Chapter 4
The first to arrive in response to Voloshin's summons was Junior Lieutenant Yaroshchuk, commander of the heavy machine-gun platoon attached to the battalion. The most junior in rank, he was nevertheless the oldest officer in the battalion. A veteran of fifty-odd, he was a former Rural Consumers' Society worker from Penza province, who at the time of his discharge from military service had attained the rank of Junior Lieutenant in the Reserve. That Yaroshchuk had not progressed beyond this rank caused him little distress. In appearance quite unlike a commander, he was slightly built and carelessly attired in a well-worn Red Army greatcoat. Obviously just aroused from his sleep, he lowered himself into the shelter and began in a wheezy voice:
"Bleeding weather keeps on and on, bugger it. As if we hadn't had enough cold snaps for one winter."
Yaroshchuk had apparently failed to notice that everyone in the shelter was silent and not in the mood for his chatter. He rubbed his frozen hands together briskly, glancing around at those present with an air of almost childlike innocence.
"Sit down, Yaroshchuk," Voloshin said brusquely.
"Well all right then, I don't mind if I do, as long as you're not going to chase me away. I nodded off for a bit in the trench, under the tarpaulin, and got frozen to the marrow. You wouldn't have a smoke by any chance, Lieutenant?" he asked Samokhin. The latter took a pinch of shag out of his pocket and silently handed it to Yaroshchuk.
"What about paper? Never mind, we'll find something. I thought I had a scrap of it somewhere…"
Soon after this the commander of the Eighth Company, Lieutenant Muratov, made his appearance. With his belt and webbing neatly tightened, shoulder-straps sewn on carefully, and his map case at his side, Muratov climbed adroitly into the shelter. Bending his head slightly, he gabbled his report in an accented voice:
"Lieutenant Muratov reporting in accordance with your orders, sir."
They had to wait longer for the commander of the Ninth. Voloshin had already made up his mind to send for him a second time when they heard footsteps and the sound of coughing in the trench. Eventually, the long, skinny form of Kizevich, draped in an unbelted sheepskin coat that lacked shoulder-straps, clambered into the shelter. Instead of reporting properly, he growled out matter-of-factly, with a vague semblance of a salute:
"Senior Lieutenant Kizevich."
Voloshin sat impassively with his back against the cold wall of the shelter, acknowledging each arrival only with a glance. He scarcely reacted to certain liberties his subordinates had taken in the way they'd reported, but they nevertheless sensed something in the battalion commander's outward reserve, and, falling silent, settled themselves alongside Yaroshchuk and waited.
"Well now," said Voloshin, leaning forward. "I think that's everybody. Numerical battle strength reports, please. Number Seven!"
Samokhin, who was sitting beside Vera with a preoccupied look on his face, sat up straighter and drew in his feet, picking up a straw from the floor as he did so. "Total unit strength - twenty-four men. Warrant officers - one. Sergeants - two. Degtiarev light machine-guns - two; Goriunovs - one."
After this quick run-through Samokhin stopped as if he were trying to think of what else to add. Voloshin reminded him:
"Ammunition?"
"Ammunition? Rifles - sixty rounds each; Degtiarevs - three magazines each; belts for the Goriunov - two boxes. Actually, we got hold of some more today. And in reserve we've eleven boxes of cartridges. That's all."
"Grenades?"
"I didn't count the grenades. The sergeant-major hasn't got any. There are only those included in the personal issue."
"No more than one apiece," chimed in Grak from the doorway. "Be about fifteen altogether."
"Not a lot," said Voloshin. Laying his map case on his knees, he opened it and took out a notebook and pencil. Samokhin, crumpling the straw between his palms, kept silent. Voloshin's gaze moved on to Sergeant Muratov.
"Number Eight!"
Muratov wriggled his shoulders as if to straighten them under the webbing straps, and drawing himself up smartly, rose to a kneeling position. The ceiling was too low for him to stand upright.
"The Eighth Company has eighteen privates, three sergeants, one company commander," he said with a pronounced Ukrainian accent. "One Maxim, one Degtiarev light machine-gun. Not many cartridges - four clips per rifle. Two belts for the Maxim. About ten grenades."
Muratov's brief report was finished, and there was a general silence while they all watched the battalion commander jot something down in his notebook. In the smoky, foul-smelling murk of the shelter, it was impossible to see for more than a metre. Sergeant-Major Grak switched on a torch and held it for Voloshin.
"Thank you," he said. "Well, Lieutenant, you're rather light on for both men and ammunition. You ought to take more care, Muratov."
"How can I, Captain? I tell them: short bursts, short bursts! But it turns out that a lot of short bursts are the same as one long burst. Either way they go through a lot of ammunition!"
Everybody burst out laughing.
However there was no escaping the fact that the Eighth was the most depleted company in the battalion. Perhaps this was partly because whenever the battalion went in to attack, the Eighth was usually in the middle of the battle order, where the enemy's fire was concentrated. But the commander was partly responsible as well. For all his devotion to duty, the young, impetuous Lieutenant Muratov was not sparing enough with his men. In battle he would fling himself into the thick of things, frequently exposing himself and his company to the most devastating fire. Now he had only eighteen men left to show for it, whereas two weeks earlier, Voloshin recalled, there had been more like eighty.
Muratov was uncommonly ambitious and touchy. Voloshin always reproached him cautiously, by means of hints, and now he said: "And I was counting on the Eighth. More than the others."
Muratov caught on at once and his swarthy face flushed angrily. He started forward, but checked himself and held his tongue.
"Well now," said Voloshin at length. "Senior Lieutenant Kizevich."
Kizevich cast a jaundiced eye over the smoke-blackened floor-covering and dismissed the question with a wave of his hand:
"Oh it's the same old story. What's the point of reporting about it?"
"I'm waiting."
"All right then: thirty-three men. Two Maxims. More like a crying shame than a company."
"Ammunition?"
"Ammunition?" repeated Kizevich, and peered into the dark corner of the shelter where Vera was quietly nursing her anger and sorrow. "There'd be about fifty rounds apiece, I suppose."
"Could you be more precise?"
The commander of the Ninth looked at the ceiling. Across his gaunt face, with its small, sunken eyes, passed the reflection of some kind of mental torment.
"To be specific - sixty-five rounds per rifle."
"And the Browning you took as a trophy?"
Kizevich looked at the captain and blinked uncomprehendingly.
"What about it?"
"I'm asking you."
"It's lying in the supply cart. Why, do you expect me to shoot with it?"
"Why you? You've got a machine-gunner for that."
It was obvious that Kizevich liked to avoid giving a direct answer. Staring hard at him, Voloshin tapped meaningly on his map case with his pencil. As always, the niggardly commander of the Ninth was trying to evade the issue, and now he was already beginning to feel threatened. It occurred to Voloshin that he ought to expose Kizevich's little game without further delay, but the reports weren't finished, there was still Yaroshchuk to go, so with a sigh he nodded towards the dark, smoky corner.
"Heavy machine-gun platoon."
"The platoon is still hanging together. Three wounded, otherwise all accounted for. Two gun crews, two guns. One gun-carriage, two horses."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
"What about ammunition?"
"We've got a bit. Enough for the time being," Yaroshchuk assured him, and Voloshin looked at him with some distrust. Something about the junior lieutenant's words didn't ring quite true, but since the heavy machine-gun platoon had joined the battalion only recently, and Yaroshchuk was not one of his own men but had been placed under his command just for the duration of the offensive, Voloshin, upon reflection, decided not to take issue with him.
The reports finished, Voloshin underlined the small total in his notebook. He now had a detailed idea of the battalion's combat potential, which turned out to be less than modest. Grak switched off the torch and the shelter became darker. The cable crackled in the corner, continuing to emit foul-smelling smoke.
"Are you all listening? Present indications are that tomorrow we'll be ordered to capture the hill. The order hasn't formally been given as yet, but I think it will be. So without further delay, we'd better prepare to attack."
A hush fell over his listeners. Samokhin flung his straw away with an emphatic gesture. Muratov fixed his intense gaze on the battalion commander. Yaroshchuk hunched up, seeming to shrink until he became quite imperceptible in the hazy, subterranean gloom. Kizevich, amazed, craned his scraggy neck with its prominent Adam's apple from the collar of his sheepskin coat.
"If we had a couple of heavy artillery battalions on the job, we might stand a chance," he said.
Voloshin frowned his disapproval of these words.
"I have my doubts about two battalions. I'm afraid there's not likely to be much more than Ivanov's battery."
With an effort, Kizevich cleared his throat.
"Did you say Ivanov's battery? They haven't two shells to rub together. My sergeant-major was there this morning, and he tells me the boys on the howitzers have only got one box per gun. They could either fire them off now or save them for the changing of the guard."
Voloshin, reserved and attentive, let him have his say and then added quietly:
"They'll be bringing up more shells. But see that you supply your people with grenades. They'll need them. Sergeant-Major Grak!"
The dark form of Grak loomed up on the threshold.
"Yes, sir!"
"You had the box of TNX. Distribute it among the companies."
"Sir!"
"Now, Senior Sergeant Kizevich, you say your captured Browning is in the cart?"
"That's right, in the cart. Why?"
"Give it to Muratov. He'll put it to better use."
Kizevich's narrow, hook-nosed countenance flinched painfully.
"What's he done to deserve it?"
"He needs it."
"Needs it! He should have taken better care of his own equipment. But now that he's let his own go to rack and ruin, he's got his beady eye on somebody else's."
"I'm not asking you for anything!" Muratov hotly retorted.
"Well in that case there's nothing to discuss. So why all this talk about the Browning?…"
Voloshin listened calmly to the brief spat between the company commanders. It wasn't exactly the first time. The thrifty Kizevich didn't like sharing anything with his neighbour, although occasionally he was forced to do so, because there were times when even he ran short of things and sought help from none other than that same Lieutenant Muratov. Up to a point Kizevich was right: there weren't many who could conserve men and equipment as he could. On this occasion, however, Voloshin saw the necessity for strengthening the Eighth, albeit at the expense of the Ninth. As if this dispute hadn't occurred, he said evenly:
"Give him some ammunition as well. You should have about three hundred rounds. And to save Muratov the trouble of finding a machine-gunner, give him yours. His name's Sipak, isn't it?"
"What do you mean, 'Sipak'! Sipak was killed last week. I've got a new gunner."
Voloshin stopped, feeling acutely uncomfortable at this news. He remembered Sipak from way back, when the battalion was first formed, and now it turned out that he was dead. It wasn't any use indulging in such recollections, yet it was the battalion commander's business to know that the man had been killed. Every such loss weighed on him like a stone, and he had to brace himself to withstand the burden. After a short pause he ordered with his former firmness:
"Give him the new one."
"Stuff my boots! The new one too! Do you think I've got a spare regiment or something?" said Kizevich, throwing up his hands. Voloshin registered no reaction to this whatsoever, and indicated by his silence that the matter had been settled. Kizevich, however, had got himself thoroughly worked up:
"As soon as anything happens, the Ninth's got everything. Now it's the Browning! I might have been counting on the Browning myself. I've been using it all along for range-finding. Talk about giving your wife to uncle!"
"And quite right, too," put in Samokhin quietly. "You've been getting up to too many tricks lately, Kizevich."
"Aha! And I suppose you wouldn't do any such thing? A real model of honesty, eh?"
"That's not the point," said Samokhin in a somewhat altered tone of voice. "What difference does the Browning make? You'd do better to ask why the hell we didn't attack this hill yesterday. What was all the dawdling for? Why did we wait until the Germans had dug in?"
Kizevich turned his sombre, distressed face to Voloshin. Everyone in the shelter pricked up his ears, waiting for an answer to the question that was troubling them all, but Voloshin hadn't been able to find an answer to it himself. Rather than tell a lie, he decided to say nothing, which, however, didn't satisfy the company commanders.
"Now we'll be hard put to crawl up there on our bellies," Samokhin blurted out angrily.
"They've already slapped together two pill-boxes up there," muttered Kizevich. "You'll be doing a fine old dance in front of those."
Things had already gone too far. This kind of talk went beyond the bounds of what was permitted, and Voloshin said firmly:
"All right, that's enough now! Orders are orders. We're obliged to carry them out. You can keep your private views to yourselves."
They all ceased their chatter at once. It became still, and in the hush Voloshin took his watch out of his pocket. It was a quarter to eleven.
"Well, that's all!" he announced. "Go and get on with your preparations. I'll be giving you further orders."