Ralph Peters - Red Army

"Roshchin," Bezarin said, disregarding the last radio discipline.

"Roshchin, take command of yourself. You're still alive. You can fight back. You're all right."

Bezarin could not even be certain that his transmission had reached the boy, who had begun to broadcast incessantly.

Suddenly, Bezarin lost his temper. "Roshchin, if you don't get off that radio, I'll shoot you myself. Do you understand me, you cowardly piece of shit?"

For the moment, Roshchin dropped from the net. Bezarin's driver barely avoided colliding with another Soviet tank in a last pocket of smoke. The driver halted the tank to let the other vehicle pass. Bezarin used the pause to help the gunner replenish the automatic loader's ready rack.

Roshchin called again. This time his voice was marginally more rational. "They're behind us," he cried. "I have enemy tanks to my rear."

"We're behind them, you stupid fuck," Bezarin called back. "Just shoot."

Kikerin, the driver, set the tank back in motion, throwing Bezarin off balance. As soon as he recovered, he tried to piece his unit back together over the radio.

"One, where the hell are you?"

"Can't talk," Voronich answered. He sounded out of breath. "We're fighting it out with an entire company. I think they lost their way in the smoke."

All right. At least Voronich was fighting. "Volga Three, this is Ladoga Five." No answer. Bezarin wondered if he had squandered an entire 226

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company, and his best company, at that, by sending them around the spur. He ordered his driver to head for a copse of trees that sat slightly higher than the tank's present location. As the vehicle moved Bezarin watched the treeline warily.

A British armored personnel carrier bolted from the grove like a flushed rabbit. Kikerin knew enough to stop the tank, and the gunner already had the target in his sights.

"Fire."

The British troop carrier exploded in a spectacular bloom of flame.

"Get in against the trees and halt," Bezarin ordered. He had lost control of his battalion in the smoke and the fighting. But he did not see how he could have done otherwise. Now he could only hope and gather what remained of his battalion to him. He did not even know for certain who was winning. If the radio net was to be believed, the fight had been a disaster. Yet here he was, on the high ground atop the broad ridge, with a trail of destroyed British vehicles to his rear. It was hard to make sense of it. At any rate, there was a perceptible change in the level of combat in the immediate area. A pocket of quiet seemed to have grown up around his tank.

He tried again to contact Dagliev, hoping that his position on the high ground would make a difference.

"Volga Three, this is Ladoga Five. What is your situation?"

Dagliev replied as promptly and as clearly as if he had never been away. "This is Three. I'm behind them. Clean. Killing them one after another as they pull off. It's just like firing on the range."

"Your losses?"

"None. They never saw us coming. They must've been totally fixed on the smoke and what was going on in front of them. We ran right through their artillery batteries."

"Good. Wonderful. When you're done at your current location, I want you to sweep back to the east toward me. Close the trap completely. I'm up on the high ground. Just watch what you're shooting at as you close."

So perhaps things were not so bad after all. Bezarin felt a tremendous satisfaction in having sent Dagliev around the enemy's flank.

"Volga One, this is Ladoga Five. Situation?"

"Wait. Load sabot. I'm still in the shit, but it looks about even."

"Are you all right?" Bezarin was surprised at his good luck, after all.

"Yes. All right. But Roshchin's gone. Now. Fire. I saw his tank go up.

Catastrophic kill. I watched the last of his company go. In seconds. They came out of the smoke at an angle, driving right up between my tanks and the British. It was a matter of seconds."

227

Ralph Peters — — -

So. Perhaps, Bezarin thought, wishes had a dark, unforgiving power.

But he could not let himself think about that now.

"All right," Bezarin called. "Just stay off the crest of the ridge. Three's coming in behind them now."

"I heard the transmission."

"Good luck." Bezarin switched over to the regimental net.

"Ural Five, this is Ladoga Five."

Silence. Then a bit of faint, eerie music.

"Kuban Five, this is Ladoga Five."

"Target, left," Bezarin's gunner screamed.

"Hold it, that's one of ours," Bezarin said. He tried the microphone again.

"Kuban Five, this is Ladoga Five."

No response. Where was everybody?

Bezarin angrily unlatched his hatch cover and shoved it up hard.

Unreasonably, he felt that if he were out in the open air, he would have a better chance of reaching someone.

"Comrade Commander," the gunner called, trying to stop him.

Bezarin ignored the tug on his overalls. The air, laden with the acrid residue of the artillery barrage, of the smoke and the tank fight, was nonetheless marvelously fresh after the poisonous fumes in the interior of the tank. The noise of battle was still there, but at a reduced volume.

Then Bezarin noticed the huge black scar on the side of the turret. There was a break in the reactive armor plating that gave the appearance of a section of mouth where teeth had been knocked out. Bezarin suddenly remembered the tremendous jolt that had shaken the tank early in the fight. It made him feel weak in the bottom of his belly to realize how close he had come to dying.

Bezarin was startled a second time by the appearance of Voronich's tank leading five others up the hillside behind him. Several of these tanks also bore visible scars where the reactive armor had saved them.

Shaking his head, Bezarin pressed the microphone closer to his lips.

"Volga One, this is Ladoga Five. Put your tanks in the woodline just below my position. Cover the saddle you just worked up and the crest to the north." Six tanks, Bezarin thought, plus his own. Seven. And Dagliev had reported no losses at the time of his last transmission.

Roshchin was gone. And it sounded like the greater part of his company had gone with him. But Bezarin hoped that a few of them, at least, would show up alive and well as the last smoke dissipated.

Bezarin called Dagliev. "Three, what's your current position?"

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At first, there was no response. Bezarin was just about to try a second call when Dagliev responded.

"This is Three. I can't talk now. I'm in it hot."

Bezarin's newfound confidence began to dissolve.

"Three, where are you? I've got seven tanks up here. I'll come to you."

"It's all right," Dagliev answered. He sounded annoyed at the suggestion that he needed help. "We're just shooting as fast as we can. We caught their reserve right in its ass end."

"One, this is Ladoga. Prepare to move."

"Acknowledged."

Bezarin knew that they had the British now. He wanted to finish the job. But he was worried at the complete silence on the regimental net.

"Ural, Kuban, this is Ladoga. Can you hear me?"

"Ladoga, this is Beechtree. I hear you clearly."

Bezarin had no idea who Beechtree was. He tried again.

"Ural, Kuban, this is Ladoga. What is your situation?"

"This is Beechtree," the unidentified station insisted. "Regimental artillery. The attack has failed; it's all over. Air and fire strikes hit Kuban as he was moving up. Ural never reached the British positions. All of the battalions are destroyed. It's all over."

"Like hell," Bezarin said. "We're in behind them. They've pulled off the southern portion of the ridge. We have their positions. Now we're going to roll them up from south to north. Can you support us?"