Whorls of dust, the black spume of the steppe, spilled into the open driver’s hatch, riding on the June sun. He let the tank idle, hoping to hear screams from the men beneath it; the engine growled out any sound but its own. This is the way of the tank, Dimitri thought. You hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing, but the tank. You have to imagine the rest.
Oh well, he thought, I’ll keep having fun even without the screams.
Looking out through the hatch, he saw the whole company had gathered to watch his antics, the way Dimitri could make a tank shudder and dance, spin, and even run in place to dig its way down into a trench. They should see me on a horse, Dimitri thought. Next to an old Cossack on a horse, this tank, this machine, is nothing.
He shifted into gear, hit the gas, and let the clutch fly again. The tank bolted, its treads scoured the ground, Dimitri nodded; this T-34 fresh from the factory had some fire in its belly. He felt the chassis drop again toward the men in the narrow trench while dust thickened the air inside the tank. He pulled his hands off the twin steering rods. Rearing his goggled head out of the hatch, he raised both arms in the air and shook his fists for the crowd. I am the best driver! I am the Cossack of the tanks! He did not hear the men’s shouts but saw them raise their arms in reply, Yes, you are!
While he waved his fists in the air, several men broke ranks from the crowd and ran toward the tank. They dove through the dust cloud into the trench. Dimitri leaned over to see just how far he’d scraped down to the 6th Guards infantry trainees who’d hunkered under his bouncing T-34. Good, he thought. Almost all the way down to the undercarriage. That must have put some shit in a few britches under there, watching the bottom of a thirty-ton tank bore its way down on you. That was the point, wasn’t it? This was an exercise to help these peasant boys get rid of their fear of tanks. A job well done, then, Dimitri told himself.
He lowered himself through the hatch back into his driver’s seat. He gunned the engine and pulled the T-34 out of the trench. The diesel engine spit black fumes onto the trainees in the trench and doused those do-gooders helping their quaking comrades. Dimitri yanked back on the left steering lever and shoved on the right, spinning the tank in a tight circle, gouging out one last billow of dust. He shut the tank down.
He climbed onto the glacis plate and slid to the ground. Six soldiers staggered out of the trench, three helping another three whose legs wobbled. Those who could muster angry stares shot them at Dimitri, but like the tank his armor was sufficient to repel them. With his soft helmet and goggles pulled from his head, he could now hear the cheers. Dimitri ran a hand through his gray, close-cropped hair. He waved, then bowed.
When he straightened, he saw a sergeant stomping furiously over to him.
‘Private. What do you think you were doing?’
The commander of Dimitri’s tank was neat and good-looking, wearing the Russian tankers’ slate-gray coveralls like Dimitri, except his weren’t so sweaty and smirched. He was built like Dimitri, a bit long for a tanker, not so squat and thick to fit inside these cans of war. He was no peasant.
‘What I was ordered to do, Comrade Sergeant.’
Dimitri was calm. The man was much younger than him. All of the men were.
The crowd went quiet.
The sergeant worked his jaw, careful with Dimitri but resolute to show displeasure.
Dimitri spoke first.
‘A lot of these men have never been in combat. You and I have, Sergeant. What did you want me to do, be nice to them?’
The sergeant’s eyes cut away. Dimitri followed where he looked. A colonel stood in the crowd of men, hands on his hips, unhappy. The officer was obviously from 3rd Mechanized Brigade headquarters, come to watch the progress of the anti-tank training. The men were supposed to wait in the trench for Dimitri’s tank to roll past, then jump out behind the T-34 and clap magnetic mines on the rear above the tank’s engine and air-filtration systems. What the colonel had seen instead was a tank driver thwarting the training for some amusement and torment.
The sergeant brought his gaze back around to Dimitri. Bugs buzzed in the tall steppe grasses. Other tanks on other training areas growled in their own exercises. Dimitri lowered his voice below the insects and engines so only the sergeant could hear.
‘Who is that?’
The sergeant kept his voice low, as well.
‘It’s Babadzhanian.’
Dimitri grimaced. Colonel Babadzhanian was the commander of their 16th Regiment.
Dimitri looked down to think, but also to look sorry.
‘Slap me.’
The sergeant bristled at this.
‘I will not.’
‘I was insolent. Slap me now.’
‘No. It’s against regulations.’
And if you don’t, I’m headed for the stockade. Come on, boy, show some balls and save me a week behind bars. I hate their food.’
The sergeant held still. ‘No.’
‘Your mother was a whore.’
‘I know.’
‘You should have been drowned at birth.’
‘I know.’
