His Battalion - Chapter 10

Bleakly contemplating what was to come and listening to the sound of the wind outside, Voloshin had a leisurely shave, glanced in the mirror at his dirty collar and reflected that it wouldn't go amiss to sew on a new one, but did nothing about it. He fastened all the buttons on his tunic and put on his shabby greatcoat, which had been perforated by shrapnel and bullets and dragged through the dirt and mud, but was still fit for wear and even in some respects smart, having been tailor-made when the unit was being formed in Sverdlovsk. The belt was a legacy from the former deputy drill officer, Senior Lieutenant Sorokin, who'd been killed in the winter during a reconnaissance in force. Voloshin had lost his own belt, of pre-war issue, after he'd been seriously wounded outside Rzhev. The belt was also quite good - rather worn, but still tough enough, with a field commander's buckle, two cavalry sword-belts and even a whistle in a tiny case on the left shoulder-strap.

Voloshin took his Tokarev pistol out of its holster. It was 1939 issue, with a plastic grip that resembled bone. Since the beginning of the war, they had been making the grips out of various kinds of hardwood and these were rough and less comfortable to hold. There were seven cartridges in each of the two magazines - he used to chamber the eighth to avoid overstraining the spring and ensure that the cartridges would always feed smoothly. For Voloshin, this pistol was a friend and a deliverer, having more than once in the war demonstrated its mute fidelity. The last occasion still made him shudder slightly whenever he recalled how it had come about and how it might have finished up. A week or so before, in the turmoil of a hand-to-hand fight in a German trench, Voloshin had been knocked down by a powerful young SS man wielding a knife. He managed to fire as he was falling, forestalling the blow by a fraction of a second, and the knife plunged into the earth up to its hilt, some two centimetres from Voloshin's shoulder.

The pistol never misfired; from a distance of twenty metres Voloshin could shoot the neck off a bottle standing on a stump, and shear any twig off a tree at will. Every time he stripped it, he thought regretfully that one day they would have to part, and wished that after him the pistol might pass into good hands. Any future owner would have no complaints.

Gently removing the slide from the body of the pistol, Voloshin carefully cleaned out the vents with a rather grubby handkerchief and released the spring. The barrel probably needed cleaning too. It had been a few days since he had used the pistol, and there was bound to be some fouling, but he didn't have any alkali. He glanced irresolutely at the blissfully sleeping Gutmann, wondering where the orderly might have stowed the kit bag with their soldier's gear, when he suddenly heard footsteps outside. The steps reverberated with a ringing sound on the lightly frozen earth, and were clearly approaching the dug-out. The scouts? thought Voloshin with a spark of animation, but the footsteps died away in the trench, unpractised hands set the groundsheet strangely in motion, and a young face, ruddy from the wind, was thrust into the dug-out.

"May I come in, Captain?"

"Yes, please do," said Voloshin, feeling slightly disappointed that instead of the long-awaited scouts, the regiment's Komsomol organiser, Lieutenant Kruglov, had appeared on the scene. But he was a nice enough lad, a sociable fellow, and Voloshin soon forgot his disappointment.

"What, did Major Minenko send you?" asked Voloshin, occupied with his pistol.

"Yes. You've got something coming up tomorrow," said Kruglov, pulling off his mittens. "But why's this fire gone out? Are you out of wood? Fine housekeepers you are, camped in a forest and haven't got any firewood."

Before Voloshin and Chernoruchenko had a chance to reply, Kruglov lifted the groundsheet and disappeared into the trench. His muffled conversation with the sentry at the OP could be heard, then footsteps, and then all was silent once more.

"Boisterous fellow, the Komsorg," pronounced Chernoruchenko in a sleepy voice, half in praise, half in censure of the lieutenant, who was young enough to be his son.

Yes, he's a live wire all right, thought Voloshin. He had known Kruglov a long time: since the time when he himself had commanded the Seventh Company, and the lieutenant had been commanding a platoon in the regiment's submachine-gun company. He was a good man with a submachine-gun, there was no denying that. Nor did he seem to have changed since becoming the regimental Komsorg.

Less than a quarter of an hour had passed when footsteps and a loud rustling were heard in the trench. Chernoruchenko flung aside the groundsheet, and Kruglov threw an armful of cold branches on the floor.

"There you are, that'll warm you up a bit. You'll freeze otherwise."

With a crackling sound he began breaking the obviously rather moist twigs and, assisted by Chernoruchenko, poking them into the narrow grate of the stove. Soon smoke billowed into the dug-out as the fuel in the stove gradually began to kindle. The Komsorg pushed his cap back on his head and sank back on his haunches in front of the stove.

"I love a fire!"

"Who doesn't," said Volshin succinctly, still in a state of anxious preoccupation. "What's new up at the regiment?"

"The regiment? I was with Parshin's Second Battalion. Suddenly Minenko phones: quick march to Voloshin, there's a picnic on tomorrow."

"I'll say there's a picnic. We've been ordered to capture the hill."

"Then it's as good as captured," Kruglov assured him easily.

"I can see you're an optimist."

"Of course! Does a Komsorg have any choice? Enthusiasm, conviction and optimism."

"Good for you! And what's Parshin doing? Is he going to sit it out?"

"Not likely! He's attacking the state farm. He's received reinforcements."

"So have I. Seventy-seven men."

"Oho! As many as that?"

"All novices. Haven't seen any action. I'd prefer to see them in defensive positions for a bit. Break them in gently."

"Not much chance of that."

"What's more they understand hardly any Russian."

"That's worse. But not to worry, I can understand them. I'll be your interpreter."

"Where are you from?"

"I've lived in central Asia. Samarkand, Bokhara, Chardzhou."

"I see. Then all thanks to Major Minenko. Maybe you really could help me get through to them."

Voloshin assembled his pistol, placed it in its stiff holster and wiped his hands with the handkerchief. Kruglov was sitting in front of the grate, snapping off lengths of brushwood and poking them into the smoking stove. Assuming that the Komsorg had been briefed by Minenko, Voloshin waited for him to broach the subject of the forthcoming session of political instruction, but Kruglov, as if anxious to avoid that topic, was talking about something else.

"Now what about the spiritual nourishment," Voloshin asked cautiously. "Aren't we going to call a meeting?"

"What for? I'll just have a chat with the men. I'll read them a little letter. I've received a first-rate letter from some girls in Sverdlovsk."

"Friends of yours?"

"Not at all. They write in the name of the regional Komsomol secretary. It's not a letter, it's a whole poem. Like to read it?"

He rummaged in his rubberised canvas bag, crammed with papers, but Voloshin said:

"What for? It's not addressed to me."

"So take it with my consent. I'm going to read all of it to the troops - they'll listen, you won't be able to drag them away. It's both sincere and patriotic. You could even publish it in a newspaper."

"Then you go and read it to the companies."

"Don't worry, I will. This is how they write, just have a listen," he said, hastily unfolding a rather crumpled triangular piece of paper. 'On behalf of, and at the behest of our girls, we greet you, dear and cherished warrior-heroes, those of you who are young and handsome and those who are not so young, we love you and are proud of you, and we wait day and night for you, eternally keeping our love and maidenly tenderness…' And so on. What do you think of it?"

"They write well," said Voloshin.

Kruglov put the letter away and did up his bag.

"Now then, what time is it?" He glanced at Voloshin's watch lying on the packing crate. "Phew, already three? I'm off to the company."

"Which one?"

"Which one's at the foot of the hill? Samokhin's?"

"Yes," said Voloshin after a moment's thought. "But I'd advise you to stop off at the Eighth. Muratov there has a fit of the blues."

"Why's that?"

"Just one of those things. Nothing serious. But he could do with a bit of cheering up."

"Fine. I'll go to Muratov. He's an old acquaintance anyway. We joined the regiment together. And then I'll pop in on Samokhin."

"Well then, go to it."

"The main thing is to read them the letter. You know how inspiring that sort of thing is, don't you?"

"We'll see how you've inspired them tomorrow."

"There's nothing better. Well, time's moving on. Shall I see you in the morning then?"

"For sure."

Kruglov left, and in the dug-out it became quiet again. Listening to the retreating sound of footsteps in the trench, Voloshin remembered about the hill and thought he'd probably have to leave his dug-out again and go and see Samokhin. He was simply losing all hope that the missing scouts would come back to the command post. But his weary body was reluctant to move; it was so good to sit in peace and warmth, realising with trepidation that the last hours of the night were running out, and tomorrow everything would have changed. Although perhaps things would turn out all right too. They'd take the hill, strengthen their positions, dig in, there'd be some sort of breathing-space, and they'd be able to have a rest in defence.

What was he coming to, entertaining such fantasies, Voloshin wondered. Conscious that these were debilitating and very nearly seditious thoughts to be having at the front, he came down to earth with a jolt. Half Russia was groaning under the Germans, shedding her blood and tears in equal measure, the people waiting anxiously for the day when the Red Army would overpower the usurper, and all he could do was daydream about getting into defence, resting and catching up on his sleep. But what could he do - that's the way it was. The heart and mind feel and acknowledge one thing, the body, every part of your warm flesh, craves something quite different. The body has its own, infinitely more modest demands, but without gratifying them you'll get nowhere. Man is very weak and imperfect, but it was not granted him to be otherwise. In order to attain great goals, one is forced to take into consideration the petty wants of these weak, imperfect people, with whose destinies and flesh is paved the whole long road to glorious victory.

And Kruglov was right in going to the men, not with a lecture about the situation at the fronts and not with an elucidation of the supreme commander's immediate orders, but with a letter, touching in its naivete, from girls languishing in the absence of men, far behind the lines. And in fact, such a letter had the capacity to touch more quickly the battle-hardened hearts of those to whom it was addressed, and have a more beneficial effect than the abrupt words of a military command that would set them precisely the same tasks. If only it were as easy to carry out these tasks as it was to impress them on each man's consciousness! But this letter, this soft voice of girlish tenderness, flown from thousands of versts away to the frozen darkness of the front - what could appeal more directly to men at the front - who were perpetually shivering, underfed, and miserable after long separation from their nearest and dearest.

But Voloshin would not want to read these lines, even if they were the finest ever penned "on behalf of" and "at the behest of" anybody. He preferred such words of love as you would not show to others, not read aloud at rallies and public gatherings.

He used to read them in rare moments of peace and privacy.

 "My dear son, I am writing to you for probably the last time, it's unlikely we shall ever see each other again. The last troops of our infantry unit are passing along the street, and you can hear the sounds of heavy fighting on the Orshansk highway. By evening, most likely, the Germans will be here. Perhaps you'll say I'm doing wrong, staying in this town under occupation, but where can I go? You know what my health's like, and besides I was born here and grew up here; I've devoted thirty years of my life to the children and the school here, and the graves of my own people and your father are here - I'm staying with them. What will be, will be.

But what awaits you? I absolutely dread to think. I fret about it constantly, and it gives me no peace. You're still so young, and as an officer you have to bear so much responsibility. How will you cope with it in such a cruel war, with such a formidable enemy as these German fascists?

I'm not complaining for the sake of it, I understand that such is your lot. You are a man and a soldier, that's all there is to it. To tell you the truth, now I keep thinking about those years of your youth, when you made your decision and joined the army. Perhaps you should have chosen something else? Possibly your book-keeper father was right in envisaging a different future for you? You know how much effort he put into developing the artistic abilities you manifested as a child, and how gratified he was by the opinions Penn and even Dobuzhinski expressed about them. But what's to be done? The choice has been made, and now it's too late for regrets.

I only implore you - on bended knees - to take care of yourself, if you can! We have lived out our span, but your life is all ahead of you, if only it weren't for this accursed war, so suddenly unleashed upon us! I ask one thing only of you - do your utmost to keep out of trouble, think twice before you go risking your life, and remember what a terrible thing it is for parents to outlive their children.
 
Your Mama. Vitebsk, 9 July 1941."

Every time Voloshin reread this letter, now tattered from being carried in his pocket, he would think with a pensive smile: Dear, good, naive Mama, if only that were possible…