Apricot Jam: And Other Stories (35 page)

Back down in the cellar they tell me they
’
ve taken quite a shaking. The women had been talking amongst themselves: What are we doing sitting here? Better go and look after our belongings. But now they
’
re hiding their faces in their hands.

Then there
’
s another deep shudder in the earth. That means it
’
s even closer than the volley on that ridge. Dugin is yelling nervously, desperately up above:
“
The line to the second
’
s been hit
... !
And the third!
And the fourth!
”

If they
’
re hitting the spot where the lines fan out, they
’
re very close. And if all three posts send out linesmen, it
’
ll be for nothing—they don
’
t know where the breaks are.

Someone pulls at me from behind. It
’
s the telephone man from brigade, and he seems almost horrified:
“
Somebody from
the very top
wants you!
”

Oh-ho! That means even higher than brigade. It has to be the army artillery headquarters. I take the receiver:
“
Forty-second here.
”

The connection is poor, coming from a long distance away, yet the voice is threatening:
“
Our tanks have been held up in square 74-41!
”

I unfold my map case on my knee with a trembling left hand and look up the location: yes, of course, that
’
s near
Podmaslovo
.

“
. . . We
’
re getting high explosive fire from
Kozinka
, 150-millimeter . . . Why can
’
t you give us the coordinates?
”

What can I tell him? A man can only do what he can do. But we
’
ll try. (Should I explain about the inversion again? But these smart people in the staff up there should know that already.)

I tell him that we
’
ll do our best.

Once again, very close to us, an explosion,
then
another! Someone up above is shouting:
“
Andrey
-a-shin!
”

The voice on the telephone (I
’
ve got my hand clapped over my left ear so I can hear) says:
“
Listen, Forty-two. When we advance, we
’
ll send a commission to check the location of those German guns. And if you
’
ve got them in the wrong spot, you
’
ll be facing charges. I can do whatever I like with you.
”

Who is this
“
I
”
? He hasn
’
t identified himself. Could it be the chief of artillery himself? My throat
’
s gone dry.

While this is going on, there
’
s a huge bustle around our station, with people shouting and running up and down the stairs.

I pass back the receiver and fix the map case that
’
s hanging open. Now, what
’
s going on out there?

Yenko and Dugin shout in one voice:
“
Andreyashin
’
s
been hit!
”

I run up the stairs and see
Komyaga
and
Lundyshev
running up the slope, carrying a groundsheet. Behind them, limping a little but following readily, comes the medic
Cherneykin
carrying his medical bag. Someone
’
s lying on the ground about 150 meters away. Lying there, not moving.

What if the Germans repeat that shot? All three of them will be hit.

“
Find Pashanin!
Get the truck ready!
”
I shout.

I count the seconds: Please, don
’
t shoot again! But there
’
s still no second shot.

Dugin, forgetting regulations, has abandoned his recorder. His face distorted, his hands spread, he says:
“
Com
’
Lieutenant! We
’
ve only got the two outside posts left. We can
’
t do anything!
”

The three have now run up to Andreyashin and are bending over him. For God
’
s sake, don
’
t shoot! Not now!

There
’
s something white in
Cherneykin
’
s
hands. He
’
s bandaging Andreyashin and
Lundyshev
is helping.
Komyaga
is spreading out the groundsheet. The seconds tick by so slowly.

Pashanin comes running up, sleepy-eyed, his face covered with black stubble.

“
Pull out the truck and get ready to move.
”

The three men are moving Andreyashin onto the groundsheet. Two of them carry him away.
Cherneykin
, behind them, is carrying something else. He
’
s holding it well away from himself so as not to soil his clothes.

Is that a leg he
’
s carrying?

It is a leg, from the knee down, still in a boot, with a tattered puttee flapping.

They carry him on, treading heavily.
Galkin
and
Kropachov
run to help. Mitya comes after them. The lad wants to get a close look at the blood.

The young local boy follows behind; he just won
’
t settle down.

Someone tells me about
Galkin
:
“
He was held up for a
minute,
otherwise he
’
d have been there. It was his line as well ...
”

So Andreyashin rushed off
on his own
. And he
’
d put in for leave to Oryol. People to visit there . . .

He
’
ll have to get by without his leg. And he
’
s got no mother and father to help him out. . .

As they carry him by, I hear him groan:
“
Just straighten my right leg for me, boys ...
”

His missing leg . . .

The bandage and cotton wool barely stop the flow of blood.
Cherneykin
applies another bandage.

Lundyshev
says:
“
He
’
s got another wound. Look there,
there
’
s
some spots on the side of his chest.
”

Shrapnel.
Well, he
’
s got his leave . . .

His swarthy face is much darker than usual.

“
Boys,
”
he pleads,
“
just straighten my leg . . .
”

The one that
’
s been blown off.

The ground is uneven and soft, and it
’
s hard to keep him steady. And it
’
s hard getting him onto the bed of the truck. Blood
drips
down, on the ground and on the open gate of the truck.

“
You
’
d best take it along,
”
I say, nodding at his leg.
“
Who knows, the doctors might need it.
”

They take it with them.

“
All right, Pashanin, go fast and go easy!
”

Over those same ruts and potholes again.
But Pashanin
’
s a skilled driver, and he
’
ll take him as if he himself were the wounded one.

There are two in the back with Andreyashin. They
’
ve closed the gate, and the truck drives off.
And if he survives?
We
’
ve still lost him. And we
’
re headed for his Oryol—straight there. Gloomily, we go back to our work.

And I remember: I may be facing charges.

Dugin is worried:
“
Comrade Senior Lieutenant!
Should we get them busy repairing the lines?
”

The linesmen are waiting, ready to go. They
’
re all afraid, particularly
Galkin
, who survived just by chance. And out there, our tanks are being shelled.

Who should be spared—the ones out there, or the ones here?

“
Just hang on,
”
I say.
“
We
’
ll wait a bit longer.
”

It was as if I
’
d sensed it! We barely hear the shots, what with all the noise and the heat, but they all come crashing down at once—half a dozen one-oh-fives, right in the same spot again, where Andreyashin was hit and a bit closer—a row of black bursts along the slope!

One of the houses is smoking; the roof has been blown off another.

“
Don
’
t say anything to them down in the cellar.
”

That was how the shells fell when Andreyashin was hit.

Mitya comes up from the cellar with a message from Dugin:
“
They
’
ve hit our advance post!
”
he shouts, as if pleased about it.

All the more reason to hold off.

As my granddad used to say,
“
Let them croak, the lot of them!
”
It
’
s one thing after another.

I
’
m not responsible for the whole army. Even the commander isn
’
t responsible for it all. What I have to worry about are these sixty men right here. As Ovsyannikov says,
“
We
’
ve gotta take care of our people, and take care of
‘
em
well.
”

We
’
ll wait a bit longer.

I smoke one cigarette after the other, without thinking, but they only make me feel worse. Some sort of dull stupor has taken complete possession of me; my brain has almost stopped working, and I can
’
t cope with even the simplest things.

Twenty minutes go by and there
’
s no more bombardment, so I send
Galkin
and
Kropachov
to repair the lines. If they
’
ve all been broken at once, then the breaks must be right here, by our station. The two men have telephones on their belts so they can call in and check the lines.

Then I
’
m called to the phone in the cellar again.

It
’
s the battery commander on our flank: his posts have been knocked out.

Tolochkov thinks that we
’
ve taken out 415; nothing
’
s coming from it. There
’
s still no bombardment. The lines have been repaired, at the spot where
Andreyashin
’
s
blood still lies.