At the command post there was no longer anybody asleep, nor were there any scouts in evidence. Chernoruchenko, looking pained, was blowing into the telephone receiver, testing the line. As soon as Voloshin entered the dug-out, Chernoruchenko informed him in an agitated voice:
"The regimental commander's sounding off again…"
"I'm not surprised, let him," Voloshin replied calmly, and without making a move in the telephone operator's direction he asked Markin, who was rewinding his foot-bindings,: "What's being done about breakfast? Have you found out?"
"Breakfast's ready. Prygunov's already gone to fetch it…"
"I'm not worried about Prygunov. Have the companies been notified?"
"The companies already know."
"We must get the troops fed as soon as possible. Go and see that it's all done in good time. Without hitches."
As always, Markin rose without a word and went out, and Voloshin sank down beside the telephone.
"Call up Number Ten."
While Chernoruchenko turned the handle, Voloshin looked at the telephone set in its yellow case with something approaching hatred. Sometimes he even wished fervently that this line of communication with the regimental commander could be broken, if only for a couple of hours, so that he might breathe more freely. But it always turned out that it broke down at the wrong moment, when he was really in need of it, and for the rest of the time it generally worked efficiently, so that the regiment could call him at any time he pleased for a report, or to give instructions, or most often to tear a strip off him.
"WHAT'S going on this time? Not observing blackout regulations again?" began Gunko in a peevish voice when Voloshin had announced himself.
"No, it's not that. The scouts were discovered in no-man's-land."
"Whose scouts?"
"Mine, of course."
"Well, what happened?"
"One's wounded."
"I hope you didn't leave him there? I repeat: you didn't leave him to the Germans?" There was a note of alarm in Gunko's voice.
"No, we didn't. He was carried out and he's already been sent to the rear."
"I see," said the major and was silent for a moment. "When are you going to report on your state of preparedness?"
"When I'm prepared. The men are only just starting their breakfast."
"You'd better get a move on there, Voloshin. You've been assigned the number one task. Of paramount importance. It has to be carried out come what may."
"I know that."
"Not 'I know that', Voloshin: 'Yessir, without fail!' Do you understand? You may get a bloody nose but you'll take that hill."
"And what about the artillery support?"
"There'll be support, there'll be support. Zlobin's entire company will be allocated to you."
"That's good. Under my command?"
"No, in support. From their own firing positions."
This was the mortar company of the Second Battalion, which could hardly have a plentiful supply of bombs and anyway consisted of no more than three eighty-two millimetre mortars. But it was cause for rejoicing, even so. Apparently sensing Voloshin's satisfaction, Gunko attempted to bolster it by announcing:
"And what's more, to monitor and assist you I've roused the whole of HQ. The officers should be arriving at your command post at any moment now."
Smiling crookedly, Voloshin spluttered into the receiver:
"A fat lot of help that is! I need guns. Artillery and ammunition."
"You'll get them, you'll get them. I'm coordinating it right now. All the necessary orders have already been issued."
"Ye-es," Voloshin sighed, crestfallen. "There are bound to be plenty of orders…"
"We'll throw in some cartridges. Lukashik is already on his way with whatever he's managed to scrape together."
"Number Ten," interrupted Voloshin, brightening up, "what about the attack? Would they consent to advancing it half an hour? Or delaying it half an hour?"
"No, you'll carry it out as scheduled. The artillery battery opens fire at six-thirty sharp."
Voloshin winced. He had known that his appeal had proved unsuccessful, and yet he hadn't held back. And it had been futile. He thought this had been their last calm conversation. The subsequent ones in the heat of battle would be different, shouted nervily in harsh voices. Gunko always changed completely with the start of a battle, and then it was out of the question to prevail upon him for anything or try to change his mind. Only the higher powers, toward whom he remained unfailingly deferential, could persuade him to change his mind once a battle had commenced.
While Voloshin was on the phone, breakfast had been delivered. He heard the perennially apathetic Chernoruchenko springing to eager activity behind him, among the mess-tins and loaves of frozen bread. Voloshin replaced the telephone receiver.
"Here you are, sir, your breakfast."
The telephone operator placed a flat aluminium mess-tin, brimming with soup, on the corner of the crate, and laid a portion of bread on the lid that he'd removed. Prygunov was sitting on the straw untying his knapsack.
"Here's a supplementary ration for you, sir. The CSM packed it. Wonder what it is? Ah, bacon fat…"
He carefully extracted something wrapped in a crumpled, tattered scrap of newspaper from the knapsack and placed it on the crate.
"Here, for you and the lieutenant."
Voloshin understood: this was the supplementary ration for March - the extra allowance that officers received each month in addition to a front-line soldier's ration. It was always unexpected, even astonishing in its subtle refinement, and took the form of tinned fish, butter and biscuits. The butter and tinned fish had now been replaced by bacon fat, which was also most welcome. Watching Prygunov carefully searching the knapsack for left-over bits of biscuit, Voloshin bit into a morsel, tasted it and with nonchalant generosity pushed the whole damp, crumpled package toward the edge of the crate.
"Help yourself, Chernoruchenko!"
"Oh but I…"
"Eat up, eat up. While Gutmann's not here."
"But it's for you," said Chernoruchenko in embarrassment. "We're just the dogsbodies."
"Let Gutmann come and clean it up," said Prygunov, as he and Chernoruchenko tucked into their mess-tins of soup. "Anyway, it's for the lieutenant too. It's for you both to share."
If they don't want it, let Gutmann polish it off, thought Voloshin. He would have felt simply ashamed to eat the biscuits, seeing the way the men had shunned them. Nevertheless he was hungry like everybody else, and sensing the disastrous rapidity with which the last minutes of peace were slipping away, he knew that soon he wouldn't feel like eating. He quickly gulped down his half mess-tin of cold millet soup and thrust his folding aluminium spoon into his map case.
At that moment the telephone started to hum.
"It's beginning!"
It was indeed. It was the deputy assistant to the chief of staff phoning to ask for information about the reconnaissance of both hills, and Voloshin replied roughly that he himself had not yet received that information. He unburdened himself to the assistant staff officer, and told him in no uncertain terms what he thought of the organisation of his service in the unit. The captain took offence and they had an argument, but no sooner had he put down the phone than the divisional artillery commander rang. He needed to coordinate certain details of Zlobin's mortar company's preparation fire with the actions of his battalion. On the whole Voloshin respected the DAC, who was an intelligent fellow and a captain in the regular army, with whom he had got on famously at the tactical exercises outside Sverdlovsk, but now he cut him short with the first question:
"How many?"
"What do you mean: 'How many?'?"
"How many melons have been allocated to me? One unit of fire? Two?"
"Oho, you're hopeful!" said the captain jovially. "One unit of fire indeed! Twenty melons per weapon. Got it?"
"Yes, I've got it. Then what is there to coordinate? What cooperation can there be now?"
"There's all the more need to cooperate," said the DAC. "When there's a stockpile of melons, then indeed… Then you can eat to your heart's content and there'll still be some left for later. To begin with I'll manage somehow by myself. Do you understand me?"
"I understand," said the artillery commander, sighing into the receiver. "But whether those above me will understand…"
I'll bet they won't, thought Voloshin, picking up the sound of footsteps in the trench as somebody, talking quietly, began to tug at the groundsheet. Voloshin could tell by the careless laughter and fragments of conversation reaching his ears that the members of the general staff detailed to monitor and assist him were arriving. And indeed three stout commanders' forms in sheepskin coats, their faces red from the icy wind, soon squeezed into the dug-out. They emanated concern and a suppressed sense of their own importance at the responsibility they'd been given.
"Hello there, Battalion Commander," said the first to enter, casually offering his hand. This was Captain Khiko, head of the regimental chemical warfare section, a man who gave the impression of being extremely unassuming in his dealings with both superiors and subordinates.
"We thought the battalion commander was still asleep," said another, the regimental engineer, a skinny fellow with a swarthy, nervous face whose surname Voloshin couldn't remember, since he'd joined the regiment only recently. "They got us up at the crack of dawn."
"Yes, and they got you up for nothing," said Voloshin, involuntarily resisting the familiarity that was being forced upon him. Generally he had nothing against familiarity as such, but now he sensed that behind it lurked the desire of these people to pry more deeply into his affairs, which were bleak enough as it was, and he could not fail to oppose this.
"What do you mean - 'for nothing'?" said the third man in surprise. He was a major with brand-new epaulettes, thickset, paunchy, and getting on in years. Voloshin had never set eyes on him before and now began sizing him up with a certain apprehension. "Surely the attack hasn't been called off?"
"No, it hasn't," said Voloshin. "The attack's at six-thirty."
"There you are! Precisely as the colonel briefed us. The divisional commander," he corrected himself, and Voloshin realised that the major, to all appearances, was from divisional staff. "That means, then…" he went on, trying with frozen hands to take his watch out of his trouser pocket. Voloshin forestalled him by taking out his own and saying:
"That means there's an hour and a half left."
"Correct. Therefore we shan't waste time. I'm interested in the particulars of the available cavalry."
"Eight horses," replied Voloshin after an astonished pause.
"I see," said the major, in a hurry to get to the next question. "Veterinary clearance?"
"You appear to have got your wires crossed," said Voloshin evenly. He had begun to guess that the man standing in front of him was the veterinary officer from divisional staff. "I have an attack to organise, not a horse show."
"What do you mean?" the major gaped.
"It's very simple. You've picked a fine time to bother me with a thing like that! I've only completed half the preparations for the attack."
"Half the preparations?" repeated the vet, completely dumbfounded. "So that means that an hour and a half from now…"
"An hour and twenty minutes now."
"Well I never," mumbled the major, leaning towards the lantern and trying to jot something down.
"Yes, time's going by," acknowledged the engineer. "I'd just like to check your system of obstacles from the engineering point of view. An attack's an attack, but there's no harm in taking care of the defensive aspect as well."
"That's the adjutant's job," stated Voloshin drily.
"And where's the adjutant?"
"In the companies."
"Very well, I'll wait."
"Yes, you wait," agreed Voloshin. It had suddenly occurred to him that here was an opportunity to shake off these busybodies. But he could shake them off only by retiring to the battle formations of the companies - they were hardly likely to intrude there. "Chernoruchenko!"
"Sir!" the telephone operator looked up.
"Bring the cable-drum and telephone set and after me quick march!"
"What are you doing now?" exclaimed the astonished engineer.
"I'm off to the companies."
"But surely your CP is here."
"So it is. My adjutant will be here too. He'll take care of all your questions. He's got all the information at his fingertips."
After warning the telephone operator at the other end of the line, Chernoruchenko hurriedly pulled out the pegs that held the cable in place. Prygunov grabbed the knapsacks and hoisted the spare cable-drum onto his shoulder, and Voloshin, without waiting for them, jerked up the groundsheet over the entrance.
He was already calm. His momentary flare-up had swiftly subsided. Things might have been worse - the "monitors and helpers" also had their weak points, and one could combat them. They'd hardly poke their noses into the companies, they'd stay in the dug-out, particularly as he'd put Markin at their mercy. Markin, of course, would catch it, but Voloshin didn't feel any qualms on that score. In fact he no longer had even a minute to spare for these futile exchanges - from this point on, his whole being, every nerve and every thought, were occupied with the battle.
He ran out of the trench and set off downhill past the tall weeds. To the left, on the side of the state farm settlement, there had obviously also been an alarm. The sky was alight with flares and bursts of tracers glittered in red swarms above the dark earth along the edge of the starry sky. Presumably some scouts had been discovered: today the Second Battalion was also scheduled - and only slightly later than the Third - to renew its offensive, which had come to nought the day before. Of course, by taking this confounded hill, Voloshin would greatly assist the Second Battalion, just as the Second would assist him by taking the state farm. But with their depleted strength it would be no simple matter to capture anything, reflected Voloshin, and it was obvious there'd be plenty more blood spilt today. He wondered if there'd be anything left of his battalion.
But suppose he were to undertake a manoeuvre stipulated by neither the commander of the regiment nor the service regulations, and send a company across the marsh before dawn and before the start of the artillery bombardment - at the moment of attack that company could cover the advance of the rest of the battalion by drawing the enemy's fire. And it could assist with the weight of his own fire as well. Yes indeed! By night the company ought to be able to move out under cover of darkness; the vegetation on the marsh would conceal them from flares, and although it wouldn't afford them any shelter from fire from the summit, the men would be more secure there.
But in order to send a company Voloshin would have to get in touch again with the regimental commander, without whose consent he hadn't the right to put his plan into operation. What about a platoon, then? Nagorny's, for instance… Voloshin kept up a brisk pace down the slope, heading towards the marsh, beneath the hill which lay hidden in darkness. The wind had not abated; it was fiendishly cold. The temperature had dropped to about seventeen below. Dawn was not far off, and it had become completely dark, except for the stars glittering through rifts in the clouds with disquieting brilliance. But he knew that soon their lustre would begin to fade, and the sky would begin to flood with blue. The grey, desolate expanse of battlefield would emerge from the darkness, and the battalion's hour would strike: six-thirty.
Without slackening speed, he glanced behind him: Chernoruchenko and Prygunov were lagging behind, trying to sort out the cable-drum, which gave a crackle from time to time as the cable fouled. It was probably catching on the teeth of the ring gear. He wanted to set up his base in a company as soon as possible, but now he couldn't manage for even a minute without communications, so he stopped and waited for the men to catch up. He felt a momentary relief that he'd succeeded in outwitting his "helpers", who in point of fact were incapable of helping in the slightest, but quite capable of hindering him to their heart's content. Each of them considered himself an expert in Voloshin's sphere of operations, but the worst of it was that each felt he had a perfect right to give advice, disapprove and even make demands. But what else could you expect - they'd been sent to the battalion from above, from the regimental and divisional staff, and consequently they considered themselves more intelligent and far-sighted. This applied even to the divisional vet, who had been so taken aback by Voloshin's unpreparedness for the attack.
Let them sit on the command post and wait for Markin; they'd be good company for one another, thought Voloshin.
He was, however, mistaken.
No sooner had he arrived at Samokhin's company and instructed Chernoruchenko to put the drum in the access-trench, then sent Prygunov down the lines to find Samokhin, than behind him, at some distance from the company, he heard a muffled voice. At first he thought it was one of the soldiers, but then he recognised Gutmann's characteristic intonations and exulted at the thought that Gutmann was at last bringing news about the reconnaissance of the knoll beyond the marsh.
It was indeed Gutmann, walking quickly down towards the shelter, but after him, lagging behind, ambled yet another figure in a sheepskin coat. Peering at him, Voloshin recognised his recent acquaintance from divisional staff.
"I've brought you a representative from the division, sir," said Gutmann briskly, as if expecting praise for his action. Voloshin cursed silently from the bottom of his heart upon seeing the importunate major, puffing and snorting, heave himself into the trench, which was rather too narrow for him.
"You certainly walk fast, Battalion Commander. Just as well your orderly here happened along…" he said, apparently unaware of Voloshin's attempts to avoid him.