Chapter 5
In the trench outside the exit from the shelter Voloshin almost collided with Gutmann. The panting orderly informed him that the reinforcements had arrived.
"How many?"
"Ninety-two."
"Oho!…"
This was slightly greater than the current strength of the unit. The battalion had doubled its strength, almost doubled its fire power and had thereby increased its chances of success in tomorrow's attack. All this should have delighted him, yet Voloshin did not feel cheered by it. Something was bothering him, and he thought he knew what it was.
They emerged at the end of the small trench, which, gradually becoming shallower, petered out to nothing at this point. Samokhin stayed behind, and Voloshin said in parting:
"Send the sergeant-major for the reinforcements. And pass the word on to Muratov and Kizevich."
"Sir!"
Voloshin would have liked to move on, but hesitated. In the dim light of the trench the figure of Samokhin was bowed in resignation and looked somehow orphaned. Samokhin had become noticeably depressed and uncommunicative, and Voloshin felt that it was not just from worrying about the imminent attack. Naturally he had his suspicions about the reasons for the company commander's feelings and because of that he had delayed his departure, although Samokhin's feelings were entirely his own affair and, according to army custom, not deserving of other people's sympathy.
"When the scouts return, send them straight to the CP!" Voloshin ordered, preserving his usual businesslike tone.
"Right!"
Voloshin and Gutmann quickly set off together up the incline. It was chilly, dark and windy in the field. The sombre hump of the hill at the sky's edge dreamed silently in the darkness, as before. Voloshin stopped for a second and listened - his scouts were at that moment crawling somewhere there on the hillside, and for a brief space he felt a familiar pang of anxiety for their fate. Sending them had been a little stratagem on Voloshin's part. In wartime one frequently had to resort to local improvisations of this kind, and it was often the case that much depended on them. Certainly, there was no getting away from the risks involved in this sort of thing, but every time there was the thought that perhaps they'd manage somehow or other, they were experienced lads, they'd do their job and return in one piece. This time he was really pinning his hopes on them.
Gutmann apparently knew a different route to the CP, one devoid of bushes and craters, and he confidently led the way in the darkness. Soon they had put a fair distance between themselves and the Seventh Company's lines, and the tension Voloshin had felt at being on his guard had abated. Although half a kilometre from the company lines was by no means the rear, nevertheless he was beginning to feel more at peace with himself. His thoughts switched to something else, and he'd no sooner thought of what he wanted to ask Gutmann, than the orderly turned round as if he'd intuitively guessed the question and began to speak:
"They can't make up their minds at HQ. About this hill."
"Is that so? Well, go on."
"Oh, I listened for a bit, it was quite a laugh. The battalion, the battery, cooperation! And it hadn't occurred to any of them that this battalion is no bigger than a company."
"Is that so?" repeated Voloshin noncommittally. "Then why didn't you wise them up?"
Gutmann shrugged one shoulder slightly.
"Why me? None of my business."
He was silent for a short while, then he hitched up the strap of his submachine gun with his shoulder as he walked along.
"You know, they're putting the cart before the horse. They should capture the state farm first. Then Fritzy will hotfoot it off that hill of his own accord."
"Do you think so?"
"Well what would you say: No?"
No, Voloshin couldn't say no. On this score the orderly was undoubtedly right.
"They ought to take all three battalions and attack the state farm. Instead, they've got the regiment strung out over four kilometres, hanging about with nothing useful to do."
"If only you were a staff officer - regimental or even divisional," observed Voloshin with concealed irony. This didn't bother Gutmann in the least, however.
"Why not! I could handle that. Of course, I haven't been through any academies, but I've got a head on my shoulders. That's a start, isn't it?"
Voloshin didn't reply immediately. There was no point in objecting seriously to such an argument.
"Generally speaking, you're right. It's a start. Unfortunately it's not always the head that decides things."
The orderly was bursting to say something, but visibly contained himself and gave a vague wave of the hand.
"Ah! What's the use!"
And in a different tone of voice he informed Voloshin calmly:
"I tethered Jim to the table with a belt. He's sitting there, not letting anyone come within five metres of him. They'll have trouble with him yet."
"Why should anyone have trouble with him? I'm afraid we'll have trouble managing without him."
The trench leading to the command post was full of people, all standing silently in groups with their collars turned up and their backs to the cold wind. They were standing and sitting by the entrance to the dug-out as well, and here and there muffled remarks in some unintelligible Asiatic tongue could be heard. Gutmann sprang nimbly off the parapet, Voloshin followed suit, and pushing their way in between the apathetic, unfamiliar soldiers, who took no notice of them, they scrambled into the dug-out. There it was also crowded. Several figures in greatcoats were eclipsing the meagre light of the lantern, beside which Markin was bent over, taking down the particulars of the reinforcements. Hearing Voloshin's footsteps, he looked up and sighed pointedly and expressively.
"What news from the regiment?" enquired Voloshin.
"The attack's at six-thirty."
"Have the reinforcements got ammunition?"
"Ammunition - yes," muttered Markin somewhat enigmatically. "But what's the use?"
"What's the matter?"
"The matter?!" The lieutenant nodded significantly in the direction of the soldiers. About five of them in baggy greatcoats, with helmets jammed on over their winter caps, stood silently in front of him with expressions of patient submissiveness on their broad, frozen faces. "They don't understand a word of Russian. That's what."
This was a turn for the worse. In fact it was pretty bad, given that everything was being planned for the morning, and that so little time remained until then.
Voloshin looked at the soldiers with interest and anxiety. Their appearance alone was enough to disconcert him. Greatcoats that had seen no wear and tear, sagging webbing with canvas cartridge-pouches, chilled hands in large, three-fingered mittens, that held the dilapidated rifle-stocks somehow limply and ineptly, and empty knapsacks that gave them the appearance of hunchbacks. And it was a fact that they didn't understand much Russian. Markin would ask a question, which a shortish, puffy-faced private would interpret, and the man at the head of the line would answer in a dejected murmur.
"I've had all I can stand," said Markin, and almost screamed in frustration: "Place of birth? Province?"
Voloshin watched all this, thinking that it would probably be the end of his battalion, which he'd nurtured with such care and little by little welded into a fighting team during the long weeks of its formation. However hard he tried to preserve personnel, the companies nevertheless dwindled, and the number of novices - strangers to him - grew. There were fewer and fewer hardened veterans left, and with them atom by atom both his battle strength and his confidence as a commander were diminishing. It began to frighten him. He had become conscious of this unfamiliar sensation while he was still in the trench, making his way to the dug-out amongst these men, who were worn out by waiting and fear of the unknown, dispirited at their dangerous proximity to the front line and indifferent to everything. Voloshin was seized by a nasty feeling of irritation, and he felt prompted by some kind of malevolent impulse to utter a sharp word or a cry; to do something decisive that would give vent to this feeling. But he knew that such behaviour would be useless at this point - he would have to grit his teeth and get on, equably and without haste, with his usual job of preparing the battalion for battle.
"Are there many still to come?"
"I'm just finishing," said Markin.
Voloshin turned abruptly to his orderly:
"Gutmann! Fall in the reinforcements!"
"Sir! Reinforcements - fall in!" commanded Gutmann in a ferocious sergeant-major's voice.
The muffled tramp of feet could still be heard above as Voloshin strode purposefully from the dug-out and, leaning on the parapet, sprang out of the trench. Gutmann hastily gave the command: "Attention!" and Voloshin stepped down off the frozen earth of the parapet. At that moment, a flare shot up above the hill at their rear. Its quivering light passed across the faces of the soldiers, who cringed fearfully but remained in formation. They all looked at the hill, then at Voloshin, their commander, probably waiting for the command "Down!" or for permission to disperse. He didn't even offer so much as "Stand at ease!" but instead walked firmly forward, and stopped facing the centre of the formation.
The flare burnt itself out, and the flickering semi-darkness above the summit was replaced by the impenetrable darkness of night.
"Who understands Russian?"
"Me understand."
"Me also."
"One man - come here!"
One man broke ranks and positioned himself three paces from Voloshin.
"Stand beside me, you're going to interpret. Are there any men sick?"
The soldier softly uttered a few words in his own language.
"Yes, there are."
"The sick - five paces to the front - march!"
The interpreter looked towards the ranks and none too confidently interpreted. Voloshin noticed that for some reason he used more words than the command had contained. Just then, another flare lit up behind them. Without moving a muscle, Voloshin listened intently. Would there be any shots? If they started shooting, it would mean that his scouts had run into Germans, and nothing would come of their mission today. But it seemed that all was well for the time being - the flare burnt itself out and there were no shots fired. When darkness had closed in again over the windswept nocturnal expanse he noticed that the formation in front of him had moved and several men were coming forward. They were coming out hesitantly, one by one, stopping with obvious uncertainty in front of the ranks and casting guarded looks at the battalion commander.
"Those with no military training - three paces to the front, march!"
Lingering uncertainly, another six men started to come forward. They stopped, however, almost in line with those who had come forward five paces. Voloshin noticed this error, but made no attempt to correct them - it didn't matter now.
"Those who are scared stiff - the same!" Instead of repeating the command, the interpreter explained it, and Voloshin braced himself inwardly, waiting for it to take effect and fearing that there would be few of them who'd actually stay in their places. But this time the formation stood firm and motionless: presumably all the timid ones had already seized their opportunity.
"So much for that! Those who came forward: right - turn!" commanded Voloshin. Gutmann, take this group back to HQ."
"Take them back?" Gutmann, who had understood the situation perfectly so far, now expressed astonishment, but instantly checked himself and commanded hastily: "After me quick march!"
After they had jumped the trench one by one and vanished into the night, Voloshin walked up closer to the formation. Two thinned-out ranks of men stared at him with strained attentiveness.
"And with you we shall fight the war. Translate. Tomorrow we'll go into battle. All of us together. Some of us will die. If you work together and give it all you've got, fewer will be killed. If you dawdle about under fire, more will be killed. Remember the infantry's law: run up to the German as quickly as possible and kill him. If you don't kill him, he'll kill you. It's all very simple. In war everything's simple."
While the interpreter was relaying a garbled account of his words to the reinforcements, Voloshin strolled up and down in front of the ranks, glancing expectantly at the hill. There were no more flares, nor were there any shots. Only somewhere to one side of the grove of trees the edge of the sky was flushing with a distant reflection, and a slight tremor ran along the ground. It appeared that the straggling army on their flank was drawing up and tightening its formation. He wanted to believe that everything would somehow or other turn out all right and that his scouts would return. He wouldn't for the world lose two seasoned veterans now - since the events of this night their worth had doubled.
Making their way round the command post trench, several men came up to the formation and stopped not far from Voloshin. He recognised the first as Sergeant-Major Grak of the Seventh Company, and realised they had come for their reinforcements.
"Right. That's all. Any questions?"
There were none. He closed the ranks, which now turned out to be noticeably shorter than at the start, and began with his hand to number them off in groups of four.
"Eight, nine, ten… to the right! Sergeant-Major Grak, take them away!"
The sergeant-major led his group aside and Voloshin counted the remainder. There were not many of them. The Eighth, being the weakest company, should have been allocated a greater share, but something restrained Voloshin from acting on impulse, and he divided the rest of the group in half.
"The Eighth and Ninth - eighteen men each."
"Is that all?" said the sergeant from the Eighth in astonishment.
"That's all. But then there aren't any rejects among them."
They led the new men off to the companies, and Voloshin jumped down into the trench, where he nearly collided with Markin, who was standing with a sheepskin coat thrown over his shoulders. The lieutenant immediately turned back. Voloshin was a little surprised at this - why had he been standing there?
They returned to the almost empty dug-out. The stove was no longer alight. The telephone operator, Chernoruchenko, who always tended it, was sitting on the straw in a corner, huddled up from the cold, keeping the telephone receiver to his ear. Markin threw his rolled-up notebook onto the packing-case.
"Do you suppose they're really sick?" he asked with barely concealed contempt.
"Not at all."
"Then how on earth is it, that for no reason at all, it's quick march to the rear?"
Markin was angry, and, making no attempt to disguise his dissatisfaction at the battalion commander's action, he muttered something else. Voloshin, however, without paying very much attention, took his watch out of his pocket and walked over to the lantern. Both its greenish phosphorescent hands were approaching twelve.
"I hope, Lieutenant, that you don't take me for an imbecile?"
"Why would I do that? I simply said…"
"I should have thought that you, of all people, would understand. We don't need targets on the battlefield."
He put his watch on the edge of the packing-case and lowered himself down beside it.
"And are you suggesting that those who stayed aren't targets?" Markin blurted out with unexpected bitterness.
"That will depend on us."
"On us! Let's see how they go in to the attack tomorrow. I bet they'll still need a boot up the backside."
"It's quite on the cards. Possibly they won't even go in to the attack tomorrow. We may have to kick them too, for that matter. But in a week's time they'll go in to the attack. In a month's time we'll already be pinning medals on them."
Markin put his arms into the sleeves of his sheepskin coat.
"That's if there's any of 'em left," he said more calmly, and pulled a second notebook out of his pocket. "Here. Orders from the regiment. For the attack."
Voloshin took the notebook, half filled up with the familiar clerical handwriting, and took the creased map out of his map case. Markin sat for a short while, then with a yawn retired to the straw in the corner.
Up above, it had become so still …