Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (21 page)

Veresovoy
’
s usual firm voice betrayed no doubts, however. There was a rifle division, and yes, it was probably the same one as before. Of course it
’
s spread out. But the Germans are still in a state of shock and will probably be pulling back toward
Königsberg
. Brigade headquarters will be in Liebstadt or the near vicinity. The battalions
’
headquarters will be somewhere near there as well.

What would be the sense of taking up fire positions before midnight? You can
’
t fix your exact position in the darkness by survey, and if you just approximate it by local landmarks, your fire is going to be approximate as well.

And all the gun crews are short of men.

Our logistics support is lagging well behind. Well, there
’
s nothing we can do about it. We
’
ll get resupplied sooner or later.

Boyev looked at Veresovoy out of the corner of his eye. There was no negotiating with your commanders, even those closest to you. Just the way your commanders listen to their commander. The commander is always right.

They had to make it safe and sound to that Liebstadt, about three hours away, using a winter road that still had a bit of ice on it. The moon must already be up behind those clouds. Let
’
s hope it won
’
t be all in pitch darkness.

The tractors roared in unison. The whole column, dozens of headlights blazing, moved out of the village toward the highway.

It was nearly half an hour before they all reached it. Then the noise receded into the distance.

~ * ~

4

What a lift a victory gives you!

And this silence all around is also a sign of victory, just as are the riches, still warm to the touch, abandoned everywhere by the Germans. Pick up what you can, make a parcel to send home—five kilos for a soldier, ten for an officer, fifteen for a general. But how do you choose the very best and not make a mistake? There
’
s more here than anyone could want.

Every house used for billets was a wonder. Every night you spent in one was like a holiday.

Lieutenant Colonel Vyzhlevsky, the brigade commissar—now he was called the deputy political officer—had taken the most prominent house in the village. The lower level was not just a room, it was a large hall lit up by a dozen electric lights on the ceiling and the walls. The electricity was still coming from somewhere, and the fact that it hadn
’
t been cut off was also a wonder. The radio-record player there (that
’
s going home with us!) was softly playing some dance music.

When Veresovoy came in to report, Vyzhlevsky—broad-shouldered, with a large head and prominent ears—was sunk in a soft sofa by an oval table, an expression of bliss on his rosy face. (A military forage cap didn
’
t suit a head like his; he should have a broad-brimmed hat.)

Sitting on the same sofa beside him was the brigade SMERSH officer, Major Tarasov, always quick-witted, watchful, and active. His face wore a permanent decisive expression.

Both the double doors to the dining room to one side were opened wide, and supper would soon be served there. Two or three women passed back and forth, one wearing a bright blue dress, evidently a German. There was also a woman from the political section who had changed out of her uniform—those Prussian wardrobes were stuffed with clothes. The air was filled with the aroma of hot food.

Why had Veresovoy come here? In the absence of the brigade commander he was formally the senior officer and could make decisions on his own. But after fifteen years of army service he had learned very well that nothing should be decided without the political officer. He always had to know what they thought and not get on their wrong side.
And so, what about moving the headquarters?
Should he leave immediately?

It was clear, though, that this was absolutely impossible. Supper and other delights were on their way. Sacrifices such as this should not be expected from human beings.

The commissar listened to the music, his eyes half closed. He replied benevolently:
“
Well, Kostya, where can we go right now? It
’
s the middle of the
night—what are we going to do there? Where will we stay? We
’
ll get up early tomorrow and then be off.
”

And the SMERSH officer, always confident in his every gesture, gave a clear nod of agreement.

Veresovoy neither objected nor agreed. He continued to stand stiffly.

Then Vyzhlevsky, to make his idea more attractive, said:
“
Why don
’
t you come and eat with us. Another twenty minutes and we
’
ll be ready.
”

Veresovoy stood and thought. He wasn
’
t eager to go, himself; these Prussian nights soon made you soft. And there was another factor: First Battalion was here, and it was very short-handed; he shouldn
’
t abandon it.

Still, we could catch a lot of flak over this.

Tarasov was the one who found a solution:
“
Just break off communications with the army and the battalions. Then, as far as everyone else is concerned, we
’
re on the move.
”

Well, if an officer from SMERSH is suggesting this, he
’
ll hardly be the one to turn me in.

And truly, a trip like that at night was more than he could handle.

~ * ~

5

Fine snow fell through the evening, covering the icy road. They moved slowly, not only because of the ice but to make sure the horses didn
’
t get overtired.

They said their goodbyes in Liebstadt, and Boyev embraced the commander of Third Battalion, who had taken the northern area.

Along the way he used his flashlight to check his map. Boyev had to cross to the east bank of the
Passarge
River and then follow a dirt track for another kilometer and a half. He would probably position his guns beyond the village of
Adlig
Schwenkitten to leave at least 600 meters clear between them and the forest. That would make it safe to fire at low trajectories.

The bridge across the
Passarge
was reinforced concrete and in good shape; there was no need to check that it was passable. The left bank was steep, and there was a ramp down to the bridge.

They left a beacon to mark the spot for the horse-drawn sleds. Motorized units were not authorized to have horses or sleds, and the higher command assumed that such units had none. But ever since the Oryol offensive, all the
batteries would collect any stray, German, ownerless and sometimes owned horses as they advanced and use them to haul their supplies in carts. You just had to put a competent sergeant in charge of such a supply train and he would always catch up with his battery. The Allis-Chalmers tractors were wonderful, of course, but if they were all you had you
’
d never make it. Later, and particularly as we drew closer to Germany, we got hold of the powerful German draft horses to replace our own medium-sized ones. Those German horses were gigantic. Sleds replaced the carts in winter. Today, for instance, without the sleds, everyone from the gunners to the observers would have had to sweat their guts out along these snowy roads.

The snow began to ease, but enough had fallen to reach halfway to your knees. Caps of snow had built up on the covers of the guns.

There wasn
’
t a soul to be seen anywhere. Dead silence.
And no tracks.

Using the headlights sparingly, they came to a tree-lined road. There was no one here either. At last, there was
Adlig
.
Again, those foreign buildings.
All the houses were dark, with not a light showing anywhere.

He gave orders for the houses to be checked. The houses in the village were abandoned, but all of them were heated. The inhabitants must have left only a few hours ago. They couldn
’
t be far away, then. You could expect the young women to run off to the forest, but here everyone had gone.

Boyev positioned eight guns along the eastern edge of
Adlig
, but not all twelve—that would have made no sense. He ordered battery commander Kasyanov to position his Six Battery about 800 meters to the south, falling back at an oblique angle, near the little village of Klein Schwenkitten.

Still, there wasn
’
t a soul to be seen. They hadn
’
t searched Liebstadt, but they hadn
’
t spotted anyone moving in the village. Now where was our infantry? Not a single one of our brothers-in-arms had showed up.

It was a real puzzle: If we positioned our guns here, would we be too far away from the Germans? Or, to the contrary, would we be too close? They might be waiting for us right here, in this patch of forest. For the time being, we
’
ll put in a screening force toward that forest.

What else could be done? The tractors were roaring. Six Battery was extended along the side road to Klein Schwenkitten. Four and Five Batteries were deploying side by side to form a single front. Each of the crews was busy with their own gun, changing over from column to combat formation and setting out their shells. (And, of course, they
’
d already scouted out the houses on the edge of the village for a bit of shelter and a nice kip.)

This little house was like a toy. Could it really be a farmer
’
s house in a village? It looked like a house in town, everything set out neatly, curtains, pictures on the walls. The electricity had been cut off, but they found two kerosene lamps and set them on the table. Boyev sat down with his map. A map can always tell you
a lot. If you look at it long enough, you can always find some way out, even from the most hopeless situation.

Boyev didn
’
t hurry anyone on. They
’
d have to wait for the sleds in any case. He
’
d had to work without reconnaissance before. He
’
d done it, but it had been in his own country.

The radio operator had already made contact with brigade headquarters. They replied that they
’
d be leaving soon. (They hadn
’
t left yet!)
Any news or orders?
Nothing for the moment.

Suddenly he heard footsteps in the entry. A man in a neat officer
’
s overcoat, the commander of the sound-ranging battery that was under Boyev
’
s operational command, came in. He was an old friend from the days they had served together near Oryol, a mathematician. Immediately he unfolded his map case by the lamp. Here, he explained, was a direct road leading northeast toward
Dietrichsdorf
, just over two kilometers away. That
’
s where we
’
ll set up our central station and string out our lines from there.

Boyev looked at the map. He could read a topographical map faster than he could read a book.

“
Right, we
’
ll be somewhere nearby. I
’
ll be on the right. I
’
ll run a line out to you. What about the surveyors?
”

“
I
’
ve got a section with me. But we can
’
t do much fixing at night. They
’
ll do a rough fix and then come back here.
”

So that was how they would be firing—approximately.

There was no time for chatting, he had to rush off. They shook hands warmly, like old friends.

“
Later?
”

Something remained unsaid. His battery commanders were already busy at their jobs and didn
’
t need him telling them what to do. Now it was a matter of waiting for the horses.