Chapter 87: The Super Soldier Program (United States)

At a distance of two hundred and fifty meters, even with a machine gun blazing, one could at most see a tiny yellow spark flickering in the dark.

Especially with two gun shields more than an inch thick for cover, the swaying centerline of a heavy machine gun was almost impossible to hit with rifle fire—particularly on a pitch-black night.

As a rule, there were very few ways to deal with a machine-gun nest like that. It had to be smashed with overwhelming firepower; once close enough, one had to find another way, tossing in grenades or using demolition charges.

But before that, within the killing field of such a heavy machine gun, every infantryman could only pray.

The Russians had never been bad at coordinating infantry and artillery, but their meager ammunition supply restricted their firepower. Lacking heavy weapons, the Red Army relied on human lives to fill the gap in this kind of street fighting.

Yet this assault had gone astonishingly smoothly, leaving even the lieutenant in command slightly dumbfounded.

In the past, when a crowd of raw recruits charged forward shouting themselves hoarse, more than half would usually be cut down within minutes.

This time, it was bizarre. The Germans’ machine guns opened up, and very soon they fell silent. Ten seconds later, one would resume for two seconds, presumably replaced by an assistant, and then fall silent again.

It felt as though those six heavy machine guns were nothing more than decoration.

At that moment, a Panzer IV appeared. It went straight through a wall, and the coaxial machine gun in the vehicle’s bow immediately poured fire into the charging crowd.

No one noticed that two bullets went crack, crack and blasted apart the periscope above the driver’s position.

Not only the driver’s periscope, but the gunner’s as well burst apart moments later.

"Damn it!" They thought it was an accident.

It had to be said, the Germans were highly determined; those two men actually opened the hatches without fear of death and stuck out half their heads.

Bang. Bang. Two shots, and the job was done.

Then, from nowhere, a stout grenade came flying in and, in any case, landed inside the tank.

And then... there was nothing after that.

Without the cover of heavy machine guns and tanks, the German infantry hiding in trenches and the corners of the factory had very limited lethality. However fierce a submachine gun might be, it still only had a few dozen rounds; how could it keep firing like a machine gun and create a death zone?

Through the binoculars, more than one commander saw that the Germans’ firepower had been absolutely suppressed. German troops with submachine guns were practically headshot the instant they showed themselves.

The Germans with Mauser Kar98k rifles... no one paid them any mind.

The Red Army’s assaults had always relied on human-wave tactics. Without machine guns and submachine guns to suppress them, how many hundreds of scattered rifles could stop several thousand men?

When several thousand Russians closed in at close range, there was no need to think about it: the side with more men won.

Just as General Chuikov was facing the Interior Ministry’s "reminder," a new report arrived.

"Report, Comrade Commander, the Tractor Factory has been taken," his aide came to inform Chuikov.

"Hm? That fast? Did the enemy abandon the position?" Chuikov asked in surprise.

"No. The enemy offered fierce resistance. Only 31 men were captured. Enemy losses were 1,130 killed. Three nearly intact Panzer IV tanks were captured, five destroyed, along with 18 guns of various calibers. Our own casualties were 371."

Chuikov sprang to his feet and cried out, "Impossible!"

In the Second World War, the defender had an overwhelming advantage. As a rule, if the attacker had to lose three times as many men to take a position, that was considered normal. If it was a strategic strongpoint, a general might even feel he had come out ahead.

This casualty ratio was something the Red Army could not have achieved even while defending. After all, German artillery was far more ferocious; with that kind of artillery leveling the ground and clearing the way, unless the Red Army was hiding in high-strength, reinforced-concrete permanent fortifications, it was impossible to produce such a ratio.

At that moment, another Interior Ministry man came in and whispered something into the first man’s ear.

The fellow smiled at Chuikov. "It was just the battle that happened moments ago. All twenty-one German machine-gunners from six MG42s were struck squarely in the forehead by the 7.62 by 25 Tokarev pistol cartridge from the PPSh. What do you think, Comrade Commander?"

Chuikov slammed the table. "Even if there was a crack shot, that has nothing to do with your Interior Ministry."

"Please don’t be agitated, Comrade Commander. We have no intention of stealing your beloved weapon from you. But we do hope you will consider something." The Interior Ministry man handed over a file marked "Top Secret."

Chuikov sent the people around him away and opened it. The first line struck his eye.

[Super Soldier Program (United States)]

"This... could that mysterious marksman be..."

"No, no, no, dear Comrade Commander. Any great man, before he grows into his strength, needs an excellent mentor. What I hope is that you will pay more attention to whether there are similar talents among your ranks."

"Hmph! Even if I found one, I wouldn’t hand him over to you. The Soviet Union cannot afford to lose Stalingrad; that is Comrade Stalin’s death order."

"Of course we would never disobey the General Secretary’s command. But what if these talents need to be discharged one day?"

Chuikov fell silent.

It was unavoidable for soldiers to be wounded and discharged. Often, the number of men discharged because of injuries was ten times the number killed in battle.

"When that time comes, I’ll let you know."

"My deepest thanks." The Interior Ministry official left in satisfaction.

The intelligence that followed left Chuikov even more stunned.

After daybreak, he was distracted all morning. "Damn it, what kind of marksmanship would allow someone to use a PPSh to burst more than a dozen tank periscopes at over two hundred meters?"

If one carefully took aim with a Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle, Chuikov would have considered it normal.

But the PPSh was a close-range assault weapon. Though the caliber was the same 7.62 mm, the bullet length and powder charge were a completely different matter.

"That’s a PPSh for you! Where the hell did this super marksman come from?"

At that moment, Major General Rodimtsev, commander of the 13th Guards Division, walked into the underground command post. As one of the few divisional commanders in the army group who still retained a relatively complete structure, Major General Rodimtsev held a very high position.

"A PPSh? What about a PPSh?"

Chuikov told him what had happened.

Major General Rodimtsev immediately recalled a figure. "Could it have been that young fellow?"

"Who? Last night I went to the east bank chasing the supply department for provisions. I happened to run into a raw recruit named Drosky. Felt the boy was pretty capable. The corporal’s insignia on his collar was even given by me."

The Red Army’s logistics might have been a mess, but because of the enormous manpower shortage, even young men from nearby villages with no military training were simply hauled onto trains and sent to the front.

Perhaps they could not even confirm Mumu’s identity, but the efficient Interior Ministry and military authorities easily matched all kinds of battlefield reports to the corresponding units.

An hour later, the exasperated Mumu had already been dragged before Chuikov and Rodimtsev.

"You are Private Major Drosky?"

"Yes, I am..." Mumu answered uneasily, like a child who had done something wrong.

"I am Chuikov, commander of the 62nd Army, responsible for the defense of Stalingrad."