Red Army

Eleven

Chibisov watched the front commander eat, reckoning Malinsky’s mood by his mannerisms. The old man’s table manners were normally very precise. But now he absentmindedly forked up bits of cutlet and beans, simply fueling his body, as though it was just another piece of warmaking machinery. An aura of urgency had accompanied Malinsky back from his visits to the forward army commanders. Chibisov, however, remained unsure about how much of the front commander’s anxiety was genuine worry and how much arose from the need to personally accomplish an overwhelming number of practical tasks, despite the support of his staff. The complexity of the contemporary battlefield was enough to break any commander who paused too long to think about it. Overall, the situation appeared extraordinarily favorable, especially in the north, in Trimenko’s sector. But there were also potentially enormous difficulties, more of them each hour. Some of the difficulties had been adequately forecast, and the system had been designed with substantial tolerances. Other difficulties, such as the speed with which units on both sides essentially ceased to exist, and the tempo of movement, strained the troop control system at all levels to a dangerous point. While these difficulties had been argued theoretically in peacetime, virtually no one had internalized the practical considerations. While Chibisov himself had encountered few intellectual surprises, on a visceral level he found the reports from the formations engaged in combat almost unnerving.

As usual, Malinsky had declined to receive a full staff briefing. Although the Front Commander understood the value of ceremony and personal control, he also recognized the dangers of formalism. At the moment, continuity of effort was crucial. The staff was nearly swamped with requirements and demands, and a break in the pattern of work might have been inordinately costly. Malinsky had simply asked the chief of staff to brief him on key events and items of particular interest while he himself had a meal in his office.

“Trimenko’s doing splendidly,” Chibisov said, tapping the point at the deepening red arrows on the situation map. “The Dutch were too thin, and the Germans are too slow.”

“Trimenko tells me that Dalyev’s division is in a bad way,” Malinsky interjected. “Half of the division’s combat power is either gone or so disorganized it’s unusable.” But the tone of genuine worry wasn’t there yet. Malinsky ate another trimmed-off piece of meat.

“Too much frontage,” Chibisov said. “But we expected that. Dalyev had a thankless task. And the sacrifice appears to have paid off. Dalyev’s attacks focused the Germans’ attention. Overall, the Second Guards Tank Army is ahead of its timetable. Trimenko’s got one forward detachment battering it out in Soltau, and another’s running loose in the Dutch rear. He’s ready to introduce an independent tank regiment to break for the Weser. Malyshev’s division is up, and his lead regiments should be in contact in a few hours. The situation may not be clean enough for a demonstration exercise, but the key units are making it to their appointed places. Oh, and Korbatov has Lueneburg.”

“I know,” Malinsky said, dropping into his quieter personal voice. He shook his head, wearing a frankly baffled look. “Pavel Pavlovitch… I still think that entire affair…” Then he shrugged, switching his mind back to concerns within his area of decision. “Trimenko’s crisis is coming tonight. He knows it. But knowing may not help. The Germans are going to hit him. I’m surprised they haven’t hit him already. If they just wait a little longer, until the Sixteenth Tank Division completes its march and passes into commitment, we’ll be fine. At that point, the Germans could punch all the way up to the Elbe, and they’d only be caught in a trap by follow-on forces. But the Sixteenth Tank Division must break out. Trimenko’s extremely vulnerable as long as we’re muddling through the commitment of a fresh division. It’s a difficult function even in a peacetime exercise.”

“Trimenko has already reported local counterattacks from the south against the flank of the Twenty-first Division.”

“And I’ll be delighted, as will Trimenko, if the Germans and Dutch continue with their local counterattacks. Let them piecemeal their combat power away. As long as they feel they’re achieving little successes, it may blind them to the bigger picture.” Malinsky dropped his knife and fork from the ready position, making a slight clatter as they hit the tray. He stared up at the map as though his eyes were binoculars to be focused in as sharply as possible. “If I were the German corps commander,” he said, “I wouldn’t strike with anything less than a reinforced division — preferably two. Local counterattacks are ultimately meaningless. It will take a powerful blow to stop Trimenko now.” Malinsky scanned the known locations of the enemy forces. “If that blow doesn’t arrive tonight, the Germans are fools. Or amateurs.” Malinsky stared past the map for a moment. “Perhaps, Pavel Pavlovitch, we’ve overestimated the Germans all these years.” Then his facial expression relaxed, a familiar signal to Chibisov to continue with the briefing.

“In the extreme south of the front’s sector, the Twentieth Guards Army is approximately six hours behind schedule,” Chibisov said. “The problem appears to be primarily terrain-associated. The Belgians have made very effective use of mines and obstacles along tactical directions that were already constricted. We’ve had to employ tactical air assaults in a leapfrog fashion to break defensive positions from behind. The situation is essentially under control, but we definitely underestimated the initial difficulties in the south. Perhaps our greatest ultimate advantage in that sector has been the experiences culled from Afghanistan in the employment of helicopter-borne infantry in mountainous terrain.”

“And the Belgian forces themselves?”

“Tenacious. Very determined local resistance. I don’t know what they’re fighting for, really. Their greatest weakness is insufficient firepower. Further, the terrain restricts their relocation of forces to the most threatened sectors and their resupply as badly as or worse than it hampers us. We’re moving forward, while they attempt to move laterally. Also, Dudorov’s intelligence-collection effort indicates the Belgians have logistics problems.”

“Similar to our own?” Malinsky asked.

“Some remarkable similarities, actually. Every one of our formations in contact is screaming for more tank main gun ammunition and more artillery rounds. The level of consumption seems almost impossible. It appears that we’ve even won several engagements by default. Nothing left for the tanks to do beyond ram each other or pull off.”

“Our transport?”

Chibisov’s bearing slumped almost imperceptibly, a reluctant shifting of the spine under an uncomfortable load. “We must find ways to reduce its vulnerability,” he answered. “Our major lines of communication have been hit repeatedly, and to serious effect, by NATO air power. The organization of traffic is extremely difficult, and it’s especially bad at the Elbe River crossing sites.”

Malinsky looked troubled. “How bad?”

“Quantitatively? Acceptable thus far. But over a longer period, our hauling capability could be… painfully weakened.”

“Painfully?” Malinsky repeated, smiling despite himself. “That’s rather a theatrical expression on your lips, Pavel Pavlovitch.”

Chibisov reddened. The experience of warfare on this scale, and at this level of intensity, had surpassed the careful vocabulary of the General Staff Academy in its expressive demands. Raw numbers might have aided his effort at communication, but the battlefield reporting was uneven, and Chibisov instinctively could not bring himself to trust all of it. Trained to report empirical data with unerring precision, he found himself struggling to report impressions, tonalities, and elusive feelings that insisted on their own importance now.

“NATO’s air power,” Chibisov resumed, “has shown more resiliency than anticipated. While we have achieved several impressive initial successes, the forces confronting CENTAG in the south appear to have bogged down, and the outcome of the air battle remains to be decided. If we achieve decisive superiority within forty-eight hours from now, our capability to support the ground offensive will remain at least marginally adequate. Should NATO intensify its deep strikes on our support infrastructure, however, we will experience sustainment problems within three days. It’s very frustrating, really. The chief of the rear is going mad. He has the ammunition. And the fuel. As well as sufficient vehicles to move bulk supplies at this time. But attempting to link them all up and get the trucks and supplies to the right place at the right time is proving extremely difficult. Realistically, Comrade Front Commander, if the first day is like this, while we’re still on the plan…”

“And we’ll continue to adhere to the plan,” Malinsky said firmly. “The tactical units and the formations can fight with what they have. The one thing that we cannot sacrifice, the one thing that is in critically short supply, is time. This is the hour when plans come into their own.” Malinsky sat erectly, but his voice became intimate and direct. “If I could spare you, Pavel Pavlovitch, I’d send you forward to take a look for yourself. It’s an astonishing thing. Despite all of the theory and the calculations, the endless tinkering with the tables and norms, I don’t think any of us was quite ready for this. It’s all… so fast.” Malinsky slowly turned his head, a tank turret sweeping the field. “I couldn’t change the plan now, no matter how badly I might want to. Oh, we can adjust details. But there’s no time for, no possibility of, anything greater.” His eyes shone out of the darkness. “The speed of the thing, Pavel Pavlovitch. The speed and the power. It makes the Hitlerite blitzkrieg look like a peasant horse and cart.” The front commander paused for a sip of tea, but Chibisov knew from the intensity in Malinsky’s face that the old man didn’t really taste it.

“I don’t know,” Malinsky went on. “We looked at it all in such detail… perhaps in too much detail. We examined the questions of mechanization and the impact of new weapons and technologies on the dialectic. We surveyed road networks and studied means of communication. We delved into automated support to decision-making and struggled with the issues raised by radio electronic combat. But somehow, we haven’t done a very good job of putting them all together. What would you and your mathematician comrades say, Pavel Pavlovitch? That we haven’t written the unifying algorithm? But perhaps it was unwritable. At least the enemy doesn’t appear to have done any better than we have. In fact, they appear to have done considerably worse.” Malinsky leaned forward, suddenly, lifting a hand, then a lone finger, as if to admonish Chibisov. But the old man was addressing an absent audience now. “Have pity on the commander without a good plan. If we have done anything correctly, it was to plan and plan and plan. Frankly, excessive planning may not work in the industrial base. But there is no alternative on the battlefield. Perhaps the difference is between problems of sequential efforts and problems of simultaneity. But I have seen the results with my own eyes. Maintain the momentum now, the momentum of the plan. Don’t let up. If the enemy has a plan, don’t allow him time to begin its implementation. Make him react until his efforts grow so eccentric that he loses all unity in his conceptions. Ram your plan down his throat.”

Malinsky settled back into his chair, smiling with sudden gentleness. “But I’m lecturing. And to you, of all people, Pavel Pavlovitch. Tell me about your computers. How are we doing in the new dimension of warfare?” Malinsky asked, boyish mischief in his voice.

“Frankly,” Chibisov said, “there have been many disappointments. The computers in themselves are reliable enough, but the human factor is too slow. And the amount of data that must be transmitted strains even our best communications means. I believe, Comrade Front Commander, that I personally missed an important consideration. Along with allowances in the plan for such traditional measures as refueling, resupplying the units with ammunition, feeding soldiers, reorganizations, and the like, contemporary plans should also include the factor of programming and reprogramming. You recall how many officers, most of whom were simply afraid of the new technology, insisted that all of the comprehensive data accounts would be thrown out or would disappear on the first day of the war. To a limited extent, they were correct. The systems in our possession have proved to have only limited capabilities under the stress of combat, and some have failed. Yet those who denigrated automation and the volume of information to which we became accustomed were only correct in the most superficial and even tragic respects. While some of the systems and capabilities ‘went away,’ the requirements for the information itself are even greater than expected. We considered the symptoms, not the disease. Modern warfare is increasingly dependent upon massive amounts of highly accurate information, for targeting, for intelligence, for the rear services… even for the making of fundamental decisions. Those who cling to the past have made the mistake of believing that if you destroy the machinery, you destroy the need for the product. Certainly not an error a good Marxist-Leninist should make. On the other hand, too many of us fell in love with the machines themselves, confusing the relationship of means to ends. And no one from either camp fully realized the extent to which modern war would be waged on the basis of massive quantities of data.” Somber at the end of his assessment, Chibisov dropped his eyes away from Malinsky’s piercing gaze. “In the end, I’ve failed you, the army, and the Party. It all seems so clear, so obvious now, looking back.”

“All of your preparation is being rewarded, my friend,” Malinsky said. Chibisov winced at the unexpected choice of words. “All of the work you’ve done is in evidence out there.” Malinsky waved his hand at the map. “I know you’re having trouble with the computers. I’ve heard the same thing from everyone. But you’re honest about it, which is a terribly hard thing for a true believer. Just use the machines within their limits now. I suspect they’ve already done their jobs in the preparatory phases. Perhaps the next war will be theirs. We’re still in a transitional period. And now we’re leaving the realm of strict military science. Now it’s a matter of military art. And of strength of will.”

“Comrade Front Commander,” Chibisov began. There was an uneasy, stilted formality in his voice as he searched for the right tone. He had been caught totally off guard by the piercing word “friend.” “I understand that your last stop was at Starukhin’s forward command post. Shall I nonetheless review our perception of the Third Shock Army’s situation as we see it from here?”

Malinsky’s face tensed into a frown. “Starukhin! You know, he’s down there shouting at his staff at the top of his lungs. I don’t really understand how it works myself. One commander might shout and shout and only degrade the performance of his subordinates. Starukhin barks, and things happen. It’s an amazing phenomenon. I suspect such behavior was better suited to the temperaments of past generations. But it still works for Starukhin. But I’m worried. A crisis up in Trimenko’s sector could be locally contained. It is, in effect, built into the plan. But Starukhin has to come through. We must break through in the center. I’ve given him permission to commit his second-echelon divisions tonight. We’ll pile it on, if that’s what it takes. Clearly, subtlety doesn’t work very well with the British. They’re very stubborn boys.”

“I understand his crossing was a tough one.”

“One of his divisions lost an entire regiment in less than half an hour. All that remained were stray vehicles and empty-handed commanders. But he got across. And he turned the British from the south. He caught an entire British brigade from the rear, pinned them against their own minefields and barriers, and finished them. And Starukhin’s moving now. But the tempo isn’t all that’s wanted. I don’t sense a breakthrough situation. We have the British reeling back, but they’ve maintained a frustratingly good order. There’s always another defensive position over the next hill. If Starukhin doesn’t do better tonight and tomorrow morning, we may be forced to use the Forty-ninth Corps to create the breakthrough the plan calls for them to exploit. I don’t like it.”

“Extrapolating from our reported losses and expenditures, the correlation of forces and means is actually increasingly favorable in the Third Shock Army sector,” Chibisov reported. From the staffs perspective, the British were hanging on by sheer determination and could not sustain another such day’s fighting.

Malinsky reached for a cigarette. The action shocked Chibisov. Malinsky never smoked in his presence, because of the chief of staffs asthma. But, in a moment, Chibisov recognized the action for what it was: absentmindedness, a manifestation of the old man’s intense concern for Starukhin’s situation.

“In any case,” Malinsky said, puffing a glow onto the tip of the cigarette, “Starukhin has to push through them by noon tomorrow. We must present the enemy’s operational headquarters with a situation of multiple crises and apparent collapse that prevents them from implementing a truly appropriate response. We need to fragment the enemy’s alliance into a conflicting set of national concerns that leads each national commander to actions or inactions based upon his own parochial perspective. And we need to drive in behind them in all sectors in order to prevent the nuclear issue from becoming an attractive option.”

“Dudorov still reports no sign of a NATO transition toward a nuclear battlefield,” Chibisov said.

“Keep watching it. Closely. Make sure Dudorov understands. Meanwhile, Starukhin has to keep up the pressure on the British all night. If it means committing his last tank, so be it. I’ve never been comfortable with night operations. I have no doubt that our enemies can see us more clearly than we can see them. But it would be fatal to stop and allow them a breathing space. We must rely on shock, on speed, and, ultimately, on simply grinding down the enemy at the point of decision, when no alternative presents itself. But we must preserve and even accelerate the tempo of combat operations. Consider it. The British have been fighting all day. Now we’ll make them fight all night, against fresh forces. And we’ll keep hitting them throughout the morning. If their nerve doesn’t run out, their ammunition will.”

But Chibisov detected an undertone of doubt in Malinsky’s voice. The front commander was a powerful presence, and now it was odd, troubling, to hear even a slight wavering in his voice.

“Starukhin… has got to make the hole,” Malinsky said. “He must do it.” Malinsky’s teeth were slightly parted, and he breathed through his mouth in the intensity of the moment. “And what about the decoy air assaults?”

“They’ve gone in,” Chibisov said. “We had to go in with all light forces, though. The enemy air defenses limited our ability to introduce the tracked vehicles and the full range of support of the air-mechanized forces. But our troops are on the ground at Hameln and Bremen-south. Samurukov’s already celebrating.”

Malinsky sucked at his cigarette. “Good. I want the enemy to be looking very hard at those spots. I want him to panic, to become so obsessed by those assaults that he squanders his last local reserves on their reduction. I have never liked the notion of sacrificing soldiers, Pavel Pavlovitch. But if the Hameln and Bremen assaults do their jobs, we’ll save far more, both in lives and in time, than we’ve lost.” Malinsky chuckled, but there was neither life nor any trace of humor in the sound. His face became a bitter mask. “It’s a betrayal, of course. Sending in men who believe in the sacredness of their mission, who have no inkling that they’re merely part of a deception operation, and many or most of whom will die wondering why the link-up force never arrived. I console myself that, if we move swiftly enough, we may get them out of there before they’re completely destroyed. But I don’t even half believe it. I know I would not sacrifice momentum to save those men. But we all find devices by which we rationalize decisions with which better men could not live. Really, it’s a monstrous thing to be a commander. Odd that we should so love the work.”

“The air assaults on the actual crossing sites will be triggered as soon as the Third Shock Army reports a breakthrough situation.”

“The timing will be critical. But you understand that.”

“The enemy air defenses remain a serious threat. But their missile consumption appears to have been very high, and systems attrition favors our operations. The in-flight losses incurred by our deep assets ran just under seventeen percent. But they’ll be lower tomorrow.”

“Radio electronic combat?”

“Impossible to accurately gauge the extent to which the provisions of the plan have been fulfilled. Gubyshev’s a busy man, though. The Operations Directorate insists he’s jamming friendly nets, while Dudorov complains that he’s jamming too many enemy nets of intelligence value. Then the Operations Directorate turns around and wants to know why more jamming operations aren’t being conducted. The fires portion appears highly successful, but we have no tool for measuring success or failure in the electromagnetic spectrum.”

“Perhaps the outcome of the war will be the only viable measure.”

“Well, it’s unquestionably a bit muddled. But automation has really come through for Gubyshev. He couldn’t begin to manage his assets or to de-conflict frequencies with paper and pencil. And after all is said and done, Dudorov’s a believer. The GRU position is that we have meaningfully impaired the enemy’s ability to react on the battlefield.”

“Within the contours of the plan, I trust,” Malinsky said. “I’m still waiting for indications of the movement of the enemy’s tactical-operational reserves to the flanks. Don’t let Gubyshev queer that up. Don’t let him get carried away with a sudden sense of power. What about air-battle management? Every single one of the army commanders has complained about it. Of course, I recognize that they’re bound to complain. But it appears that we’re having some genuine problems.”

“It’s certainly a bit off track. The air force is struggling with it now. The biggest problem is assessing the damages we’ve inflicted, then retargeting aircraft. Even the automation’s overwhelmed. The air force representatives are attempting to put a good face on it, but I suspect there’s a lot of guesswork going on. I do not believe that all of the available missions are being employed efficiently.”

“Of course, we’re speaking of relative efficiency. On the edge of chaos. Think of what it must be like for the infantryman out there in the dark, Pavel Pavlovitch. And keep pounding on our comrade aviators. But not to the degree that it becomes counterproductive. So… what’s your overall assessment of the troop control situation? From the perspective of the chief of staff.”

“Better than I feared,” Chibisov said. “We can communicate, although we’re often forced to rely on nonprimary means. The confusion on the ground is intense. It’s a matter of continuous effort. You know our antenna farm was struck earlier? We were at minimum capability for over an hour. That didn’t help the effort to maintain the automated data bases. But we’re back up to ninety percent now.”

“They’ll hit the bunker again,” Malinsky said. “And again. You’ll be able to measure their desperation by how often the walls shake around you.”

Chibisov nodded. He felt tired. Exhausted. Yet there was so much waiting to be done. The smoke from Malinsky’s cigarette snaked into his lungs, and he unconsciously touched the pocket where he carried his pills.

“Overall,” Malinsky said, “we’ve had better than average luck. And, while I recognize that luck is a thing best reduced to a minimum in one’s calculations, I know it when it touches me.” Malinsky nodded at the map, having worked his way through the mental clutter of war to a level of reasonable satisfaction. “Marshal Kribov is delighted with us — his worries are all down south. The Americans are proving tough — they’re so damned unpredictable. And the Germans in the south are fighting more like Americans.” Malinsky paused for a moment, mouth slightly open at a troubling thought. “Yes, we’ve been lucky. But tonight will be our first big test. Tonight, and then tomorrow morning. If they piecemeal their counterattacks, and if Starukhin gives me a breakthrough by noon, they won’t stop us until we’re standing on the banks of the Rhine.” Malinsky smiled. “And they may not even stop us then.”

Leonid sat comfortably in a chair by the window, belly stuffed full, dreaming of home. His assault rifle lay balanced across his thighs. The weapon reeked with the sulfurous smell of blown powder. He had not cleaned the rifle since the battle. He had, however, taken the first opportunity to scrub the blood and filth from his tunic, and now it hung drying over the footboard of some stranger’s abandoned bed.

The war seemed thankfully far away, and Leonid had convinced himself that he had done his fair share. It was up to the others now. He shifted his position, staring out into the cool darkness without focusing on any object. His slight movement ticked and clattered with the sounds of colliding plastic. He had filled his pockets with cassette tapes in an adjacent bedroom, which appeared to belong to a teenage girl. Delighted with his find, he wasn’t bothered by not being able to read the labels or recognize any of the groups from the small, colorful illustrations tucked inside the cassette cases. The high quality of the printing and the lively look of the performers in the photographs promised great things.

On the far horizon, beyond a palisade of darkened evergreens, the night sky shimmered and sparkled as though a vast celebration filled the distance. Occasionally, a sputter of closer brightness disturbed the perspective, and the kettle-drum noises roamed closer, only to recede again. Leonid thought that other soldiers were undergoing experiences similar to his own of the past afternoon. On one hand, he thought it might be even more frightening at night, but he also figured that it was easier to hide.

In the aftermath of the engagement, he had found his way to the remnants of his own unit with surprising ease. The firing had diminished to a trickle, then it shut off completely, as though a tap had been closed. The barking of the officers soon replaced the noises of battle. The wounded made noises, too, but the officers seemed determined to shout them down, to bury their reality under the bullying noises of control.

Seryosha had made it through, and he told stories of machine-gunning countless numbers of the enemy. Leonid noticed that Seryosha was still laden with most of the ammunition he had carried into battle, but he accepted the tales, neither believing nor disbelieving. Their squad vehicle could not be identified, but Lieutenant Korchuk, their political officer, shepherded them to Junior Sergeant Kassabian, and they became part of a unit again. Korchuk praised their performance and asked them how they felt now that they were veterans of battle. But it was evident that Korchuk did not really listen to their responses. The politruk was upset because so many of the platoon group Komsomol organizers, his helpers in the political agitation effort, had been killed or wounded. It seemed apparent that the most active and enthusiastic Communists truly had led the way. When Korchuk left them, Seryosha ridiculed the fallen organizers, saying that maybe war wasn’t such a bad thing if it killed off all of the boot-lickers. Then he laughed and speculated broadly about where Korchuk himself had been during the battle.

Their unit remained behind as the others lined up and pulled off in the direction of the shifting battle noises. Korchuk returned and explained to them that they were to help gather the wounded who had fallen for the cause of international peace and socialist brotherhood. The young soldiers followed the wanderings of the medical orderlies, who were clearly at a loss confronted with such devastation. An orderly would bend over a helpless figure and seem to play with it. But Leonid did not believe that the orderlies really knew what they were doing.

In one respect, Leonid surprised himself. He did not mind helping to lift and carry the wounded. He wanted to make them feel better, although their miseries made no deep impression on him. He spoke a few comforting words, repeating himself frequently, promising the unlucky boys that they would be all right. The regimen called for gathering the wounded officers first. But they, too, now were just boys and young men, no longer radiant with power, but simply shocked into silence, or weeping at their misfortunes, or groaning with their unimaginable pains. The soldiers loaded the officers into the little train of field ambulances, then they filled the few remaining spaces with badly burned other ranks. As the ambulances pulled off they began the drudgery of packing the mass of the casualties into the beds of empty transport trucks. The few wounded enemy soldiers in evidence went carefully ignored until the last, then they were loaded onto the already crowded vehicles. Most of the trucks had no medical orderlies to attend their cargoes, and two officers had an argument that Leonid did not quite understand. Lieutenant Korchuk cautiously avoided touching any of the wounded at all.

After policing their fragment of the battlefield, the soldiers in Leonid’s unit loaded up onto the combat vehicles that were still operable. Leonid, Seryosha, and Sergeant Kassabian rode with a reduced vehicle crew whose members Leonid half recognized from battalion parades. The atmosphere had changed now, and the soldiers grew loose and talkative. The rain had stopped, and they drove down German country roads with the top hatches open, weapons held at a casual ready as they watched the world go by.

In the last twilight, they drove through a village whose streets seemed to have been strewn with diamonds, an effect of the light of burning buildings reflecting off broken glass. Along a street that fire had not yet touched, external blinds had been lowered over windows, sealing the houses off like private fortresses. But an artillery round exploding at the end of the street had blown all of the nearby blinds away, leaving the windows looking like dark, dead eyes. To Leonid, the last untouched houses seemed to be waiting like sheep. In the town square, bodies littered the pavement, some with a distinctly unmilitary appearance.

In the next village, the little column had to wait as towed guns with long, slender barrels moved ahead of them. Then they were delayed again, this time by a serial of military equipment the like of which Leonid had never seen. The oversized vehicles had the appearance of farm machinery, or of giant instruments of torture.

“Engineers,” one of the soldiers said, eager to flaunt his knowledge.

Finally, the vehicle in which Leonid and his comrades rode was directed into position between two houses on the edge of town. Sergeant Kassabian received command of all of the dismounted soldiers. An unfamiliar officer ordered Kassabian to set up firing positions inside the house beside the road.

Even in the dark, Leonid could tell that the Germans were very well-to-do. Sergeant Kassabian made a halfhearted attempt to position the soldiers at firing points behind doors and window frames. But soon he, too, succumbed to the general desire to explore. Seryosha even tried to turn on the electric lights, but there was no power. The soldiers wandered about by the light of matches, stolen lighters, and a few candles that turned up.

The kitchen was full of food, and the soldiers ate their first real meal since their deployment from garrison. They made it into a slopping feast. There was even beer, still mildly chilled from the now-powerless refrigerator. Several of the soldiers commented on the apparent wealth of the Germans, jealous and admiring. Finally, one man said angrily that the Soviet Union could be rich, too, if it stole from starving people in Africa and Asia. Leonid did not know what to believe, but he envied any family that could possess such a house. Then one of the unfamiliar soldiers with whom they had been thrown together began to smash things.

There was no logic to it, but the mood quickly caught on. The soldiers tore through the house, upsetting furniture, hurling vases and figurines, and ripping pictures from the walls. Upstairs, the boys scattered the contents of drawers over the floor, and one soldier found a treasure of oversized women’s underthings. Laughing crazily, he pulled on a drooping bra and panties the size of a big man’s swimming trunks. He pranced about, throwing his shoulders forward in a parody of enticement. In an adjacent room, Leonid discovered a fine little cassette recorder and a drawer full of tapes. He doubted that he could conceal the recorder, and there were too many tapes, so he hurriedly culled the lot by matchlight, filling his pockets with the most interesting-looking items.

Out of nowhere, Lieutenant Korchuk appeared, armed with a pocket flashlight. He remained silent for a full minute, standing in the hallway, sweeping the beam of light from one room to another, inspecting the frozen revelry. Leonid expected a great fuss and heavy punishment. But Korchuk only ordered Sergeant Kassabian to reoccupy the squad’s fighting positions. The political officer seemed to have taken over some level of command now, and he appeared disheartened by the responsibility. In a strained voice, he ordered the soldier who had adorned himself with women’s underthings to return his uniform to its proper state.

Already weary of their fun, the soldiers acquiesced to Sergeant Kassabian’s paper-thin commands. Sergeant Kassabian wielded bits of half-remembered officer talk from old field exercises, struggling to please the lieutenant. The soldiers slumped off to guard the doors and windows. Shortly afterward, Lieutenant Korchuk disappeared back into the night. But the soldiers remained in their separate rooms, as much from inertia as from duty, as quiet as exhausted children.

Leonid and Seryosha took possession of an upstairs bedroom. The furniture had been toppled, and the mattress lay on the floor, where one of the soldiers had urinated on it. The two boys put down their rifles and flipped the mattress, then lifted it back onto the bed frame. They agreed that they would take turns sleeping — Seryosha first — after Leonid cleaned his uniform top. He carefully stuffed his precious cassette tapes into his trouser pockets and bent to his labor by the light of a dying candle. Water still ran in the pipes, and Leonid soaked and scrubbed his spattered tunic in the bathtub, as much impressed by the water pressure as by the luxury of the fixtures.

Leonid sat peaceably at the window as Seryosha drowsed, then muttered a few unintelligible words before beginning to snore with martial regularity. In a state of weariness that could not measure time, Leonid watched the brilliant display of battle on the horizon, the nighttime sequel to his own experience, in a war that had moved beyond him. He thought about music, and of how painful it would be at first to re-form the calluses on the fingertips of his left hand. He closed his eyes, chording his guitar in his mind. Twice he nearly collapsed into sleep, and the second time he woke himself just in time to see a beautiful pageant of colored rockets in the distance. The colored stars trailed off in slow deaths that filled Leonid with sadness to a depth he had never before known. The thought of the most trivial detail of home gained the power to bring tears to his eyes, and when he thought of his mother, the tears fell down his cheeks in the darkness just as the distant starbursts dropped into the darkened woodlands. Pulled loose from any real sense of the hours, he concluded that the night must be nearly over, and he carefully dried his eyes and the adolescent coarseness of his cheeks. Timidly, he began the task of waking Seryosha. He felt as though he would give anything just to sleep for a little while.

When Seryosha finally forced himself awake and stamped off to the guardpost at the window, Leonid told himself that he was lucky to have such a friend. His tunic was still too wet to wear, and he lay on the ammonia-scented mattress, wrapped in a coverlet ripped by the horseplay of his comrades. In a matter of minutes, he wept himself to sleep, filled with a vast, sorrowing, and indiscriminate feeling of love for his fellow man.