Chapter 84: Me, a Soldier? As If!

The PPSh-41 submachine gun—now this was high-end equipment, the sort of privilege ordinary soldiers could only dream of. Just look at that sorry lot nearby. After the strafing run from the planes, those who survived, still reeling from the shock, were herded off the trucks and sent to collect their weapons.

Weapons? As if there were enough for everyone. The first unlucky soul received a Mosin-Nagant rifle so long it might as well serve as a clothesline pole, while the man behind him was handed a mere five bullets.

“Why don’t I get a gun?” a fresh-faced recruit asked the officer.

“When the men ahead of you die, you’ll get your gun,” came the officer’s matter-of-fact reply.

This scene was all too familiar to Mei. It seemed almost uncanny.

Mei looked at the officer, bewildered. “Why me?”

The officer, entirely unperturbed, replied, “You seem nimble. Maybe you’ll last a bit longer. You should know, the average lifespan of an officer under my command is three days.”

Damn! He had a point.

Mei couldn’t help but recall the famous battle from World War II. After their defeat at Moscow, the Germans were forced to abandon their full-scale offensive. In the summer of 1942, they shifted their focus to the southern sector of the Eastern Front, aiming to seize the Caucasus and Stalingrad, and cut off the Soviet Union’s strategic supply lines. In May, the Germans thwarted a Soviet attack at Kharkov.

By mid-July, German Army Group B advanced to the great bend of the Don River, pressing ever closer to Stalingrad.

Stalingrad, and the regions to its west and south, were the Soviet Union’s main producers of grain, coal, and oil. If the Germans captured these, the Soviets would be deprived of the resources essential for war.

The Germans were determined to attack; the Soviets were equally determined to defend.

Thus began the epic clash.

At first, General Paulus’s Sixth Army was tasked with capturing Stalingrad, supported by the Fourth Air Fleet with nearly 1,200 operational aircraft, thirteen divisions, about 270,000 men, some 3,000 artillery pieces and mortars, and 500 tanks.

During the battle, the German High Command continually reinforced the sector, bringing in the Fourth Panzer Army, Second Army, the Hungarian Second Army, the Romanian Third and Fourth Armies, and the Italian Eighth Army.

To defend Stalingrad, the Soviet High Command, on July 12th, formed the Stalingrad Front, including the 62nd, 63rd, 64th, and 21st Armies, as well as the Eighth Air Army. Later, the 57th and 51st Armies, and the First and Fourth Tank Armies, were also assigned to this front.

The Stalingrad Front’s mission: organize a defense across a 520-kilometer line from Pavlovsk to Upper Kormoyarskaya, with its main force concentrated at the great bend of the Don.

Mei remembered well: this monumental battle ended with a pyrrhic Soviet victory—1.5 million Axis soldiers annihilated, with over 850,000 killed. But the Soviets paid dearly, losing 1.13 million of their own.

Strategically, the Soviets had won, but their casualties far exceeded those of their enemies.

In later years, the Battle of Stalingrad would earn another name: “The Stalingrad Meat Grinder.”

And now, it seemed he himself was about to become fresh meat thrown into that colossal grinder.

Looking down at the PPSh in his hands, Mei reckoned it was a rare boon for someone who’d crossed over to this world. Compared to the Mosin-Nagants the green recruits were issued, it was the difference between heaven and earth.

The Mosin-Nagant wasn’t just heavy—it was long. With a bayonet attached, it stretched over 1.7 meters, easily doubling as a medieval lance.

Yet the rifle had its virtues. Its robust design meant that even in the twenty-first century, some could dig up Mosin-Nagants that hadn’t seen maintenance in fifty years, and the damned things would still fire.

Not the most precise, but reliable as ever.

As for the PPSh in Mei’s hands—now that was something else.

A weapon purpose-built for urban combat, the PPSh had tormented the Germans throughout the war. The reason was simple: it packed a punch and carried a lot of bullets.

German soldiers usually carried MP40s in close quarters—submachine guns firing 9mm rounds, with poor penetration and a paltry thirty-two rounds per magazine. Even when German troops devised the trick of taping two magazines together for faster reloads, they were still no match for the PPSh, which boasted a seventy-one-round drum of 7.62mm ammunition.

Often, in firefights, the Germans would empty both magazines while the Soviets with their PPShs were still spraying away.

At ranges of tens of meters, the PPSh’s suppressive fire was absolutely devastating.

Of course, the PPSh’s large drum made reloading slower, but in truth, most firefights were decided within a single magazine. Rarely did anyone live long enough for a second reload.

Now, having been handed a PPSh by the officer, it was clear: Mei was to be an assault trooper.

“All right, Private Delauski, pick six new recruits to serve under you. You’ll soon be crossing the river to join in the defense of our great motherland.”

“Sir! I guarantee the mission will be accomplished!” New to the scene, Mei didn’t mind playing the humble subordinate—especially after noting the officer’s impressive rank.

On his brown epaulets glinted a golden arrow and a five-pointed star. The man was a major general.

After saluting, Mei took his leave and strode toward the new recruits, who were just collecting their weapons and ammunition. He addressed the quartermaster: “Hello! I’m Private Delauski. By order of the commanding officer, I am to select six new recruits as my men for the upcoming river crossing and assault.”

He gestured toward the imposing major general standing at the center of the field.

The quartermaster glanced over, saw the general nod, and understood.

Mei selected a few of the steadier recruits—those who weren’t trembling with fear—and led them to join the main force.

Watching Mei’s departing figure, a lieutenant colonel at the major general’s side commented, “Comrade Rodimtsev, that fellow just now…”

“A promising recruit,” replied Major General Rodimtsev, commander of the 13th Guards Division. “Just look at his old fur coat—you can tell he’s a hunter. That pelt is from a Siberian wolf king, no less. To bring down such prey, it’s no wonder he’s so quick and agile.”

As he spoke, Rodimtsev recalled the earlier scene:

When the Stuka had dived out of the clouds at high speed, even he had barely reacted, but he’d seen that figure dart from the truck like a gust of wind, dodging the strafing from the autocannon, and at the last moment, twisting his body to evade a burst of fire.

Such inhuman reflexes brought to mind a top-secret rumor circulating in the upper echelons about a “super soldier program.” Rodimtsev mused to himself: If ever there were to be super soldiers, at the very least, they would need the agility of that young man.