Ralph Peters - Red Army

Levin did not answer immediately. He tried to think of the best way to phrase his proposition without angering Gordunov or seeming presump-tuous. In the background, hospital noises underlined the more distant noises of battle. The Western doctors were caring for all of the wounded, Soviet, British, German, military, and civilian. But that situation, too, was becoming unmanageable.

"Comrade Commander," Levin began, "if I am to control this bank, I request permission to move your remaining battalion command ele-200

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ments out of the hospital. If you're going across the river, let me move the communications troops and everyone else down to a central location. I can't protect them adequately up here. We'd need to extend the perimeter farther to the north."

"Have a site in mind?" Gordunov said, with no trace of his famous temper.

"The old town hall," Levin said quickly. "There's good elevation for the radio sets, it's well constructed, and it's perfectly centered. We can leave light antitank elements up here to cover the northern approaches and the bridge. And I'll outpost the choke points along the road to the north. Of course, the wounded will stay here, but I'll take our own medical personnel along with me to establish a more centrally located aid station."

"All right," Gordunov said. "That sounds logical enough. But don't go soft on me, Levin."

Levin was relieved. He had been prepared to argue his point. "And the prisoners," he said. "I'll move them into the basement of the town hall.

Or somewhere nearby. I won't waste men guarding them. Two should be able to handle it."

"All right, all right. Listen, Levin. You have the makings of a decent soldier. The important thing now is to hang on, no matter how bad the situation may look. Remember, the enemy is paying a price, too. For all we can tell, he may be far worse off than we are." Gordunov paused to look Levin up and down. Levin suddenly sensed that there was something more that the battalion commander wished to communicate to him. "I know," Gordunov picked up again, "that you truly believe . . . in things with which I personally have some difficulty. Perhaps you despise me, Levin. That's ultimately of no consequence. But you must hold on.

You cannot let anything interfere with the mission. There are other old buildings. Other towns. Even other men to replace the dead. But there is no other mission for us. You cannot let anything else matter to you."

Levin wanted to assure his commander that he could be counted upon, that he would never let him down. But Gordunov wasn't finished.

"You're a different type of man from me," the battalion commander said. "Probably a better sort, who knows? But now there's this bridge.

Bridges, if we're lucky. I just want you to understand . . ." Gordunov caught himself. "We've got to move. That's enough philosophy. Move the damned command post. But do it quickly. And get down and visit all your positions. Keep the men under tight control. And good luck."

Gordunov turned to go. In the muted light provided by the hospital's 201

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emergency generators, Levin caught the sparkle of an awkwardly rigged metal brace showing from beneath a slash in the bottom of Gordunov's trouser leg. Levin felt a tide of emotion sweep over him. He wanted to say something human and decent to this man after all, to recognize him as a comrade, almost to apologize. But Gordunov quickly limped away, and before Levin could sort out his feelings, the battalion commander had disappeared into the night.

SIXTEEN

M ajor Bezarin wanted to move. He felt his resentment swelling toward genuine anger as the hours burned away. Propped up in the commander's hatch of his tank, he focused on the tiny bead of light that marked the rear of the tank ahead of his own. It was still too dark to discriminate the shapes, but Bezarin could feel the other tanks stopped in the road ahead of him and behind him, a mighty concentration of power not only wasted at the moment, but, worse still, at risk in their compact, stationary mass. Bezarin had been allowed no choice in the positioning of his battalion. The regiment's chief of staff had halted the column without warning, telling Bezarin simply to close up and await further orders. When Bezarin asked if he could deploy off the road into dispersed tactical positions, the chief of staff had brusquely dismissed the idea with the remark that this was no time for nonsense, that the entire regiment had to be prepared to resume movement on a few minutes' notice. And with the reminder that the directive remained in effect limiting radio use to monitoring only, the chief of staff had gone to tuck in the trail battalion.

Bezarin imagined that he could feel the heavy iron breath of his tanks, bis steel stallions aching to break loose. Even with the engines cut, the Pungent smell of exhaust hung on in the low-lying roadway, corrupting Ralph Peters

the cool morning air. To move, to fight, was to have a chance. But it was exasperating, a terrible thing, to be forced to wait without any information. According to the books, Bezarin knew he was supposed to be planning for his commitment and preparing his companies. But he had received no word on where or when or under what circumstances his tanks would enter the battle. He had forced his company commanders to inspect each of their vehicles for its readiness, then he had discussed abstract options with them. But finally, he had realized that he was only robbing them of sleep. Now he waited alone for the fateful radio transmission, or for a courier to ride down along the column, searching for the command tanks. But the radio remained silent, and the only sound was of the occasional tanker dismounting to relieve himself by the side of the road. Beyond the local envelope of silence, the ceaseless war sounds grumped in the distance, teasing him. It reminded him of waiting in the lobby at a film theater, listening to the muffled sound track hint at the drama behind the closed doors of the auditorium. From left to right, the horizon glowed as though the edge of the world had caught fire, flickering in slow motion, then flashing like a photographer's bulb, streaking the running clouds with gypsy colors. Bezarin wanted to enter that world of testing and decision before he could begin to doubt himself in earnest.

His feeling of helplessness was aggravated by the memory of his unit's canal crossing near Salzgitter the evening before. The flagmen had waved the vehicles onto the tactical bridging at regulation intervals, and the only signs of war were a few burned-out hulks from the day's battle. The tone of action, even the sense of urgency, was reminiscent of a demonstration exercise at which a very important observer was present, nothing more. Then, without warning, the canal exploded with fire, heaving tanks, bridging, water, and flames into an inscrutable sky. No one knew exactly what had happened, but Bezarin lost an entire tank platoon and, by sheer chance, his battalion chief of staff and operations officer. Since he had already been forced to send forward two officers to replace losses in committed units, the loss was a sharp blow, burdening him with the need to compensate personally for the cadre shortfall. At the same time, he had surprised himself by thinking frankly that he was glad he had not grown closer to any of the men who had been killed?

The unit had been quickly rerouted over an alternate bridge. But the incident felt like a warning—and a personal challenge to Bezarin. Then, in the growing darkness and confusion, they had been diverted well to the south as the attack up ahead bogged down again. The fatal crossing had been unnecessary. Now he and his tanks waited on a sunken road at the 204