“Sir!” The voice inside the tank sounded hollow.
“Dismount!”
“Yes, sir!” The commander’s hatch lifted and, with a grand flourish, a large boiler-maker’s hand secured it in position. After the hand, a helmet emerged, framing the ruddy face of a powerfully built country lad. Tank Commander Soudek slowly emerged from the hatch, sat on one edge of it, and then slid to the ground in an experienced move. He assumed the nonchalant, slightly arrogant stance of a third-year soldier confronting a superior officer.
“As you were!” shrieked the major. “Comrade Tank Commander, is that any way to dismount? Do it again, and do it right this time.”
The tank commander from Haná shot a contemptuous glance at the major, but said nothing. He turned around and climbed back up on the turret.
“What is this, a slow-motion film?” shouted the major. “I think next Sunday we’ll be practising our mounting and dismounting techniques, won’t we? And don’t think that just because your time in the army is almost up, you’re no longer subject to discipline.”
Soudek sat on the edge of the turret and looked at the major with expressionless eyes.
“Inside! And close the hatch! And when you hear the order to dismount, you will open the hatch and jump down from the turret. Do you understand? Jump down, don’t climb down!”
“The ground’s rocky,” grumbled Soudek. “I’d rather not break a leg just before I get out of here.”
The major turned red. “That is the limit! Don’t you know what an order is? Orders are not there to be discussed. If you break a leg, that’s just too bad. Now — obey the order!”
Soudek turned around and backed into the opening. For a moment he had trouble closing the hatch, and this nettled the Pygmy Devil. “You heard me — quickly!”
“The latch is buggered.”
“You watch your language!” squealed the major, but the hatch crashed shut over his words. Borovička turned to Šlajs, who had meanwhile slunk into the background and was as quiet as a mouse.
“Discipline, Comrade Lieutenant, discipline,” said the major, shaking his head in a schoolmasterly fashion. “Give him — no, give the whole crew the order to dismount.”
“Yes, sir!” said Lieutenant Šlajs firmly. He set a grave expression on his face and approached the tank. “Crew — dis — MOUNT!”
Nothing happened at first. Then suddenly all the hatches opened. Soudek’s face shone in the commander’s hatch, ruddier than usual from the effort. He propelled himself out of the turret with such force that his body flew through the air directly at the major, like the shadow of an avenging angel. The major barely managed to jump out of the way, and as he did so he stumbled over a pile of dirt. Captain Matka gallantly caught him before he fell.
“Look where you’re jumping! Are you blind?” squawked the major. He was slow to regain his composure, and so failed to notice the lackadaisical way the driver, Desider Kobliha, crawled out of the tank in defiance of all regulations.
The crew then lined up in front of the tank in the proper order: first the commander, and next to him the driver, the backup driver, the loader, and the gunner. With a sinister wrinkling of his brow, the major gave Lieutenant Šlajs the order to test the loader, Private Mengele, on his knowledge of their disposition and the disposition of the enemy. He deliberately chose the loader because he assumed he would be the least informed crew member, an assumption that was all too correct.
In truth, even Lieutenant Šlajs had only a very imprecise notion of where the enemy was, and he knew little more about where he himself was. He only knew that his situation, at the moment, was pretty hopeless. He assumed the regulation stance and issued a bland order to Private Mengele. The private’s face radiated contempt for everything around him. From his posture, you would never have known that he had just come through almost thirty months of military service.
“Comrade Private, where are the enemy forces?”
The contempt in Mengele’s face deepened. Lazily, he waved his arm in the general direction of the hillside. “The enemy forces are — over there.”
“Can you be less vague?” Lieutenant Šlajs coaxed.
“On Old Roundtop.”
“That’s correct,” declared the lieutenant. “And where are we?”
“We’re at the bottom of Old Roundtop,” said Mengele. So far, he was turning out to be highly informed.
“And what is our strength?”
“Our strength is about one tank battalion.”
“What do you mean, ‘about’?” shouted the Pygmy Devil. “What exactly do you mean, ‘about’, Comrade Private? Don’t you know the unit you belong to?”
Unfazed, Mengele replied that he knew.
“Then what do you mean by ‘about’?”
“ ’Cause we don’t know how many we lost yesterday,” Mengele replied coolly.
The private’s logic stumped the major, who’d been sure he’d scored a point. He opened his little mouth to protest, but only a short puff of air came out. For a moment, no one said a word. Lieutenant Šlajs tried to look unperturbed, and the major gained enough self-control to say, “Go on, Comrade Lieutenant.”
Lieutenant Šlajs turned back to Mengele, who looked at him affably. He was sincerely trying to help his commanding officer out, but he really knew nothing at all. The lieutenant thought hard about how to phrase the next question to draw out a clear answer, but only managed to determine that he knew little more about it all than the loader. He decided to begin with a broad query. “Comrade Private, what is the enemy’s strength?”
Mengele scowled. “The enemy’s strength is one infantry regiment.”
Šlajs glanced sideways at the major, but the major’s expression remained inscrutable. Either that was the right answer, or the major himself didn’t know. The latter possibility was the more likely, the lieutenant thought. He was just about to ask the next question when a bolt of lightning struck from an unexpected quarter.
“Correct him, Comrade Sergeant.” It was Captain Matka’s voice. Matka had just managed to sneak a look at the battle plan, and now he was trying to re-establish some of his lost credibility. His punishment was swift and immediate. “You —” and then he stopped in horror, for he’d forgotten the sergeant’s name. For the commander of the battalion, this was inexcusable. “You — with the whiskers!”
A sergeant who looked dandyish even in uniform clicked his heels together. “Sergeant Vejvoda,” he announced, but that was all he could say. Once again, Lieutenant Šlajs tried to look unconcerned.
“Well?” Captain Matka said to the sergeant. He felt more confident because the major hadn’t tried to stop him. “What is the enemy’s strength?”
The elegant sergeant hesitated. “The enemy’s strength —” Then he made up his mind and declared with complete certainty, “The enemy’s strength is two infantry regiments.”
With granite-like impassivity — his face was too plump to convey a true impression of granite — Matka turned to another member of the crew. “Comrade Private?”
The man questioned — the backup driver — clicked his heels together and bellowed, “Lance-Corporal Lakatoš!” and then fell silent.
“Well?” Matka encouraged.
“The enemy’s strength is…,” Lakatoš made no effort to dampen the intensity of his voice, but roared out again, “STRENGTH IS — IS —” There was a long pause.
“Three —” prompted the captain, maliciously.
“Oh, yeah — three —”
“Special —”
“Spatial —”
“No, not spacial — special.”
“Special.”
“Automotive —”
“Automotive —”
“Chemical —”
Lakatoš was now silent.
“What? Chemical what?” asked the captain.
An apologetic smile spread over the Slovak’s face. Then he said in a voice that was almost conversational, as though he didn’t care any more (and he
didn’t), “Comrade Captain, I’m afraid I don’t know the answer.”
What followed was a classic military response: “How is it possible that you don’t know the answer?”
“I forget,” said Lakatoš, almost happily.
But the corporal’s love of truth found no favour with the captain. “ ‘Forget?’ ” he roared, and turned to face the rest of the crew. “Which of you knows the enemy’s strength?”
The crew stared back at him with blank but serene expressions. The captain felt a hot flash of panic pass through him. In his attempt to look good in front of the major, he had forgotten the crucial bits of information he’d managed to glimpse in the battle plan. He glanced at Lieutenant Šlajs, who was staring neutrally at his crew. He looked at the little major, who displayed nothing more than his usual expression of anger and petulant malice. The captain tried desperately to think of a question that would conceal the fact that the enemy’s strength was an unknown quantity in the units under his command, and at the same time avoid the catastrophe that would certainly ensue if he was asked to come up with the answer himself. He looked around at his fellow officers, who were trying to be invisible. He noticed that the arm of the eager Lieutenant Hezký was twitching, and was just about to ask him, but then thought better of it. He could not, after all, test his own officers in front of the enlisted men.
He was saved by the nervous Cadet Officer Slíva, who asked to speak. “The enemy’s strength is about two infantry battalions,” he said smoothly, “reinforced by a squadron of tanks and two artillery batteries. They are drawn up in a battle line in the Jablko Woods.” As he spoke, he indicated the directions by waving his hand. “The triangulation point on the horizon, elevation point two hundred and fifteen, the Bumbal Woods —”
“That’s enough,” the Pygmy Devil interrupted. “Carry on, Comrade Sergeant-Major.”
Sergeant-Major Barák gave a start, but then picked up where the cadet officer had left off. “The Bumbal Woods,” he said resolutely, “the Bumbal Woods,” and his eyes scanned the top of Old Roundtop as though the answer lay somewhere up among the pines, “the Zadni Woods, the — the —”
“That will do,” said Borovička calmly. “You, Comrade Tank Commander,” and he stabbed Soudek with his eyes. “What is the enemy’s firepower, according to recce?”
“Recce has determined that the enemy has the following firepower.” Soudek cleared his throat carefully and tried to remember what he had learned the evening before, on the recce mission. To be honest, he had learned several intimate details about Corporal Střevlíček’s last leave — details concerning the corporal’s girlfriend. Because they had all sat there in the trench ignoring the anxious voice of Cadet Officer Slíva, who was informing them of the results of the reconnoitring operation, the tank commander had absolutely no idea what the enemy’s firepower was. His only problem now was how much he could say and get away with.
“Two anti-tank cannon,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “four heavy machine-guns, and one tank, hull down” — and he looked inquisitively up at Old Roundtop — “to the left of that isolated patch of shrubbery two fingers to the right of orientation point two.”
“And where, Comrade Sergeant,” said the major, breaking into Soudek’s ad lib and turning to Desider Kobliha, “is orientation point two?”
An incredulous smile played around the corners of the driver’s mouth, and he turned towards Old Roundtop, where a small figure carrying a sign over its shoulder had just appeared. Kobliha’s arm described an uncertain arc, and his voice sounded like a voice crying out in the wildness. “Over there,” he said.
“Where exactly is ‘over there’?” snapped the major.
“Over there — two fingers to the … left … of the isolated shrubbery.…” He kept his arm out as though he were blessing both the historical battlefield and the lone pilgrim walking down the hillside with the sign. “Over there.…”
“Over there, over there!” howled the major. “Is that all you can say? Where is ‘over there’? I want the exact coordinates.”
Kobliha looked vaguely into the distance somewhere beyond the hilltop, and the major feigned calm.
“Give me a topographical reference,” he ordered.
Holy shit, Kobliha thought, I’ve never bothered to figure out where north is. And I can’t see the sun.… He raised his arm once more and said, “Before us is — north.” He paused, waiting to see what the major’s response would be. There was none. “Behind us is south,” he said, with more certainty. “To the right of us — west; to the left — east.”
The major was by now standing on his tiptoes, his pale cheeks flushed red. “What kind of blathering nonsense are you talking? Since when is west to your right if south is behind you? You call yourself a sergeant? And a tank driver? Would you mind telling me how you can take your tank across the battlefield if you don’t even know where north is?”
A good-natured smile spread over Kobliha’s good-natured face. “It’s that way, Comrade Major,” and he raised his arm again, but this time the gesture was energetic and confident. “Right over there, where that big hollow is, I go round and to the right because there’s this muddy patch on the left I got stuck in last spring, then I take her up to that fir tree and go into first because I have to jink left around that shell-hole from the last time we used live ammo, but you can’t see it from here, Comrade Major, I’d couldn’t do her in second because last time Střevlíček tried it she stalled on him. We always stop for five seconds on the other side of that shell-hole to finish off an enemy ATC, then I take her right to the top, right between the triangulation point and those little bushes, then I goose it to the wayside chapel on the other side of the hill, go into third, swan down to the road, cross over, and go steady on. Oh, right, and I have to haul up by the road because there’s always an enemy recoilless cannon in that little stand of trees that lets us have it, and then I head straight for that meadow near Okrouhlice, and then I stop and wait for the evaluation.”
The Pygmy Devil wanted to object but, given the way things were done on this oft-conquered battlefield, he hardly knew what to object to. He was saved the intellectual effort because the figure carrying the sign had by now reached the group and was looking around for the highest-ranking officer. When he saw the tiny major, he approached him briskly, rested his sign on the ground, and steadied it with his left hand while he saluted with his right. The eyes of all those present read the ominous device:
THREE SHERMAN TANKS
“Comrade Major,” sang the enemy, “request permission to ask a question.”
“Permission granted.”
“Comrade Major,” said the private, “Comrade Lieutenant Hořánek would like to enquire if the attack is about to begin and if the enemy should commence to open fire.”
“Not yet!” roared Matka. “He shouldn’t even think of opening fire. We’re not ready yet.”
“Yes sir,” called the private.
“Don’t the enemy have their orders?” Major Borovička couldn’t resist being sarcastic, nor could he let a mere captain have the last word. “Don’t the enemy know that the red flare applies to them as well?”
“Yes sir,” repeated the private, less sure of himself now. “Comrade Major, request permission to return to my position.”
The major granted him permission. The private executed a not entirely successful about-turn on the loose earth and began marching back towards enemy lines. As he walked away, they could see the back of his sign. There was another device painted on it, in the same red letters:
ONE TROOP OF CROMWELL TANKS
“Follow me!” commanded the major, and he set off in search of further victims.
* * *
Tank Commander Smiřický’s crew eyed the approaching peril through their periscopes. They could see the little major and his suite stopping at every tank in the line, where the same dumb show would take place, framed in the periscope’s smudged field of vision. The Pygmy Devil would shout s
omething, the officers’ faces would turn towards the turret, the hatch would open, and the tank commander would jump out after a fashion and then, in full battledress, with his leather helmet on his head and his revolver nestled in a holster against the small of his back, he would stand at attention. The major would ask him a question, then chew him out.
Sweeping the scene with his periscope, Danny found some comfort. In the end, he thought, my tank’s not in the worst shape, and the major’s chewing everybody out, so the law of diminishing returns should apply. He began to feel almost safe, and let his mind wander back to the girls in the political economy course he’d taught in Hronov before being called up. They’d given him a bottle of French cognac when he left to do his military service, and he’d given them all excellent marks — especially the pretty ones. Like Vixi, in those balmy civilian days in the woods behind the lookout tower, with the cherry trees in blossom.…
As the procession drew nearer, the tank commander’s mind came back to reality. The Pygmy Devil, his hands clasped behind his back, displayed all the signs of apoplectic outrage. Two paces behind him, Captain Matka walked energetically, the wattles of his double chin shaking. Behind him was the suite of officers. Danny’s heart began to pound. The officers took up positions around his tank and the major ran his eyes over it. Safe inside his iron turret, Danny could look him straight in the face through the periscope. The Pygmy Devil’s voice sounded faint through the armour-plating.
“Now, this is approximately what an entrenched tank should look like,” he was saying. “Roughly like this. It might have been more carefully camouflaged, but this is the first vehicle, Comrade Captain,” and he turned to face Matka, “that is properly dug in. Who’s in command?”
He said this with a malicious glint in his eye. The captain puffed out his cheeks and emitted a throaty sound intended to convey an effort to remember. In his state of mind he’d completely forgotten the tank commander’s name. He repeated his performance several times. Lieutenant Hezký, over-zealous as always, hesitatingly raised his hand. The major made a face and coolly turned to him: “Did you wish to say something, Comrade Lieutenant?”
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