meetings and relate their biographies. They weren't afraid to admit the nature of their parents' occupations before 1917.
His own fate and the fate of his children, everything he loved and would be unable to live without, was no longer under the protection of the great, terrible and beloved State. For the first time he thought of Novikov with a mixture of warmth and timidity.
'Makarov, comrade General! Makarov's the man!' said Novikov as he came in. 'He'll be able to make quick decisions in any circumstances. Byelov will just tear on ahead without looking back – that's all he understands. And as for Karpov – he's a real slowcoach. He'll need a good kick up the arse.'
'Yes, cadres decide everything. Comrade Stalin has taught us to study them tirelessly,' said Nyeudobnov. 'I keep thinking there must be a German agent in the village,' he went on in a more lively tone of voice. 'The swine must have given our position away to the German bombers.'
Nyeudobnov told Novikov what had happened in his absence.
'Our neighbours and the commanders of the reinforcements are coming round to say hello. Just to introduce themselves.'
'A pity Getmanov won't be here,' said Novikov. 'I wonder why they wanted him at Front HQ.'
They agreed to have lunch together. Novikov went off to his billet to wash and change his dust-covered tunic.
The wide village street was almost completely deserted; there was just one old man, the owner of the hut where Getmanov was billeted, standing by the bomb-crater. Holding his hands wide apart, he seemed to be measuring something – as though this crater had been dug for some purpose of his own. As he came up to him, Novikov asked: 'What are you doing, father? Casting spells?'
The old man saluted. 'Comrade commander, I was taken prisoner by the Germans in 1915. There was one woman I worked for there… ' He pointed first to the pit, then to the sky, and winked. 'And I wondered if it wasn't my son, the little rascal, flying by to pay me a visit.'
Novikov burst out laughing. 'You old devil!'
He glanced at Getmanov's shuttered windows, nodded at the sentry by the porch and suddenly thought anxiously: 'What the hell's Getmanov doing at HQ? What fish is he frying now? The hypocrite! He gives Byelov a dressing down for immoral behaviour – then freezes up as soon as I even mention his Tamara.'
But all this was soon forgotten. Novikov's wasn't a suspicious nature.
He turned a corner and saw several dozen young lads sitting on a patch of grass. They were obviously new recruits, having a rest by the well on their way to the district military commissariat.
The soldier in charge had covered his face with his forage cap and gone to sleep. Beside him lay a heap of packs and bundles. They must have walked quite a distance over the steppe; some of them had blisters and had taken off their shoes. They hadn't had their hair cut yet and from a distance they looked like village schoolboys having a rest during the break between lessons. Their thin faces and necks, their long light-brown hair, their patched clothes – evidently fashioned from trousers and jackets that had belonged to their fathers before them – all this belonged to the world of childhood. Some of them were playing an old game he himself had once played – throwing five-kopeck bits into a little hole in the ground, narrowing their eyes as they took aim. The rest were just watching. Everything about them was childish except for their sad, anxious eyes.
They caught sight of Novikov and glanced at the still sleeping soldier. They seemed to want to ask if it was all right to go on playing games while an important officer went by.
'It's all right, my warriors, carry on!' said Novikov softly. He walked past with a wave of the hand.
He was taken aback by the heart-rending pity they aroused in him. Their thin little faces, their staring eyes, the shabbiness of their clothes had suddenly reminded him that the men under his command were also mere children. Normally, in the army, all this was covered over by the shell of discipline, by the squeak of boots, by words and movements that were polished and automatic. Here it was transparent.
Novikov arrived at his billet. Strangely, this meeting with the new recruits troubled him more than all the other thoughts, impressions and anxieties of the day.
'Men,' he kept repeating to himself. 'Men, men…'
All his life as a soldier he had been afraid of having to account for lost ammunition and ordnance, lost fuel, lost time; afraid of having to explain why he had abandoned a summit or crossroads without permission. Not once had he known a superior officer show real anger because an operation had been wasteful in terms of human lives. He had even known officers send their men under fire simply to avoid the anger of their superiors, to be able to throw up their hands and say: 'What could I do? I lost half my men, but I was unable to reach the objective.'
Men, men…
He had also seen officers send their men under fire out of pure obstinacy and bravado – not even for the sake of covering themselves by formal compliance with an order. That was the mystery and tragedy of war: that one man should have the right to send another to his death. This right rested on the assumption that men were only exposed to fire for the sake of a common cause.
Yet one officer Novikov had known, a sober and level-headed man, had been used to having fresh milk for breakfast. He had been posted to an observation-post in the front line and a soldier from a support unit had had to bring him a thermos every morning, exposing himself to enemy fire on the way. There had been days when the soldier had been picked off by the Germans and the officer had had to do without milk. On the following day the milk would be brought by another orderly. And the man who drank this milk was both good-natured and fair-minded. He showed great concern for the well-being of his subordinates. His soldiers referred to him as 'father'. How could one ever make sense of all this?
Soon Nyeudobnov arrived. Hurriedly and painstakingly combing his hair, Novikov said: 'War's a terrible business, comrade General. Did you see those new recruits?'
'Yes, they're a green lot. Second-rate material. I woke that soldier up and promised to send him to a penal battalion. I've never seen such slovenliness. It looked more like a tavern than a military unit.'
In his novels, Turgenev often describes calls paid by neighbours on a landlord who has just settled down on his estate… That evening, two jeeps stopped outside Corps HQ and the hosts came out into the porch to receive their guests: the commanders of an artillery division, a howitzer regiment and a rocket-launcher brigade.
… Take my hand, dear reader. Today is the name-day of Tatyana Borisovna and we must go to pay her a visit…
Colonel Morozov was the commander of an artillery division; Novikov had heard of him several times. He had had a clear picture of him in his mind: someone red-faced and round-headed. In fact he was a middle-aged man with a pronounced stoop.
His bright eyes seemed to have nothing to do with his sullen face; it was as though they had been placed there by mere chance. Sometimes, however, their quick laughing intelligence made it seem as though they were the true expression of the Colonel's being; then it was the wrinkles, the despondent stoop that seemed the chance appendage.
Lopatin, the commander of the howitzer regiment, could have been Morozov's son – or even his grandson.
Magid, the commander of the 'Katyusha' rocket-launchers, was very swarthy. He had a high, prematurely balding forehead and a black moustache on his protruding upper lip. He seemed witty and talkative.
Novikov invited his guests to come through. The table had already been laid.
'Greetings from the Urals!' he said, pointing to some plates of pickled and marinated mushrooms.
The cook had been standing beside the table in a theatrical pose. He suddenly went bright red, gasped and left the room. The tension had proved too much for him.
Vershkov took Novikov aside, pointed at the table and whispered something in his ear.
'Yes, of course!' said Novikov. 'Why keep vodka locked up in a cupboard?'
Morozov held his fingernail against his glass, a quarter of the way up, and explained: 'I can't have any more because of my liver.'
'How about you, Lieutenant-Colonel?'
'Fill it right up! My liver's doing fine, thank you!'
'Our Magid's a true Cossack.'
'How about you, Major? How's your liver?'
Lopatin covered his glass with one hand.
'Thank you, but I don't drink.'
