However, on this occasion they didn't manage to talk to the boss. The operator had barely reached for the handle of the yellow, leather-covered American telephone set, when somewhere above there was a high-pitched whine, rising to a crescendo. The sound of a few rounds of mortars being fired carried faintly to the dug-out, and instantly the earth reverberated with the impact of bombs bursting nearby. Loose earth from the ceiling showered onto the straw and the stove; the flame in the lantern trembled, casting wavering, grotesque shadows across the walls. Markin crouched lower over his papers; Gutmann seized his submachine-gun and sheepskin coat. The flame in the carbide lantern was still flickering unsteadily when they heard another whine and felt a second tremor. Then the dug-out was rocked by a series of explosions.
"What the hell!"
Voloshin thrust the map that had been prepared for his report inside the breast of his uniform and jerked aside the groundsheet covering the entrance. In the dusk he caught fleeting glimpses of tracers, fired from the heights and passing above his head towards the forest in tautly arcing threads of light. The thudding sound of long bursts from a heavy machine-gun carried from the hill. But after discharging half a belt, the machine-gun suddenly fell silent. All was quiet, and in the dark, frosty sky the distant stars winked sleepily. It looked as though the Germans had caught something on the edge of the forest at the rear. Gutmann, standing in the trench, was hastily belting on his sheepskin coat, and Voloshin gave a nod in his direction.
"Right - at the double! There and back!"
"Sir!"
Showering earth behind him, the orderly leapt out of the trench. His boots thudded off into the darkness and receded out of earshot, and the captain stood for a bit longer, listening intently to the vague sounds all around. In the immediate vicinity it was quiet once more, but somewhere beyond the forest the edge of the sky was flushed with a faint reflection from a distant cannonade of artillery.
"That's the gunners - bloody halfwits! Always lighting up at night," said Markin irritably from the dug-out. The captain didn't reply. The groundsheet rustled behind him, a patch of light from the lantern fell crookedly on the wall of the trench and Chernoruchenko poked his head out.
"'Volga' Ten for you, sir."
He'd known this was coming. You only had to be a minute late with the report and he called you up himself. Wincing inwardly, Voloshin took the receiver from the operator's hand and pressed the push-to-talk switch firmly with his thumb.
"'Birch Tree' Twenty here."
"Why don't you report? What's going on there - it sounds like an artillery bombardment. Are you failing to observe the camouflage regulations again?"
From the first words resounding in the receiver, Voloshin realised that the major had already dined and was rapidly resuming his customary peevish tone. But the battalion commander was already used to the spate of questions intended to stun the listener with their severity right from the start, and he had long since ceased to feel crushed or even angered by it. Voloshin had reconciled himself to the role of least favourite subordinate, so he put up with it, although he snapped back at times. Generally speaking, everything was uncomplicated and even all right, provided their patently hostile relationship didn't affect the battalion; but in this respect Voloshin was powerless. As a rule he would patiently hear things out, not rushing to justify himself but biding his time until the boss had said his piece. Now, besides, he was waiting for Gutmann to show up at any moment.
"Hello! Haven't you anything to say for yourself? Or have you dozed off there?" roared the voice in the receiver. At this point Voloshin permitted himself a touch of irony, which, as usual, the commander of the regiment took perfectly seriously.
"I'm trying to sort your questions into a coherent sequence."
"What? What kind of sequence? Listen here, don't you get smart with me: you answer me - is that clear?"
"It's difficult to answer so many questions at once."
"An officer who doesn't know how to go about making a report to his superior is a bad officer. You have to be on the ball the whole time. You should understand your superior before the words are out of his mouth."
"Thank you."
"What?"
"I said, thanks for the tip. And now, to get on with the report," Voloshin forestalled him determinedly, wanting to put an abrupt end to the tedious moralising to which the regimental commander was so manifestly prone. "The enemy continues to fortify the hill 'Major'. Earthworks with long-term coverings of logs have been visually noted. Also continuing…"
"But did you impede them? Or did you oblige Fritz by watching calmly while he marked out his trenches?"
"Unfortunately they marked them out at night," said Voloshin quietly, deliberately ignoring the taunt and continuing his report. "By morning they'd dug to a depth of almost two metres. Machine-gun fire proved to have little effect on account of the bullet-proof cover they're using. We have no other means of operation at our disposal. Ivanov has ten shells only, as I've already reported to you."
"I heard you. And who's that amongst your lot teasing the Germans? What sort of slack management is that? They've probably got campfires going too. Or else they're blowing sheaves of sparks out of the dug-outs. That seems to be your style."
"That's not my style. You're confusing me with somebody else."
This amounted to impertinence on the part of a subordinate. The major was silent for a few seconds, then he remarked in a different tone of voice, calmer than before:
"Now then, Captain, even if I did confuse the facts, it's not your place to point it out, my boy. You're still a youngster."
But it seemed the captain's patience was wearing thin too.
"Please don't 'my boy' me."
"What?"
"I must ask you not to be so familiar when addressing me."
Voloshin had begun to lose his self-control. He felt an urge to hurl this damned receiver into a corner and never pick it up again, for the entire conversation consisted in effect of the undisguised carping of his superior and his own justifications, with one party taking whatever liberties he pleased, while the other bent over backwards to maintain the courtesy expected of him. But Voloshin had only to overcome his oppressive sense of being the underdog and adopt a more assertive tone and the voice at the other end of the line altered perceptibly and lost its edge; the regimental commander faltered, cleared his throat and seemed ready in his turn to take offence.
"My, aren't we touchy! Didn't like me calling him 'my boy' - fancy that! I called you that because I have a right to. You're my junior, and juniors don't take umbrage at their seniors in the army: they learn from them. By the way, I almost forgot," said Gunko with another change of tone, "you're going to get the Red Banner. The confirmation's come through. So congratulations."
He remembered! thought Voloshin bitterly, and made no reply. The major's belated expression of congratulations was quite spoiled for him by what had gone before. With his free hand he took the cigarette butt from his telephone operator's fingers and tore off the soggy end of it with his teeth. He hadn't had time to draw on it, however, when Jim, growling briefly, leapt to his feet beside him. In the trench close by there was a tramping of feet and a rustling of groundsheets, and the sound of someone jumping off the parapet. Chernoruchenko fled towards the exit, but immediately jumped aside and stood with his back pressed against the wall.
"Which way now?"
"Straight ahead, straight ahead," came the voice of Gutmann from a distance.
"Mind the steps."
"I can see them."
A bright beam of torchlight illuminated the earthen floor beside the stove and then shifted to somebody's feet. Flinging aside the edge of the groundsheet, a stocky man in a knee-length winter overcoat with an astrakhan collar burst into the dug-out. Jim began growling menacingly at Voloshin's side and lunged forward. In the nick of time Voloshin grabbed him by his shaggy ruff. The dog reared wildly on his hind legs and the man recoiled in momentary fright and swore in annoyance.
"Is this some kind of kennel you've got here?"
"Jim! Lie down!" ordered the captain sternly. Jim reluctantly stepped back and stood beside him, allowing the newcomer to take three paces forward into the light.
Meanwhile others had crept in under the groundsheet and the dug-out was rapidly becoming cramped and cold, but Voloshin's eyes were fixed on the first, who appeared obviously upset by something and kept one hand held against his bare head. At first Voloshin was under the impression that he was rubbing his frozen ear, but then the man stooped towards the light, took his hand away from his head and inspected his palm. There was blood on it. At that moment a second man, wearing a sheepskin coat and with a slim map case hanging at his side, walked over to the fire. By the light of the lantern he began to wipe the blood from the newcomer's cheek. Suddenly, the large star of a general flashed on the wounded man's broad shoulder-strap.
Standing to one side, Voloshin realised that this was top brass and that he should report without delay. He had been guilty of an unpardonable omission in not doing so at once, and now it was going to be awkward approaching the man. Aware that he had put it off too long, and annoyed with himself for committing such a blunder, the battalion commander stepped up to the general.
"Sir!…"
"Can't you speak more quietly?"
The general half-turned towards him a lined, displeased face with a short tuft of grey moustache under the nose. For a second the two men stood in silent confrontation: both hostile; both large and broad-shouldered.
"Why so loudly? We're not on the parade ground now, you know."
Voloshin hesitated again, thinking that probably the proximity to the front line was affecting the general's nerves. Nevertheless he finished his report, albeit more quietly than he'd begun, while the general, moving the lantern aside, sat down on the edge of the crate, still pressing his hand to his bleeding temple. The major in the sheepskin coat who had wiped the general's cheek now turned to Markin.
"Is it far to the dressing-station?"
"It's four hundred metres away in a little gully."
"Send for a doctor."
"There's no doctor, sir - there's a first-aid instructor."
"That's neither here nor there. Send for the first-aid instructor."
Voloshin nodded to the orderly.
"Gutmann!"
"Sir!"
The orderly dashed out into the trench and an uneasy, oppressive silence reigned in the dug-out. The brass hat was silent, and to either side of him Markin and Voloshin were frozen in attitudes of mute deference. By the threshold a thickset soldier in a greatcoat was warming his hands over the stove. The major was looking around for a place to sit and caught sight of Jim, whose pricked ears jutted out of the shadows.
"German shepherd?"
"Yes," replied Voloshin stiffly and stepped aside. The general, turning around ponderously on the crate, looked at the dog with curiosity:
"Quite a beast! What's his name?"
"Jim, sir."
The general condescendingly slapped the hem of his overcoat:
"Jim, Jim, here boy!"
But Jim, without budging, gave a low, menacing growl.
"He won't come," said Voloshin.
"That remains to be seen," retorted the general and transferred his gaze to the battalion commander. "How long have you been in command of this battalion?"
"Seven months, sir."
"And what were you commanding before that?"
"A company in this battalion."
"Just a moment, what did you say your name was?"
"Voloshin."
"Wasn't it your company that seized the ford at Klepiki?"
"That's right, sir."
Voloshin waited for the general to offer praise or to ask for further details of this action of his, renowned in the division, for which he had received his first citation. But the general asked about something entirely different.
"Where are the forward positions of your battalion?"
"The south-western slopes along the marsh."
"Show me on the map."
Voloshin took the map, folded concertina-wise and worn thin at the creases, out of the front of his coat and spread it out in front of the general. He was already beginning to guess what had caused the recent skirmish at the front line, and he thought the general had got off relatively lightly. It might have been worse. But why he had found it necessary to come so close to the front in the first place remained for the time being a matter of conjecture for Voloshin.
"The front-line trench is here, along the intermediate contour just above the marsh."
By the dim light of the carbide lantern the general began to study the map, which he held at a considerable distance from his eyes. The major stooped towards him, peered briefly at the relief contours and declared with conviction:
"There, it's precisely as I reported: hill sixty-five zero."
"Hm, yes. Hill sixty-five zero. So it turns out that it's in the enemy's hands?"
The general looked up at Voloshin with a hard, accusing stare.
"Yes," replied Voloshin simply.
"Why didn't you take it?"
"There were no orders to do so, sir."
"Really?" said the general distrustfully and ordered in a determined voice: "Tell your regimental commander to report to me."
Voloshin turned to the telephone operator:
"Chernoruchenko, call up 'Volga'."
In the meantime the major produced a large packet of "Kazbek" from his pocket and offered it to the general, who took one and held the cardboard tube to his mouth while his subordinate lit the short cigarette attached to the other end. The major also lit up, and a fragrant aroma, alien to the prevailing reek of cheap tobacco, permeated the dug-out. Left in peace for the moment Voloshin reflected that, all things considered, a showdown was brewing. Again he was standing near the general in the tensely expectant pose of a subordinate. This time, however, there was a certain independence about him; he was a man convinced of his innocence. All the same it looked as though his position was hardly enviable.
Chernoruchenko relayed the general's command to 'Volga', and the men in the dug-out lapsed once more into funereal silence. The strained, unnatural hush was broken by the familiar rustle of the groundsheet as Veretennikove, first-aid instructor of the Seventh Rifle Company, crawled under it into the dug-out. After her came Gutmann. Voloshin scowled and swore softly to himself - Veretennikova was supposed to have left the battalion days ago. He'd already received one reprimand on her account from the regimental commander, and now he'd most likely be in for another. Meanwhile Veretennikova had taken in at a swift glance the familiar and unfamiliar people in the dug-out, and with a brisk salute she stepped confidently towards the wounded man.
"Junior Sergeant Veretennikova reporting to administer first aid to the wounded - sir!"
Probably not every company sergeant could have reported as smoothly and confidently as this slip of a girl in a soldier's greatcoat that was obviously too large for her. The general's frowning face mellowed approvingly.
"That's a good girl! Come and take a look at what Fritz has done to me."
Veretennikova, however, stood her ground and again tipped the edge of her beaver-lamb cap in salute:
"And requesting permission, sir, to appeal to you on a personal matter."
The general looked up, somewhat surprised, but before he could reply Veretennikova blurted out:
"Order the battalion commander to leave me in the battalion."
Perplexed by her appeal, the general coughed uncertainly and glared sidelong at the captain. Voloshin set his jaw, barely able to contain his indignation at the flagrant misconduct of the first-aid instructor.
"Why, is he driving you away?" asked the general coldly.
"He's sending me to the rear."
"In accordance with regimental orders," Voloshin explained tersely. "First-aid Instructor Veretennikova was declared unfit for front-line service. And you, Junior Sergeant Veretennikova, ought to know how one is supposed to address senior officers in the army!"
Veretennikova ignored him and stood to attention as before, her eyes fixed on the general, waiting for an answer. The general gave a hint of a shrug with his left shoulder.
"I can't decide this matter. See your immediate superior about it."
The girl bit her lip resentfully and with a sharp, almost defiant gesture jerked her medical kit forward. The general turned his wound to the light and Veretennikova quickly examined his temple.
"I'll have to cut the hair off."
"Altogether?" quipped the general in mock astonishment.
"Around the wound," said Veretennikova, ignoring the general's attempt at humour.
"Well then, go ahead if you've anything to cut it with."
"I'll find something."
She took some scissors from the kit and deftly trimmed the greying hair from the general's temple. He grimaced, patiently enduring the barber's operation. Next Veretennikova took out a roll of dressing, and her small hands in the turned-up sleeves of the greatcoat began skilfully arranging a complicated head bandage. After winding the bandage several times around his head, she passed it under the general's jaw, but this was not to his liking.
"Take it away from there. My neck's perfectly healthy."
"This is the way it's done," said Veretennikova. "According to the manual."
The general abruptly turned the whole of his bulky frame to face her.
"What manual! I have to command troops, and you're turning me into a scarecrow!"
"The bandage won't stay in place otherwise."
"Then you don't know how to put on bandages."
"I do know. You're not the first person I've bandaged."
"That I doubt!"
"Then put the bandage on yourself!"
With a precise, forceful tug she tore off the bandage, and before the bystanders in the dug-out had time to grasp what was happening, the groundsheet at the entrance flew up and the first-aid instructor vanished into the trench.
* * *
Please see Chapter 2, Part 2 for the final part of this chapter.