Turning away from the wind, Voloshin stood quietly near the parapet, enveloped by night, silence and the bitter, windy cold. Twenty paces away, in the clumps of bushes growing on the marsh, blocks of ice glimmered dully. They looked grey and dirty, with grass congealed in them, like split logs charred at the edges and wedged between the tussocks. The marsh, however, was not very wide, and beyond it on the gentle slope of the hill the Germans were going about their business. And although he was closer to them here than he was at his command post, Voloshin felt almost tranquil. Here his loneliness was dissipating and in its place was the customary feeling of confidence that he was able to experience only at home. This was understandable, in a way: his battalion had long since been his home, his fortress and his refuge - he had known no other in this war.
When Muratov returned, Voloshin was still standing quietly beside the foxhole and the lieutenant, probably thinking that the battalion commander was listening to something, stiffened respectfully alongside him. Voloshin was indeed listening intently, trying to catch some sound or other from beyond the marsh. But from the hills "Major" and "Minor" there was not a sound; there was only the wind whistling in the leafless bushes on the marsh. The scouts were preserving a stubborn silence: it was impossible to tell whether they were still stealing towards the German trench or lying somewhere close to it.
Voloshin made his way down the line in the direction of Kizevich's company, and Muratov in his habitually taciturn manner set off after him.
"How did you distribute the reinforcements?" Voloshin asked in an undertone.
"All in one platoon."
"All of them? And who's going to command the platoon?"
"I'll do it myself. I'll take them firmly in hand."
Myself - that was Muratov's style all over. He didn't like hanging about, taking his time, or delegating responsibility to others. For that matter, there was nobody now to whom he could delegate it: there were no platoon commanders left; only two of the company's sergeants had survived, so perhaps it really was better for him to command the newcomers himself.
They were coming to the end of the Eighth, and the line of the Ninth must have started somewhere close at hand, since there was virtually no gap between it and the Eighth. the men, having surfaced from their foxholes, were sitting and standing near them; a few were digging, if only so as not to freeze. They recognised the battalion commander and the company commander by their conversation and turned respectfully towards them: probably these men were the old hands.
"Well, and how's the morale of the new arrivals?"
"What morale? They're tired and they want to sleep. They don't want to dig themselves in."
"It's essential that they dig in."
"I said: one foxhole to two men."
"Really?"
This was wrong, of course. Two men in one foxhole could perhaps take cover from artillery fire, but they couldn't open fire themselves. They ought to dig in properly - one man to a foxhole, excavated to his full height - that is if there were time. But if they spent the night that way, making a hole in the ground, they'd get tired, and tomorrow in battle they'd be like dead flies - virtually useless.
Muratov was maintaining a strained silence, as if somebody had offended him, although there'd been no likely grounds for taking offence. After biding his time for a bit, Voloshin asked:
"And how's your own morale?"
"Why do you ask? It's lousy," replied the lieutenant simply.
"Why's that?"
"My watch has stopped."
"What do you mean, 'stopped'?"
"Just gone and stopped. I listened - not going; wound it up - still nothing."
"Well, so what?" asked Voloshin upon consideration.
"So, never mind," replied Muratov guardedly.
"So it's a trashy watch. Is it a Kirov?"
"German."
"Ah well then, if it's a German one, it's mass-produced. That's not a watch, it's junk. This one that I've got doesn't stop."
He took his Swiss watch out of his pocket and felt the metallic pulse against his hand. The numerals and the hands shed their bright greenish light on the dial and gave the time as just before 2:00 a.m.
"Mine's junk," agreed Muratov. "I got it from Rubtsov. There was a preparatory bombardment, and Rubtsov looked at his watch: it had stopped. 'Take it, Muratov,' he said. 'I shan't be needing it.' In the attack he got a bullet under the helmet."
"That so?"
The purport of these words, uttered matter-of-factly, stabbed Voloshin with a nasty premonition. He shuddered, but mastered himself with an obvious effort and observed briskly:
"Nonsense! Sheer coincidence - that's all."
He thought to himself of the numbers of men in the battalion who had already perished, both with watches that didn't stop, and without any watches at all; with bad presentiments and with the very best. However, he hadn't reassured the company commander in any convincing way when he noticed a familiar stooping figure in a short sheepskin coat standing nearby, beside a whitish patch of freshly-dug earth. It was Kizevich, commander of the Ninth. He similarly recognised Voloshin, and turning towards him waited for him to come closer.
"Surely the attack's at five, isn't it?" he asked in his ironic, rather hoarse bass voice.
"The attack will take place in its own good time," said Voloshin drily, coming up to him. "What have you done to safeguard the flank?"
"The flank?" repeated Kizevich, and stepped over close to the parapet. Anyone would have thought he'd only just remembered about his company's flank, which was completely exposed, and didn't know the answer.
"Yes, the flank," reaffirmed Voloshin and waited patiently for half a minute, accustomed by now to the fumbling, unhurried ways of the Ninth's commander.
"I've turned two platoons over to it, and they're digging."
"And the reinforcements?"
"They're digging too. What are they supposed to do - sleep?"
"Let the reinforcements have a rest. The old hands can do a bit of work."
Kizevich said nothing, and Voloshin reflected that in view of tomorrow's mission, perhaps there was no need to dig a switch position on the flank. But not to worry. A switch position might be needed after all, especially as Kizevich hadn't forgotten about it either.
"Take the heavy machine-gun platoon as reinforcement."
"With the greatest of pleasure," assented Kizevich amiably.
"And watch the flank for me. The attack will take care of itself, but the flank is your special responsibility."
"Just leave it to me," Kizevich assured him with the same ironic flippancy as before.
His suspicions aroused by something in his company commander's demeanour, Voloshin took a step forward and stood in front of him, so close that they were almost touching. Kizevich, smiling beatifically in the darkness, didn't even step aside.
"What, drinking again?" asked Voloshin ominously.
"Just the regulation noggin, sir. Cross my heart, sir, not more."
"You're going to catch it from me one of these days," said Voloshin softly after a pause. Kizevich attempted to take offence:
"Stone the crows, Captain! I'm not a child, you know. After all, we're out in the cold, we need it for warmth."
It was not the first time he'd heard this explanation, nor was it the first time he'd warned Kizevich, who would have been quite a good company commander on the whole, but for this occasionally excessive predilection for the "regulation noggin".
Somebody in the darkness began tossing soil across the parapet, showering Voloshin's boots a couple of times. Behind him, waiting for something, stood Lieutenant Muratov, now taciturn, and beside him, languidly shifting from one foot to the other and obviously gratified by his own tipsy approval, was Senior Lieutenant Kizevich. Voloshin was quietly irritated by this drunken good humour; so many difficulties awaited the battalion commander on the morrow, and just look how complacent this one was!
"On second thoughts," he said upon consideration, "you take one heavy machine-gun. The other one can go to Samokhin's company."
Kizevich, stung by this, pricked up his ears.
"But that's … sir, I'VE got the flank. You said yourself…"
"Protect the flank with one machine-gun then," Voloshin snapped at him unmoved, and turned towards the knoll at the rear. "Where's Yaroshchuk? Wasn't he around here somewhere?"