Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (32 page)

Right now it
’
s Andreyashin on duty. He
’
s sat down on the earth floor, his back against the arched brick wall. He
’
s a nimble fellow, short and swarthy, with small ears. Born in 1925, he
’
s only just been called up. He jumps to his feet when I come in.

“
Stay where you are, no need to keep getting up!
”

But he
’
s already on his feet, and his dark, glittering eyes look imploringly at me:
“
Comrade Senior Lieutenant, can you let me off to go to Oryol for a few hours?
”

He
’
s from Oryol. He grew up on the streets, as a homeless orphan,
b
ut he puts everything he has into his job. Though he has no family, he has people he wants to see or look up in Oryol.

“
We
’
ll make it to Oryol ourselves before long, Vanya. Just
be
patient.
”

“
But how long will that be? I can catch up with you,
that
’
s
for certain.
”

“
I
’
ll let you go, and maybe for more than just a few hours. We
’
ll be in Oryol for a good while.
”

“
Burlovsky
’
s connected!
”
someone shouts to me from the cellar.

The extreme left! Now we have them all.

Dugin is rubbing his hands.
“
This is gonna be something. Now we
’
ll have some fun, boys!
”

“
A queer idea of fun you
’
ve got,
”
someone from the depths of the cellar says.

Now we
’
re all right, we can pinpoint a target. But we need to get them surveyed in. (Until that happens the locations of the posts are just rough, as we
’
ve marked them on the map.)

Up ahead there
’
s the hammering of a fire
f
ight in progress. It comes in waves, though. And if an artillery piece fires in one of the lulls, we can pick it up.

Isakov has porridge ready. The men from our central station go out in turn with their mess tins.

There are more planes flying in the sky overhead, both our own and German, but there are more of ours! We don
’
t see any dogfights; both sides are
diving in at the front lines. There
’
s quite a skirmish going on there now, and we can feel the explosions through the ground; that means we can pinpoint them.

Yemelyanov calls from the advance post:
“
I
’
m sitting with the infantry for the moment. I haven
’
t dug my own foxhole, they won
’
t let me. And there
’
s no cover. You
’
ll never believe how Ptashinsky just missed catching one—the bullet tore off his shoulder strap.
”

Ptashinsky is his relief man on the advance post. He
’
s a fine-looking lad, bright-eyed and very steady in battle.

Despite everything, we
’
ve now managed to pick up two targets, 415 and 416, using our five posts. Now we have to work out their coordinates. The caliber of the guns we
’
ll figure out just by a well-trained ear, and we can estimate the range.

The brigade is pestering me again:
“
They
’
re firing now on
Arkhangelskoe
.
”
(That was not far from headquarters.)
“
Which one was firing?
”

“
It was coming from Zolotaryov-3, target 415.
”

“
Give me the coordinates!
”

“
They
’
ll still be rough—we haven
’
t finished surveying yet.
”

A hale of obscenities comes by way of reply.

Ovsyannikov comes back from his tour of the posts; he
’
s covered about ten kilometers. I go with him to grab some hot food. We sit on the fallen linden tree.

I love him like a brother, this open-hearted Ovsyannikov with his Vladimir accent. We went through our artillery courses together, but we didn
’
t become fast friends until we ended in the same battery. On the northwestern front, at the last moment before the ice broke up in the Lovat River, he rescued the whole battery by getting it across without breaking through. Then there was the hamlet of
Grimov
, where we really became friends. It had all been burnt out, only the chimneys still standing, and the Germans could see every patch of it from their OP in a bell tower. Our central station was in a cellar like this one, and Ovsyannikov and I were sitting on the earth floor, our feet in a slit trench, and eating out of the same mess tin between us. While we were finishing off that soup and tinned meat, we had to jump into the trench three times because of the shelling, but the mess tin up top stayed upright. We crawled out and attacked the food with our spoons once again.

The Germans don
’
t have a direct view of Zhelyabuga Village farther down the slope behind us; they can only see it from the air. I roll myself a cigarette from some homegrown tobacco; Ovsyannikov doesn
’
t smoke. He tells me how he
’
s adjusted the locations of the listening posts. Someone coming along the road can see where the various units are located. There
’
s a big fire in Mokhovoe, where the Germans are. We must have set that off.

“
They
’
re getting squeezed. We
’
ll be pushing on. We won
’
t be here long.
”

Before I
’
ve finished my smoke I see some vehicles coming off to the left along the road here from the main road, bumping over the potholes. A lot of them! Katyushas!

Eight trucks, fully loaded—a whole battalion. They always travel like that.
Closer and closer.
They aren
’
t coming here just by chance. Someone has picked out a spot for them here from the map. They
’
re only twenty meters from us, and we
’
ve never seen them firing from this close. We know enough to get away from the backs of the trucks and keep off to one side. They wave our boys away and they all tumble out and get busy.

A volley! It begins from the far side and quickly moves down the row; the first one hasn
’
t finished before number eight is already firing.
“
Firing
”
isn
’
t the word, though. It
’
s a constant, deafening hiss, like some huge dragon from fairy tales. Fiery pillars slant down from behind each one, hitting the ground and burning everything that grows, scorching the air and the earth; ahead and above them you can see the rockets flying, dozens of them; then you lose sight of them until a huge fiery fan wells up along the German trenches. The power they have! Amazing! (The women in the cellar were frightened to death of the hissing of the Katyushas.)

The last truck barely finishes firing before it
’
s turning around to leave. The second follows, then the third. All eight of them leave with the same rush with which they came. We watch them bumping over the potholes in the road again, though now the guidance rails hold no rockets.

“
Well, now they
’
re going to make it hot for us here,
”
one of our boys says. That
’
s not likely, though. The Germans know very well that the Katyushas vanish as soon as they fire a volley.

Ovsyannikov and I go back to our seats on the tree trunk.

When you
’
ve had a moment
’
s rest, your thoughts will quickly range farther.

“
Yes,
”
I start speculating,
“
we
’
ll keep on blasting them, and then— into Europe like a spring uncoiling. After a war like this, there
’
s bound to be a revolution, don
’
t you think? It
’
s straight out of Lenin. And this so-called patriotic war will be turned into a revolutionary war, isn
’
t that so?
”

Ovsyannikov goes on sitting peacefully, saying nothing. Ever since he found that the Germans were using synthetic gasoline, he couldn
’
t believe that they would soon run out of fuel, as the newspapers said. What worries him now is the advance post:
“
Things are so hot there they can
’
t even poke their heads out. It
’
s a bad spot. Here, look at the map. How far to the side can I shift them? Or pull them back? I can move them in a minute, and won
’
t even have to disconnect their line.
”

We measure off the distance with the dividers. They could come back 300 meters, even 400.

Off goes Ovsyannikov, pacing boldly, tirelessly.

I can see that
Mitka
Petrykin is getting things ready, working as easily as if he were taking a swim in a pond. He calls in the rest of the boys from the plotting
platoon who were
digging slit trenches.

They
’
ve brought in some more cables to us, from the Second Battalion on the right and the Third on the left. They
’
re digging in the cables themselves. With cables fanning out on all sides, our central station looks like some important headquarters. Now three more people have squeezed into the cellar, sitting on sawed-off logs with the telephones on their knees.

Immediately I
’
m called to the phone. It
’
s Tolochkov, commander of Eight Battery in the Third. I think a lot of him. He
’
s a short fellow, quite reckless, and gets so involved in his job that he forgets everything else. I
’
m happy to help him make his shots.

“
You
’
ve got to get me some targets! I
’
m getting bored here.
”

“
Hang
on,
I
’
ll have some in a minute. We
’
re waiting for the survey. We
’
re feeling out target 418 right now.
”

Without any sound reconnaissance, the artillery can rarely identify a target. They can only do it in darkness by
direct
observation of a muzzle flash, and only if the enemy gun position is exposed.

Then I have another call from the Second Battalion. From the voice I can tell that it
’
s the battalion commander himself, Major Boyev.

“
Sasha, we
’
ve got some real work to do today, don
’
t let us down.
”

“
I can send you a few coordinates right away, but we
’
re still waiting on the final survey.
”

“
Never mind, just send them. And something else: come and see me at the
‘
cottage
’
this evening.
”

He means the battalion headquarters.

“
What
’
s it about?
”