1

The Adjutant balanced the company reports in his hand. He read the names of men who were no longer extant, deleted concepts, constituents of the past. Lost: item, 1 machine gun, serial number no longer possible to ascertain; item, 2 belts; item, 1 replacement barrel; item, 1 NCO; item, 7 men. There was little sense in submitting these reports to the CO. He and the CO were the hinges of life. The door opened: names arrived. The door closed: names departed. Here, life was given a number, and death a number. It was up to them to learn to cope with it. He had his job. What the CO had, he didn’t much care to know.

He knocked on the door. It was lined with cardboard, no one knew why. Maybe in a bid for respectability. Or maybe the door was split, or the cardboard was to show that this was the door to the CO’s office.

The Major sat at a desk covered with papers. You could see he was exhausted. He sniffed the mouldy smell of the building, a mixture of cold smoke, rotten wood, dirty laundry, sweat and vermin. It was a while since he’d last shaved. Two days, even a week. He was like a dead man whose beard continued to sprout. Anyone could see how long he’d been lying out. He had a glass eye, which disfigured him. His real eye looked along the four table legs in turn; at the cans full of water, at the yellowish liquid that had dead cockroaches swimming in it. He was trying to work out whether the cockroaches were getting more numerous. It was a mechanical census, he didn’t really care either way. It was a long time since he’d last attended to the stiff forms floating in the liquid.

When the Adjutant entered the room, the Major busied himself with appearances. He registered a spider’s web on the smooth paper covering of the table. A wheel, clock weights. Clocks ticking, fast or slow, but incessantly endeavouring to shorten a life’s span.

While he observed them tensely, as if they would reveal a secret to him, he felt like something bobbing in the water, lifeless. He felt wet on his skin. He started to swim. He felt better. When he woke out of this condition, the pain returned. It was an unendurable pain that he couldn’t do anything about. It felt to him as though he’d been living in it for ages already. It hung on his movements like lead. Incessantly the words in the telegram banged in his brain: ‘ANNA AND CHILD DEAD STOP BURIED UNDER DEBRIS OF HOUSE STOP BODIES UNRECOGNIZABLE STOP IMMEDIATE BURIAL.’

He didn’t know where the telegram was, he had mislaid it somewhere. But he couldn’t shake off the pain. When the Major sat at his desk alone, he would think about it. ANNA AND CHILD DEAD. He stared at the dirty walls. He opened his mouth and couldn’t speak. Sweat came out on his brow. All he could remember of Anna was that she had black hair. He couldn’t put a face to her any more. And they had lived together for twenty years. For twenty years they had seen one another every day.

He went to bed with her at night, and in the morning kissed her on the mouth. But he could remember nothing of her beyond the one thing: she had black hair. With the child, he at least had a photograph. A summer day in the garden. Flowers in the sun. Alert vivacious eyes laughing back at him. Caught in the camera lens. His dead daughter.

The Major suppressed a giggle, and looked out through a cracked piece of window glass. The Runner was lying stretched out on the bench. The sun was going down. Clouds of midges hung in the air. Everything was the way he had expected it to be. The street, the well, the sun’s fiery disc on the horizon. A soldier walked past in strikingly white fatigues, and spat expressively in the sand. Everyone he knew was still alive. Only his daughter was dead. As though he had failed to pay a bill. Now – unexpectedly, ruthlessly – she had been cashed. That was the thanks he got, that was justice.

He turned and issued a command: ‘I want the Runner in here!’

‘Yes, Major!’ replied the Adjutant’s voice. A draught picked three pieces of typing paper off the table, and deposited them on the floor.

As the Major bent down to pick them up, he looked out through the dirty window again. He saw how the Runner, addressed by the Adjutant, picked himself up, slipped by under the window frame, and suddenly materialized in front of him in the room.

‘At ease,’ said the Major, purely from habit. The Runner, worn down by daily orders, was standing pretty slackly in front of him, as it was.

‘All well?’ asked the Major. As he did so, he thought of his dead daughter. A tragedy with unpredictable consequences. Each time, something else came along that he’d failed to think of.

The Runner said: ‘Yes, sir!’

‘And the log-road?’

The Adjutant hurriedly intervened: ‘That’s no longer defensible!’ He moved alongside the Runner. For a moment, they looked at one another. Two men making some sort of deal with one another. Silently, no words.

The Major fell into a rage: ‘Interesting.’

‘Yes.’ The Adjutant inspected his fingernails. ‘Exposed point. No one’s fault.’ All at once, he looked up. ‘I’ll draft the memo to divisional HQ right away!’

Outside on the street, a heavy traction engine rattled by. The floor shook. A sprinkling of dust came down from the ceiling. A piece of glass fell out of the window pane and shattered on the wooden floor.

‘Presumably they’re reinforcing the artillery regiment,’ observed the Adjutant.

‘Which one?’ The Runner’s question came out like a shot from a gun.

The Major irritably ordered: ‘You don’t talk except when I ask you a question!’ He turned to the Adjutant. ‘Can you get me the map please.’

The Adjutant fiddled around on the table. Under his field tunic he wore a shirt with cuff links. They were both grimy. A grey line was visible along the creases.

With a show of indifference, the Runner looked at the map. The Adjutant’s voice was saying: ‘After all, we owe it to our men.’ His hand gestured vaguely at the table. It wasn’t clear what he meant.

‘Owe?’ repeated the Major. He looked at the Runner, and shook his head.

‘I am convinced, sir,’ said the Adjutant in a businesslike tone of voice, ‘that our point of view will be accepted.’

‘What do I care!’

‘I beg your pardon?’ The Adjutant spluttered in embarrassment.

The Major repeated stubbornly: ‘I said: what do I care!’ He clasped his hands together, and felt a clammy moisture, as of someone running a temperature. He might look up the doctor. For a moment, he toyed with the notion. He’d have little trouble convincing the fellow he was ill. With a sense of aggrieved innocence he thought: and I really am too.

‘You want to smoke?’ the Adjutant turned to the Runner. ‘That’s fine by us!’ He felt like a diplomat, at ease everywhere – regardless of the circumstances.

‘Thank you!’

The Runner awkwardly filled his pipe. When he was done, he didn’t light it. He didn’t want to take any chances. A bluebottle that had been crawling about on the stove suddenly took flight for the window. It smashed against the pane, and fell to the ground. There was a scampering as rats under the roof.

‘What were we talking about again?’

‘Counter-attack or not?’ the Adjutant replied unexpectedly. He dangled his question at the Major like a painting at an auction. Going. Going. The Adjutant had already given instructions: no counter-attack, no sacrifice.

The Runner looked hard out of the window, and listened to every word.

‘But you know the orders,’ said the Major.

‘What orders, sir?’

‘To hold our position. Any enemy breakthrough is to be mopped up in a counter-offensive!’

‘Yes of course, of course,’ responded the Adjutant, half-apologetically. There were hundreds of orders. Orders are orders, and they have to be obeyed, but sometimes one might just slip your mind.

The Major thought about his daughter. It was only fair if others got telegrams as well. He thought: I must get my own back. His hands still felt as wet as if he’d dipped them in water. Revenge can ease pain. He wanted to take revenge. ‘No exceptions,’ he said, and caught the Runner staring at his glass eye, as though expecting it to fall out.

‘Major!’ The Adjutant pointed at the map spread out on the desk. With his finger he traced a black line that led through the swamps. ‘The log-road is worthless. It’s not a road. It’s a track made out of tree branches.’ He pointed at a red cross. ‘That machine gun is in a needlessly exposed position.’

The Major didn’t want to hear any more. He knew what was coming. The futility of the position. The narrow path through no man’s land. Thin boughs, laid side by side. No direct communication with the rest of the company. Bog squirming up between the branches. The Russian machine gun was trained on the path. A screen of foliage provided visual cover, but not protection. A continual hail of explosive rounds passed over this one and only link. As for the position itself: a tangle of uprooted trees, stumps and stripped bushes. No craters. The swamp filled any shellhole within moments. A miracle that the unit had lasted as long as it had.

‘And the company’s strength is way down. We need every man. How can you justify a counter-attack?’ the Adjutant concluded. He took his hand off the map. He waited for a reply. Only now did the Runner grasp what they were talking about.

It was hard for the Major not to let on. He kept having to think of his daughter. His daughter had been killed. He mustn’t forget that. He could have said it to the Adjutant’s face. Why me? What have I done to deserve that? I never had a house built for myself in French style, like the artillery colonel. You can see it from the window. It’s down there. His gunners are living in holes in the ground. I don’t have officers’ parties every day with candelabra and white porcelain. I don’t keep a mistress. I don’t allow official trips into the back country. I’ve got nothing beyond my concern for my battalion. I never wanted this campaign. I’m a private citizen. They killed my child. I’m finished with being your guardian angel . . .

‘Can you justify it?’ The Adjutant repeated his question.

‘We’ve got replacements.’ The Major yelled: ‘Enough replacements to bring the company up to strength.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The Runner crumpled and turned pale. He recalled his hope that they would be allowed to dwindle away. Crumble. One after the other, taken back, wounded or dead. Till whoever remained would have to be withdrawn.

‘Replacements in platoon strength,’ said the Major, at normal volume.

The Adjutant smiled pityingly. ‘Replacements,’ he gestured dismissively. ‘Men without experience. You were going to keep them here, and get them toughened up gradually.’

He’s going to carry on talking to me, thought the Major, till I’m sitting at the table by myself again, and see the clocks with their weights, and hear the ticking. It would calm me down, knowing that others have had losses as well. I need to hear that, otherwise I’ll lose my mind. He clung to his resolve. ‘You do as I say.’

‘So, a counter-attack along the log-road?’ On the street outside, the traction engine was making its way back. It ground past. The walls quaked. Then silence.

‘I wanted . . .’ The Major looked at his boots with his one good eye.

‘Yes sir?’ asked the Adjutant. ‘What did you want?’

‘Nothing.’ To gain time, the Major turned to the Runner. ‘What are the enemy numbers like?’ A ridiculous question. The Adjutant didn’t say anything. The Runner merely:

‘No one knows.’

‘Hm.’ The Major was surprised at his own lack of responsibility. So far, he had always faced facts. His pain had made everything misty: his sympathy, his concern, the table with the tin cans with the dead cockroaches swimming in them; the clay stove that the kolkhoz farmer had left a bundle of rags on top of; the door with the leather hinges, through which the Adjutant had come with the telegram; tragedy and devastation. He thought: Why is it I can’t remember her? There was something amiss. You don’t just forget someone you’ve lived with for twenty years. The telegram, a blow. Either you fall to your knees and pray, and try to atone. Or else you strike back. He thought: I’ll strike back. He wanted everyone to suffer for the child: the Runner, the company in the barrier position, the whole world. And yet he felt some kind of inhibition. As though he wanted to leave himself some way out. There’s always a residue of cowardice. ‘Copy out the divisional orders,’ he commanded.

Now he knew the way to do it. It was pretty straightforward. The Adjutant did as he was told, and he seemed to understand it too. In block capitals, he copied it out, word for word. The Runner watched him.

The Adjutant held the paper up to the Major.

‘Enemy breakthroughs are to be mopped up by a counter-offensive.’

‘Quite so,’ said the Major. He passed the piece of paper to the Runner. ‘Take thirty replacements to the Front, and this memorandum.’

‘Sir!’ The Runner suddenly asked: ‘Is that a communication or an order?’ He held the paper up against the light. The Major turned on his heel. He looked at the Adjutant: ‘Have the men fall in!’

The door creaked. The Adjutant’s boots crunched over the boards.

‘Should I wait outside?’ asked the Runner.

The Major didn’t reply. He stepped up to the window and studied the papered-over cracks in the glass. Cracks that went in straight lines, then suddenly, almost whimsically, skipped to the side. The future was incalculable. Chance changed its direction.

The Major looked at the village. The well stood out against the sky like a gallows. The sun was going down between the trees in the forest. It was evening. He was pleased he had paid life back. Now everything would get easier. He had to take these sort of life and death decisions.

‘Might I ask a personal question, sir?’ a voice piped up. The Major had forgotten that the Runner was still standing there.

‘Go on,’ said the Major. He still had his back turned to the Runner, and continued to study the cracked glass.

‘I wonder . . .’ The Runner stalled, began again. ‘I wonder – I’m only just asking . . .’ he said again. Then: ‘Could you get me relieved?’

The Major didn’t stir. It was the first time anyone had tried asking him that.

‘Ever since we’ve been in this position,’ the Runner hurriedly went on, ‘I don’t know how many days it is, I must have gone back and forth a hundred times. I’m not a coward. But I can’t take much more of it. I can’t.’ He was speaking very rapidly. The melody of the path was heard in his voice. ‘I don’t know when it’ll be my turn. The heights – it’s like target practice. I’m the target. They’re all aiming at me. And the forest, with the dead and the wounded. I’m tired. Sometimes I have the feeling my lungs will tear.’

The Major drummed on the window glass with his fingertips. ‘Do you think the company in the trenches are any better off?’

‘Yes, yes I do,’ the Runner said loudly, as though afraid he might be ignored. ‘I can dig in there. I don’t need to go through the mortar fire. From here – back to the trench – that’s the worst. Please, would you relieve me, sir.’

The Major thought: I know what he means. You can’t get used to it. It’s like jumping from a great height into shallow water. You can stand the swimming. But what about the leap?

‘I’ve heard that sort of thing before,’ he said. He sounded cold. He didn’t want to let himself be caught off guard. Neither by himself, nor by the man on the other side of the desk.

But the Runner persisted. ‘It’s unfair.’

The Major watched the replacements emerging from the village huts. One of them was already by the well. A flushed, red face, with protruding teeth. A bearing that didn’t inspire much confidence. Just a silly swagger. Certainly one of those the Runner would lead to perdition.

The voice behind the Major said: ‘What would be fair is if there was a new man every day.’ The Major thought: fair? Killing children isn’t fair either. ‘Or at least once a week,’ said the Runner.

The Major realized he wasn’t very interested. He ducked out of the conversation: ‘I can’t concern myself with every individual.’

‘The Captain says it was your orders that I was to keep doing it.’

‘My orders? He can choose someone else any time he likes.’

‘Yes sir. But he says orders are orders.’

The Runner was starting to irritate him; the way he was talking, it was as though there was only him in the world. ‘I’ll have a word with the Captain,’ said the Major. He still didn’t move. A group of men had clustered round the well. The Adjutant was numbering them off. The replacements were busy with their packs. They were carrying too much. They would only need a fraction of what they had, and not for long. At his back, the Runner made a movement. Perhaps he had moved closer to the window? The Major didn’t care. He continued drumming on the window with his fingertips. Twice hard, twice lightly. Always in the same rhythm.

The Runner cleared his throat.

‘Was there something else?’ asked the Major. He wished he had sent the Runner out with the Adjutant.

‘I can’t go back in the position.’

The drumming stopped.

‘I can’t,’ said the Runner. ‘I’m sick.’

‘Sick?’ The Major turned round. The lie was evident on the Runner’s expression.

‘I can’t move my legs any more. The joints are inflamed. Someone else will have to take the paper and the replacements to the Front.’ He had laid the piece of paper with the copy of the divisional orders on it down on the table, and was clenching his fists. As though he had something hidden in his hands. His face and the clay stove seemed to be made of the same substance. He was silent while the Major looked at him.

‘Get out!’

The Runner didn’t move. Scraps of speech drifted over from the well: the Adjutant.

‘Take the report!’

The Runner put out his hand and reached for the piece of paper. Not proper obedience, just a movement. The Major looked at the grey face. There were tears on it. The Runner turned about. Silently he left the room.

The voice behind the desk was gone. The Major reeled slightly as he walked back to the window. Let the Runner whinge. The replacements formed up outside in a marching column. The Adjutant raised his hand. The Runner walked up, mopping his eyes. One or two were laughing nervously. The Runner shook his head. Through the grimy window, it all looked like a film. The sound had failed. It was silent. The Runner had been crying. With rage? Or was it something else? Now the sound came back on.

‘Break step – march!’ commanded the Adjutant. It echoed as though from a gorge. The Runner walked out on to the village street, and the column jerked along after him. The men, the well – everything dissolved before his eyes. Why couldn’t he cry? Tears were comforting. The Major saw the window glass, nothing more. The glass reflected a stranger’s grimacing face. His own face.