November 1916 Read online

  It amazed him to think of all that he had lived through, of how much he had changed, in a year. Walking from the observation post to the battery, worn out and deep in thought, he had paid no attention to the shell hideously whistling overhead until he saw on the fringe of Dryagovets a black column three times higher than the forest, and topping it a bright red cap of belching flames, and higher still a flight of thick sticks. Before all this collapsed, and in spite of the incredible din, he had made the connections: an eight-inch shell had fallen on the battery’s ammunition dump, the sticks were splintered seven-inch beams, and the blasts were Russian shells exploding vertically. You might think (but at the time you would not be thinking) that it was against nature for any living creature to rush to its death. It was not Sanya’s duty to be with the battery at that moment, and no one would have been surprised or blamed him if he had arrived ten minutes late, but without stopping to think he rushed to the gun site as fast as his legs could carry him. Beams were still falling in a cloud of soil (two of them stuck upright as though pile-driven into the ground) and an ammunition box full of shrapnel burst into flames. There was no officer to be seen, and only a handful of gunners, a junior bombardier, and a few soldiers from the ranks who had taken cover at the moment of the explosion. Sanya shouted at them to follow him and raced toward the shell box. Smoke was pouring from its shattered sides (the powder in the broken shell cases was burning). They all rushed with him to prevent the explosion, expecting to be hit by it, and also expecting at any moment to be hit by another shell capable of scooping out a crater thirty-five feet in diameter and nine feet deep. But the next one didn’t arrive, and in the meantime they had hacked off the burning casing with axes and hurriedly thrown out the shells (their wrapping already red-hot) before even one could go off. The work was done in such tearing haste that Sanya didn’t have time to feel frightened. It was only when they had finished and were mopping their brows that he felt his legs trembling and refusing to support him.

  He had still not got over his surprise at himself and the men who had helped him when they received a St. George’s Cross each, and the Awards Council bestowed an Officer’s Cross on Second Lieutenant Lazhenitsyn.

  Then, and at many other times, Sanya’s life might have ended in his twenty-fifth year, in the lush and pleasant locality between Vlasy and Melikhovichi with their clumps of tall poplars. And though the front might move elsewhere, and however often the scene of danger and of short-lived soldierly joys might change, this place in which they had spent a whole anxious year would always be remembered as his lost homeland.

  There was another enigma: a boundary line which had never existed before, and which would later be obliterated, plowed under, surviving only in the memory of old men, now separated the two intruding armies, and so divided and alienated from each other two pieces of a continuous and long-cultivated tract of land. Everything should have been just the same on the other side of the line—and everything seemed entirely different. It should have been another cozy piece of the homeland, embellished with a scattering of farmhouses and peasant huts, with the same eighteenth-century coach road sparsely lined with birches and disappearing over a rise and beyond the river, the same windmills, poplars, and derelict stork’s nests—but instead it was a parcel of alien land under alien rule.

  That spring, when the Rostov Grenadier Regiment had dug in close to the Torczyc Heights, they had made a successful sally before dawn, taken the German trenches by surprise, and might have crossed the Szara if there had been any backup. Sanya happened to be on duty at the observation post in the Rostov Regiment’s forward trench, and went with the attack. He could not have given them artillery support—the use of shells was prohibited and the operation had developed suddenly at the regimental level—but Sanya ran across those 1,500 yards of land scanned day in and day out, studied stone by stone, surmounted the two-crested hill, and gasped: it really was another world over there. Not barren, broken land with nary a bush, but, from immediately beyond the German trenches, a green slope down to the river, flourishing oaks, pollarded willows, luxuriant shrubbery along a stream, and a soft morning river mist caressing these lovely creations. No sooner had the machine guns and rifles fallen silent than a nightingale, nearby but invisible, came to life and began pouring its heart out, uninhibitedly, with all the expected grace notes and trills and dying falls. … He too would not be driven by the war from his accustomed place!

  This steep green bank beyond the Torczyc Heights, this mist, this unexpected nightingale seemed to Sanya a paradise on earth. What strength and what love had gone into its creation. How strange to think that at either end the Torczyc slope and Golubovshchina rang still with their eternal song while in the shadow zone between them where the twenty-foot crucifix had survived without a scratch, a thousand men had in a fit of madness burrowed into the ground to blaze away at each other with the whole arsenal of twentieth-century technology.

  This sprint before dawn with pounding heart to where neither orders nor a sense of duty had sent him, but his own overmastering urge to feel for the first time in his life what it was to attack, seemed to have given him wings, he felt light-headed and half conscious as though after a night of happiness and love. There was a charge and a victory, but it was a lighthearted affair, without casualties. For that half hour Sanya was disembodied and unafraid of raking lead, he had no ears for the bullets that began to whistle toward them from beyond the Szara.

  Something else, however, had stolen into Second Lieutenant Lazhenitsyn’s mind. In spite of his sleepwalking weightlessness, and rapt as he was by the nightingale’s song, he used that brief lull to cast an eye over the German trenches: they were clean, dry, deep enough to stand up in, lined and solidly floored with planks, they had sentry boxes for the winter, the dugouts were shored up with beams, impenetrable by Russian field artillery, and some of them were even fortified with concrete. And although it had always been easy to deduce that the Russian positions must be wide open to scrutiny from this point, it was only when he had looked for himself through the observation slits in the concrete that the second lieutenant realized with a shock how awkwardly placed, how exposed, how defenseless the Russian forces were—almost as though they were waging the war according to the other side’s rules.

  He also took from a nail in a bunker a magnificent pair of Zeiss field glasses with sixteen-power magnification. Many months later, he would look out from the old, low-lying position at those even more inaccessible Torczyc Heights, now fortified with five barbed-wire fences, and at the tops of the oaks beyond them, and find it hard to believe that he had been there, but for the splendid, heavy field glasses always hanging on his chest or at his eyes and often borrowed by his comrades or senior officers, because they had only Russian army issue with no more than eight-power magnification.

  They were like the Firebird’s feather plucked by the sleeping prince as an enduring proof of what he had seen in his dreams.

  *Verst: An old Russian measure, roughly two-thirds of a mile. [Trans.]

  [2]

  Lieutenant Colonel Boyer had assigned Second Lieutenant Lazhenitsyn out of turn to No. 3 Battery’s lateral observation post near the village of Dubrowna at 10 a.m. on 27 October, so that he could take part in the battery commander’s target practice.

  This was a breach of training procedure. Whatever his three platoon commanders were like they should have been given equal training opportunities and each have taken his turn with the guns. But under the curse of having to fight with an army thinned out beyond recognition, in which real, regular officers had been replaced by nondescripts, and NCOs with long service by half-trained common soldiers, the lieutenant colonel could afford not to worry too much about using the commander of No. 3 Platoon, who was better trained and more conscientious than the others, though, like them, no soldier at heart. The commander of No. 1 Platoon, Chernega, promoted from sergeant major to ensign, was as brave a fighter as anyone could wish, but was lacking in knowledge and skill, not alway
s quick to react, and not easily geared into a strictly disciplined system. Ensign Ustimovich, a forty-five-year-old schoolteacher recalled from the reserve, was burdened with family and other cares, was, moreover, an infantryman assigned to the battery only because of the dearth of artillery officers, and though, to his own discomfort and that of his battery commander, he was nominally in charge of No. 2 Platoon, never looked like he had the makings of a gunner and even seemed incapable of adjusting to military discipline.

  There had been two days of unrelievedly dull weather: no rain, but never a glimmer of sunshine. From early morning this had been another day of unbroken cloud, but it was dry, not too cold, and an occasional brightness promised clearer weather. The barometer, however, was falling, and made raincoats advisable.

  No. 3 Battery’s forward observation post, in the infantry trenches facing the Torczyc Heights, commanded a narrow view deep into the enemy position, and so for major bombardments Boyer always manned a lateral post, on high ground partly captured from the Germans. The field of view from there was both broad and deep, but because the post was too far to one side, the firing drill became complicated: the observer did not see what the gunners saw, spacing measurements involved angular measurements and this called for quick calculation and adjustment. It was useless putting Ustimovich there, and Chernega would have been no less confused.

  The last hundred yards or so, branching off from the Pernov Regiment’s communication trench, was the battery’s own thoroughfare; it was nearly six feet deep, so that the tall lieutenant colonel would not have to stoop very much. The observation post itself was covered with three layers of beams lashed together with wire, so that medium-caliber gunfire would not part them.

  The lieutenant colonel took another look, saw that the yellowish light in the sky was growing and the field of view would be good, crouched down and held his cap as he lifted the canvas curtain at the entrance, and dived into the trench, followed by his orderly. Inside, the trench had been made still deeper for the lieutenant colonel’s benefit, and Second Lieutenant Lazhenitsyn, a shorter figure with a tentative beard half covering his chin, was standing on a beam at an observation slit, making entries in a notebook on a plywood board propped against the breastwork in front of him. When the commander appeared, he stepped down from the beam and saluted.

  There were many breaches of army discipline to be seen, and the commander’s eye, though not yet used to the half-darkness, had been quick to notice the two telephone operators squatting on stumps with their instruments on the bare ground beside them, their rifles propped against the wall, one with its muzzle so placed that loose soil was likely to dribble into it, and the three gas masks on nails driven into the board facing. The second lieutenant did not call the men to attention, and his salute was less neat and snappy than it should have been, though better than a year ago. Nor did he report what was presently going on at the observation post. But the simplifications introduced by the war into the military code had gone too far for there to be any hope of bringing them back within bounds. And Lieutenant Colonel Boyer, who was doomed to be painfully aware till the day he died of any departure from regulations even on the part of casually encountered civilians, reacted only to those that were meant to be provocative.

  Lazhenitsyn did not know himself why he did not report. He had something ready to say, but he suddenly felt that it would be embarrassingly theatrical in the presence of three soldiers and in the confined space of the shelter. Besides, he was a little afraid of the lieutenant colonel, although he had never heard him raise his voice. Chernega always behaved correctly and with presence of mind even when he was at fault. Lazhenitsyn somehow always felt guilty even when he had done nothing wrong. The lieutenant colonel’s eyebrows barely twitched above his pince-nez. The look in his eyes was invariably one-quarter contemptuous and half dissatisfied. The upturned tips of his mustache were so perfectly symmetrical that a smile would have immediately disturbed their balance. The long neck in the stiff collar of his tunic gave his head no freedom of movement, and defied those he addressed to feel at ease with him. At that moment his whole demeanor seemed to say, “Whatever you are doing here cannot possibly be serious.”

  But the lieutenant colonel said not a word, quickly returned Sanya’s salute with a neat unhurried lift of hand to temple, picked up his notes, and began reading in silence.

  These notes (conscientiously begun an hour before the appointed time, as the lieutenant colonel noted with no outward sign of approval) were the usual routine record of every move and every change at the enemy camp, with exaggerated significance given to trivial happenings:

  0905 Enemy continuing earthworks apparently commenced overnight at dormer No. 5.

  0912 Enemy one-and-a-half-inch gun discharged five shells at No. 8 trench.

  Lazhenitsyn kept up with the lieutenant colonel’s reading from line to line.

  0927 Russian howitzer at … discharged three rounds … at …

  0941 Enemy discharged eighteen heavy mortars at northern outskirts of Dubrowina. No damage caused.

  The lieutenant colonel had seen this last attack as he approached, and from down below he had even thought that the enemy was aiming accurately at the Russian observation post—one hit by such a heavy mortar from close by could tear the shelter wide open. But the second lieutenant had naturally not made a major event out of a near miss. It was plainly stated in standing orders that officers in artillery units must ensure the most efficient observation possible without consideration for their own safety. Enemy artillery fire was scrupulously logged by every battery at two observation posts and from every gun site, and their returns were then tabulated by the duty officer: type of gun, caliber, target, number of rounds fired, and, most boring of all, the pattern of the craters formed—in other words, where shells had fallen in relation to Russian weapons, dumps, limbers, and dugouts. The lieutenant colonel knew that all his platoon commanders found these meticulous notes, measurements, and diagrams tiresome, that Chernega concocted it all out of his head without measuring anything, that Ustimovich grumbled and groaned, and that Lazhenitsyn did what was ordered, much as he detested it. The lieutenant colonel saw to it that no one ever read in his face how much he disapproved of these reports, but refrained from inquiring too closely whether all the craters had really been measured. Nothing in army procedures must be laughed at: once you start knocking out the props you don’t know on whom the whole edifice will fall. The daily records were then summarized in a general divisional report, and delivered to Brigade HQ. Before long they filled several fat volumes. Brigade and Corps HQs searched for cupboards to store them in, then open shelves, then sheds, no longer even thinking of using them to analyze the intentions and tactics of enemy artillery. But there could be no question of relaxing the rules, and Lieutenant Colonel Boyer coldly and sternly examined the platoon commanders’ reports.

  0955 A blindaged structure apparently intended for long-term use is being erected near the Orthodox burial ground.

  Here Lazhenitsyn in a diffident murmur invited the commander to take a look through the Zeiss binoculars or the stereotelescope.

  It had to be done cautiously, since the Germans sometimes posted snipers with optic sights who could smash a stereotelescope to smithereens. The German front line had been drawn nearby on the same rise in the ground.

  The whole terrain, now brightly lit, was visible through the observation slit. A brilliant sun had broken through to the rear of the Russian position and lit up the yellowish-brown crests of the trees by the Orthodox graveyard, the thatched roofs of the village beyond it, the white Catholic church in hilly Stolowicze, and even, far away to the right, the steep slope over Lake Koldyczew.

  Boyer placed his pince-nez on the breastwork and accepted Lazhenitsyn’s superior field glasses. Quite right—the platoon commander’s deductions made sense. Construction had only just begun, and not much fresh earth had been thrown up as yet, but what was planned was obviously of major importance. Here was another t
arget to be added to the day’s program. The new construction must be brought under fire before it was finished.

  The orders Lieutenant Colonel Boyer had been given for the day were to breach the enemy’s barbed-wire defenses in several places where they faced the Ekaterinoslav Regiment, and mislead him into thinking that an attack was imminent. All that was really intended was to observe the other side’s system of mobilization for defense.

  If there was one thing the Russian three-inch guns did well, it was clearing away barbed-wire barriers. Defensive works of solid timber, let alone those of concrete, they could not destroy. Their range was too short for them to paralyze the enemy’s rear. For fear of grazing shots, they could not create a curtain of fire ahead of attacking Russian infantry. Once the naval guns had been withdrawn from Golubovshchina, the only guns with real destructive power in the whole sector, for several versts to right and left, belonged to the mortar battalion attached to the grenadiers, and even these were only four-inch as against the German eight-inch guns.

  “How many shells do you need for placement?”

  “Four.”

  When he was at work Lazhenitsyn was always slow and deliberate, never rushed things. That boded well.

  “Three. You mustn’t lose the advantage of surprise. How long before you open up with the whole battery?”

  There was no encouragement in Boyer’s voice or in his look. His manner indicated that these tyros were more likely than not to be wrong—how could they be expected to answer correctly? Lazhenitsyn was therefore cautious.