Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (33 page)

“
You
’
ll find out when you come.
”

I
’
m about to go outside when Yura Kulin comes almost running down the stairs. He hands me a sheet of paper with all of our coordinates.

“
If you can wait a minute, we can make them a bit more precise.
”

“
They
’
re OK, thanks.
”
And I pass them right over to the plotter, Nakapkin.

He picks up his measuring device, a metal goniometric rule marked obliquely and accurate to one meter, and sets down the
“
x
”
and
“
y
”
coordinates for each listening post on the plotting board marked with large blue grid lines, correcting the former temporary coordinates. And now he links the points of all the listening posts with new straight lines, new perpendiculars to them and new angles to the targets. Beginning with target 415, all the targets are indicated with new offsets.

Each of the sensors at the listening posts sends back information that appears as a line of ink traced along the paper ribbon in the central recorder. The movements of the sensor diaphragm at the listening post appear here as squiggles on the paper. By the difference in corresponding irregularities from neighboring sensors we can calculate the direction of the sound on the plotting board. And in ideal conditions, at night or in cool, damp weather, these three or four projected lines will all come together at one point. That
’
s what we
’
re looking for—the location of the enemy gun, and we pass it on to our own guns over the phone. But when there is a lot of sound interference or, as today, a temperature inversion that causes the sound not to be reflected, the sound vibrations are indistinct, distorted, or only weakly transmitted; the moment of movement is imprecise, and so how can we make our calculations? And if we estimate our readings incorrectly, the beams will be plotted on the board incorrectly. We won
’
t get the single point we
’
re looking for, only a long triangle. You might as well whistle for it.

That seems to be the problem now. Botnev is hanging over Nakapkin
’
s shoulder, frowning.

Botnev and I have also been through a lot together. Once we were on the move, in two trucks as usual. The only way to get to our destination was along the dirt track into
Belousovo
. Then we saw it: a stake by the roadside with a sign:
“
Suspected minefield.
”
But it was faded and carelessly written. Switching to any of the side roads meant a long detour, even retracing some of the route. Well, what the hell, we
’
ll do it the Russian way—by guess and by God. Pashanin
’
s one-and-a-half-ton jerked forward. I pressed my feet against the floor as if trying to keep a mine from blowing up beneath us and kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead: Could there be something under that clump of grass? What about that patch of loose earth over there? We went on for about 300 meters and then heard the explosion behind us. We stopped and jumped out, knowing an antitank gun was no threat to a man on foot, and looked back: the right front wheel and fender of Lyakhov
’
s truck had been blown away, but everything else was still in one piece, including Lyakhov and the men in the back of the truck. Botnev had also survived, though the explosion had been on his side; but he was tearing off, running up a little hill. He came to his senses, though he was raving a bit and had a mild concussion. (The first truck went on to the destination; the rest of the essential equipment had to be carried in.)

No, we
’
ve got a sizeable triangle here. Somewhere out there is target 415, but we still can
’
t pinpoint it. There
’
s clearly a one-fifty, and more than one of them.
We have to keep looking, but we can
’
t squeeze much out of these recordings. I focus all my attention on the ribbons from 415.

We can
’
t make any reports from this vague data, so let
’
s look for something else. Do the lines on the ribbons show some little spike or flutter that we can use for our calculations?

We pay no attention to the local people here in the cellar, though we sometimes have to shout at them to stop their chattering. Now there
’
s a little boy about ten years old who
’
s trying to make his way to the stairs again.

“
Where do you think you
’
re going?
”

“
I want to have a look outside.
”
His face shows determination.

“
Do you know what an artillery barrage is? Before you even have a chance to look around, a bit of shrapnel can go right through you. What grade are you in?
”

“
Not in any grade,
”
he says, taking in a breath through his nose.

“
Why
’
s that?
”

It
’
s a silly question: it
’
s war, and there
’
s nothing more to say. But the boy explains sadly:
“
When the Germans came, I buried all my school-books.
”
His face now shows desperation.
“
I didn
’
t want to study when they were here.
”

It
’
s obvious how much he hates
them.

“
And it
’
s been that way for two years?
”

He sniffles:
“
I
’
m going to dig them up now.
”

I turn aside for a moment, and he
’
s down on all fours, crawling under the plotting table; then he runs out to his own village.

They call me to the phone. The brigade
’
s deputy chief of staff is impatient:
“
Where
’
s the target that
’
s firing from
Zolotaryovo
? Give me the target!
”

Well, I
’
m doing my best to find it. Just give me a minute to think. It would be easier if I just closed my eyes and stuck a needle in the map. They could fire off a dozen shells and calm down. And if there was still fire coming from over there, I could say that it was a new target. But I won
’
t do that. I don
’
t know how many times I
’
ve explained to them the problem of interference, passing aircraft, temperature inversions. Just be patient, we
’
re working on it.

Then I
’
m called to another telephone. It
’
s the chief of staff of Third Battalion. He
’
s got the same question and is just as impatient. I easily recognize this fellow, Captain
Lavrinenko
, a sly Ukrainian. Once he called me to help him register a gun. He made the first shot and asked for a correction. I passed on the information from
the shell burst: left 200 meters and add 150. He took another shot and asked us to pinpoint it.
“
There wasn
’
t any burst.
”
“
What do you mean, no burst—we just
fired.
”
“
Ah, that
’
s what it was: we recorded an explosion, but it was half a kilometer to the right. What are you shooting at? Are you all drunk over there?
”
“
Yes, we were a bit off on that one, but keep tracking our shots.
”
He didn
’
t trust me after just one shot. The next time, he spoke to our first sound-ranging battery on the sly and then to my second battery, both separately:
“
Get a fix on my shot!
”
And once again, both batteries were in agreement. So now he believes me. And here he is, pestering me again: When are we getting the coordinates?

Yes, it
’
s a heavy gun that
’
s lobbing shells, a one-fifty; the bursts are to our left, between brigade headquarters and Third Battalion headquarters.
It
’
s very likely coming from 415, but there
’
s so much noise from the battle going on and from the artillery on both sides in the forward areas that we can
’
t get a proper fix: each time we plot the target on the plotting table it slips away somewhere; we
’
re left with some new triangle.

The advance post keeps starting the ribbon in the recorder. A heap of useless, discarded paper now reaches up to Dugin
’
s knees. We
’
ve already replaced one reel.

Now we have to take turns to get a little sleep:
“
Fedya, you go into the hut and close your eyes for a bit. I
’
ll stay here and keep plugging away at 415.
”

Yenko, with a telephone receiver on either ear, is something of a joker. He
’
s taken note of the very pretty girl sitting at the far end of the cellar.

“
What
’
s your name, sweetie?
”

She has fair curls on one side of her forehead and bright eyes.
“
Iskiteya,
”
she says.

“
Where
’
d you get a name like that?
”

The old woman sitting beside her says,
“
That
’
s the name the good father gave her. But we call her Iskorka.
”

“
How old are you?
”

“
Twenty,
”
she replies with spirit.

“
Still not married?
”

“
It
’
s the war, you know,
”
the old woman explains on behalf of the girl.
“
Who gets married these days?
”

Yenko, who
’
s almost missed the call coming in, passes me one of his receivers:
“
It
’
s Lieutenant Ovsyannikov.
”

Ovsyannikov is reporting from the advance post. He
’
s had to crawl to get there. He
’
s pulled them back a little, to a place where there are two large rocks, and they
’
re digging a little trench behind them. Still, it
’
s a hot spot to be in.

“
How do things look overall?
”

“
Overall. Well, on the right our tanks have gone into
Podmaslovo
twice. They
’
ve just managed to squeeze in a bit, but for the moment they
’
re holding their ground. They
’
re taking a lot of fire.
”

“
OK, that
’
s all we
’
ll need from you right now. Come on back and get some rest. We
’
re going to have a busy night.
”

“
No, I
’
ll stay on with the lads here for a while.
”

Despite everything, we are managing bit by bit to collect some other targets. None of them are precisely pinpointed, though. When we can get a smallish triangle, we take its center and phone in the coordinates to both battalions. But we just can
’
t seem to pin down the target in 415.