Pavlov's House: A Russian Soldier's Tale of Love and War

By D.L. Clark

Germany ruthlessly invades Russia during WW II, killing and capturing millions of soldiers in a matter of days. During this brutal invasion, countless untold stories of heroics unfold across Mother Russia. Follow the lives of three Russian war heroes as Russia struggles to repel the Nazis. In the battle for Stalingrad, a common Russian soldier leads his platoon of men in the defense of an apartment building, withstanding daily attacks over the course of several weeks. A nurse on the battlefield repeatedly risks her own life as she strives to save scores of wounded soldiers, her inner strength and personal sacrifices inspirational to those around her. Despite overwhelming odds, a young tank commander continues to counter the assaults of pursuing German forces while retreating across the Russian homeland. He eventually masterminds a brilliant ambush that destroys a large contingent of enemy tanks. And throughout Pavlov’s House is woven the reminder of the personal sacrifices people make during times of war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.L. Clark
• Release date: Nov 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310380334

D.L. Clark

D.L. Clark is a Lieutenant Colonel in the Marine Corps Reserves with over twenty years of military experience and three combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. He was designated a Weapons Systems Officer in the F/A-18D and has flown in seven different types of aircraft with over 1000 hours of flight time.This is his first novel.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Russia’s Western Frontier - The River Dneister

June 22, 1941 (0255)

Private Morozov nudged a pebble off the wooden bridge with the toe of his boot, watching its impact into the silent-moving river below. He glanced at the milky full moon wishing his six-hour shift would end soon. He stuffed his hand in his pocket to fish out a cigarette when he heard a man call out from the German side of the bridge, Help, Russkie! Help!

The hair on the back of his neck rose as he turned to face the far end of the seventy-pace long bridge and pointed his rifle at the forest shadows where the voice originated. He pulled his hand from his pocket, unslung his weapon, and thumbed off the safety.

Morozov saw nothing, but heard footsteps approaching on the gravel road. He glanced back at the guard shack on the Russian side of the bridge. Corporal Gripov stood halfway out the door, looking in his direction. Beside the bridge, his comrades in both machine gun bunkers put on their helmets and manned their weapons.

Stay put, Morozov! Gripov turned on a spotlight and searched the shadows.

Once again, the man called out, Help Russkie! Accident. A man in a German uniform staggered out of the dark forest, a rag pressed to the side of his head. He dropped to his knees near the other end of the bridge, moaned, slumped over, and clutched at his head.

Morozov inched forward, weapon ready, scanning the German side of the river. Static emanated from the guard shack radio.

The sergeant of the guard approached, What’s going on, corporal?

Gripov answered, I don’t know, sergeant. He came out of the woods.

Morozov, stop! directed the sergeant.

Morozov halted and glanced back to see the sergeant beside Gripov, toying with his dark mustache, surveying the situation.

With his eyes locked on the wounded man across the river, the sergeant said, This doesn’t feel right. Call the barracks and get the reaction squad over here.

Yes, sergeant. Gripov grabbed the transmitter to repeat the message.

As the sergeant waited for him to transmit, a four-man patrol approached from behind. The sergeant smoothed down his mustache and beckoned them forward, pointing toward the wounded man. Get over there and check him out. Remember, there’s twenty thousand German soldiers across the border doing exercises. Don’t accidentally shoot some damned Fritz and start a war.

Yes, sergeant.

~~~~~

Lieutenant Colonel Bauer of the German Army stood across the river. He wanted to be present for this historic occasion and insure that nothing went awry. His battalion had been ordered to seize this Russian bridge to clear the way for four attacking divisions.

Anxious to attack, Bauer lowered his binoculars and glanced at his watch. A twig snapped behind him. He spun around, bristling with anger. If his plans were ruined because of some clumsy oaf, he would have the man shot for treason.

Silence! he hissed as loud as he dared.

Seven soldiers lurked in the shadows. Six carried MP-38 machine pistols several paces behind a shorter man, who continued forward to stand next to him. Bauer’s fury turned to surprise, then fear, when he recognized the Sixth Army’s Chief of Staff, Brigadier General Schmidt. His small build, sharp nose, and short height were unmistakable in the moonlight.

Sir. I’m sorry, sir.

Carry on, General Schmidt snapped.

Uhhhh… Yes… Yes, sir, Bauer stammered. We’re ready to commence.

Schmidt gathered his black leather overcoat close around him.

Bauer focused his attention through his binoculars on the seven soldiers on the bridge. He would not get a better shot. He glanced at his watch - zero, three hundred hours. He took a deep breath and exhaled. Everything looks good.

He glanced to his left where five eight-wheeled, armored, reconnaissance vehicles sat in a row, each armed with a 20 mm automatic cannon and a 7.92 mounted machine gun, then ordered, Fire!

Hundreds of supersonic rounds flew down range, every fifth bullet a tracer, burning a glowing red phosphorous tail as it streaked through the air, allowing the shooters to walk their shots straight to their target. In less than five seconds, the bullets destroyed the infantry on the bridge and whittled the guard shack down to little more than flying splinters and glass. The machine gun bunkers flanking each side erupted in fire and explosions.

I love it when they ricochet up in the air, Bauer thought, admiring the flight paths of the red tracers. It’s a damned beautiful sight. Too bad good soldiers are dying.

He heard a chuckle and glanced over at General Schmidt, who seemed to vibrate with excitement.

A chill traveled down Bauer’s spine.

Schmidt was a brilliant tactician, but he seemed to personify evil. Word had it that he sanctioned the burning of a Yugoslavian village filled with women and children. Bauer placed morals and ethics in high regard and the general’s actions left a bad taste in his mouth. Disgusted by the man, he looked back at the bridge to monitor the progress of his attack.

A light Russian tank rumbled out of a copse of trees forty paces from the guard shack, stopping at the mouth of the bridge, blocking any vehicles that might attempt to cross. His gunners concentrated their 20mm cannons on the tank, but their rounds bounced off, sparks flying with each hit.

Bauer watched through his binoculars as the turret turned toward him and his attacking vehicles. He turned and sprinted three strides before a Russian round blew up one of his thin-skinned reconnaissance vehicles. The shock wave knocked him to his belly. Flames cast an eerie red shadow over the surrounding birch trees.

Three Panzers positioned in the forest departed in column formation, charged at the bridge, and fired. Under strict orders not to damage the wooden structure, the overly cautious first Panzer missed high. The round detonated far beyond the bridge, destroying a thick tree. The second tank’s round penetrated the turret, sending flames and black smoke billowing out. All three Panzers continued across the bridge, driving over the remains of the dead. The lead vehicle slowed as it approached the burning tank to nudge it aside.

Five wood buildings where the fifty-five man platoon ate, slept, and lived, stood a hundred paces from the bridge. Soldiers poured out of the doorways, opening fire as the Panzers closed in. Small caliber weapons proved useless against the thick armor of the tanks. The Russians were cut down by sweeping machine gun fire. In less than four minutes every member of the platoon perished at the hands of the Germans.

Lieutenant Colonel Bauer’s men knew exactly where to go and what to do. One by one, scores of assault vehicles crossed the bridge, fanning out in preparation for subsequent missions.

Save for one destroyed reconnaissance vehicle, his attack had been a success. He nodded, thinking, let Operation Barbarossa begin. I did my part. He proudly turned to General Schmidt. Sir… Your bridge…

Schmidt turned around and strode away, ignoring the lieutenant colonel. His bodyguards materialized out of the darkness and fell in behind him.

Bauer shrugged and walked back to his tank.

~~~~~

Private Morozov lay wounded on the side of the bridge, his vision turned to black and white. He no longer felt pain. German vehicles passed by him, but despite his efforts, he couldn’t turn his head to watch.

His broken body lay in such a way that his gaze fell upon the lazy river below the bridge. He watched his own blood drip steadily into the water, thinking how ironic it was that the same fish he’d caught in the river to eat, now swam through his life-giving blood.

His field of vision narrowed, his extremities suffusing with warmth. He thought of an earlier time when he and his mother had attended church and recited a prayer together with the other congregants.

What were the words? He wondered. The Lord… The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not…

CHAPTER two

The Russian Western Frontier (Three miles from the border)

June 22, 1941 (0300)

When the Red Army needed soldiers to protect the border from the empire-building threat of Germany, it gathered young men from everywhere. In this instance, four hundred brand new officers, recently graduated and waiting for their school assignments, were placed in a field near the border. Provided with tents and shovels, the young men applied themselves to the task of digging anti-tank ditches in case the Germans unleashed a Blitzkrieg attack on that section of the Russian Frontier.

The surrounding sunflower fields painted swaths of yellow and green across the moonlit landscape. The boulders, occasional fir tree, and rolling hills complemented the picturesque scene. During daylight hours, birds chirped and sang their favorite tunes, oblivious to anything as trivial as war.

Once the Red Army selected a site, heavy machinery razed the top layer of dirt, temporarily displacing insects, snakes, and field mice, then the men erected forty sleeping tents and fifteen multi-purpose tents. The cadets called their temporary home ‘tent city.’

They established a motor park with twenty Lorries for transportation. These large, poorly engineered Russian trucks frequently broke down; several were always being worked on at the maintenance tent.

Zinoviy, a senior cadet blessed with chiseled good looks, a muscular physique, coal black hair, and a six foot two frame, sat next to the campfire with four of his classmates. Well liked, respected, and sought out for advice, he was a natural born leader.

His classmates called him Angelo, a nickname he received after a group of women described him as a masterpiece, which evolved into Michelangelo, eventually truncated to Angelo.

Not quite dawn yet, Angelo and his comrades had just awakened and received their morning rations, which they ate around the fire. Between bites they admired the starry sky, which seemed endless without city lights interfering with the view.

Angelo’s best friend Isaak sat beside him. They met playing soccer. The more athletic and aggressive Isaak stole the ball in a slide tackle, knocking Angelo head over heels. After some shouting, a little shoving, and eventual laughter, they became inseparable friends.

What the devil are we doing in this field? asked Isaak.

Guarding the motherland from Germany. Can’t you tell? Luka, a short squat man replied from across the fire.

Bahhh! All I see is us digging in the dirt. My blistered hands are killing me. I’m an officer now. Not a ditch-digging peasant, Isaak said.

You’re a brand new officer in the army with little training. Angelo corrected in a deep, gravelly voice that sounded like wood on a cheese grater. Everyone paused to listen. For now, we must prepare defenses in case the Germans attack. If the Red Army orders us to dig, then we dig. You know that…

That’s horsecrap! Isaak retorted. The Germans aren’t going to attack us.

I hope that if the Germans do attack, they don’t come our way, a freckle-faced kid with glasses and blonde hair said. We only have 400 rifles, 20,000 rounds of ammunition, and 200 grenades. How are we supposed to fight the Germans with that?

What’s his name? Wondered Angelo. He’s so smart, but I can never remember his name.

Don’t forget our 400 shovels, but the way you dig, you couldn’t kill a snake, Stepan, a wiry pale man with sharp features quipped with a glance at Isaak.

Shut the hell up before I bury a shovel between your pointy little ears. I’m serious. Isaak pointed to the smart one with glasses. What the hell can we do against German tanks with rifles and grenades?

Da, someone grunted in agreement.

You’ve all read about German Blitzkrieg techniques and how effective they are, Isaak said. They’ve taken over entire countries by destroying their armies. Some of those campaigns only took a few weeks.

Keep it down before a political officer hears you, Luka cautioned, scanning the area.

We’re attached to Third Army, Angelo said amused, and we have hundreds of tanks and artillery pieces five to ten kilometers down the road, waiting for the damned Germans to cross into the Motherland. Why do you think we’ve been digging anti-tank ditches? We’re setting up an impenetrable defense to stop them.

Impenetrable defense. Isaak chuckled. Impenetrable defense. I heard from a friend in supply that our tanks are low on ammunition and have minimal fuel reserves. How can we stop German tanks like that? Can you stop a tank with a rifle? What will we use to stop them? These silly ditches we’ve been digging? Rocks, shovels, and grenades?

Maybe we can slow them down enough for our tanks to come in for the kill? Luka offered.

Two guards walked past them heading for the field mess. The heated discussion tapered off as they passed. Everyone looked sheepish as they ate their rations. Angelo acknowledged the guards with a wave. They ignored him.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Angelo explained, We’ve been on high alert for a few days now. Headquarters knows that we need proper weapons to fight tanks. They’re probably rushing them to us.

So, we are sacrificial lambs? Isaak asked, his sarcastic tone unapologetic.

Angelo ignored him. You’ve all heard on the radio and read in the newspapers that Stalin signed a non-aggression pact with Hitler. Why would they attack us? We’re an ally! We’re under strict orders not to fire. We don’t want war with them and they don’t want war with us.

Then why do they have millions of soldiers massed on our Western border? demanded Isaak.

Where did you hear that? asked the smart one with glasses.

Who told you that? Luka repeated.

I was delivering a message to Third Army Headquarters when I overheard two captains from Intelligence talking in the hallway, Isaak said. They could not believe how many German troops were near the border.

They are probably just doing exercises, you idiot, the smart one with glasses said. Besides, Stalin knows exactly what’s going on. I read that he and Hitler became friends after they signed the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. We still trade oil and supplies with them. Just yesterday I saw Lorries crossing the border loaded with food. It doesn’t make sense that they would attack us.

The Japanese! Luka added. That is who we should attack. I don’t trust those evil, tricky bastards.

Does it look like we’re sitting on the damned Japanese border? growled Isaak.

Hurry up and finish eating, the ever-practical Angelo said, glancing at his watch. We only have ten minutes until we start our shift. I heard we have just as many soldiers on the border as they do. It would be suicide for them if they attacked. We are better fighters, and this is our ground, not theirs. Russian victory would be complete and swift. Nobody has ever conquered Russia.

Angelo, my friend, I hope you’re right, said Isaak.

You worry like an old woman. Trust me. I’ll get you safely home to your kitchen. Angelo smiled broadly.

Just mark my words. Isaak spit into the fire for emphasis. Germany is going to attack us, and Russia isn’t prepared for it.

That is a traitor to the motherland talking! Luka shot back. Even if they did attack first, Stalin would have us sipping vodka in Berlin in no time. Like Angelo said, no country has ever conquered Russia. Not even Napoleon, and he was a tactical genius!

Do they even have vodka? Stepan wondered aloud.

Of course they have vodka, you idiot! the smart one with glasses exclaimed.

Good! Then I would like to sample some of their German women after that vodka, Luka added grinning.

The Germans are too rigid and arrogant to make good vodka, Isaak muttered.

What we are doing here is posturing, explained the smart one with glasses.

Posturing? What the heck do you know about posturing? asked Isaak.

Posturing is when we assemble troops on our border, and make it look like we are ready to repel an invasion. The troops can be poorly trained, poorly equipped, or the best soldiers our country has to offer, but if we have enough soldiers on the border, Germany may think twice about invading.

~~~~~

A thousand paces away, three camouflaged German soldiers laid at the base of a clump of fir trees. A lieutenant and his radio operator peered through their binoculars at the Russian tents. Their rifleman faced the other direction, guarding their backs.

Their mission; spend two days finding targets of opportunity and executing the attacks when ordered. They began by cutting Russian communications lines earlier in the night, then moved to their present position to call in an artillery strike. In two hours, six German Divisions would attack in this direction. They did not intend to allow any Russian troops to interfere with their plans.

The lieutenant double and triple-checked his calculations. His artillery would inflict heavy casualties on these Russians, especially since they were foolish enough to light campfires illuminating their positions for miles around.

If all of the Russians are this stupid, I’ll be sitting in Moscow sipping vodka before the New Year, thought the lieutenant.

He heard what sounded like thunder. He glanced in the direction of the noise then back at his target. That noise could only be one of three things on this historic night; tanks firing, artillery fire, or planes dropping bombs.

Fire, said the lieutenant into the transmitter.

Shot… Over, answered the radio.

Shot… Out, responded the lieutenant.

His reply signaled everyone to get their heads down, because the rounds were in the air. They were in no danger from this distance, but if they were too close, their own artillery’s shrapnel could kill them.

~~~~~

What was that? Luka asked, craning his neck.

They all went quiet.

Sounds like thunder, said Isaak.

Angelo glanced up. There are no clouds in the sky.

None of them could mistake the next sound of a ten-point-five centimeter, high explosive shell ripping through the pre-dawn sky, impacting seventy-five paces from their campfire and ten paces from the field mess.

Screaming and sounds of panic came from every corner of tent city. Russian soldiers fled for whatever cover they could find in a field of dirt and rocks. The field mess collapsed and caught fire.

~~~~~

Almost a direct hit, the lieutenant thought proudly, then said calmly into the transmitter, Right three-zero, drop five-zero, and fire for effect.

The minimal adjustment meant that they were very close with the first impact. Fire for effect, meant they immediately had to fire a bunch of rounds, because they had the Russians by the nuts and were poised to kill most of them.

The spotter on the other end of the radio had coordinated that every fifth round from each howitzer would be white phosphorous to heighten confusion. When a white phosphorous round exploded, it sent phosphorous in all directions, burning everything it came in contact with. All the other rounds would be high explosive, the most commonly used - perforated and engineered so that the resulting explosion sent shrapnel spinning in all directions, guaranteeing devastation to troops in an open field.

The battery commander yelled out, Fire!!! to all eight of his cannons, which fired ten rounds per minute. There would be a few corrections, but a good spotter could walk artillery fire back and forth like mowing a lawn.

We’re about to turn those tents into an inferno of flying hot lead, burning phosphorous, and death, the commander thought. The whole world will shudder in the aftermath of Germany’s attack and Russia will fall into German hands. Soon enough, the whole world will be ripe for the picking.

~~~~~

Russian soldiers in various stages of undress dove into the tank ditches. A few soldiers fired at shadows moving in the distance. The majority had no time to secure weapons from the armory, help with the wounded, or put out fires. Chaos reigned in the kingdom of serenity.

The artillery barrage tore through the clear sky obliterating the tent city and all else that stood in its way. White phosphorous ignited everything that could be set aflame. In less than two minutes, nearly all of the vehicles burned. One sped away from the kill zone, a terrified driver at the wheel and two mechanics sprawled in the back.

Angelo knelt in a trench beside Stepan and Isaak. After the first shells hit, they ran for the nearest ditch. Shrapnel had hit Isaak in both legs, so Angelo and Stepan carried him. Luka had gone for a medic, but hadn’t returned. The smart, blond-haired one who wore glasses lay dead in the field with shrapnel in his chest. His friends had left him where he fell to seek shelter.

The entire area glowed red from surrounding fires. The illumination allowed Angelo to watch Isaak turn ghostly white as he drifted deeper into shock. Looking down at his bleeding leg, Angelo sensed his friend wouldn’t live much longer. Blood gushed from his barely attached, right lower leg. His left leg looked almost as bad, courtesy of a big chunk of flesh missing above the knee.

How do I save Isaak’s life? Angelo wondered in a panic. He summoned a calm he did not feel and recalled his first aid training. Removing his belt, he made a tourniquet on Isaak’s leg to try and stop the bleeding.

Stepan screamed.

Angelo turned and saw him writhing on his back with a bomb fragment as large as a dinner plate lodged in his belly. Blood flowed from the wound and sizzled as it came into contact with the super-heated chunk of shrapnel. Realizing he still had his hunting knife, Angelo pulled it out of his pocket and shifted closer to Stepan to try and remove the shrapnel.

~~~~~

The German spotter noticed through his binoculars that some of the Russians had reached the anti-tank trenches. He squeezed the transmitter button and said, Drop one hundred and give me fifteen rounds of HE.

Damn, he thought. One truck escaped, but these rounds will find the soldiers hiding in the trenches.

~~~~~

Angelo crouched over Stepan, gripping his knife. Blood dripped from his hands. He had removed the shrapnel from his friend’s mid-section as Stepan screamed.

Angelo recalled a hunting trip during his youth. After shooting a bear, he’d planned to field dress it, but the poor animal had survived and lay there wailing in pain. He’d been forced to shoot it in the head to end its misery.

He surveyed Stepan’s wound and rapid loss of blood. I’ve got to find a Doctor, he thought. Stepan’s going to die soon.

He wiped Stepan’s blood on his pants and checked on Isaak. Pale and motionless, he stared sightlessly at the sky. Isaak had bled to death.

Angelo dropped to his knees, sobbing. Explosions sounded just beyond the trench. Men screamed as they tried to flee the chaos. He collapsed on his best friend’s chest, his sobs unabated, then peered up at the heavens. A white puffy explosion went off twenty paces away.

Knocked backwards, Angelo stared up at the sky in a daze, his cheek and shoulder burning. He rolled about on the ground clawing at his face and shoulder trying to dislodge hot shrapnel. He burned his fingers, but managed to extract both pieces before collapsing onto his back. Additional puffs of white filled his vision, but he no longer heard explosions. Angelo struggled to understand why he couldn’t hear, but he couldn’t chain his thoughts together. Sprawled on his back and looking skyward, he didn’t react when a soldier jumped into the trench,