Southeast of Leningrad, August 13, 1943
The spotter adjusted her weight on her hips. A root had been digging into her left thigh for the past forty five minutes. The soon to be crepuscular light had begun to cast shadows on her and her partner. They would be able to move out soon.
Tatianna made one more scan of the environment. This was their third patrol against the fascist lines. Infantry companies had also been patrolling aggressively. Those hundred man columns were looking for fights, they were looking to force the pigs' artillery to fire, they were looking to force reinforcements to respond. And as she and her partner hid for a day and a night seven hundred meters from the front lines, those patrols were often quite successful in drawing a reaction. A few had been slaughered, more had been bloodied as what started as company battles became battalion and regimental fights. During all of this chaos, Tatianna and other snipers watched. They took notes and then brought back what they had seen. Now, the distant scouting part of the battle was ending.
She could now take a shot. Her spotter had seen an experienced sergeant in the German position. He ducked, he wove, he seldom appeared above the ground line. It was obvious that he was the backbone of that company hard point. The captain was an overeager twenty three year old; a combat veteran, but still young. The platoon leaders were even younger and more naive. That Germany company was held together by the sergeants and corporals. He was a worthy target. She waited, as a seven hundred meter shot in poor light was a difficult shot that needed deliberation and discipline.
Suddenly, she saw movement. Officers, an orders group given how they moved. She adjusted her rifle and saw that some of the men were swaying back and forth while a few were too concentrated on the map in front of them. She checked for wind, she checked for distance and then once she settled herself, her rifle barked. Before her finger relaxed off the trigger, she was already moving towards new cover. Eight hundred and forty seven meters away, a battalion commander was on the ground with a ruined shoulder.