Post by vulcan13 on Nov 27, 2008 19:52:03 GMT -8
Lt. Dmitry Galkin crouched quietly in the bushes on the edge of the German encampment. His breath billowed out in front of him in steamy white clouds, and his heart beat loudly in his ears as the German sentinels walked their paths less than ten yards from his hiding place.
Taking the end on one black gloved finger between his teeth, he slid his pale right hand out of his glove, and slid it into the outer pocket of his loose black trousers. Less than a second later, he withdrew the object he had been searching for, a slim black metal tube, his silencer. Slowly, and carefully he screwed the silencer into the end of his Sten gun, as the German soldiers walked by again. After wiping his coal dust-blackened face and replacing the dark glove, he dashed quickly across into the crowd of German tents.
Dmitry moved slowly, careful not to walk in front of any open tent flaps, or slide into one of the circles of firelight. He could see his destination, the large canvas tent near the center of the camp, with a smoking metal chimney extending through the top. The Commander of this German force, Fredrich Paulus, had been living in that tent, near the besieged city of Stalingrad for several months. Dmitry moved towards the tent, faster now, and more confidently. Pulling his Sten gun over his shoulder into his hands, he slid between the tents.
“Hey you,” The words echoed in German through the silent camp. Freezing for a moment, Dmitry waited to see what would happen. “You, man.” The German called again. “Come over here into the light.” Dmitry turned and looked at the German who was walking towards him. Dmitry took off running towards the Commander’s tent, and prayed that he could get there before the guards caught up to him.
Suddenly, he was hit from the side by a German guard nearly twice his size. The silenced sub-machine gun was knocked from his hands and quickly retrieved by another German sentry. Dazed temporarily by the impact, Dmitry was hauled onto his feet and dragged towards the large tent. See, Mitya , he thought to himself, you will get into that tent and see that Nazi scum. He smiled gently at the irony.
“Who are you,” The German commander barked at Dmitry, as he stood in the center of the warm tent. “You speak German, yes?” Dmitry remained silent, understanding everything the man said, but enjoying the show too much to stop it. Several of the lower officers who stood nearby in the tent made pathetic attempts at repeating the question in Russian, but none of them managed more than a few words. After several more minutes struggling, Paulus turned again to him and said, “If you speak German, identify yourself. If not, you will be killed.” There was no bravado, no threat in his voice. It was a simple statement.
Dmitry drew himself up to make full use of every one of his 170 centimeters (5'7"), and began speaking. “I am Lieutenant Dmitry Konstantinovich Galkin, a citizen of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics” He began in nearly perfect German. “I have come into this camp as an enemy, to kill my enemy, but I am as ready to die as to kill.” The German commander snorted, and sneered at the statement; Dmitry continued with renewed determination. “We Russians act bravely, and, when hardship hits, we suffer bravely.”
The Germans surrounding him in the tent all laughed. “Is that so,” the commander asked quietly. Dmitry nodded once sharply, glaring into the eyes of the Nazi. “Torture him until he screams.” Paulus ordered, “Then kill him.”
The guards moved toward Dmitry, but in a flash, he had moved quietly across the tent to stand beside the cast iron wood stove, which radiated heat into the large tent. The officers near by him moves towards him, but stopped as he pulled the leather glove from his right hand and dropped it to the ground. With no hesitation or unnecessary drama, Dmitry placed his right hand, palm flat, against the scorching metal at the top of the burning stove. His face showed no sign of pain; his eyes did not water, and he did not pull his hand away. He stood there for several seconds with every amazed eye in the tent watching him.
After the shock of Dmitry’s actions wore away, the guards moved to arrest him. Pulling the Russian’s ruined hand away from the stove, the two German guards tied his hands behind him and led him towards to opening of the tent. In one final act of defiance, Dmitry stopped and turned to face Paulus one more time. “I am but one of three hundred such men, each willing to give his life in order to kill you,” he declared, and with that said he allowed himself to be led from the tent.
“What shall we do with him?” One of the amazed officers asked Paulus, after the injured Russian left the tent.
“Let him go,” The German commander answered in dismay.
P.S. This story is based on Livy’s account of Gaius Mucius Scaevola.
Taking the end on one black gloved finger between his teeth, he slid his pale right hand out of his glove, and slid it into the outer pocket of his loose black trousers. Less than a second later, he withdrew the object he had been searching for, a slim black metal tube, his silencer. Slowly, and carefully he screwed the silencer into the end of his Sten gun, as the German soldiers walked by again. After wiping his coal dust-blackened face and replacing the dark glove, he dashed quickly across into the crowd of German tents.
Dmitry moved slowly, careful not to walk in front of any open tent flaps, or slide into one of the circles of firelight. He could see his destination, the large canvas tent near the center of the camp, with a smoking metal chimney extending through the top. The Commander of this German force, Fredrich Paulus, had been living in that tent, near the besieged city of Stalingrad for several months. Dmitry moved towards the tent, faster now, and more confidently. Pulling his Sten gun over his shoulder into his hands, he slid between the tents.
“Hey you,” The words echoed in German through the silent camp. Freezing for a moment, Dmitry waited to see what would happen. “You, man.” The German called again. “Come over here into the light.” Dmitry turned and looked at the German who was walking towards him. Dmitry took off running towards the Commander’s tent, and prayed that he could get there before the guards caught up to him.
Suddenly, he was hit from the side by a German guard nearly twice his size. The silenced sub-machine gun was knocked from his hands and quickly retrieved by another German sentry. Dazed temporarily by the impact, Dmitry was hauled onto his feet and dragged towards the large tent. See, Mitya , he thought to himself, you will get into that tent and see that Nazi scum. He smiled gently at the irony.
“Who are you,” The German commander barked at Dmitry, as he stood in the center of the warm tent. “You speak German, yes?” Dmitry remained silent, understanding everything the man said, but enjoying the show too much to stop it. Several of the lower officers who stood nearby in the tent made pathetic attempts at repeating the question in Russian, but none of them managed more than a few words. After several more minutes struggling, Paulus turned again to him and said, “If you speak German, identify yourself. If not, you will be killed.” There was no bravado, no threat in his voice. It was a simple statement.
Dmitry drew himself up to make full use of every one of his 170 centimeters (5'7"), and began speaking. “I am Lieutenant Dmitry Konstantinovich Galkin, a citizen of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics” He began in nearly perfect German. “I have come into this camp as an enemy, to kill my enemy, but I am as ready to die as to kill.” The German commander snorted, and sneered at the statement; Dmitry continued with renewed determination. “We Russians act bravely, and, when hardship hits, we suffer bravely.”
The Germans surrounding him in the tent all laughed. “Is that so,” the commander asked quietly. Dmitry nodded once sharply, glaring into the eyes of the Nazi. “Torture him until he screams.” Paulus ordered, “Then kill him.”
The guards moved toward Dmitry, but in a flash, he had moved quietly across the tent to stand beside the cast iron wood stove, which radiated heat into the large tent. The officers near by him moves towards him, but stopped as he pulled the leather glove from his right hand and dropped it to the ground. With no hesitation or unnecessary drama, Dmitry placed his right hand, palm flat, against the scorching metal at the top of the burning stove. His face showed no sign of pain; his eyes did not water, and he did not pull his hand away. He stood there for several seconds with every amazed eye in the tent watching him.
After the shock of Dmitry’s actions wore away, the guards moved to arrest him. Pulling the Russian’s ruined hand away from the stove, the two German guards tied his hands behind him and led him towards to opening of the tent. In one final act of defiance, Dmitry stopped and turned to face Paulus one more time. “I am but one of three hundred such men, each willing to give his life in order to kill you,” he declared, and with that said he allowed himself to be led from the tent.
“What shall we do with him?” One of the amazed officers asked Paulus, after the injured Russian left the tent.
“Let him go,” The German commander answered in dismay.
P.S. This story is based on Livy’s account of Gaius Mucius Scaevola.
