Chapter 6
The orders for the attack added little to what Voloshin already knew. He ran his eye quickly over the two hand-written pages, and spent longer poring over the map. It gradually became clear to him that the enveloping manoeuvre prescribed by the commander of the regiment would hardly succeed. To envelop such a hill as this would require more than one battalion with one battery supporting it. Then again there was the adjacent hillock beyond the marsh. In aspect it was an inconspicuous protuberance amidst young forest, barely marked on the map by two contour lines. Moreover it was situated well beyond the flank of the battalion, in the adjoining sector. To whom this belonged was not known. But during such a manoeuvre, the hillock would be almost directly to the rear of the battalion's battle formation, which was a sobering thought. Supposing there were Germans there?
These gloomy reflections were interrupted by the insistent buzzing of the telephone. In a hoarse voice Chernoruchenko hastened to give his call sign and removed the receiver from his ear.
"For you, sir."
In the crackle of interference, the irritable voice of the regimental commander could be heard on the line:
"I see you're up to your pranks again! When is this going to end, Voloshin?"
"What do you mean by that?"
"Why did you return the pencils? What's got into you, didn't you receive orders for the picnic?"
"I did, Number Nine," replied Voloshin in a deliberately unperturbed voice.
"Then what exactly is the matter?"
"I returned the sick ones."
"What? The sick ones?" Gunko gave a brief, mocking guffaw. "Who told you they were sick? Surely not they themselves?"
"But of course they did. There's no doctor here!"
"Listen here you… hm. Are you sure you're feeling perfectly all right? If you're going to be so gullible, there won't be a soul left in your charge tomorrow."
"Oh yes there will, Number Nine. But those who keep looking over their shoulders at the medical unit are no use to me."
"What do you mean, no use. Do you realise what you're saying? Who will you use to carry out your mission? You asked for reinforcements. I gave you the maximum. At the expense of others, I might add. And you turn them down. I simply don't know what to make of it."
Voloshin heaved a melancholy sigh. This pointless exchange was making him feel depressed and disagreeable again.
"Number Nine! Why don't you just give them to those who missed out on their share of reinforcements? I've got enough."
"Enough?"
"Yes, enough."
The receiver went silent, then the voice roared out at him again, but this time in a different, more impatient tone.
"Bear in mind, Voloshin, that tomorrow I'll get even with you for this. Ask for help and you'll get bugger all."
"I don't doubt it. Only I shan't be asking."
"You won't?"
"No, I won't!"
The receiver went dead, and he was already trying to give it back to Chernoruchenko, when a voice again issued forth. The voice was brisk, almost jolly, and he didn't immediately recognise the speaker.
"Hullo, Voloshin? So how did you welcome the pencils?"
"The usual way. With bread and salt," replied Voloshin half in jest, striking the right note with him. He didn't have to choose his words so carefully now, since the speaker was Major Minenko, deputy regimental commander (political), with whom the battalion commanders were on a reasonably democratic footing.
"Bread is all very well, but don't forget about spiritual nourishment as well."
"Of course not! That goes without saying."
"Well listen to me. You must have a talk to the men. Tell them about the situation on all our fronts. About our victory at Stalingrad; about the successes of the unit. And give them a general pep-talk as well. You know what about."
"Do you think I'm a political instructor?"
"That's not important. The institution of Military Commissar has been abolished, so…"
Nevertheless you're still here, so you should be the one to tell them about the situation on our fronts…"
"Steady on, steady on, Voloshin!" the displeased voice resounded in his ear. "I don't need you to tell me my duties."
Voloshin sighed deeply:
"Number Twenty! Do you really think that I have nothing better to do before tomorrow's picnic than give an account of the situation at the fronts? I haven't yet made out the situation in front of my own nose."
He fell silent, and the voice on the line also ceased.
Then Minenko, upon reflection, said in a more conciliatory tone:
"Very well then! I'll send Lieutenant Kruglov. He'll conduct the talks, and you supply the people."
"Tomorrow?"
"Why tomorrow? Today."
"Come off it, Number Twenty! The men have just arrived from the march. They're tired and hungry. Tomorrow… you know what's in store for them tomorrow. Do they need to have a rest or not? After all…"
The political deputy was not deterred by Voloshin's verbal assault.
"Now then, now then. That won't do at all. Not for one minute can we afford to forget about the men's political training. We must carry it on under any conditions, as the supreme commander demands. Do you understand?"
Voloshin threw the receiver onto its leather case and leaned back against the wall. The sound of his voice in the dug-out had awakened the scout; Lieutenant Markin sat cross-legged by the packing-case… He'll send Lieutenant Kruglov, thought Voloshin. It was of course a straightforward matter to send Kruglov: it was only yesterday that the unflagging Komsomol organiser had left Voloshin's battalion and gone on to the neighbouring one.
And for that matter it might be better this way. Let Kruglov come - he could arrange with him to give the men an opportunity to get some rest before the attack, if only in shifts. Otherwise tomorrow, harried and not rested, they'd be of little use. He knew this only too well.
The scout, still only half-awake, scratched his armpits, pulled off his boots and began to re-wind his foot bindings. Chernoruchenko, looking displeased, was blowing into the receiver to test the line. Markin glanced inquiringly at Voloshin.
"What's he on about?"
Voloshin picked up the map from the floor. There was still a great deal about tomorrow's task to be thought through and decided, and without looking up at his adjutant he said:
"Lieutenant Markin! Proceed to the Ninth and organise a reconnaissance of the knoll beyond the marsh,"
Markin hesitated for a moment, then buckled on over his sheepskin coat a captured enemy belt with a rubberised canvas holster at the side and crawled out into the trench without a word.
Voloshin reflected that perhaps the manner in which he'd given the order had been too peremptory: the touchy lieutenant may have taken offence. But he was in no mood for niceties - he was fed up with HQ, with the Germans, and with the uncertainty of the tactical situation to his front. And then there was still no news from the hill. By this time the scouts should have returned and reported, but there'd still been no word of them.
It was just after 1:00 a.m.
Voloshin rose from the straw with a determined air and tightened his belt. His anxiety and impatience were becoming increasingly acute. At such a time as this he couldn't bear being left alone with his thoughts and felt drawn to the company lines and the people there. He lifted aside the groundsheet at the entrance.
"If Gutmann comes, I want him to stay here."
"Yes, sir," agreed Chernoruchenko.
At the observation post a dark figure swathed in a groundsheet stirred quietly in the slit-trench. The soldier rolled over to face Voloshin, awaiting his questions as a matter of course. Voloshin stopped and attuned his ears to the surroundings: the night was still and enigmatic, such as seldom occurs at the front - at least, there was no shooting anywhere in the vicinity. Somewhere not far off he could hear voices, probably not in his sector but at the nearby rear of the neighbouring battalion.
"Well then, Prygunov, what's new?"
"Nothing much. They were shooting a bit but they've stopped now."
"How long ago was that?"
"About half an hour ago. A machine-gun hammered away for a while then stopped."
"They didn't send up any flares, did they?"
"Only two. Time signals, most likely."
Perhaps they were, but they might also be a protective measure if they had located the scouts. But perhaps they'd already returned and Samokhin was slow in reporting, although it wasn't like him to delay in such matters.
"And you haven't heard anything from beyond the marsh, from hill 'Minor'?" he asked Prygunov, who shook his head:
"No, sir, nothing."
Voloshin was silent for a while, listening intently, and the scout began waving his arms about, slapping his sides with his mittened hands to warm himself.
"What time would it be now, sir? Is it twelve yet?"
"Half past one."
"Ah well, in half an hour I'll be relieved. I'll get forty winks before morning. Isn't there some talk of an attack in the morning?" Prygunov asked quietly, without any particular interest. Voloshin winced inwardly at the question, which at present was distasteful to him.
"Yes, Prygunov, there is. We attack tomorrow morning."
"Is that so?" Prygunov's voice expressed his customary indifference, rather than any great surprise. "Then things look pretty grim."
Yes, tomorrow would be grim, that was certain, but he didn't want to talk about that. He was plagued by a multitude of unresolved issues of no small importance for tomorrow, and paramount among them was the outcome of the reconnaissance of no-man's-land and of the knoll beyond the marsh. But here he would just have to trust Markin. Since he'd ordered the lieutenant to see to it, there was nothing for it but to be patient and wait for the order to be carried out. But in such a situation as this, he always found waiting intolerable, and after standing still for a short time, he pressed his knee against the edge of the parapet and hoisted himself out of the trench.