The men around Grigori became jumpy. They looked around them constantly, held their rifles at the ready, and cursed one another at the least provocation. David kept looking up as if he might be able to see a shell coming and dodge it. Isaak wore an aggressive expression, as he did on the soccer pitch when the other side started to play dirty. The knowledge that someone was trying his best to kill you was overwhelmingly oppressive, Grigori found. He felt as if he had received dreadfully bad news but could not quite remember what it was. He had a foolish fantasy of digging a hole in the ground and hiding in it.
He wondered what the gunners could see. Was there an observer stationed on a hill, raking the woods with powerful German binoculars? You couldn’t see one man in a forest, but perhaps you could see six hundred moving through the trees in a group.
Someone had decided the range was right, for in the next few seconds several shells landed, some of them dead on target. To both sides of Grigori there were deafening bangs, fountains of earth gushed up, men screamed, and parts of bodies flew through the air. Grigori shook with terror. There was nothing you could do, no way to protect yourself: either the shell got you or it missed. He quickened his pace, as if moving faster might help. The other men must have had the same thought because, without an order, they all broke into a jog-trot.
Grigori gripped his rifle with sweaty hands and tried not to panic. More shells fell, behind him and in front, to left and right. He ran faster.
The artillery fire became so heavy that he could no longer distinguish individual shells: there was just one continuous noise like a hundred express trains. Then the battalion seemed to get inside the gunners’ range, for the shells began to land behind them. Soon the shelling petered out. A few moments later, Grigori realized why. Ahead of him a machine gun opened up, and he knew with a sickening feeling of dread that he was close to the enemy line.
Machine-gun rounds sprayed the forest, tearing up the foliage and splintering the pines. Grigori heard a scream beside him and saw Tomchak fall. Kneeling beside the lieutenant, he saw blood on his face and on the breast of his tunic. With horror, he saw that one eye had been destroyed. Tomchak tried to move, then screamed in pain. Grigori said: “What do I do? What do I do?” He could have bandaged a flesh wound, but how could he help a man who had been shot through the eye?
He felt a blow to his head and looked up to see Gavrik run past him, shouting: “Keep moving, Peshkov, you stupid cunt!”
He stared at Tomchak a moment longer. It seemed to him the officer was no longer breathing. He could not be sure, but all the same he stood up and ran forward.
The firing intensified. Grigori’s fear turned to anger. The enemy’s bullets produced a feeling of outrage. In the back of his mind he knew it was irrational, but he could not help it. Suddenly he wanted to kill those bastards. A couple of hundred yards ahead, across a clearing, he saw gray uniforms and spiked helmets. He dropped to one knee behind a tree, peeped around the trunk, raised his rifle, sighted on a German, and for the first time pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened, and he remembered the safety catch.
It was not possible to release the catch on a Mosin-Nagant while it was shouldered. He lowered the gun, sat on the ground behind the tree, and cradled the stock in the crook of his elbow, then turned the large knurled knob that unlocked the bolt.
He looked about him. His comrades had stopped running and taken cover as he had. Some were firing, some reloading, some writhing in the agony of wounds, some lying in the stillness of death.
Grigori peered around the trunk, shouldered his weapon, and squinted along the barrel. He saw a rifle poking out of a bush and a spiked helmet above it. His heart was filled with hatred, and he pulled the trigger five times fast. The rifle he was aiming at was hastily withdrawn, but did not fall, and Grigori guessed he had missed. He felt disappointed and frustrated.
The Mosin-Nagant held only five rounds. He opened his ammunition pack and reloaded. Now he wanted to kill Germans as fast as he could.
Looking around the tree again, he spotted a German running across a gap in the woods. He emptied his magazine, but the man kept running and disappeared behind a clump of saplings.
It was no good just shooting, Grigori decided. Hitting the enemy was difficult-much more difficult in a real fight than in the small amount of target practise he had had in training. He would have to try harder.
As he was reloading again, he heard a machine gun open up, and the vegetation around him was sprayed. He pressed his back against the tree and drew in his legs, making himself a smaller target. His hearing told him the gun must be a couple of hundred yards to his left.
When it paused he heard Gavrik shout: “Target that machine gun, you dumb pricks! Shoot them while they’re reloading!” Grigori poked his head out and looked for the nest. He spotted the tripod standing between two large trees. He aimed his rifle, then paused. No good just shooting, he reminded himself. He breathed evenly, steadied the heavy barrel, and got a pointed helmet in his sight. He lowered the barrel slightly so that he could see the man’s chest. The uniform tunic was open at the neck: the man was hot from his exertions.
Grigori pulled the trigger.
He missed. The German appeared not to have noticed the shot. Grigori had no idea where the bullet might have gone.
He fired again, emptying the magazine to no effect. It was maddening. Those pigs were trying to kill him and he was incapable of hitting even one of them. Perhaps he was too far away. Or perhaps he was just a lousy shot.
The machine gun opened up again, and everyone froze.
Major Bobrov appeared, crawling on hands and knees across the forest floor. “You men!” he yelled. “On my command, rush that machine gun!”
You must be mad, Grigori thought. Well, I’m not.
Sergeant Gavrik repeated the order. “Prepare to rush the machine-gun nest! Wait for the command!”
Bobrov stood upright and ran, crouching, along the line. Grigori heard him shout the same order a bit farther away. You’re wasting your breath, Grigori thought. Do you imagine we’re all suicidal?
The machine gun’s chatter stopped, and the major stood up, exposing himself recklessly. He had lost his hat, and his silver hair made a highly visible target. “Go!” he screamed.
Gavrik repeated the order. “Go, go, go!”
Bobrov and Gavrik both led by example, running through the trees toward the machine-gun nest. Suddenly Grigori found himself doing the same, crashing through bushes and jumping over deadfalls, running in a half crouch, trying not to drop his unwieldy rifle. The machine gun remained silent but the Germans fired with everything else they had, and the effect of dozens of rifles shooting at the same time seemed almost as bad, but Grigori ran on as if it were the only thing he could do. He could see the machine-gun team desperately reloading, their hands fumbling the magazine, their faces white with fear. Some of the Russians were firing, but Grigori did not have that much presence of mind-he just ran. He was still some distance from the machine gun when he saw three Germans hiding behind a bush. They looked terribly young, and stared at him with frightened faces. He charged them with his bayoneted rifle held in front of him like a medieval lance. He heard someone screaming and realized it was himself. The three young soldiers ran away.
He went after them, but he was weak from hunger, and they easily outran him. After a hundred yards he stopped, exhausted. All around him the Germans were fleeing and the Russians giving chase. The machine-gun crew had abandoned their weapon. Grigori supposed he should be shooting, but for the moment he did not have the energy to raise his rifle.
Major Bobrov reappeared, running along the Russian line. “Forward!” he shouted. “Don’t let them get away-kill them all, or they’ll come back to shoot you another day! Go!”
Wearily, Grigori started to run. Then the picture changed. There was a commotion to his left: firing, shouting, cursing. Suddenly Russian soldiers appeared from that direction, running for their lives. Bobrov, standing next to Grigori, said: “What the hell?”
Grigori realized they were being attacked from the side.
Bobrov shouted: “Stand firm! Take cover and shoot!”
No one was listening. The newcomers poured through the woods in a panic, and Grigori’s comrades began to join the stampede, turning right and running northward.
“Hold position, you men!” Bobrov yelled. He drew his pistol. “Hold position, I say!” He aimed at the crowd of
