September 15, 1942.
Alexander sat in the back of the truck, his ice-cold fingertips clutching his Mosin-Nagant M91/30 sniper rifle. He removed the clip from his ammo pouch, turning it over in his left hand repeatedly to distract himself from the dread he felt in his stomach.
Everyone else in the back of the truck—10 soldiers total—looked frightened and unready for the known horrors of war. Solemn whispers escaped their mouths as each of the soldiers pondered over their condemned fates.
The Germans have conquered 70% of the city.
Uncle Joe is sending us off to die. We're just numbers to him.
Unlike the rest of his comrades, Alexander remained quiet and expressionless, tuning out any noise that would worsen the anxiety already consuming him. He put the ammo clip back into his rifle's pouch, then looked up outside of the truck's overhead caravan. He stared aimlessly at the sky until his eyes fixated upon a huge propaganda billboard slowly emerging from behind the forest of trees. Plastered on the billboard was a picture of Stalin looking bravely into the distance, with a firm, yet optimistic grin on his face. Next to his face, was text exemplifying the battlecry for the Soviets.
For the Motherland and for Stalingrad! Never fall, never surrender!
Alexander knew that there wasn't much time left. Soon, he'd be fending off the Motherland from the invading Germans. Luckily for him, Stalingrad was an environment he knew like the back of his hand.
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Steady. Focus. Breathe. Aim.
Those four words comprise Alexander's strongest memory as a child. He had listened to his father, Alexei, murmur those exact words to himself over and over before shooting his prey. Every morning, Alexander would watch his dad walk out of the backdoor of their wooden cottage in the Ural mountains. For years, Alexander begged him to teach him how to snipe, but Alexei refused.
Alexei wasn't always like this. Before he and his wife, Natalia, had ever had Alexander, he promised himself he would make his child the best sniper in Russia. He had every intention of doing so, and when he was called up to serve in World War 1 on the Eastern Front, he rejoiced at the prospect of returning home to a young kid and teaching him all the real-life combat techniques he had learned.
Natalia recalled the glimmer of romanticism in her husband's eyes as Alexei grabbed his rifle, his backpack, and left out the door. It was barely a month after Alexander was born, and Alexei felt the strong desire to protect his new family from any aggressor who would threaten the Russian motherland. It was a long trek from the Ural mountains, and the Russian army had already secured numerous advances against the Austrians.
It was nothing short of glorious and honorable to receive the call to serve. The village went into a frenzy as the conscription letters arrived. All the mothers in the village would walk their sons to the backs of the deployment trucks. They would cheer, celerbate, and cry tears of joy, knowing they'd soon be welcoming war heroes home with copious dinners and endless comfort.
Natalia somehow knew better. She knew what the Tsar doing, using their sons and husbands as cannon fodder. In the midst of the village's cheers, her distant cry could be heard at the end of the street.
"I don't think they're coming back," she would whisper to Alexander, every night. She knew she'd be attacked and criticized severely for questioning the war efforts, so she only confided in her baby.
As the feverish war excitement slowly resided, Natalia watched Alexander grow into a toddler. She would visit the bulletin board in the middle of the village almost every day. She would see good news from the Tsar's agents—news that, with each passing day, the village knew to be false. Horrifying rumors about Germans wiping out entire Russian infantry divisions circulated slowly through the Russian land like a venomous poison.
The war dragged on, and Natalia's sentiments became commonplace. In 1916, the first letter came back to the Ivanov family, extolling the bravery of their son Vladimir, who was struck with a mortar shell in the right temple.
Then, everything bad started to happen, all at once. Food became scarce, and the village air became stenched with sadness, fear, and grief. The once cheery atmosphere was now cold and dying, like the dwindling flames of a fire during the winter nights.
When the Bolsheviks "invaded," Alexander and his village barely even noticed. They were just faceless soldiers, searching everyone's homes to ensure total compliance from a starving, impoverished village. No one fought or even questioned them.
Soon, the war ended. Alexei returned as one of the few survivors. Alexander was just 5, and remembered vividly his father swearing to his mother that he would do everything to prevent Alexander from seeing the face of war.
Most of the village never saw their loved ones again. The horrified families who did welcomed home empty shells of the young men who once brought such joy to their lives. They were nearly all permanentely disabled or mentally catatonic from years of shellshock. Alexei, however, remained relatively unchanged. Certainly more hardened, but still the quiet, imposing figure, who simply shot his enemies from afar. The only discernable difference was the decorative medal hung on his lapel.
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For Valor and Courage.
Alexei had received his first special distinction from the State, honoring his masterful skill as an elite Russian sniper against the Germans. Alexander was certainly aware of his father's talents, seeing his father shoot targets at such a range that only an eagle could perceive, and with flawless precision.
"I'm gonna be like him, someday," Alexander swore to himself.
He asked his father nearly every day if he could accompany him when he hunting, to which his his father always refused.
"You're gonna get hurt. I want you to focus on good grades, so you don't have to chase after your food, kiddo," Alexei would say.
One day when he went hunting, Alexei accidentally forgot to lock the backdoor behind him. Alexander, now 8, decided to slowly follow his father into the wilderness. He'd been forbidden to even watch his father hunt, but now, he could actually see him in action.
He quietly packed his breakfast into his little red backpack and quietly follows his father's footprints in the snow. He followed them all the way until he saw the end of them, where his father was perched in a tree. Alexander quietly approached it, stepping on some sticks in the process, which drew the attention of Alexei. He would look back to see what the noise was, but would see nothing. Alexander, hiding behind the tree, managed to sneak up to be within hearing distance of his father, crouched behind a big rock. Then, he heard those words.
Steady. Focus. Breathe. Aim.
Bang.
Alexei fired one round after the other, like clockwork. Alexander was in awe, seeing his father kill some squirrels, two birds, and even a deer. He was astounded by his father's acumen and accuracy. He was so enthralled by watching his father that he was completely unaware of the wolf that had been following Alexander since he stepped on that first stick.
It began to growl, prompting Alexei to turn around. He saw the top of Alexander's red backpack above the rock.
"Alexander?!" he screamed.
Alexander immediately froze, horrified that he'd just been caught doing the one thing his father forbade him from doing. He slowly stood up, but was startled by and the expression of horror on his father's face.
"Get out!" Alexei yelled.
In the next few seconds, Alexei watched his confused son turn around just in time for the wolf pounce on him and sink its teeth into his left forearm. Alexander shrieked in pain, and Alexei immediately fired 2 rounds into the wolf's head. It died instantly, falling away from Alexander's arm and tearing off chunks of flesh in the process.
Later that evening, an argument ensued between Natalia and Alexei.
"You let him follow you into the woods?! How could you be so stupid?!" Natalia screamed.
"You were the one who's supposed to be wathing him in the mornings! You know he's supposed to read!" Alexei retorted back.
Alexander simply sat in the corner, clutching his bandaged arm in searing pain as tears soaked his face. Then, his father stormed up to him.
"Listen to me, son. You will never be allowed to leave this house. You're gonna spend the rest of your time studying, and you're gonna go to school. That is it," Alexei firmly stated.
And for the next decade, Alexander did just that. He went to school, got good grades, and worked hard. But every night, after his parents went to sleep, he'd sneak out and secretly hone his sniper skills. The trauma of the wolf attack stunted his earlier growth, but he pushed through to exceptional acument.
He became a ghost in the shadows. He hunted with the rapidness of a wolf stalking its prey, surveying the terrain and pouncing on each and every one of his targets. His gun became a seamless extension of his arm, unleashing hellfire upon any target of his choosing. Alexander brought home pieces of prey nearly every time he went out hunted. He'd sell his catchings for money, so he could refill his father's ammunition clips without stoking suspicion.
Steady. Focus. Breathe. Aim.
Bang.
But to Natalia and Alexei, their son was just the model student. Alexander managed to get good grades, all while mastering the art of sniping. His academic efforts paid off, and he eventually received an acceptance letter to Tsaritsin State University at Stalingrad. Alexei rejoiced.
"You can leave here. Leave it all behind, and get a job in the city," he exclaimed, reading the letter with his troubled son. He turned to Alexander and stared his son straight in the eye. "I want you to build a new life. Start a new family. Your mother and I have sacrificed so much for you."
Alexander played the part well. He worked hard in college and received a high-paying job out of school. He even found a classmate to get married to. But, after a few years, he just couldn't do it. Alexander quit his job in Stalingrad and returned home a year of graduation. Alexei became ashamed of his son, and their relationship was never the same.
"I'm so disappointed in what you've become," Alexei flatly stated to Alexander. The tone of pure disappointment in his father's voice shook Alexander to his core. He had lost any semblance of his respect that his father had for him. The day he heard those words, Alexander began training to become like his father, hoping that someday, he'd earn it back.
"It's the only thing I can do, to restore my dignity," he wrote to a friend.
And earn it back, he did. Every morning, he would leave the house, and fire relentlessly until he walked back with at least 3 pieces of prey. Over the next 5 years, he became the village's best sniper. He missed zero days of hunting, until of course, the Germans invaded Russia, again. It was a full-scale offensive unlike anything the Motherland had ever seen before, and everyone was ordered to assist the war effort. Natalia was shipped eastward to manufacturing airplane parts. Alexei was tasked with transporting weapons components from factories to the battlefield. And Alexander was called to serve, just like his father 28 years ago.
Alexander left the village in the spring of 1942, along with several other of the men in the village. On that day, the village was mute and quiet—a stark contrast to when Alexei and his generation of warriors left for WW1. This time, the village had learned their lesson. Everyone felt too hopeless, knowing that their kids would most likely never make it back. Alexander bid goodbye to his mother, who conveyed both hope and indifference, at the same time. He knew that might be the last time he'd ever see her.
After a 6-month training program, the Soviet Union deployed Alexander to the southern Caucausus region. The Soviets had stopped the Germans from capturing Moscow in the winter, but everyone knew that if the Nazis captured the southern parts of the nation, the USSR would be too weak to continue its resistance.
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The truck began to shake violently. The driver made several violent turns, slipping and sliding across the icy road. He then talked into his radio.
Crossing the Volga. 46th Infantry Division, 20 minutes to arrival.
And almost right on queue, the faint sounds of bombs fell on Alexander's ears. He could smell diesel fuel. He knew the fight was here.