Ashes! Ashes! We All Fall Down.

    Petr Novikov was dead before he hit the floor.

    Aleksey froze; he'd heard the bang, and for one heart-stopping moment he thought he'd been shot too. But he quickly realized the only thing that hit him was blood. Petr's blood. The slightly cloying smell of iron and salt met his nostrils before he even saw it.    

    Cautiously, he crawled towards Petr, squinting through the dim light of the room. His stomach lurched as he took in the gaping hole in the dead man's forehead. The amount of red it released was unbelievable—some had even splattered onto the walls. Bile rose in Aleksey's throat. He'd seen gore and bloodshed on an almost daily basis, but it didn't make him any less revolted now.

     The once-brawny Petr now looked weak, his face gaunt, his eyes open and unfocused. Aleksey was left staring down at his comrade's empty shell.

    He didn't want to believe it, but the truth was sealed with a horrid finality—his comrade was dead. And it was all Aleksey's fault.

    The job of a spotter like him, as part of their duo, was to assist the sniper in terms of security, to protect him; Aleksey had a dreadful feeling that he didn't do a very good job.

    "Comrade," he called, even though he knew Petr would never hear him again. He rose unthinkingly to salute the dead man.

    A sudden spray of bullets spat through the window, missing Aleksey by inches and sending the rubble on the floor flying. Cursing himself for forgetting where he was, Aleksey flung himself on top of the corpse. A whizzing bullet knocked his cap askew and he couldn't help but let out a yell.

    There was another round of gunfire, then silence.

    The absolute noiselessness of the surroundings after the shots pressed in on Aleksey's ears, almost deafeningly. He lay quite still on Petr, not daring to move or even breathe.

    With the sheer knowledge of how close to death he was just seconds ago, Aleksey felt his hatred of war rising all over again. What in the world was he doing here in Stalingrad? He remembered the thrill he felt as he crossed the Volga to get here, two months ago. All that had gradually been replaced by an intense repulse at the war—he had become a pacifist.

    But in truth he'd also been craving to be doing something more active. Spotting was an immensely dull job, something that he had never hesitated to inform Petr of. But the commissars had made it very clear—There weren't enough firearms; Petr was trained, so the position of the sniper was assigned exclusively to him. Aleksey was merely an assistant; he didn't even get a rifle. All he had was a revolver he'd found in the ruins with two shots left in the magazine.

    At least, until now. Finally daring to move now that the gunshots had stopped, Aleksey rolled off Petr. The Nagant scored the dust on the floor as he eased it free, its wood still warm from Petr's touch.

    A tingly sense of excitement ran down his arm as he touched the trigger, and Aleksey hated himself for it.

    Holding it, he paused. He was confused by the strength of feeling the war had induced in him; he no longer knew exactly how he felt.

     Should he take the Nagant and continue where Petr had left off? It wasn't as if he didn't know how to shoot. He had gone hunting many a time back at home with Lev and Stefan, and he wasn't half a bad aimer. If he could persuade the commissars to let him have the rifle…

    Aleksey contemplated his options. For him, spotting was alright—it was merely to ensure the safety of himself and others. But to snipe, to kill another soldier in cold blood…? That would be an act of violence, something against any sane person's morals.

    Not that he was sane. This war made sure of that.

    He frowned. Wasn't war itself an act of violence, an unjustifiable way of pursuing a country's aims? No, he wasn't so certain anymore. If the aims were to resist the power of an evil dictator like Hitler, surely standing idly by and letting Hitler do whatever he wishes was wrong, too?

    The thought of Hitler evoked a burst of patriotism for a Russia Aleksey knew and loved, a country right to defend and one worth dying for.

    Aleksey swore. To hell with pacifism.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

    On the horizon ahead of him was a continuous glow. It was Stalingrad burning. By day it smoldered and smoked, and by night it blazed brightly.

    The city was an undulating sea of ruins. Seeing the damage for himself was horrifying. In the next few days, he saw street after street where buildings had been blown to pieces, where bodies lay strewn beneath charred wood. The acrid, pervasive stench of gunpowder and decompose hung in the air. He found it difficult to breathe; ash had settled quickly on the grounds, but as soon as even the lightest breeze came off the Volga, puffs of black dust would roll out through the spaces that weren't covered by snow. It was like a choking hand at the throat of the city.

    Not a step back.

    That was the latest order by Stalin, the great leader this city was named after. Aleksey fought the urge to retreat to the plaza, where most of the Red Army rested. Three days of hunger was resting in the pit of his stomach, a dull, aching emptiness. His shoulder was in constant pain, battered by the rifle's butt, and his hand hurt from the opening and shutting of his breechblock. He couldn't remember how many Germans he shot—after the first few their faces all merged together. The only thing that kept him from running away was his desire to fight for the Motherland.

    He inched forward as quietly as he could through the snow, towards the wall.

    Not a step back.

    The horror of war had distilled in him until all that remained was pain and fear. He was in a state of terror; obsessed with the thought that any second could hurt, maim, or kill him. All he was capable of doing was to instinctively aim and shoot when he spotted a German, and trust that his terror would not let him make mistakes.

     He finally reached the wall. There was a small jagged hole in it, perfect for shooting through. Lying prone and aiming the Nagant at the hole, he zoomed in with the telescopic-sight, unsure of whether he was shivering from cold or fear.

    He was afraid of the Nagant's telescopic-sight. With it he could see details that he'd rather not know—wedding rings, for instance; it gave him some sort of connection with his target that made him feel oddly vulnerable. It was the feeling that reminded him what he was looking at wasn't just a figure, a uniform, but a person. Aleksey needed to be emotionally unattached to all his targets, and the necessity of using the telescopic-sight did not help one bit.

    The Nagant (which he'd wrapped in white cloth earlier on) trembled ever so slightly as he peered into the lens and shrank into his new camouflage-coat.

    He squinted at the two Germans, trying instead to focus on looking for their rank insignia, or anything that would give away high-value targets worthy of giving away his position.

    Unaware of Aleksey's presence, they jabbered away in German, probably thinking that they were safe in an open area, that they could see anyone approaching from miles away. How wrong they were. As long as Aleksey was camouflaged and hiding behind the four-feet-high wall two hundred metres away, he would be able to avoid being spotted.

    Suddenly, one of them raised his voice in what Aleksey assumed as anger. The other winced and fell silent.

     Aleksey's finger tightened around the trigger. Now he knew who was in command; that one he was going to shoot first. There were only two of them—he might as well just do it.

    He adjusted the Nagant, aiming between the first man's eyes.

    The targeted man lit a cigarette and gave a dismissive wave. The other man immediately straightened and raised his arm stiffly in salute.

    Aleksey held his breath. Now!

    He fired, bracing for the recoil, then turned to the second man and fired again.

    They dropped, one slightly after the other.

    Aleksey exhaled and tucked the Nagant under his arm.

     He flipped over the wall to take their dog tags, the snow crunching under his boots as he stopped beside the bodies.

    One of them was still alive, but barely. The German's mouth opened and closed as his lips tried to form words, but no sound came out. His eyes squinted at Aleksey, dully, as if he could not understand what was happening to him as he lay in the snow, his blood pooling around him. Then, slowly, they grew wide and calm as death gave him an explanation.

    And the blood seeped slowly through the snow, interweaving a crimson spider web before reaching Aleksey's feet.

    He looked down and shivered, the fire of war extinguishing in him.

    Aleksey suddenly felt much colder than he ever did.