Ralph Peters
Red Army
FOR MARION…
comrade in all of life’s campaigns
“Here, across death’s other river
The Tartar horsemen shake their spears.”
“The Wind Sprang Up At Four O’clock”
Prologue
Night came to Germany. In among the pines, the low, sharp-prowed hulls of the infantry fighting vehicles turned black, and the soldiers gathered closer into their squad groups, huddling against the weak rain. Whenever possible, the vehicle commanders had tried to back off the trails in such a way that the nearby trees formed a protective barrier, allowing a safe sleeping space. Those who failed to pay attention to such details risked being crushed during a night alert.
The bivouac site was not virgin territory. When the unit had pulled in under the last afternoon grayness, which was more an ambience than a true light, it was evident that other troops had recently vacated the area. Huge ruts and waves of churned mud, the signatures of tracked vehicles, had ruptured the trails and broken the forest floor. Tins and scraps of paper littered the remaining islands of moss and pine needles, and the smell of human waste was almost as strong as the odor of vehicle exhaust. It was all instantly familiar to Leonid, who had just over a year’s experience of training areas in East Germany, and he recognized his unit’s good fortune in occupying the site while there was still a bit of visibility. The vehicles were much too cramped to sleep in, even had it been permitted, and when you arrived at a new location at night you had no idea where you might decently lie down.
For the first few days after the unit hurried out of garrison, they had moved about only during the hours of darkness. But now the roads were constantly filled, and this last move had been conducted entirely during daylight, covered only by the overcast sky. Everyone craved news. It was evident that this was not a routine exercise, but little information reached the soldiers. Leonid had already heard enough rumors to cause him to worry. All of his life, his teachers and youth activities leaders had drummed into him that the United States and the other Western powers were anxious to unleash a nuclear war against the Soviet Union, and the descriptions of the horrors of such a conflict had been sufficiently graphic to stay with him. Now he wondered what in the world was happening.
Seryosha, the big man and unofficial leader of the squad’s privates, sat under the awning of the vehicle’s camouflage net, assuming its limited bit of protection against the elements as his due. He had opened an issue of combat rations. He picked at the food, telling more stories about his experiences with women. Seryosha was muscular and handsome, and he was from Leningrad. He loved to parade his sophistication.
Seryosha’s audience, to which Leonid belonged, sat in a rough circle. All lights were forbidden, but the officers had disappeared to wherever officers went, and several of the squad members smoked now. Along with the last feeble twilight, the welling glow of drawn cigarettes lent an eeriness to faces and objects that did nothing to improve Leonid’s mood. Off behind the trees, metal clanged against metal, and a voice fired a loud volley of what could only be curses in some Asian language. Then the local silence returned, coddled in the distant humming of the roads.
Sergeant Kassabian, their squad leader, came back from a trip into the woods. Leonid knew he was upset to find that Seryosha had broken open the reserve rations, but Kassabian paused before saying anything.
Seryosha ignored the sergeant’s return. “And city girls,” he went on, “know their way around. No nonsense, lads. They like it, too, and they know you know it.” He noisily fed himself another bite of dried biscuit.
“We’re not supposed to be eating those rations,” Sergeant Kassabian said suddenly, finding his courage.
Leonid could feel Seryosha grinning. Seryosha had a wide, ready grin that seemed to overcome all troubles. Leonid pictured that grin loaded with the chewed mush of the biscuit now. He resented Seryosha’s power but could do nothing about it.
Seryosha moved over to make room under the camouflage for another body. “Come and sit down,” he told Kassabian. “You can’t eat promises. If we wait for the battalion kitchens to feed us, it’ll be the same story as last night. Come on, sit down. If there’s a problem, I’ll handle it.”
Kassabian obediently took a seat beside Seryosha, as if the bigger boy’s natural authority might expand to include him. The rumble of another unit moving nearby seemed to bring a tangible weight to the darkness. The shadowy form of the sergeant seemed very small, almost childlike, beside the broad-shouldered outline of Seryosha. Kassabian was really just a conscript like the rest of them, except that he had been chosen for a few months of extra training, after which he had received the rank of junior sergeant. Perhaps in another squad, he might have gained more authority, but here Seryosha was impossibly powerful. When the officers were around, Kassabian passed on military orders and seemed to rule. But in the barracks, Seryosha was incontestably in charge.
“Seryosha,” Leonid asked tentatively, desperately wanting to be included in the intimate circle of the group, “you think it’s the real thing?”
The question was unexpected, and the seriousness in Leonid’s voice spoiled the atmosphere of imagined women and the freedom to touch them. Leonid realized that he had used poor judgment, but it was too late. When Seryosha answered him, irritation undercut the practiced nonchalance of his voice.
“Think they’d trust us to lug around live rounds if it wasn’t?” Seryosha laughed spitefully. “You think maybe we’re going to the range and we’ve just been lost for the last several days? You think you’re just out for a target shoot and snooze, boy?” Yet it was evident that Seryosha himself did not want to believe that they might truly go to battle.
Leonid tried to back out of his dilemma. “Lieutenant Korchuk didn’t actually say there was going to be a war.”
“Korchuk?” Seryosha said. “That sissy boy never says anything worth listening to. The Party loves you. The Party says, don’t play with yourself in your bunk at night. The Party says, don’t take a crap without a signed certificate giving you permission.”
It was always odd to hear Seryosha ridiculing Korchuk, the unit’s political officer, since Seryosha nevertheless went out of his way to cultivate Korchuk’s favor, and the political officer was so impressed by Seryosha that he frequently designated him to lead group discussions and badgered him to sign up for the whole Party program. Korchuk seemed to be struggling to win over Seryosha’s soul. But behind his back, Seryosha’s commentary on the downy-faced lieutenant was merciless.
Everyone laughed at Seryosha’s attack on Korchuk — except for Leonid. When the lieutenant had come by earlier to cheer them up, he had only managed to frighten Leonid badly. Leonid had counted himself lucky to be assigned to the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany. He had hoped that in the German Democratic Republic, so close to the West, he might be able to collect a few unusual rock music records or tapes from special groups whose recordings were unavailable or very expensive back home. Instead, he had spent his first year restricted to barracks like a prisoner or on sodden training ranges, except for one escorted tour to a war memorial and a museum in Magdeburg. Then the routine had suddenly collapsed. The unit responded to an alert, hastening to its local deployment area. That much had been normal enough. But the accustomed return to garrison at the end of the test
