had found a sunken position between two apple trees.
Kryshinin told his driver to halt fifty meters to the rear of the vehicles, in a low section of the road. As he dismounted a soldier waved him into the cluster of buildings. Kryshinin ran, carrying his soggy map and his assault rifle. He could feel the wash of the artillery rounds as the enemy gunners reached toward the canal itself.
Inside the neat little courtyard, a rifleman lowered his weapon at Kryshinin, then suddenly pulled it away.
“In here, Comrade Captain. Up the stairs.”
Kryshinin vaulted through the doorway. The hallway of the house was littered with glass and smashed potted plants, the aftermath of the nearby artillery strikes. He jumped the stairs two at a time.
A lieutenant knelt low behind a broken-out window on a landing just below the second floor. He gazed through a pair of binoculars, man-packed radio at his side with the antenna angled out through the window frame. He looked around suddenly.
“Comrade Captain, you’re here!”
The boy’s voice sounded as though he had just experienced the relief of Leningrad. Loaded with complex emotions and thoughts, Kryshinin sensed that his arrival, in the lieutenant’s mind, had meant salvation, an end to all troubles. Yet Kryshinin could only feel how little combat power he had brought to the scene. Now they would need to hold out until the advance guard of the division arrived. If they were coming.
“Look,” the lieutenant said. “You can see them across the valley, by those woods. Orient on the lone house. They’re getting ready to come at us.” He held the binoculars out to Kryshinin.
One quick look. Tanks. Big, modern, Western tanks. Approximately thirty-five hundred meters off.
The artillery came back, shaking the farmhouse.
“They spotted us maybe twenty minutes ago,” the lieutenant shouted. “They came marching up the road like they were on parade. We had to open up to keep them away from the tunnel. A few minutes after that, the artillery started.”
Kryshinin looked at the baby-faced lieutenant. Somebody’s sweetheart. He touched the boy on the shoulder. “Good work. Good work, Lieutenant. Now let me see what I can do about those tanks.”
The concussion of a nearby artillery blast almost knocked him off his feet. Someone screamed.
“In the barn,” the lieutenant said. “The Germans. The family. They were still here, hiding. I didn’t know what to do.”
It had never really come home to Kryshinin before that warfare could have such complex dimensions. He thought for a long moment. The screaming clearly came from a female throat.
“They can take care of themselves,” Kryshinin said, turning away to organize his battle.
Kryshinin called the artillery battery commander, ordering him to either come up and act as a forward observer the way he was supposed to, or send someone else. He was prepared for another argument, but the artillery officer’s attitude had undergone a distinct change. He was excited now, too. He had contacted division, reporting that Kryshinin’s element had reached the crossing site. The chief of missile troops and artillery had personally informed the division commander. He had approved Kryshinin’s decision, and the advance guard from Kryshinin’s regiment was on the way.
“How far back?” Kryshinin asked.
“Didn’t say.”
“Find out. We have enemy tanks coming for a visit. They want us out of here.” He passed the grid where the enemy tanks were forming up. Then he hastened to the air force officer’s control vehicle. The hatches were sealed, and Kryshinin had to bang on the metal with the stock of his assault rifle.
Bylov, the forward air controller, opened the hatch one-handed, holding an open rations tin in the other.
“Taking a break,” he told Kryshinin.
Kryshinin almost gave up. At the same time he realized, jealously, that he had eaten nothing since the previous night. But there would be time, he consoled himself. Later. If they were still alive.
“Have you informed your control post of our situation?” Kryshinin demanded.
The air force officer nodded, forking up a hunk of potted meat so strong-smelling that its aroma penetrated the garlic-and-onions stink of the artillery blasts.
“Listen,” Kryshinin said, “we’re going to need air support. If you want to be alive at suppertime, you’d better get some ground-attack boys or some gunships in here. The valley just beyond the ridge is filled with enemy tanks.”
Bylov finished chewing and swallowed. “I’ll see what I can do. But if they can’t give me something that’s going up now, it won’t help.”
Kryshinin jumped back down off the vehicle, splashing in the mud. His camouflage uniform had been soaking wet since before dawn, and his trousers had been chafing his crotch. But the discomfort had disappeared in his current excitement. He raced for the tank platoon, instinctively running low, even though the enemy artillery had lifted for the moment.
The tank platoon had a problem. The platoon commander could not find any suitable firing positions along the ridgeline. In order to sufficiently decline their gun tubes to engage an approaching enemy, they would need to expose themselves to observation and fires.
“All right,” Kryshinin said. “I have a better idea. Pull back onto that low hill over there, just north of the road we took to come up here. There. See it? Hide where you can watch the approaches to the tunnel. Counterattack any enemy armor that gets through. Don’t wait for orders. Just hit them. We’ll try to hold around the farm buildings. Do your best.”
The lieutenant of tank troops saluted and immediately began talking into his microphone. The tanks belched into readiness.
Kryshinin hurried back toward his own vehicle. But before he was halfway, the sounds of combat came back, changed.
His infantry fighting vehicles and wheeled antitank vehicles were engaging. The enemy was on the way.
Kryshinin looked back across the canal. Still no sign of movement. Kryshinin cursed the artillery officer, wondering what was keeping him. He needed someone to call fires. Otherwise, they would be overrun before the guns did any good.
His tank platoon rolled powerfully down across a saddle and veered toward their new position. Kryshinin felt confident that they would do their job. The lieutenant had had a crisp professionalism about him.
One of the antitank vehicles had profiled too high on the ridgeline. Now it caught a round in the bow and lifted over on its back, throwing scraps of metal upward and outward in a fountain. Kryshinin felt a sting on his shoulder, as though he had been bitten by an oversized insect. He almost tripped but managed to keep running.
The nearest platoon of motorized riflemen had dismounted, but their officer had not properly positioned them. They were simply lying in a close line with their machine guns, assault rifles, and antitank grenade launchers, protected only by the small irregularities of the ground.
Kryshinin shouted at the officer in charge. “Are you
The lieutenant stared at him as though he understood nothing at all. Suddenly, Kryshinin went cold inside at the thought of what the situation was probably like in the platoon that had lost its lieutenant in the minefield. He felt overwhelmed by the need to do everything himself. He ignored the lieutenant now, grabbing the first soldier he could reach, a machine gunner.
Kryshinin ran along the line. Where the lieutenant had positioned the men, they would have been not only hopelessly vulnerable, but useless. They had no fields of fire. Kryshinin could not believe he had failed so thoroughly to train his officers and soldiers. He had complied with every regulation, and his training sessions usually had gone well, with the company receiving mostly fours and fives. Now it all seemed meaningless, as though they had all merely been going through the motions, without really learning. And now it was too late. They would have to fight in the state in which war had found them.
“All of you.
