His Battalion - Chapter 13

As the appointed hour for the attack drew nearer, time raced by faster and faster, and Voloshin was afraid he wouldn't meet the deadline - that he'd be rushed off his feet with such short-term preparations, the company commanders would work themselves into a lather, and the troops wouldn't be ready in time. But the companies had been given their breakfast on time; the men had taken the ammunition that had been brought up for them and now, in a state of uneasy tension, they were whiling away the remainder of this difficult hour before the attack. Apparently Nagorny, too, was already in position. About twenty minutes had passed since his platoon (which, with fourteen men, was more like a section) had slipped quietly away from the strip of built-up earth and disappeared into the pre-dawn darkness of the thicket, and beyond the marsh everything, for the time being, was still.

But no matter what he was doing, and no matter how busy he was in the access trench to the shelter, all his keen attention was focused over there, on the far side of the marsh. He greatly feared that the Germans would discover Nagorny's men prematurely and wreck his whole scheme, which so far he had concealed from the regimental commander and had been trying to conceal from this meticulous representative of divisional HQ, who kept sidling up to him with questions as to where he was sending the men and why. But time was passing, and the fact that nothing had broken the tense, pre-dawn hush above the marsh instilled a feeble hope into Voloshin.

Meanwhile Kizevich's scouts were still not back, and this weighed heavily on Voloshin's mind. Hoping until the last minute for their return, he filled in time in the access trench and refrained from issuing his orders for the battle. The unit commanders, summoned to receive their orders, waited beside him. Gutmann lay on the rear parapet with his signal pistol at the ready, but Voloshin kept staving off the decisive moment, listening intently and glancing with mounting impatience in the direction of the Ninth to see whether Kizevich was also waiting until the last minute. The Komsorg, Kruglov, half-reclining on the parapet behind, guessed the reason for Voloshin's agitation, and said in an undertone:

"Your scouts have got into a jam by the looks of things."

They probably have, thought Voloshin, but where? If those are our men occupying the knoll, where exactly could the scouts get into a jam? So perhaps they're not ours after all…

However, it was impossible to delay any longer. There were thirty minutes left before the start of the artillery bombardment, the sky was growing lighter all the time, the bushes on the marsh had already become quite transparent, and Voloshin roused himself.

"Gutmann, run and fetch the commander of the Ninth."

Darting off the parapet, the orderly loped off along the edge of the marsh. The men in the trench lapsed into silence, sensing the imminence of the business for which they had assembled here - the issuing of the orders for the battle, after which the morning would not belong to them. Once it commenced, the battle would be hard and long, lasting perhaps all day and into the evening, and for some of them it would be the last day of their lives. But each of those now standing in the trench was trying to suppress this chilling sensation, masking it with a hasty puff of a cigarette, a quick joke or a meaningless rejoinder. They were not novices in war, and knew how to exercise self-control even under the excruciating stress of the last minutes before an attack.

Voloshin ran his eye over those present, and noticing that the battery commander was missing, he asked:

"Where's Captain Ivanov?"

"I think that's him over there," said Kruglov, turning to look.

It was indeed the battery commander, running belatedly, with his head down, from the direction of the hillock. With his groundsheet rustling, he fell sidelong onto the parapet. Two telephone operators with a heavy cable-drum were laying a telephone cable behind him.

"Bring it here, bring it here will you!" the captain called in a low voice and said guiltily to the assembled men: "I'm sorry, I was held up. There was some mix-up with the ammunition. They've only just delivered it."

Standing half-turned towards him, Voloshin nodded stiffly. His glance slid over the silent figure of Lieutenant Markin and came to rest on Samokhin, who stood a short way off, burning his fingers as he carefully sucked the last bit of smoke from a cigarette butt. There was something he wanted to ask the lieutenant about, but on the other side of the access trench the vet from divisional staff had begun to toy with his crumpled jotting pad.

"Battalion Commander, please answer one more question for me. What provision has been made for the bringing up of ammunition?"

"All that they've given us has already been delivered," said Voloshin. "We don't expect any more."

"How's that?"

"Simple. They won't give us any more today. They've given out all there was."

"Oh, I see."

"My dear Major," said Voloshin, "I'd advise you to proceed to my command post before it gets light. Otherwise when the action begins you won't get out of here."

Offended, the major raised his ageing face, which had become stubbly and slightly puffy in the course of the night.

"But I don't intend to get out, Captain. I've been sent by the divisional commander to stay until the moment the hill is captured. It's my duty to be present in the battalion and carry out checks on the implementation of his orders."

"As you wish," said Voloshin calmly, instantly losing interest in the major. He had many more important things to attend to.

He was waiting for Kizevich and Gutmann, but the first to arrive was Gutmann, unaccompanied, who called out to Voloshin as he ran: "No scouts," and then out of the dusk appeared the commander of the Ninth. His gloomy appearance eloquently confirmed the orderly's sobering message, and Voloshin turned away in disappointment.

"Attention commanders!..." A sudden silence descended upon those in the access trench and on the parapet, not that any of them had had much to say anyway. But now the rustle of groundsheets against the earth ceased with the approach of the crucial moment which required their undivided attention.

"Here are your orders," began Voloshin in a firm, slightly tense voice.

When giving such an order he would always try to follow the points set out in the recently introduced infantry regulations, although he also had his own system for giving orders, worked out over long practical experience. But he cast a sidelong glance at the vet, who with frozen fingers was painstakingly scribbling something in his memo pad, presumably jotting down Voloshin's words. Not that it troubled him greatly: his attention was absorbed by the plan of battle, the difficult and perhaps unrealisable possibility of bursting through to the summit and overpowering the Germans there.

He would have liked to say a little more about the enemy, but didn't know enough about him. The enemy's system of fire had not been fully revealed, and neither had his overall fire power. Setting the companies their tasks presented no difficulties, here everything was done according to custom, although the battalion's exposed right flank did not cease to cause him concern.

To forestall any difficulties that might arise on this flank, he ordered the commander of the Ninth to attack the hill in echelon formation, with the flank drawn in towards the mound on the marsh - obviously this was warranted. He also allocated one of Yaroshchuk's two machine-guns to the Ninth's commander, which immediately provoked the junior lieutenant's heated opposition.

"How can you disperse my fire power like that! It's supposed to be a platoon, but now…"

Ignoring his remark, Voloshin paused briefly and continued his elucidation of their tasks:

"I repeat, the main plan of battle consists in swift action. The companies are to cross the marsh in a single rush, coming out as quickly as possible at the assault position of Nagorny's platoon. Number Nine! Your task is particularly important - to envelop hill 'Major' as deeply as possible from the right without for one moment losing sight of hill 'Minor' beyond the marsh."

"But what if there are Germans there?" said Kizevich, who was sitting on the parapet a short distance away.

"If there are Germans there, you won't be able to carry out the enveloping manoeuvre. You'll have to dislodge them from there first."

"What with? A platoon?"

"That will become clear. In the course of the battle."

He hadn't had time to finish giving the orders, when below in the hastily dug foxhole Chernoruchenko roused himself beside the telephone.

"'Volga' Ten calling."

Breaking off his briefing with a look of displeasure, Voloshin squatted down and took the receiver from the telephone operator.

"Fifteen minutes to go, Voloshin. I'm waiting for your report on your state of preparedness," the regimental commander reminded him peevishly. "Why are you fumbling about so long there. You must be more efficient."

"I'm issuing my orders now," said Voloshin.

"Well get on with it and report. The artillery should open fire at six-thirty sharp."

"I'll be ready in time."

"Very well. I'll wait."

Voloshin straightened up in the trench and unexpectedly met the gaze of Muratov, commander of the Eighth.

"The main blow will be struck by the Eighth, Lieutenant Muratov."

"As usual," came the indeterminate, toneless response.

Voloshin reflected that it was indeed as usual, but what could he do about it?

Such was the lot of all units and sub-units deployed at the centre of a battle formation, because in an offensive they would make a frontal attack and suffer greater losses than the others. But then in defence the flanks had a worse time of it. For a defending force, all the trouble usually occurred on the flanks.

"Any questions? Anything not clear?" asked Voloshin, glancing at his watch. He
really had to speed it up, his time was running out. But they were all silent and preoccupied. It was very still in the trench, except that Kruglov was amusing himself by throwing lumps of earth at the ice from the parapet.

"If there are no questions - to your posts!" said Voloshin, sensing with peculiar clarity that there was absolutely nothing left to be said. All that remained was to wait until the appointed moment and send a cluster of green flares skywards. Then they would swing into action.

The unit commanders jumped out of the trench, holding on to their map cases as they ran, and set off for their units. There was now more room in the trench for those waiting with Voloshin: Samokhin; the vet, with his curiously stubborn devotion to red tape; Captain Ivanov and his signallers. The runners - one from each company - peered from the wide-open shelter. Chernoruchenko was huddled in his foxhole; on the parapet Kruglov, hastily lighting his cigarette from Gutmann's, addressed Voloshin:

"I think I'll go to Kizevich. I see you've got enough oficers here."

"Good idea!" said Voloshin approvingly, thinking that in that remote company the presence of an extra officer might prove highly opportune. "You go to the Ninth. if anything happens there…"

"I get the message," said the Komsorg with a parting wave.

"Well, let's hope we pull it off."

"Yes, let's hope so," agreed Voloshin and took a step towards Ivanov. "Pasha, how's the battery?"

"The battery's ready," said Ivanov, lowering the binoculars through which he'd been scrutinising the hill. "But I can't see a damned thing up there."

He had already settled himself on the edge of the parapet, having ensconced his telephone operator, a lively young lad in a green greatcoat, at his feet. From the breast of his sheepskin coat protruded the corner of a notebook and a set of firing-tables with a pencil inserted in them as a place-marker. Ivanov had no ranging instruments whatsoever; he always did his range-finding by eye, making do with a pair of old, battered binoculars.

"Yes, it's still a bit dark," affirmed Voloshin, glancing at the hill through his binoculars.

"We need to wait another twenty minutes or so, until it gets lighter. Close up it's no problem, but farther off everything's in darkness. How are we going to direct our fire? We won't be able to see the shell-bursts."

"That means we'll have to wait a while," said Samokhin, cramming grenades into his pockets. Then he slung his Shpagin submachine-gun over his shoulder and called to Voloshin: "Well, I'm off to the company line."

"Remember: speed," Voloshin reminded him by way of farewell. "Two quick pushes to get us onto the summit. That's the only way we can do it."

"We'll do our best, Captain," said the lieutenant, springing nimbly out of the trench.

Below in the pit the telephone started to buzz again. Chernoruchenko's stolid features tensed, and his anxious glance sought Voloshin.

"It's for you."
 
Voloshin took the receiver, and knowing already what question he would hear, he said almost angrily:

"I'm not ready yet. When I am, I'll report."

"You're holding things up, Voloshin, and upsetting the timing of the attack!" the commander of the regiment began testily. "Not very good, is it, Captain?"

"What's time got to do with it? I can't see a damned thing! The gunners can't see the hill through their sights yet."

"They'd better rub their eyes, your gunners!" rumbled the voice in the receiver. "It's already broad daylight, it won't get any lighter."

"Number Ten, we must wait another ten minutes," said Voloshin calmly. "What's the point of firing blindly into the dark? They might as well try to hit a kopek piece. We're going to need those shells before long."

"You're simply not ready, you're only using the gunners as an excuse! You haven't organised your attack!" shouted the regimental commander furiously, and Voloshin began to feel what a pleasure it would be to start shouting himself. But he was trying his hardest to remain calm and not lose his self-possession, which he was going to have very great need of today.

"Number Ten! You're right, I'm not ready. When I am, I'll report."

He released the switch and passed the receiver to Chernoruchenko, at the same moment confronting the alarmed gaze of the major.

"Who's that? Divisional HQ?"

"No, regimental," said Voloshin.

After a pause, the major got out his bulky old-fashioned watch on a silver chain.

"Four minutes left," he said in a slightly tremulous voice, with a quiver of excitement.

"We must wait a while," said Ivanov. "You can't see a thing yet."

Voloshin leaned back against the rear wall of the trench. He was thinking. Certainly it would be ridiculous to start a bombardment while the summit of the hill was still indiscernible, but he also knew that he would never be allowed to forget it if he delayed the attack. Gunko would be sure to call him to account, and get all the recent failures of the regiment out of his system in the process, particularly if the failure of Voloshin's battalion were added to these as well. that was precisely how things stood. Nevertheless he came to a firm decision:

"We'll wait."

Beside him the major froze in mute astonishment.

"What? Are you postponing the attack?"

"Yes. By fifteen minutes."

"I protest. You're disobeying an order. I shall have to report this."

"Go ahead," said Voloshin evenly. "You can see that it's dark. What are they to aim at? The battery commander can't see the targets."

The major looked at him distractedly.

"But the order's for six-thirty."

The order was given at night, when it was pitch-dark. And now, in spite of the order, it still isn't light enough."

The vet fell silent, discouraged and crushed by the obvious truth of Voloshin's arguments, but at the same time he couldn't ignore the time dictated by the order and glanced absently at the watch lying in his hand.

Voloshin also took out his watch - the minute hand steadily approached the six, then imperceptibly crept past it, and the telephone started to buzz again below him.

"Say that the battalion commander's gone off to the lines," said Voloshin, and Chernoruchenko, stammering and confused, began to explain into the receiver the absence of the battalion commander.

"It's better this way. Well how's visibility, Pasha?" he asked Ivanov.

"We could do with another ten minutes or so. The trench has just become visible."

Voloshin raised his binoculars.

"Can you see the end of the trench, the lowest offshoot? There's a bunker there or possibly a machine-gun nest."

"Yes, I can see. My men located that yesterday."

"Farther along at the sharp bend in the trench there's another machine-gun. I located it myself during the night. That's the most dangerous one, it covers two slopes."

"He's first for the chop," asserted Ivanov.

"Farther along they're all in the trench - five or six machine-guns. I want them knocked out."

"We'll give it a try."

"Then there's the concertina. At least one direct hit per company."

Without taking the binoculars from his eyes, Ivanov gave his command to the telephone operator:

"Battery, on guard!"

"Battery, on guard," the telephone operator's tenor voice echoed in response, and his clear eyes looked up at the battery commander from beneath his jauntily tilted cap in anticipation of fresh commands.

"Target: machine gun…fragmentation charge… charge four… registration point number one left zero forty. Elevation forty-eight. Number One, one round - load!"

The telephone operator, having relayed everything verbatim, waited a few seconds and finally trained on the battery commander that same expectant gaze of his deep-blue eyes.

"Number One ready," he almost sang.

"Well?" Ivanov glanced enquiringly at Voloshin. "I'm ready."

Voloshin reached firmly for the telephone receiver. Chernoruchenko, understanding what was required, asked for Number Ten.

"I'm ready!" said Voloshin as soon as he heard the click of the microphone switch. The regimental commander groaned and uttered an exclamation, but Voloshin, cutting him short, flung up his left arm in Gutmann's direction.

"Gutmann, the flare!"

Gutmann was poised for action, and crunching the hammer of the German signal pistol, he swept it above his head. A split second before he heard the signal pistol's report, Voloshin saw the green cluster burst into the pale sky and blossom out high above the stunted bushes on the marsh.

"Fire!" Ivanov quietly commanded at that instant. A second later, the atmosphere convulsed with the shock of the discharge which reverberated gently beyond the wood, and the first howitzer shell, slicing through the resilient air, passed over their heads. Then for a few seconds it froze in mid-air somewhere beyond the marsh, as if it had lost its bearings in the sky, but then almost at the crest of the hill beside the trench an explosion thundered like an avalanche. Gathering up the cloud of dust, the wind carried it swiftly away across the slope.