Sympathy

When you have your life taken away from you, there isn’t much that will stop you from enacting whatever payback you deem fit. When you have nothing to lose, there isn’t a lot that seems scary. When an enemy is so ruthless, you don’t hold a lot of sympathy.

Don’t worry Dmitri. I don’t.

“Lyudmila!” A gnarled and cigarette charred voice grumbled to me hastily. “It came from the building on the left, you see?” Her stubby soot and mud ridden fingers pointed to ruins. It was all ruins, the only hints at what once was were piles of rubble and fragments of shattered lives. Our stubbornly filthy uniforms stood out like the appendages of those not as lucky as Dina or I.

“A moment.” I paused, leaning forward to a reticle that had become a new home to me. A place away from all of the pain, instead a holy sword that I would enact pain with. I had lost an eye, I shall take several in return. My gaze focused as my sight adjusted to the magnified vision. I scanned the area.

“I only see dead horses.” I commented abruptly, subconsciously ignoring the half-dozen bodies now splattered across the shell ridden path. They may have been comrades once, but they were nothing but distance markers now. It was common for them to serve the Motherland after death in such ways.

“Past that, the building on the left! Teal fencing, two doors down from the horses.”

“You talk too much.”

I adjusted my stock, the barrel shifting against the windowsill turned battlement, for it no longer resembled the homes I once took for granted. I glided past my first guess, away from the reaper’s latest catch and towards a barn. Only half of it was missing. The windows showed only the void, yet something mechanical creeped menacingly out of one. It was a vulture, hungry to tear at more prey.

“Machine Gun.” A whisper escaped my lips, the words becoming mist, reminding me of my spotter's mistake. Keeping my eye on my newfound target, I reached below my rifle and sought two casings, two chances to punish the devil. I took great care in making no sound as I pushed the brass bastards into my rifle.

Ca-click.

Ca-click.

Schuck-clack.

I was ready. My face scrunched into a ball of hatred as I prepared myself for any possible scenario that I could think of. None of them scared me at a moment like this. I have no sympathy. I shall wreak havoc.

It was clear they were the culprits behind the mass of flesh that lay hideously maimed across the roadside. Why haven’t they repositioned? It’s a rookie mistake. It almost jolted me out of my mindset, yet the birch pressed onto my face reminded me of my mission instantly. It was an easy shot.

A thunderous clap shook the dust off of the windowsill. It reverberated around us. The small pieces of debris danced joyously in celebration. We were closer than I had anticipated, and almost instantly the vulture clawed its head upward. The gun was unattended.

“Cannot confirm.” Dina stated bureaucratically, yet she was my third spotter. I had taken another eye. A sickly feeling brought about a sense that for that moment, all of these corpses were proud of what I had done, and my face laxed.

I had avenged you, Comrades.

We should reposition. My thought process was halted as the barn doors opened. My expression grimaced as I began to inspect the situation at hand.

First, a cry. “Jestem ostbataillone. Polskie! nie strzelaj do mnie!”

“Traitor.”

Clack-schuck.

Tng-a-ting.

Schuck-clack.

A lone figure dashed out hastily from the entrance-way, scrambling across my formerly prosperous homeland and rushing west. His grey attire and distinctive helmet told me everything I needed to know about him. I knew more than he did by now, I would wager.

My glide traced his every movement as he desperately tried to hug now knee-high walls and gapped fencing. My finger began to squeeze the trigger as he stumbled over the destruction he had caused. The devil. I shall wreak havoc. I have no sympa-

His eyes stared into mine from so far away. A boy no older than nineteen looked right down my scope, tears smudging the dirt on his face and blood flecked across his torso. He was scared.

He looked so much like my Dmitri.

The debris danced. His helmet crumpled like tinfoil. A red mist insinuated that I had gored him. He fell out of sight, dropping like a grain of sand into a desert, another pile of flesh in this hellscape that needed no more.

“Confirmed.” Dina chimed as I found my eyes searching for the enemy I had just shot, no, the boy I had shot. I scanned the area, a small part of me insisting I had hit a stray body behind him. The corpses judged my cracks with silent gazes that I shortly felt befall me. Even the horses knew of my mistake. 

My resolve had faltered, my world barely propped up by the knowledge that my family were watching me somewhere, joining my comrades in their disapproving silence. I quickly built new supports. I accepted that he may have been a good man if not for all this. The guilt faded. We had all lost our lives in this war.

I am sorry Dmitri, I thought it was you. Just for a moment.

“You are a huntress, Lyudmila.” My trance was broken by a husky tone. The stout woman’s helmet didn’t fit her, it jangled like an entire set of kitchenware as she knelt up to compliment me. “That makes two hundred!”

She stood.

I realized we hadn’t repositioned.

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Thousands of women served on the front line of the Soviet Union’s Army during the Second World War. They filled many roles perceived by Western powers to be untenable by a woman such as marksmen, artillerymen and bomber pilots. Many lost their lives, forgotten by most today, despite their incredible feats. One example out of many would be Lyudmila Pavlichenko, a markswoman responsible for 309 axis deaths in the Second World War, and the first Soviet citizen to be received by a U.S. President.

The Ostbataillone was an axis unit in the Second World War composed mainly of Eastern European conscripts. A large majority of these conscripts were prisoners of war. Those who survived the war were often executed or punished severely after being imprisoned or repatriated to the USSR.