shit,” she muttered again and fumbled around the table till she touched a metal pitcher with a hinged top. It was cool, and when she dipped a finger in, she confirmed it was water. Oh, thank God.

She splashed some on her blood-caked eye until it ran down her face into her collar. The sensation of cool water reaching her eyeball was pleasant, though the eyelid was still glued shut. She cupped her hand full of water and simply held it against her eye.

Little by little, the blood liquefied to a goo, and the hole between her eyelids enlarged until finally it opened completely. She still only perceived fragments interspersed with emptiness, but now the field was much wider. It was an improvement.

Hoping she hadn’t contaminated the drinking water with bloody hands, she filled the mess tin from the pitcher largely by touch. Now came the real task, of finding her way back.

Again she hobbled, encountering arms and legs, and she shuffled around them, holding a hand out in front of her. Finally she reached her corner. She knelt and lifted the woman’s head and held the tin to her lips as Alexia had done for her a few hours earlier.

The woman drank greedily and sighed. “Thank you, whoever you are.”

“I’m… a visitor.” She set the mess tin to the side, within reach of the woman.

“I’m Marina Zhurova, a sniper. They just promoted me to staff sergeant and now this. I think my legs are damaged really bad, but I can’t feel anything.”

“The major said the ambulances are coming in the morning to take us all to the hospital in Novgorod, so I’m sure they’ll take care of you there.” They were the same words the others had said to her, and Mia heard now how empty they sounded. “And then you’ll be able to go home to your family. Where are you from?” Surely the magic word “family” would be a comfort.

“I’m from Moscow but don’t have family anymore. They’re all gone. It’s just me now.”

Mia didn’t know what to say. For all the loneliness she sometimes felt, at least she had Van.

“Try to rest now,” Mia said. Another one of the empty phrases that people said to the wounded. Then she herself lay back and waited for Alexia to return.

To her sorrow and confusion, Alexia didn’t return, and so, the next morning, no one prevented the stretcher bearers from carrying her out with twenty-six others and setting her on a rack in one of the three ambulances.

The headache had subsided and her vision was improved, though that was both a comfort and a sort of cruelty. She looked longingly for Alexia, her chest heavy with the sense of abandonment.

Marina was alert, and at least they would be transported in the same ambulance, so they could talk. With clearer vision, Mia now could make out the horror of Marina’s legs, strangely misshapen and bandaged from hip to foot. No amount of morphine could have blocked the pain of so much damage if a severed spine didn’t already do so. Marina must have guessed that herself.

The nurses folded their medical records, such as they were, with name, description of injury, and treatment administered, and slid them under their tunics. Mia could feel the folded paper brushing against her chest.

“Is my pay book still in my pocket?” Marina asked weakly. “If I don’t make it, I want them to at least know who I am.”

“Yes, it’s there,” the nurse reassured her. “Don’t worry. They’ll take good care of you, and you’ll make it for sure.”

Pay book. A soldier’s identification. That’s what she needed.

The trucks pulled away from the camp and rumbled onto the road. The morphine the nurse had given her, together with her concussion, made her light-headed. But after about an hour, the pain returned and she felt the need to talk. “How are you doing, my friend?” she asked Marina, who lay next to her.

“Not so good. They’re going to amputate my legs in Novgorod.”

“No, they won’t,” Mia lied. “They can fix you up. It’s a big hospital with good doctors.” She had no idea what she was talking about.

Marina’s sigh was half sob. “I wish everyone would stop lying to me. If I even live, I’ll be a cripple in a bed, and I have no one to take care of me.”

Mia groped to the side until she felt Marina’s hand. “Please, don’t give up hope. Not until a real doctor sees you. I’ll ask to have a bed next to yours, and we can keep each other company.”

It seemed such a flimsy comfort, but Marina seemed to respond.

“Yes, talk to me. Tell me about yourself. I don’t even know your name.”

“I didn’t tell you because I’m running away from someone. I don’t want anyone to know my name, or I’ll be in trouble.”

Marina gave a small, faint grunt, though if it had been stronger, it would have been a chuckle. “Do you think you’ll be in any more trouble than you are now?”

“Well, you have a point. I never thought—”

The sound of careening dive-bombers sent terror through her. “Stukas!” one of the wounded men screamed.

The ambulance careened to the side and stopped suddenly as two shells tore through the forward part of the vehicle, killing the driver and the wounded who lay close to the front.

The few who could walk leapt from the ambulances and stumbled into the ditches. The rear door hung open, and Mia was about to also lurch through it when she glanced back at Marina lying helpless on her stretcher, her eyes wide with terror.

Mia swung back and curled up on the floor in the smallest ball she could manage, with one hand reaching up to Marina. “I won’t leave you.”

The planes strafed back and forth, sending down a carpet of fire raking across all three ambulances and on the wounded lying in the ditches. One of the ambulances blew up. Another curtain of shells cut like a blade through the roof of the ambulance, kicking up tiny spurts of blood as they sliced through the remaining wounded and Marina’s pelvis. Already paralyzed, Marina made no sound of pain. Instead, she gripped Mia’s hand and pushed it away.

“No. Run for it. You still have a chance,” she choked.

Mia rose up on her knees and touched Marina’s face. “I promised not to leave you. They might not come back a third time.”

“I’m done for,” Marina said between breaths. “Don’t want to live… as a cripple. I have no one. Only you. Take my pay book.” She laid her hand over the top of her tunic. “If you can’t be yourself, then… be me.” She took a difficult breath. “A kind of… resurrection.”

Mia bent over the mortally wounded Marina and slid the pay book out of the pocket. “Yes, it is. I’ll try to live up to your name.” She kissed the dying woman gently on the forehead, then turned away and dropped from the rear of the ambulance.

Her head spinning from the exertion, she threw herself into the ditch and lay, face pressed into the dirt, when the Stukas swept by a third time and sent down another trail of projectiles. The remaining ambulances blew up with a deafening sound.

Thinking only of survival, Mia staggered away aimlessly, perpendicular to the road and out of sight of the Stukas. Finally she dropped to the ground to catch her breath.

Where were they anyhow? She calculated the ambulance had traveled about an hour, but over the pitted roads, they’d moved slowly. Following the road back to Medved, she supposed she could cover the same distance in two hours, perhaps less, if her strength held up. She had plenty of daylight.

The headache still plagued her, though more weakly, and her field of vision still had a blank spot on one side. The slacks and coat she’d been wearing since the day of her arrest were soiled and torn but kept her warm enough. She could make it.

As she struggled through the underbrush that grew alongside the road, she considered her alternatives. The destruction of all three ambulances, once the news got back to Moscow—and it would, eventually—would suggest to Molotov that she was dead. That could take days, a week. Assuming Soviet troops rescued her, what then?

Another trip to another hospital? She had to avoid contact with Major Bershansky and, with others, never use her real identity. No. She had no alternative but to be Marina Zhurova’s reincarnation.

And in that case, she needed to know who she was.

She still clutched the crumpled pay book in her right hand. Crouching by the side of the road, she tried to read it. She had to hold it close and slightly to the side to get a partial image, and she could focus on the print only by squinting hard.

“All right, then,” she said out loud, and read the first page. “Marina Mikhailovna Zhurova, staff sergeant in the 184th Battalion. Personnel number 6290586.”

She studied the grimy photo next to the signature. It bore a faint resemblance to her, at least in hair color and head shape, but after a few months at war, even Marina no longer looked like her own photo, so it seemed unlikely anyone would notice the difference.

The second page listed her specialty, sniper, of course, and more interestingly, her education. She’d completed three years at Moscow State University studying literature, plus a number of practical courses in the paramilitary training schools.

The next page gave a Moscow home address, but parents, listed with their full names, were deceased. Facing that was a list of her military campaigns—at Moscow and later Kharkov—with dates and awards. She’d received medals, but obviously they were lost or they’d burned up with her. Mia felt a new wave of sadness at the thought. Brief glory and a terrible death.

The remaining pages simply listed the clothing and equipment she’d been issued, together with, of all things, a column for their date of return. She snorted. Marina had nothing to return at all, and neither did her incarnation. In fact, she’d have to find an infantry uniform. A rifle might be good, too. But God help her if she had to shoot it. And all that without coming to the attention of Major Bershansky.

She tucked the tiny gray booklet into her shirt pocket, and already she felt the spirit of the dead woman settling into her. “How do you like your new body, Marina?” she said into the air. “I promise to make you proud.”

The sound of a vehicle approaching caused her to throw herself into the ditch beside the road. Too late. She’d been seen. But the order of “Show yourself, or we’ll shoot” was in Russian, so she clambered out with her hands raised.

Two men were in a battered troop carrier, and one held his rifle pointed at her.

“I’m Marina Zhurova,” she called out, hoping the pay book would convince them in spite of her being out of uniform. She had only the most flimsy explanation for that.

She handed him the book, and he glanced only at the first page. “Were you in the ambulances?” he asked. “They sent us out after the attack, but we found them burning and everyone dead.”

“Yes. I think I’m the only one who got out. The others who jumped out were all strafed.”

He returned the precious booklet but squinted with suspicion. “Why aren’t you in uniform?”

“I… uh… was on fire, so I tore everything off. These clothes were in a pack that flew out from the explosion.” Would he fall for it? It was pretty far-fetched.

“All right. Get in. We’ll take you back to what’s left of the camp. It was probably the same attack that got you. They wiped out headquarters and killed Major Bershansky. Captain Goretsky is in charge now.”

Goretsky, she thought. She’d never heard of him. And if he’d never heard of her, she had a chance.

They followed the road back to the camp, which was in ruins. The house that had been headquarters was blasted, and so were the medical station and the quartermaster’s truck.

“You should report in to Captain Goretsky. He’s over there in that tent,” the sergeant said.

“Thanks. I’ll do that right now,” she said as she jumped from the carrier. It pulled away and she stood, uncertain how to proceed. She needed to find Alexia, if she was still alive.

Someone called her from behind. Was she recognized? Alarmed, she spun around.

“Sasha. Thank God! It’s me, the one you pulled from the plane. Please tell me Alexia is still alive.”

“I’m pretty sure she is. Right before the air attack, she and Kalya were sent out on a mission. Lucky for them. The Germans made a massive counterattack with artillery and fighter planes. Caught us completely off guard. Headquarters would have Major Bershansky shot for letting it happen, except the Germans beat them to it.”

“Yes, I heard. It looks like the attack wiped out most of the camp.”

“It did. The whole 109th is decimated. A few dozen of us are just regrouping and waiting for orders. I’m glad to see you’re on your feet again. Ironic, eh?”

“Listen, I’m stuck here the same as you. And I’m in no hurry to go back to Moscow, hospital or otherwise. I have a new identification, and I’ll stay and fight alongside you, but I need a gun and a uniform.”

“New identification? What’s wrong with being yourself?”

“It’s a long story, and I would endanger you if I told you. Surely you can’t object if I want to fight beside you as a soldier.”

“I think it may be a crime to impersonate a soldier, but after all, it’s your head.”

Mia sniffed. “You have no idea. Anyhow, do you think anyone’s going to object to my fighting for the Red Army?”

Sasha shrugged. “I guess you’re right. And if you’re that crazy, I’ll see what I can do.” She took Mia by the arm. “The Fritzes have nearly wiped us out, but there may be a few crates left in the quartermaster’s truck. Let’s take a look.”

The still-smoking truck lay on its side, its cargo of boxes and crates spilled out onto the ground. They rummaged through the wreckage until they came across a partially singed crate with a serial number. Sasha pried it open with her bayonet. “Look at that. All the new Mosin-Nagants you could want. Take your pick.”

Mia lifted one out of the crate and blew off the dust. It felt alien in her hand, but she thought it unwise to mention she’d never shot a rifle. “So far, so good.” She set it aside. “What about a uniform?”

“Hmm. Uniform boxes are usually green.” She continued to rummage and uncovered a jumble of cardboard boxes. They were crushed, but the labels were still visible: small, medium, and large.

“I’m guessing small. It’s what we all wear.” Sasha tore away part of one box and pulled out a folded tunic. They weren’t so lucky with the box that held the pants. They were large.

Mia tore off her coat and soiled sweater and drew on the tunic that fit her loosely, but adequately. The trousers, however, were enormous. “Do I look like a clown?”

“No one cares on the battlefield. Anyhow, they’ll be warm, and you have plenty of room to sit down.”

It was true. The loose rear of the pants was faintly comical but also allowed her to kneel, squat, and bend with ease, and the tunic covered the baggiest part of them. Once both parts of the uniform were on her, and buckled at the waist, she felt curiously empowered. As a final thought, she slid the pay book that identified her as Marina Zhurova into the same breast pocket Marina had kept it in.

“You’ll need the shoulder boards, too,” Sasha pointed out, holding out two of them. “Crimson with black edges. Just like mine.” She buttoned them onto the shoulders of the tunic. “What rank are you claiming to be?”

“Staff sergeant. What does that require?”

“Oh, how ambitious. That’s three chevrons.” She rifled through a large box of insignias. “Ah, got ’em. You’ll have to pin them on for now and sew them later.”

Together they attached the chevrons, point down, in the correct position on the sleeve.

“Don’t forget one of these. Otherwise that rifle will be pretty useless.” Sasha lifted up what looked like a heavy double canvas strap and draped it over her head and one shoulder. Mia ran her fingers down the length, feeling the individual squares that ran along it, and realized it was the ammunition bandolier. It was heavier than she’d imagined, but it did make her look like an infantryman.

Sasha stepped back and studied her. “You’ll do. Technically, this counts as looting, and we both could be shot. But the camp is disbanding, and we’re leaving it all anyhow, except the rifles. I’ll report that we’ve found them. By the way, if you’re going to join us, you’d better tell me your name?”

“Marina Zhurova. Sniper and sergeant.” She reached for her rifle and held it across her chest the way she’d seen Alexia do it. Then she took a deep breath.

“I guess it’s time to report in. Who’d you say is in charge?”

Captain Goretzky, to her relief, had no time for her. He was frantically gathering papers into a leather satchel and barking orders to subordinates, preparing to withdraw.

He glanced up briefly. “So you’re the only survivor?”

“Yes, sir. They strafed us and then blew everything up.”

He looked her up and down. “You look fit to me. Why were you in an ambulance?”

“I had a concussion and this head wound.” She pointed to the bright red ridge that ran diagonally through her right eyebrow. It still oozed a thin trickle of blood that she had to wipe away periodically. “The concussion affected my vision, but it’s better now. So I’m reporting back for duty, sir. I was in the same unit as Corporals Mazarova and Yekimova.”

Goretzky sniffed. “Bershansky always did coddle his soldiers. All right. Return to your unit until further notice. At the moment, STAVKA has ordered us to withdraw to Menyusha, to the brickworks to wait for reinforcements.”

“Yes, Comrade Captain,” she said.

“By the way, sir,” Sasha added. “The quartermaster’s truck still has some rifles. Shall I make arrangements to bring them along?”

“Do that. I’ll send over one of our carriers for them. See if there’s anything else worth saving. If not, I want the rest destroyed.”

“Yes, sir.” She saluted, and Mia saluted a second later with as much snap as she was able. She was going to have to remember to do that.

Outside, Sasha clapped her on the back. “Before the carrier arrives, let’s go collect everything else you’re going to need on the march.”

They jogged back to the jumble of boxes and found that the basic field items were still available, though not necessarily in the correct size: padded jacket, water flask, mess kit, pilotka cap, underwear, boots, and a backpack to carry it all in. “A shame we can’t find a scope for you. But you’ll need more ammunition.” Sasha hooked a cartridge belt around Mia’s waist. “This should do it.”

“Jesus, you march with all this on?” Mia grumbled. “I sure hope Menyusha’s not far.”

Just then a troop carrier pulled up next to them. The sergeant who had rescued her eyed her new uniform and smiled. “Much better,” he said, and joined Sasha in hauling out the rifle crate as well as others full of ammunition.

When the work was done and the remaining supplies set ablaze, Mia and Sasha joined the stragglers who marched eastward toward Menyusha. After only an hour on the road, she already hated everything in her pack, and she knew that Menyusha would be very, very far.

With her entire body aching, Mia plodded along behind Sasha and the others heading eastward. It was nightfall when they reached the Menyusha brickworks and joined the other defenders. “Who’s in charge?” Sasha asked as they entered the heavily guarded building.

“I am.” A tall gangly man in a soiled uniform stepped toward them. “Captain Pletchev. 145th Armored Division. Who are you, Corporal?”

“Aleksandra Yekimova, Marina Zhurova, 109th Rifle Division, reporting for duty, Comrade Captain.” They both saluted.

“I see. A few other women from your division are here as well, down at the far end of the building,” he said. “Go join them until further orders. I’m waiting to hear from STAVKA about reinforcements.”

“Yes, Comrade Captain.” Sasha saluted again, and Mia snapped to attention as well.

Surprised at how easy it had been to take on a new identity, Mia strode beside Sasha down the corridor to the far end of the station. She almost laughed at the idea of what she was now, a soldier who couldn’t see clearly and had never fired a gun.