Ralph Peters - Red Army

Bezarin glanced left to check on Dagliev. And he noticed an aspect of the terrain that his hasty map reconnaissance had not fully brought home to him. The ridgelines on which the smoke had settled threw a long spur out to the southeast. It was obvious now, on the scene, that the finger of high ground would shield any attempted British counterattack until it reached the rear of the attacking Soviet units. All the British would need to do would be to allow the Soviets to move past the spur into the trap.

On the other hand, it offered Bezarin an opportunity to take the British in the rear, if they had failed to cover their extreme flank.

Bezarin decided to take a chance.

As he spoke his first words into the microphone British artillery fire began to crash down just behind his formation.

The British knew.

"Volga One, Two, Three, this is Lodoga Five. Amendment to combat instructions. Three, move left six hundred meters. Get on the reverse slope of that spur. Use the smoke. Follow it in behind the British positions." Bezarin paused. The artillery had not yet adjusted to hit them, and Bezarin realized that the smoke was of some value after all.

The British were guessing, executing preplanned fires. Then he found he could not remember the call sign for the motorized rifle troops. Exasperated, he called, "Lasky . . . Lasky, you follow Three. Stay close to him. Three, you get on their damned flank and roll them up. Call me if you have trouble. Acknowledge."

"Ladoga, this is Three. We're losing contact with First Battalion."

"Damn it, I know that. Just get up on that ridge and kill everything you see. Meet me on the far slope. Do you understand?"

"This is Three. Executing now."

"Volga One, Two . . . let's get them. Into the smoke. Independent fires on contact."

"One, acknowledged."

"Two, acknowledged." That was Roshchin. Bezarin could hear the nervousness in the boy's voice.

"Ladoga, your hatch is flapping."

Bezarin reached out, trying to snag his hatch cover. The jouncing of the vehicle as it moved cross-country made it difficult. A hatch could crush your hand or break an arm. Finally, he caught the big steel disk and smashed it down, fastening it.

Bezarin felt as though he had suddenly gone underwater in the sealed belly of the tank. He always felt cut off from the real world when the 223

Ralph Peters —

vehicle was fully sealed. He leaned his forehead against the cowl of his optics. But the smoke began to shroud his vision.

The tank jolted hard. It seemed to lift to the side. Then it stopped. The shock smashed Bezarin's brow hard against his periscope. He began to curse his driver, just as the tank resumed movement.

The smoke grew patchier. Bezarin's ears rang, and he did not know why.

More speed, Bezarin thought. Every nerve in his body seemed to want to move faster. Yet he knew that he could not afford to pull the line apart any worse than the movement to contact in the smoke would do by itself.

He resisted the temptation to order an all-out charge. He feared that, in the smoke, they would soon begin killing one another if they became disordered.

"Target, right, one thousand," the gunner called.

Bezarin looked right. A tank in profile, firing toward First Battalion, clearly visible in a corridor between waves of smoke. Bezarin had missed it.

"Load sabot."

The automatic loader whirled into action.

"Sabot up."

"Fire," Bezarin ordered.

The tank rocked back. The breech jettisoned its casing, and the reek of high explosives filled the crew compartment.

The round missed.

"Load sabot," Bezarin shouted, forcing himself to go through the precise verbal and physical motions.

The regimental net scratched like an old phonograph record. "This is Ural Five. I'm in trouble. Ambush. Ambush. They're all around me."

First Battalion was in trouble. Bezarin half listened for a response from regiment. But none came. Bezarin realized there was nothing he could do for his sister battalion now except to fight his own fight as well as he possibly could. But it troubled him that there was no reply whatsoever from Tarashvili or one of his staff officers.

"Range, seven-fifty." Bezarin focused with all of his strength. The British tank sat perfectly on the aiming point. As he watched it began to swing its turret around.

"Fire."

A splash of flame lit the British tank. The turret stopped turning.

"This is Two. Ladoga, this is Two. I've lost two tanks."

Roshchin. He sounded near panic.

224

RED ARMY

"Keep moving, Two. Just keep moving. Fight back. You're all right."

But Bezarin suspected that the boy was not all right.

"This is Ural Five, calling any station. / need help."

"Ural, this is Ladoga. I hear you. But I'm in a fight myself."

"Ladoga, can you reach regiment? They're ripping me apart."

"I'll try. But I haven't heard a thing." Bezarin cleared his throat, rasping at the fumes inside the tank. He attempted to raise a regimental station. But there was no response.

"Target, six hundred," Bezarin shouted to the gunner as another enemy tank appeared. It was nerve-wracking to play this deadly game of hide-and-seek between the billows and eddies of smoke. "On the right."

"God, oh, God. They're killing us all." It was Roshchin. Bezarin knew beyond any doubt that the boy had lost control now.

"Roshchin," he called. "Get a grip on yourself. Fight, you son of a whore, or they will kill you." Bezarin remembered the loneliness and self-doubt of the boy in the early morning hours. But he could not pity him now; he felt only anger. Roshchin had a job to do, and all of their lives depended on it.

"Five hundred . . . fire . . . selecting . . . sabot up . . . adjust to four-fifty . . .fire . . ."

Bezarin's tank suddenly emerged from the smoke into the painful clarity of daylight. In his optics, he could see three British tanks and four of his own in a murderous shoot-out at minimal ranges. As he watched, the tanks destroyed each other in suicidal combat.

"Smoke grenades away," Bezarin screamed, fumbling at his controls.

"Target ..."

"Got the bastard."

"Three, can you hear me?" Bezarin called, his desperation rising.

Nothing.

"Where are you, Three?"

Instead of Dagliev, Roshchin came back on, pleading for help. Bezarin coldly ordered him off the net. An enemy tank appeared in Bezarin's optics, so close it seemed as though they were bound to collide with it.

"Target left. Get on him," Bezarin yelled to his gunner.

"Too close."

"Fire. "Bezarin's field of vision filled up with blast effects. But they had gotten the British tank first. Bezarin felt weak, almost nauseous, yet his pulse throbbed as though his heart would explode.

"Volga One, this is Ladoga . . . is that your element mixed up with the British on the crest?"

225

Ralph Peters

"This is One. I'm still in the smoke. It must be Two up there."

At the mention of his call sign, Roshchin came back up on the net. He was weeping. "They're all gone," he said, "everybody's gone."

Bezarin's gunner screamed. A British tank had its gun tube aimed directly at them.

"Point blank, "Bezarin yelled. "Fire." He did not even know what kind of round, if any, was in the breech.

A burst of sparks dazzled off the mantlet of the British tank's gun. A moment later, the enemy vehicle began to pull off of its position without firing. Bezarin sensed a kill and methodically directed his gunner. The next round stopped the British tank, and smoke began to climb from its deck. Roshchin cried into the battalion net as though he had lost his sanity. Bezarin found himself cursing the boy, even wishing that the British would kill him, just to stop him from blabbering. He feared that Roshchin's panic would become contagious.