Voloshin set off from Ivanov's observation post towards his own lines assuming that he would meet up at long last with Yaroshchuk's machine-gun platoon en route. But Yaroshchuk had somehow become elusive. Voloshin traversed the hillside right down to the marsh, but didn't come across any guns. He realised that he'd missed them again, and only then did he notice in the darkness the solitary foxholes of one of his companies, and beyond them the dark mass of the bushes on the marsh, relieved by grey patches of ice. Nobody challenged him, but he'd already caught the lowered voices of Muratov and somebody else, and guessed that the scouts sent by the adjutant had returned.
"You must report to the CP," Muratov was saying. "Where's the sergeant-major? Proceed to the CP."
"There's no need," said Voloshin, approaching the few dark forms. "Are they all back?"
"Yes, sir," said Muratov more quietly. "Hill 'Minor' is occupied by Russians."
Voloshin came closer. Three soldiers in caps with the ear-flaps sticking out were waiting at attention with their rifles at the order arms.
"Were you on the summit?" he asked.
"No, sir. We didn't climb as far as the summit, there's a quagmire there. It was up to our knees - look at this." Throwing open the flaps of his greatcoat, the scout displayed his legs, which were dark, presumably from dampness. "But we could hear them all right."
"What did you hear?"
"It's our own men up there. They're digging something. We could hear them swearing and carrying on. Like us, in Russian."
Voloshin was silent. The fact that they were Russians there, not Germans, meant that he could permit himself a sigh of relief, but he was clearly dissatisfied with a method of reconnaissance that relied solely on hearing.
No doubt noticing Voloshin's sceptical attitude, the same soldier launched excitedly into detail:
"We got in amongst some bushes, and sat there waiting and listening to them digging. We were trying to get through the water when we heard them speaking Russian. 'Volodya,' says one of them, 'where have you put the cartridge-pouches?' 'On the greatcoat,' says another, 'yours and mine.' Well of course we realised these were our men,' the soldier concluded with conviction.
"If they're ours, we must establish contact with them," said Voloshin. "To arrange for their cooperation tomorrow. Tell Senior Lieutenant Kizevich to report to me."
"Sir!"
The soldier ran off in the direction of the Ninth, and Voloshin peered broodingly in the other direction, beyond the marsh. Admittedly he could glimpse nothing in the darkness, but he knew that the tiny hillock could accommodate no more than one platoon. Yet even a platoon, fully dug in, could help the battalion by keeping hill "Major" under fire. But who could have occupied it, that knoll - was it possible that an advance party from the next battalion had gone up there? That would be splendid.
Waiting for Kizevich, Voloshin sat down on the rough earth of the parapet. Several soldiers standing near him began energetically stamping their feet to warm them.
"What stopped you, then? Is it really impossible to get through?" asked Voloshin.
"There's water there, sir. Not frozen. We did try, but we got stuck, and only just managed to get out."
"Then how did the other crowd get through?"
"Who knows? Perhaps there is a way through somewhere. But how do you go about finding it in the dark?"
Fair enough, thought Voloshin. But surely there can't be many of them there. Could it perhaps be a listening post set up by the neighbouring army? But just the same we must make contact. I'll have to send someone.
When Kizevich ambled up to him out of the darkness Voloshin said to him:
"Would there be a reliable sergeant in your company?"
"What for?"
"To establish a link with hill 'Minor'."
"What's the point of that!" Kizevich gave a twitch of the shoulder. "There's no one there."
"How can that be? These people have been there. They heard voices - our own people, Russians."
"How could they have heard anything? I was watching that hill until evening - not a living soul. Perhaps in the dark they ended up on the wrong knoll. Perhaps they took the one farther to the right - there was somebody crawling about up THERE all right this evening."
Voloshin didn't know what to say, or what action to take. The confident tone of the company commander rather took the wind out of his sails, but the scouts, too, were sure they hadn't made a mistake.
"We went in a straight line. Through the bushes, right to the base of the hump. But there's water there, the marsh isn't frozen."
"There you are, you see? It's all marsh. Get into it and you're stuck there," said Kizevich and turned away.
"Send a sergeant and a private all the same. Have them find out precisely who's there and how many."
"A sergeant! How many of those do you think I've got?"
"What about Samokhvalov? Send him."
Kizevich stood for a minute in silence, then set off into the night, not bothering to conceal his dissatisfaction at the new order. This didn't particularly please Voloshin, but Kizevich was a special case and it wasn't the first time he'd acted this way. Furthermore he was Voloshin's senior by about five years, and this factor inhibited Voloshin in his official dealings with the company commander.
Voloshin curtly took his leave of the still taciturn and subdued Muratov, and set off for Samokhin's company. He couldn't wait any longer to find out what was going on at hill "Major". Although he realised that there was a limit to what two men could reconnoitre at night on the broad and frozen slope, it made no difference. The discovery of even one mine there would enable him at least to determine that the hill was mined and that they couldn't begin the attack until it was cleared. But it would be worse if they'd found nothing there and tomorrow he led the battalion onto a mine-field.
On this occasion, Voloshin found Samokhin's small shelter easily in the gloom above the marsh. Near it he was met by Sergeant-Major Grak, who said the lieutenant had turned in to get some rest, leaving him to wait for the return of the scouts, who were still not back from the hill. Voloshin stood in silence for a minute beside the small trench, listening: it was profoundly quiet on the hill, as before; not a single sound carried to his ears against the wind, and he decided to return to his command post.
"When the scouts arrive, send them straight to me."
"Yes, sir."
The matter of reconnaissance was being unexpectedly dragged out in both quarters, and this could not fail to perturb Voloshin. He was particularly uneasy about hill "Major". The sergeant had been away an awfully long time; Voloshin hoped he hadn't run into the German outposts. As he made his way in the dark to the hillock where his command post was located, he stopped now and then to listen. Once, he fancied he heard voices carrying from the hill. But they were evidently German voices, because if the scouts had been discovered, a skirmish would have broken out for sure - there'd be no way of avoiding it. But while it was quiet there was still a glimmer of hope that the reconnaissance would succeed.
At the OP, Prygunov had been relieved by Titok, who similarly recognised Voloshin and didn't challenge him, but merely stamped his feet discreetly a few times to let it be known that he was awake, keeping watch and warming himself.
"All quiet here?" Voloshin asked him.
"Yes, sir. Only some vehicles rumbling."
"Where?"
"On that there 'ill."
"There'll be plenty more of that. They're strengthening their positions."
He proceeded to the end of the trench and lifted the corner of the groundsheet at the entrance to his dwelling. Now it was only slightly warmer here than outside, the milk-churn brazier was no longer alight, but the carbide lantern shone feebly above the packing-cases. When he came in, Chernoruchenko, sleepy and with his collar turned up, began to busy himself with the telephone set in the corner, blowing into the receiver to test the line. Beside him under a sheepskin coat, Gutmann was sleeping with his legs sprawled out, and near him Prygunov, frozen after his long watch, lay curled into a ball. Markin raised his sleepy face from the packing case:
"What's happened, are the scouts back?"
Voloshin wearily lowered himself into his place on the other side of the box, undid the hook on his collar and loosened his belt. His fatigued body, chafed by his clothing and webbing, was crying out for release and yearning for rest. He wanted to stretch out his legs, but there was no room to do so.
"Did they phone from the regiment?" he asked in lieu of a reply.
"Gunko was asking for you a couple of times. He left orders for you to report the instant you arrived."
"Doesn't he ever sleep?" muttered Voloshin and reached towards Chernoruchenko for the receiver.
The telephone operator on the other end of the line was most likely dozing, and although he had responded to the call sign, he had then fallen silent again. Voloshin waited a while and repeated the call. Probably Gunko was also asleep, as he did not pick up the receiver immediately. At last, muffled by distance, his grumpy voice came down the line.
"Yes, what is it?"
"Birch Tree Twenty speaking."
"Ah, Voloshin!" Well how's the situation. How did the preparations go? Got everything ready?"
"What do you mean - 'ready'?" said Voloshin, not concealing his annoyance at what, under the circumstances, was a routine question. "I've been to see Ivanov, his supply of cucumbers is down to virtually nil. What support will there be exactly?"
"There'll be support, there'll be support. That's not your worry. It's up to somebody else to worry about that."
"It's up to me," Voloshin contradicted him, controlling his irritation. "I'm the one who's attacking, not somebody else. That's the reason I'm worrying about it."
"Correct: you're the one who's attacking, so get yourself ready. Get your own unit prepared. Have you done that?"
"The scouts aren't back yet. And we still don't know who's on hill 'Minor': Russians or Germans."
"What hill's that? Beyond the marsh? But there's nobody there. That hill's not occupied."
"But supposing it is occupied nevertheless?"
"Nonsense, my dear boy. You're always seeing hobgoblins in your sleep. My scouts came back from there yesterday. It's deserted."
Voloshin gave a sigh of exasperation - yesterday! In the space of one night that hillock could be occupied and vacated three times over, but the major would still keep citing the intelligence his scouts had brought back yesterday.
"Number Ten, I request permission to bring the time for the picnic forward by one hour," said Voloshin, trying to manoeuvre his way out of what had become a fruitless argument. Judging by his prolonged pause, the commander of the regiment had not understood, or was even amazed at such an irregular request.
"Why's that?"
"So that we can move off earlier, you see? Before it gets light."
The major apparently pondered in silence for a short while and then refused.
"No, out of the question. Proceed according to plan. The plan, you realise, has already been finalised. At the top level. So… proceed according to plan."
Voloshin gnashed his teeth but said nothing, and since Gunko for some indefinable reason was also silent, he released the push-to-talk switch and placed the receiver horizontally on the set. Sleep having apparently deserted him, Markin gazed speculatively at Voloshin.
"Plan! I can see there's going to be hell to pay tomorrow on account of that plan," Voloshin burst out with an oath.
"If there's a plan, then that puts the lid on things," said Markin with an understanding sigh. "Gunko won't depart from it one jot…"
"Even if there's a plan, still… The attack's at six-thirty. Why six-thirty? It will just be getting light. What hasn't been done during the night simply won't get done - there'll be no time. And the men won't have rested properly. we can't give them breakfast any later than six. No time either for completing reconnaissance or taking our bearings… But THEY have to be able to report before noon that the task's been carried out. In time for them to include their advance in the daily summary of operations. That's the reason for this rush."
Voloshin could not suppress his irritation, although a minute later he regretted it. He was a man of discipline, and didn't as a rule question the decisions of the regimental commander, least of all in the presence of subordinates. But now he couldn't contain himself: so much had already accumulated inside him in the course of this troubled night.
"Very well!" he said, more to himself than to Markin. "You get some rest, Markin. Until four hundred hours. I'll get you up at four and have a nap myself."
"Yes, I'll do that," agreed Markin, but kept sitting and staring at a spot on the lamplit surface of the packing case.
"And give me your razor, would you?" asked Voloshin. "I need a shave."
Markin took the razor, neatly wrapped in a scrap of paper, a soap dish and a tiny mirror, cracked across the middle, out of his rubberised canvas bag. Voloshin commenced his preparations for shaving, while the adjutant sat limply, watching him aimlessly.
"So I'll turn in, shall I?" he said at length, and Voloshin confirmed:
"Yes yes, you lie down. Until four."
Markin subsided onto the straw as if to hide himself behind the crates, and very soon became silent. Gutmann was sleeping on his back, breathing deeply and noisily, with his feet in shabby, down-at-heel rubberised canvas boots stretched out in front of him. In the corner, Chernoruchenko was nodding off over the leather case of his telephone set, rousing himself with a start from time to time and occasionally calling up "Volga" and blowing into the receiver. In the little stove the embers were burning down, casting a faint crimson glow on the dark poles of the roof.
Voloshin pulled his greatcoat off his shoulders and tucked in the collar of his shirt. His desire to shave was not prompted by the difficult battle - which might well be his last - that awaited him on the morrow. Not at all. It was simply that he could feel stubble on his chin and knew he'd have no time tomorrow. The quietest time of the night had come. Apart from the Germans, there was scarcely a soul who could bother him, and he relaxed with a sense of tranquillity, alone with his cares in the stillness.
Rubbing his wind-chapped chin with soapy water, he sighed and thought, as he had done countless times, how fiendishly difficult this war had turned out to be. Had there ever been another war like it? Stalingrad had permitted a sigh of relief and hope; the Russians had at last been favoured with military success in the south, and things probably looked brighter there now. But here, in these forests and marshes, on these hills and cart-tracks, near villages and country churchyards ravaged by war, it was still just as hellishly hard. As before, the enemy was fighting to the bitter end, stubbornly making a stand for every hillock in the countryside and for every barn in the villages. So much strength, organisation and skill was needed to conquer that enemy! And if anything was lacking for the task, the whole brunt of the struggle was borne by the long-suffering infantry, whose lot it was to pay copiously for everything, in blood. And often those who paid this price could not even conceive of the possibility that somewhere, somebody had been lacking in ability, or that something had gone wrong with the transport, or that some crucial detail had not been foreseen. There were so many factors to be taken into account if one were to minimise the bloodshed and ensure that lives were not lost with such catastrophic rapidity.
Voloshin was aware that there were worse people than Gunko. At least the man was capable of impressing some people favourably with his finicky assiduity; he had a flair for pleasing his superiors and reporting in a dashing style, and he knew how to take his subordinates to task in no uncertain terms. Moreover nobody in the regiment wore a military uniform with such panache as its commander. In his uniform greatcoat, elaborately belted, with a map case and highly polished chrome leather boots complete with spurs, he presented an impeccable appearance. But how he conducted himself with his subordinates and in battle was something his superiors did not witness. They had little or nothing to do with him on the battlefield.
On the other hand, his battalion commanders knew all about that side of him. In approaching the regimental commander with a request to bring the attack forward by one hour, Voloshin had known for certain that he would refuse. And how could it be otherwise, when the entire system of operations in the plan had already been scheduled for a predetermined time, which the regimental commander no longer had any power to control. But it was a pity. Around six o'clock or even five-thirty, in the pre-dawn twilight, his battalion would presumably have been able to negotiate the marsh quietly, without firing a shot, and gain a toehold on the slope. The trench on the summit would have then been closer, and perhaps they would have succeeded in breaching it, even under fire. But in that case their artillery bombardment would be unnecessary and ought to be called off - and who would do that? After all, in the case of an unsuccessful attack the whole blame would fall on whoever had cancelled the artillery bombardment anyway, which would not so much assist the battalion as reveal its intentions. What harm could they inflict on the enemy with forty shells, fired off in one ten-minute salvo at dawn, when all the Germans would be buried safely in the bunkers they'd installed overnight, and only a few observers would be left in the trench?