The spring of 1942

The winter is long and cold. Time callouses my broken heart, but I do not forget him. I never will. The battered remnants of my squad are merged with the four from fourth squad; Mikhailov, Kapustin, Yakovich, and Dmitriev. Seasons change. Coats are shed and winter ushankas are traded for caps. We have weathered the storm and made it out of winter.

Our detachment carries on fighting, our numbers growing thinner every week. Supplies are at a premium. Food and ammunition are scarce. We take to stealing from the local populace, a nasty deed which Smirnov seems to enjoy just a bit too much.

By now, I am a fierce and hardened partisan warrior, no longer a helpless little girl. I am deadly with my PPSh, and have earned the respect of my comrades. Smirnov still takes any opportunity he can to tease me, but it’s been a long time since he’s called me useless.

Of course Commissar Fedorov still makes me pleasure him every chance he gets. He tells me that there is nothing he likes more in this world than feeding me his cum. I hate it but do it because I have to.

We are joined by a new recruit, a young man by the name of Zhukov. Barely a man. It’s strange to have people looking up to me, when it has been the other way around for months. The last person who truly looked up to me was Sasha. Her baby is probably due any day now. I try to push my thoughts aside. We’re preparing to head out for guard duty.

Sergeant Dadonov sits on a crate when I enter, inspecting the tip of the bayonet on his Tokarev rifle with his fingertip. He stands up.

“Is everybody good on ammunition?” He asks.

“No.” Smirnov retorts. “We haven’t been for weeks.”

“Do you have less than normal?” Dadonov asks.

“No.”

“Then it’s business as usual.”

“What about breakfast?”

“Smirnov, when is the last time that they gave us breakfast?”

He doesn’t have a response.

“Should be an easy one.” Dadonov says. “We’re just heading out to keep an eye out for sticks.”

“Sticks?” Zhukov asks.

“The enemy.”

“Why do we call them sticks?”

“Because we like to break them!” I chime in. Dadonov smiles at me. Smirnov scowls.

Dadonov leads us out of the bunkers and into the forest. It’s a lot harder to see than it was in the winter, with all the leaves on the trees coming back and plants springing up everywhere on the ground.

“Mikhailov, Dmitriev.” He orders. “To the north. Smirnov, Yakovich, to the middle. Tatya, Zhukov, to the south. Kapustin, you stay with me.”

“Come on.” I urge Zhukov. He follows me into the forest. I lead him to our dugout, one positioned near the burned out husk of a Soviet tank. We don’t talk very much. Zhukov is very shy, and likely intimidated by me. The two of us hunker down and look out over the road for a few hours.

My ears perk up to the sound of an engine.

“Get down.” I whisper and shoulder my PPSh. A beat up old car comes into view, edging closer and closer to us, swerving around on the road. “Don’t shoot.”

The car pulls to the side and stops. A trio of German soldiers pile out of the car, staggering about the road and laughing. They’re wearing caps instead of helmets. It seems like they’re wearing dress uniforms. Only one of them is armed with a Kar98k over his shoulder. Another has a camera. Every one of them appears to be hammered drunk. They joke around with each other, and approach the tank, oblivious to their surroundings.

“Should we shoot them?” Zhukov asks me quietly.

“Not yet.” I whisper. “I want to see what they do.”

Two of them pose in front of the destroyed tank, and the one with the camera takes a picture of them. After much drunken laughter, they trade places, and another takes a picture of the one with the rifle and the one who took the first picture.

“So ficke ich russische fraülein!” The one with the rifle says and unslings it. He holds it in front of his crotch as if it were a giant dick. His comrade snaps a photo of him. The three of them roar with laughter. I suppress a giggle. It almost makes me feel bad that I have to kill them.

He puts his rifle back over his shoulder and digs in one of his pockets for a tin of cigarettes. The three of them crowd around together. This seems like as good a time as any.

“Get ready.” I whisper and bring my finger to the trigger of my PPSh. “Let me start”

One of them strikes a match to light the cigarettes. It’s the last thing he does before I squeeze the trigger and cut every last one of them down. Zhukov doesn’t even have a chance to fire before they’re all on the ground.

“Fuck!” I yell out. “We got them! Go get Dadonov, I’ll stay here! Move!”