by Ralph Peters
At last, Bezarin thought. The scout car continued on its journey, searching for the next commander in the column. Bezarin ordered his driver to work their vehicle out of the line.
Bezarin navigated the tank into the little town. There appeared to be less damage here, as though it had been surrendered without contest, or as if the battle had passed it by or forgotten it. There were no civilians to be seen, though. Only soldiers in Soviet uniforms. A company-sized refueling point had been set up in the town square, just in front of the church. The vehicle density was such that Bezarin directed his tank into a side street and dismounted to search for the commander.
Bezarin stepped over the hoses with the skill of an accomplished soccer player. It struck him that these smells of fuel and exhaust were the real smells associated with a career in the tank troops. The reek of expended ordnance provided occasional perfume, but the requirement to nourish the machine and the stink of its digestion were constants. As he skirted the rear of one of his own leading tanks the uneven sound of its idle warned him that the engine was in poor shape. But there was no time to investigate under the engine compartment panels. He could only hope that the vehicle would make it into battle. Every fighting vehicle was valuable now.
Bezarin made a note of the vehicle number, intending to return to the matter if there was time. A nearby tank crewman offered him a cautious salute. Bezarin knew he had a reputation as a hard man with little patience. While his soldiers worked willingly enough for him in their way, he did not believe they liked him very much. Assignment to Bezarin’s battalion meant higher standards and harder work than did a position in any of the regiment’s other battalions. Bezarin always tried to do things correctly. He realized that there was something in the Russian spirit that sought the path of least resistance, and he revolted against the shoddy work and low standards that too often resulted from the desire to simply get by from one crisis to another. When his soldiers were scheduled for training, he made certain that they trained. When it came time to perform maintenance tasks, no matter how simple and seemingly trivial, Bezarin stayed with his men to make sure that they did not simply doze off inside their tanks.
The penalty for all of this was that Bezarin had no close friends in the regiment. The other officers regarded him with a mix of jealousy and suspicion, and it was clear that he made them nervous. He knew that the regimental commander did not like him personally. But Bezarin performed so well on training exercises, and he so raised the unit’s statistical performance, that Lieutenant Colonel Tarashvili tolerated him and allowed him to run his own battalion. Rumor had it that the regimental commander was involved in black-market activities. Whether such accusations were true or not, Bezarin had little respect for the man. He did not believe that Tarashvili really understood military matters, except for those garrison duties that kept everyone out of trouble. Bezarin did not even believe that his regimental commander cared for his profession at all.
Now they were at war, and Bezarin had waited all through the night for the least scrap of information on the situation. His respect for his commander had deteriorated still further.
Bezarin spotted a group of officers working over a map spread on the hood of a range car. As Bezarin closed on the group Tarashvili looked up and smiled.
Lieutenant Colonel Tarashvili was a dark, handsome Georgian with a rich mustache and a beautiful southern wife. He was also an excellent military politician, capable of talking circles around political officers and Party officials. Now he touched his mustache with his thumb and index finger, a habit Bezarin recognized from the tensest moments in peacetime exercises.
“Well,” Tarashvili said, still smiling, “Comrade Major Bezarin has arrived. That makes all but one.”
A few of the gathered officers muttered or gestured greetings to Bezarin. He recognized the key members of the regimental staff and the commander of the lead battalion. The regimental chief of staff was missing, however. Bezarin figured he had been sent to the rear to sort out one problem or another. Additionally, there was an air force officer present whom Bezarin did not know.
Bezarin drew out his own map and worked his way into the group. He could already see that the colored lines and arrows of axes and control measures were completely new. Bezarin hurried to copy down as much of the information as possible. Before he could finish, the last battalion commander appeared.
“Good,” Tarashvili said. “Good. Now everyone’s here. Pay attention. There’s very little time. In fact,” he said, looking uncertain, “we’re late. Not our fault, of course. The routes were not clear. The damned artillery had them tied up half the night. We should have gone in at dawn. But it doesn’t matter…”
Tarashvili continued in a rambling, confused manner, prompted now and again by his staff. Bezarin’s anger and frustration grew until he was not certain how much longer he could control himself. The situation slowly became clear. The British defense had been ruptured during the night. Some Soviet units were already fighting on the outskirts of Hannover. But in the division’s sector, the confusion within the Soviet movement control system had allowed the British to patch together one last defense on the approaches to Hildesheim. The regiment had been intended to exploit, but now, due to a late arrival, they would have to fight through the reorganized British position. Tarashvili assured everyone that the British were fought-out and that they had been thrown into hopeless confusion. But Bezarin remembered the litter of destroyed vehicles along the approach route. Tarashvili went on about a divisional feint to the north while the regiment struck the weakened British right. Bezarin quietly gave most of his attention to the map. The traces showed British defensive positions in the vicinity of a ridge between the towns of Wallersheim and Mackendorf. Most of the terrain between his current location and the enemy was open and rolling.
“Will we have a smokescreen going in?” Bezarin asked, hardly caring now if his question seemed to interrupt.
“Absolutely,” the commander of the regiment’s artillery battalion said. “In any case, the fire strikes on the British positions will be of such intensity that little will remain for the maneuver forces to engage.”
“Really, it’s very simple,” Tarashvili resumed. “A matter of drill. We’ll have the opportunity to bring the entire regiment to bear. The effect will be overwhelming.”
The plan called for the battalions to move into the attack unencumbered by unnecessary attachments. The artillery would remain under regimental control, and the air-defense subunit would also be centrally managed. Tarashvili talked the assembled officers through the attack, from pre-battle deployments to the exploitation phase. Suddenly, Bezarin had the unexpected revelation that Tarashvili was doing his sincere best. But the lieutenant colonel’s best was appalling. The plan, the coordination measures, the assumptions had the sterility and thinness of the scheme for an unimportant bit of field training. There was no imagination or even routine polish to the plan. In essence, it was nothing more than a regimental drill, with the subunits deploying at distances measured back from the estimated British positions. Bezarin realized as he listened to the staff respond to questions that no one had bothered to go forward to conduct a personal reconnaissance.
“Division stresses that no one is to stop. Just keep going, no matter what,” Tarashvili said, repeating himself as he sought a firm way to close the briefing. “The intention, remember, is to reach the line of Highway 1, then to wheel left, and to advance along it to the west. Whoever first achieves the breakthrough becomes the regiment’s forward detachment. The initial mission of the forward detachment is to open Highway 1 between Hildesheim, northwest of our present location, and the Weser hill country to the west. Upon reaching this area” — Tarashvili pointed to the map — ”the forward detachment then turns northwest for Bad Oeynhausen and the Weser River crossing site, which is the objective of the day.”
Bezarin evaluated the mission. It was a long way to Bad Oeynhausen. “The crossing site due west at Hameln is considerably closer,
” he observed. “Are there any provisions for seizing it, should the situation appear favorable?”
Tarashvili looked at him in annoyance, eyes nervous. “Division has specifically identified Bad Oeynhausen as being of primary importance. We are obviously prohibited from moving on the Hameln site. Look here. You can see the control measures on the map. They’re self-explanatory.”
Bezarin, in a black mood, felt obliged to press the issue. Hameln was the obvious objective on their tactical direction. “Do you have any idea why we’re not interested in Hameln, Comrade Commander?”
Tarashvili looked at Bezarin with a semblance of fear in his eyes. Bezarin figured that the regimental commander had no answer and was embarrassed by the fact. But Tarashvili mastered himself. “Perhaps someone else has the Hameln mission. In any case, division has its reasons. Bad Oeynhausen is the objective of the forward detachment. Our air assault forces are undoubtedly already on the ground there. But we’re wasting time.”
“How much time are we allowed to inform our subunits of the mission?” Bezarin asked.
“Until the vehicles are refueled.”
That was a matter of minutes. Bezarin felt as though he needed hours to prepare his companies.
“That’s barely enough time to locate all of the company commanders.”
“There’s no time. We’re late now. We will proceed according to drill.”
“Shouldn’t we at least conduct a commander’s reconnaissance?” Bezarin asked.
“No time. We’re wasting time now. The order has been issued.”
Bezarin stared at Tarashvili.
“Go on, everyone,” Tarashvili said, forcing a smile. “Comrade Major Bezarin, you may remain and address any other questions to me.”
Bezarin felt the clock working against him. He turned to leave with the others. But Tarashvili surprised him by catching his sleeve.
The regimental commander waited until the others were out of earshot. Then he turned his dark brown eyes on Bezarin. In their depths, Bezarin thought he glimpsed the soul of a man who wanted to be anywhere else but here, perhaps at home with his splendid-looking wife.
“What do you expect?” Tarashvili asked. “What do you really expect, my friend?” The lieutenant colonel seemed painfully sincere, as if he valued Bezarin’s approval after all.
Bezarin did not know how to respond. He wanted it all to be by the book, to match his personal visions. He wanted time to issue battle instructions to his companies in a concealed jump-off position, to prepare each last detail.
“We all want to do our best,” Tarashvili continued. “I don’t know what more you can reasonably expect.”
Bezarin found himself at a loss. The words that came to mind seemed laughably formal and pompous now. Behind his back, he heard his tanks readying to move.
Tarashvili reached into the officer’s pouch he wore slung over his shoulder. Smiling, he produced two chocolate bars.
“Here,” he said. “Spoils of war. The West Germans make wonderful chocolate, you know.”
The oddity of the gift and its timing startled Bezarin. He sensed that Tarashvili, for whatever reason, was trying to give everything he had. Perhaps it was guilt over the wasted years and opportunities. But now it was evident that the regimental commander was lost and knew it.
“Take them,” Tarashvili begged. “It’s all right. You’ll be glad for them later.” The lieutenant colonel seemed almost pathetic. It struck Bezarin that he himself rarely considered other men as real human beings with complex problems of their own.
Bezarin reached out and took the chocolate bars. Trying to bribe me with chocolate. It’s the only way he knows how to do business, Bezarin thought. But he found unexpected compassion in this image of the other man now. It was pitiful that Tarashvili had come to this.
Bezarin forced out a word of thanks. So this, he thought, is what war is really like.
In the winter, Lvov seemed to be the grayest city in the world. Dirty snow piled up along the streets, making trenches of the sidewalks. When fresh snow failed to come, the snowbanks slowly blackened along the shabby rows of old imperial buildings, architectural remnants of the years when Lvov had been Lemberg, the heart of Austro-Hungarian Galicia. The once-stately offices and departments resembled women aged beyond any possible dignity as they crumbled away between the cinder-block-and-concrete structures from the Stalinist twilight. In the winter, in the crowded silence of the streetcars, it seemed as though the last feeble capacity for joy had been crushed out of the people. The men and women of Lvov trudged through the short winter days like weary soldiers, marching past closed peeling doors and frayed posters announcing events already past. He had met Anna in the winter, in Lvov, and she had stood out from her background like a match struck at midnight.
Bezarin remembered his route through the purple-gray of the faltering afternoons. He recalled the streetcars with their worn seats and their smell of urine, winter clothes, and chemicals. From the headquarters barracks, you took 23 to Konev Square, then 35 to the office block where the classrooms were located. In the old Austrian barracks, well-built and ill-heated, there was never quite enough space for all of the officers and men and activities. The streetcars, too, were overcrowded, but sometimes you got lucky coming in from the barracks and you found a seat before the benches had all filled up. Then you could read over your notes. There was insufficient room at the university, as well, and the special classes for officers were held in makeshift classrooms at an agricultural cooperative administration center. Everyone was happy with that because there was a tearoom for the cadres that still had cakes and other snacks in the late afternoon, when more public establishments had long been emptied. It became a joke among the officers that the agricultural officials, whom the officers nicknamed “our kulaks,” would never run out of food. Anna was a joke among the officers, too, but laughing about her in her absence was the only way they could cope with her.
She was an unexpected girl, this young candidate of literature. With hair that swirled around the collar of her winter coat like cognac in a proper glass. When she took charge of the class, her style had the sharpness of brandy, as well. No nonsense, Comrade Officers. Attention. The tiny Polish girl is in charge here.
The officers had come to the class for assorted reasons. The military district commander maintained very close relations with the regional and city Party officials. And he had fully committed himself to the military’s current mania for improving the educational achievements of officer cadres, as well as seeking improved contacts between the military and the community. The result was a variety of special university-sponsored courses offered in the late afternoon and evening. The older officers generally considered the courses a waste. But the younger ones, the hungry junior officers who had not had the career advantage of a tour of duty in Afghanistan, were all for the courses. The classes also meant a bit more time away from the drudgery of duties. The most popular courses were in fashionable subjects such as automation techniques. Bezarin had been one of the few to sign up for a series of writing classes. He sincerely wanted to improve his level of staff culture, but he also envisioned himself as a future contributor to the military journals, offering suggestions that would be respected and that would result in tangible changes. Most of his classmates had taken the course because it sounded like the easiest of the lot. Then the little Polish girl with the bothersomely elegant features had swept in and taken charge, and there was plenty of work for all. The officers nicknamed her “Jaruzelski’s Revenge.” And Bezarin, who had little experience with female instructors, thanks to his long years as a Suvorovets cadet, then the years at the academy and higher tank school, fell in love with his teacher.
Bezarin had always thought of himself as a firm, decisive man. But he found that he dreaded poor marks from this girl as though she were a savage commanding officer. Conscious of his short stature, he hurried to be in his seat before she arrived. At work, his mind wandered from training plans and range allocations to t
he way Candidate Saduska looked when she came in fresh from the street, cheeks stung red above her high collar and scarf. He did not know what to say to her. Then he discovered that she, too, had found out about the tearoom and had begun to arrive early so that she could eat her fill. Marshaling all of the courage the bloodlines of three generations of tankers and cavalrymen had given him, he waited for her one day. As she peeled back the winter layers he approached her, carrying a tray with two cups of tea and a mound of sweet rolls.
She looked at him with fierce green eyes, a revolutionary judge deciding a profiteer’s fate.
Finally, she said, “Sit down, Captain Bezarin, please. I have been meaning to talk to you.”
And the spring came early to Galicia. The muddy end-of-cycle maneuvers brought with them the first small flowers, and warm winds rolled up over the Carpathians from the golden south. None of the few girls Bezarin had known had been like this one. She gave him Chekhov to read, and he dutifully reported. The officers in the play did not seem concerned about their duties, and that was why the Imperial Russian Army had performed so poorly against the Japanese. And the three sisters never did anything but complain. They were not content with anything. Overall, he declared the play irrelevant to contemporary conditions.
“But this one,” she insisted, with the park a fresh, windy green all around her, “this story is one of the great masterpieces of Russian literature. Doesn’t it move you at all?”
He wanted to share her enthusiasm. But in these stories and plays of a bygone era, all of the men appeared indecisive, and the women were petty adulteresses.
“It’s all too artificial,” he answered at last, exasperated. “You. The two of us sitting in this park, now that’s real. Your ‘Lady with the Pet Dog’ is dead and gone.”
She laughed and told him the army had ruined him for life. He laughed, too, filled with unaccustomed fears that she might be right and that she would not go with him. Yet their love seemed to work: the hours in borrowed apartments and the dutyless Sundays in a countryside that had never seemed so rich before. Low hills that had until recently inspired him only to analyze terrain and ranging considerations gained a golden-green existence all their own, called to life by Anna’s words and gestures, and by the faint gorgeous smell of her when the wind blew down from the mountains and swept through her hair and over her shoulders. He gained confidence, only to have it desert him again. He knew that she liked his body, which was athletic, if short. She was a very small girl, with a frame that seemed far too light and frail for the spirit that enlivened it. And she liked his sobriety, and his earnestness, even when it made her laugh. But he could think of so little else that he had to offer. Officer’s quarters in some remote post in Kazakhstan, perhaps, where there was still no running water and where even a captain’s family had to share crude communal latrines.
