Battle Sight Zero

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Near to the end of a ten-hour shift, his tiredness nagged and his concentration waned, and they kept coming towards him on the conveyer belt. Outside the factory more snow had fallen, another ten centimetres settling on the half-metre already on the ground. He was Josef, from the far south, drafted to the project at Izhevsk. His chance of returning to the warmth of his village overlooking the Black Sea was less than minimal. The heating had failed, although the factory was newly built, and he could not wear thick gloves for the work he did. His fingers were numbed, he needed to piss, and his stomach growled.

His hand was heavy as he reached out to lift it off the slow-moving supply line, and when the belt suddenly stopped, it was jerked up and his fingers had no grip, and it fell. And seemed to shriek.

Martial music had blared from the amplified speakers, a military choir singing the marching songs of the Red Army, to help him and the scores of others on the vast, stinking, echoing factory floor keep their composure and maintain their enthusiasm for their work. Now there was a broadcast from the sergeant who liked to call himself Misha, who told the story again – and again, and again – of how he had led the team that developed the thing that had moved towards Josef on the belt, then had slipped from his grip and fallen. The shriek was the bayonet lug catching the metal rim of Josef’s work area. Then there was a clatter as the assault rifle hit the concrete floor by his boots, then a squeal.

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