The ruins of Stalingrad were a maze of death. Sergeant Yelena Morozova lay prone in the rubble, her Mosin-Nagant rifle pressed against her shoulder, her eye to the scope. She was a sniper, one of the best. The Germans called her the “White Death.” She had thirty-seven confirmed kills.
But she was tired. So tired.
A shadow moved beside her. She almost fired, but then she saw the face—a young lieutenant, his uniform torn, his eyes wide.
“Don’t shoot,” he whispered. “I’m on your side.”
His name was Mikhail. He was a scout, sent to find enemy positions. He crawled into her hiding spot