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Chapter 3
Confound these branches and stumps! In the dark it seemed as if someone had arranged them specially to snare him, but in fact, if there are any obstructions about you're bound to run into them at night. Voloshin picked himself up, rubbed his bruised knee and listened - no, he hadn't been challenged yet, he thought, although the foxholes of the Seventh Company must begin somewhere close at hand. He groped his way for another hundred metres or so. Last year's dried-out nettles and burdocks crackled underfoot as he made his way along the slightly elevated strip of ground; the hem of his greatcoat caught on invisible thorny twigs, and the wind whipped his face enervatingly with the loose strings of his cap-fastenings. The huge, gently-sloping hump of the hill now seemed to be a mere stone's throw away across the marsh, where fragments of dirty ice showed up dull grey in the night. Voloshin peered at the dark slopes traversed by the German trenches with suppressed curiosity.
Yes, they were excellently camouflaged, in contrast to the first summer, when the Germans used to saunter almost openly along the front line in their swimming trunks and play volley-ball in the gun emplacements. Now, you wouldn't hear a sound all night - they'd dug themselves in and taken cover, and were sitting quietly, preparing to do their worst. But what exactly were they up to? And how many men were up there? What kind of unit? What was their task, and where were their weapon positions? Without knowing the answer to these questions it was difficult to count on success. Especially with such depleted forces. Seventy men - in effect, one rifle company, without artillery support, without sappers or tanks - for a hill already adequately fortified. And if in addition those seventy men weren't properly prepared, there'd be no taking the hill and they'd be wiped out to a man.
"Halt! Who goes there?" came a low voice from the darkness. In no hurry to answer, Voloshin turned towards the sound and soon discerned the clay mound of a parapet on the dark earth, and beside it the black hollow of a shallow weapon pit, in which somebody was moving. The soldier had probably recognised the battalion commander from a distance, since he didn't challenge him again. Generally speaking this was a breach of discipline, but the captain made no comment. He was already accustomed to the fact that wherever he went in the battalion they recognised him from the first sound of his footsteps and at his first word of command. Voloshin stepped in silence onto the soft earth of the low parapet. The soldier, with his greatcoat collar turned up and wearing a helmet on top of his cap, stiffened expectantly in the pit.
"Where's the company commander?"
"Farther on, sir. He's near those bushes over there."
"How's Jerry?"
"He's quiet, sir," replied the soldier in a voice muffled by a head cold. Voloshin scrutinised him more closely - no, the man was a stranger, probably from the recent reinforcements. He was thin and feverish, with a pointed chin showing below his helmet. Voloshin knew all the old infantrymen of the Seventh from the time when he'd commanded that company, but there were only a few of them left.
"What's your name?"
"Mine?" was the quiet rejoinder. "Private Tarasikov."
"Where are you from?"
"Me? Saratov," he said and was silent, probably anticipating further questions in that vein, but Voloshin was preoccupied with other matters.
"You haven't heard any vehicles there? No noise of motors?"
"Vehicles? No. After it got dark they were shovelling somewhere nearby. The sound seemed to be coming from over there, near the gully," said Tarasikov, pointing into the darkness. "They're probably building a pill-box."
A pill-box for sure, they wouldn't be able to manage without a pill-box. But it would be worse once they'd equipped their pill-boxes and laid mines around them as well. Then tomorrow we'd be in for trouble and some nasty shocks, God help us, Voloshin thought. He trained his eyes into the darkness and listened briefly, but the night was windy and unusually opaque. Since nightfall, most likely, there hadn't been a single flare fired above the hill, and that alone gave cause for reflection.
"That'll be all, Tarasikov. Carry on."
"Sir!" replied the soldier readily, and asked in the tone of an old acquaintance: "But where's your Jim, Captain? I don't seem to hear him."
"Jim's gone," replied Voloshin drily and went on his way.
There'd be no bringing Jim back, that was certain. Once he'd fallen into the clutches of a big shot like that, a man might as well give up. On the whole it might be better for the dog this way. His fate with the general might well turn out more happily than in the trenches. But nevertheless Voloshin became conscious of an aching sense of loss - so much of himself was bound up with that dog!... And see how even a young private who'd only recently joined the regiment knew Jim and took an interest in him. Voloshin was sure he'd never seen the soldier before, and yet, as it turned out, the man not only recognised the battalion commander in the dark, but even knew his dog as well. Such was the lot of a commander: every step he took was seen by a hundred watchful eyes, and there was no concealing anything from them.
Again somebody hailed him from the darkness. Near the machine-gun pit, the old gunner, Denishchik, was waving his arms about to warm himself. Voloshin knew him from the battles near Kuzminki during the summer, when a very small group of soldiers - the remains of a regiment - had fought their way out of an enemy encirclement. It was then that this rather elderly soldier had attached himself to the company from God knew where, and in that way had escaped back to the Russian lines. And when they were regrouping there had been some unpleasantness on account of Denishchik. Command had started quibbling: why hadn't the man been sent for screening, why had he been left in the company? A stranger, unknown, there was no telling who he might be. But Denishchik had shown them who he was later, in battle, when one day he had helped repulse a counter-attack by the Germans, after taking the place of the wounded machine-gunner. After that, he had stayed with the machine-gun. Though now, it appeared, he had a new machine-gun, a slender-barrelled Goriunov, instead of the old Maxim.
"Well how are things, Denishchik?"
"So far so good, thank God."
"Why God? Are you a believer, or something?"
"Believer or not, that's what people say. It's just an expression." Thrusting his bare, unmittened hands into the shortish sleeves of his quilted jacket, the soldier shifted his weight from one foot to the other, assuming a deferential air of dignified reserve in the presence of his superior. Voloshin squatted beside the machine-gun and glanced across the parapet into the darkness.
"And how's your field of fire? No dead ground?"
"Not likely! It's all just like on a platten, sir!"
"I think you mean 'platter'. But won't they be able to locate you here? Surely the field of fire from the hill must be just as good?"
"Of course. So when there's a lull the Garuna goes in here." Denishchik pointed to the pit, where a concealed niche equipped for a machine-gun showed up darkly below the parapet. The niche was occupied for the time being by Denishchik's mate, who lay curled up snuffling in his sleep. "And when the artillery opens up too. But when the fun starts we'll move it up into position."
Voloshin straightened up on the parapet.
"Good thinking! Now where's the company commander?"
"He's not far off. That little shelter yonder." Denishchik nodded towards it and began to warm himself again by stamping his feet and slapping his arms across his chest.
A short distance away, below the level of the path, was the beginning of a shallow, partially-dug trench, and from it issued the indistinct sound of voices rising from underground. Voloshin almost sidled along the trench, bringing down loose soil from the crumbling walls as he did so, until below the parapet he glimpsed a feeble ray of light at the edge of a groundsheet. Lifting up the dusty canvas that covered the entrance, Voloshin squeezed through with an effort into the cramped semi-darkness of the shelter.
They were having dinner. Clustered together around a groundsheet spread on the floor, the men were plying their spoons with great concentration. Amidst the variously-shod feet - some in knee boots, some in ankle boots, others in felt boots - stood several pots of soup. Veretennikova, wearing a loose, unbelted soldier's tunic, was kneeling in the corner opposite the entrance, packing a kit-bag. From beneath the straggly locks of light brown hair on her forehead, she flashed a look of pained resentment at Voloshin and nudged Lieutenant Samokhin with her elbow.
"Vadka!"
Samokhin started visibly when he caught sight of the battalion commander, who had collided with somebody's broad back immediately upon entering the shelter. The company commander made a belated attempt to rise to his feet and report.
"Captain Voloshin, sir…"
Voloshin raised his arm.
"Finish your dinner."
Someone moved so that Voloshin could sit down, someone else crawled across into another corner. Up above, a makeshift light - the end of a reel of telephone cable - was crackling below the cross-beam and giving off smoke and soot, and there was a stench of burning fuel-oil. Veretennikova threw another injured glance at Voloshin and busied herself with the straps of her kit-bag.
"Perhaps you'll have dinner with us, sir?" Samokhin suggested tentatively.
Voloshin made no reply. Sensing his mood, everyone in the shelter fell silent - they had probably heard the news of what had happened at the battalion command post. Feeling their enquiring eyes upon him, Voloshin took a dural cigarette case with an intricately embossed lid out of his pocket and began to roll a cigarette. He knew they were waiting for him to take Samokhin to task for the incident involving their first-aid instructor, which had ended with Voloshin receiving a second reprimand from the general, but he didn't want to begin with that. He bided his time. The company sergeant-major, Grak, and the platoon commander, Sergeant Nagorny, who were sitting opposite Voloshin, thrust their spoons into the tops of their boots. Samokhin fastened the hooks on his greatcoat while Veretennikova started to put on a padded jacket. All things considered, the end of the meal had been spoilt, although there was no soup left in any of the pots.
"Lieutenant Samokhin, what's your unit's strength as of today?" asked Voloshin, without looking at the company commander.
"Twenty-four men. Plus the first-aid instructor."
"Don't count the first-aid instructor."
Samokhin was silent, waiting to see what the captain would say. Voloshin drew on his cigarette, and the cheap shag tobacco crackled strangely, flaring up from time to time as if it had been spiked with gunpowder. The men called this kind of tobacco "tracer", which aptly described its effect, especially in the wind at night.
"I need two men. Two sensible fellows."
Visibly relieved, Samokhin sank down with a sigh. He had a young face which seemed to be cleft in two by his chin. The mobile gaze of his dark eyes slid away from Voloshin and rested on Sergeant Nagorny.
"Nagorny, give us a couple of men."
"As you were!" said Voloshin evenly. Everyone in the shelter looked at him, nonplussed, but he deliberately paid no attention whatsoever to their glances. "I imagine Comrade Nagorny has a military rank?"
The lieutenant understood before the words were out of Voloshin's mouth.
"Sergeant Nagorny, two men to report here to me as soon as possible."
"Sir!"
Nagorny, a stocky, broad-shouldered, nuggety man in an unbuttoned sheepskin coat, scooped up his sub-machine-gun from the floor and noisily pushed his way out into the trench.
"Send for the commanders of the Eighth and Ninth Companies as well. And the commander of the heavy machine-gun platoon."
Samokhin merely glanced at Grak, who unhurriedly went out after Nagorny. Besides the battalion commander and the company commander, there was only Veretennikova left in the bunker. Now the unpleasant conversation might begin.
"So when is this trouble-making going to stop, Comrade Samokhin?"
"What trouble?"
"When is my order going to be carried out?"
The lieutenant paused before making his reply, casting quick, nervous glances about him.
"She's going tomorrow morning."
"I'll never go!" Veretennikova declared instantly.
"Vera!" said Samokhin insistently. The girl turned on him with a vexed, aggrieved face.
"Well? Vera what? Where are you sending me? You needed me here during the offensive; nobody wanted to send me away then! But now that it's quietened down and we're in defence you want to get rid of me. I've spent a year in this regiment and I won't go anywhere else. Understand?"
Keeping himself in check, Voloshin glanced first at the flushed and agitated first-aid instructor, then at the frowning, pained face of the company commander. This was the dizzy limit - to witness such a scene at the front, half a kilometre from the German trenches.
"I suppose you're planning to drop the brat here too?" he asked. Veretennikova was startled by the deliberate coarseness of the question. Her cheeks were already glistening with tears.
"And what if I am! What's it to you?"
"Vera, must you?" said Samokhin pleadingly.
"Well let me tell you right now, Miss First-aid Instructor: my battalion is not a maternity home," said Voloshin coldly and distinctly. "Sooner or later you will have to go to the rear, so you might as well do so in time."
"I shan't go anywhere, I won't leave Vadka," she said, but it seemed her determination had started to falter. She sobbed and covered her face with her hands. Samokhin seized her by the arms.
"Vera! Come now, pull yourself together, there's a good girl. Everything's going to be fine, you'll see."
Vera, however, had no desire to pull herself together, and kept sobbing with her face buried in her padded jacket, while Samokhin distractedly tried to persuade her to calm down. Bloody womaniser! thought Voloshin, regarding his company commander almost with contempt. A smart enough lad, good-looking, a good company commander, and he had to get himself mixed up with this stupid bitch. Now, when things had come to a head and they could no longer keep their affair a secret, they were proposing to set up house together at the front. And a fine bloody time they'd picked to do it!
Feeling the touch of Samokhin's hands, Vera was gradually becoming calmer, and Voloshin, wishing to put an abrupt end to this tedious confrontation, said bluntly:
"Tomorrow morning we're to storm the hill, The attack will probably take place at seven. You're to be gone from this battalion by six-thirty."
Vera suddenly stopped sobbing and pricked up her ears.
"What? You expect me to clear out half an hour before the attack? Not on your life! Not even if a general gave the order! Or a field-marshal for that matter!"
"Now then, Vera, don't get carried away! You're acting just like a little girl," began Samokhin soothingly, until she cut him short.
"Oh yes, don't get carried away! How long do you think you'd survive without me? You'd be a goner in no time, you silly thing! You're the one who needs to be looked after like a little child, not me," she asserted tearfully.
Samokhin winced.
"Well I'll be damned!" declared Voloshin. He had no inclination to pursue this tearful conversation any further, particularly as he could hear footsteps in the trench and Nagorny was already crawling into the shelter, bringing two other men with him. The soldiers reported almost simultaneously:
"Private Drozd at your service, sir…"
"Private Kabakov, sir…"
The unfamiliar faces of the two men marked them as new arrivals, although Voloshin already knew the name "Drozd" from the papers he'd signed for despatch to the regiment, citing him for a decoration after the winter battles near Guliaevka. He remembered, too, that Drozd had once been praised at a Party meeting by the late political instructor, Kuzmenko. And in fact the soldier made quite a favourable impression with his powerful, strapping frame and open, sincere face that expressed a willingness to carry out orders. Kabakov looked less promising. He was of puny build, morose-looking and sloppily dressed. The green collar of a German army jacket, dragged on over his blouse for extra warmth, was sticking out from beneath his padded jacket.
"There's no space to stand up here, so sit down and listen," said Voloshin. The men obediently sat down in the flickering semi-darknessby the entrance. "I've got a job for you. It carries great responsibility. You're to equip yourselves with knives or bayonets, and take plenty of paper with you - tear up newspapers or booklets of some sort. Then you're to get quietly across the marsh, and do a leopard-crawl up the hill as far as the German trench. Without making a sound. When you get to the trench, turn round and come back the same way. That's all. Is it quite clear?"
The men looked at him a trifle blankly.
"You don't understand? I'll explain. Test the ground with your knives as you crawl along, if there are mines anywhere, don't touch them, but mark the spot with a scrap of paper. Weight it with a pebble so that the wind doesn't blow it away. And so on. Is it clear now?"
"Yes," said Drozd rather uncertainly. Kabakov sniffed noisily, and Voloshin eyed him sharply.
"All this will take you no more than two hours. You may strike Germans in no-man's-land. If so, listen to what they're doing and come back. I'll be waiting for you. Any questions?"
"No, sir. All clear, sir," replied Drozd somewhat more briskly than before. Kabakov sniffed again and coughed uncertainly.
"So you're all set?" he asked in conclusion. "Then Sergeant Nagorny will escort you as far as the ice and explain it to you on the ground."
"Sir."
The men stood up and, bending low, turned to face the exit, but Kabakov, who was following the others, stopped.
"I've got this cough, sir…," he said, coughing to prove his point.
"Have you really? And is it a bad cough?"
"That depends. Sometimes I can't seem to stop…"
The soldier paused and coughed again with exaggerated effort. A cursory glance into the man's eyes revealed to Voloshin the emotions of fear and dismay - all too familiar in wartime. Everything was becoming exasperatingly clear. On this occasion, however, Voloshin tried to exercise restraint.
"Forget it then," he said. "We'll count you out. Senior Sergeant Nagorny will go instead of you."
"Sir," said Nagorny, and in the ensuing pause he asked: "Start now sir?"
"Go to it," was the reply. "I want to see you the minute you get back."
Nagorny and Drozd crawled out, letting in the bitter cold as they did so, and Kabakov remained, hanging his head like a condemned man.
"Are you scared?" Voloshin asked, scrutinising the soldier relentlessly and expecting the usual lies and excuses. But Kabakov suddenly affirmed quietly and candidly:
"Yes, I am."
He hung his head still lower. In the corner of the shelter, the end of the telephone cable had burnt up as far as the crossbeam and was flickering smokily. Vera got up and pulled down more cable from the reel on the ceiling.
"Lieutenant Samokhin, what's Kabakov like normally, does he always get cold feet?"
"Well no. Not so far as I'd noticed."
"Have you been at the front long?" asked Voloshin, addressing Kabakov again.
"Four months," said the man quietly.
"Where are you from?"
"Penza Province."
"Anybody at home?"
"My mother and three sisters."
"Elder sisters?"
"Younger."
"What about your father?"
"He's gone. He sent one letter in 'forty-one from outside Kiev. That was the last we heard of him."
There was a silence, punctuated intermittently by martyred sighs from Veretennikova. A burst of machine-gun fire was heard from somewhere outside in the neighbouring sector.
"So you're scared, are you?" asked Samokhin in a mocking repetition of Voloshin's question. "Worried about your own lousy hide?"
"Everybody gets scared. Who wants to die?"
"Ah, so that's it! You're going to start talking philosophy now, as well! You louse! I'm going to teach you a lesson right now! Take off your belt!"
Samokhin stood up and advanced towards Kabakov with his head lowered.
"Steady on, Lieutenant!" said Voloshin. "Let him go. Return to your post, Kabakov."
The soldier scrambled out of the bunker with clumsy haste, and Samokhin angrily kicked a mess-tin from under his feet.
"What's the use! He should have been sent away with a good thrashing. That'd soon cure his cold feet!"
"It's not worth it, Samokhin," remarked Voloshin, taking his cigarette case out of his pocket.
"Why, because he owned up to it? Has he been let off for that?"
Evidently the lieutenant's patience had snapped. Everything he'd experienced in the course of the evening had primed him for a quarrel, and he was no longer bothering to hold himself in check. But Voloshin could not afford to let Samokhin indulge himself - they both had much graver things to think about.
"Yes, I let him off, for that," Voloshin replied calmly. "Remember Tolstoy's parable: thank you for the broken cup - at least you didn't lie. I let him off because he didn't lie."
"Parable! So Kabakov gets a parable, and Drozd gets it in the neck. Am I right? And do you suppose he's not scared too? One false move and he'll be blown to smithereens. While Kabakov goes on living - a truthful man!"
Voloshin made no comment.