NOVIKOV hurried down the street. He had not needed to ask where HQ was located; it had been enough for him to see familiar faces in windows and familiar sentries outside doors.
In a corridor he chanced upon Lieutenant Colonel Usov, the HQ commandant. Red-faced, with small, narrow eyes and a hoarse voice, he was not a man of great sensitivity—nor was his a position likely to encourage sensitivity. His usual expression was one of imperturbable calm; now, though, he looked pained.
“I’ve been across the Volga, comrade Colonel,” he said in an agitated voice. “I flew to Lake Elton in a U-2.54 Some of my supplies are being kept there. All I saw was camels, steppe and salt plains. There certainly wasn’t much in the way of crops. What if we end up being stationed there? I said to myself. Where am I going to put the Artillery HQ? Or the engineers? Our intelligence, our commissars, our second line? I really don’t know.” He let out a sigh of despair. “The only thing anyone can grow over there is melons. I brought so many back with me the plane could hardly fly. I’ll send you a couple this evening. They’re wonderfully sweet.”
Novikov was greeted as if he’d been caught in an encirclement and been absent for a whole year. Apparently the deputy chief of staff had asked for him twice in the course of the night, and Battalion Commissar Cheprak, the secretary of the military soviet, had telephoned about two hours ago.
Novikov crossed the large room. The familiar desks, typewriters and telephones were already in place.
A woman with full breasts and dyed hair put down her cigarette and called out, “A wonderful city, isn’t it, comrade Colonel? Somehow it reminds me of Novorossiisk.” This was Angelina Tarasovna, the best of the HQ typists.
The cartographer, a sallow-faced major who suffered from eczema, welcomed Novikov back and then said, “Last night I slept on a spring mattress. It was like being a civilian again.”
The draughtsmen, who were junior lieutenants, and the young teleprinter operators with perms all jumped to their feet and called out merrily, “Good morning, comrade Colonel!”
Gusarov, curly-haired and always smiling, was a favourite of Novikov’s. Well aware of this, he asked, “Comrade Colonel, I was on duty last night. May I go to the bathhouse after lunch?” Gusarov was also aware that senior commanders are usually more ready to allow someone to go to the bathhouse than to allow him to call on relatives or simply to catch up on his sleep after working all night.
Novikov inspected the room. His desk, his telephone and his locked metal box of important documents were all there.
Bobrov, a bald lieutenant, formerly a geography teacher and now another of the cartographers, brought Novikov a batch of new maps and said, “Well, comrade Colonel, let’s hope we’ll be changing maps as often as this when it’s our turn to take the offensive!”
“Send an orderly to the intelligence section and don’t let anyone in to see me,” said Novikov. He took the new maps to his desk and began to open them out.
“Lieutenant Colonel Darensky has telephoned twice.”
“Tell him to come round at two.”
Novikov got down to work.
Infantry units, supported by both artillery and tanks, had halted the enemy’s movement towards the Don. But alarming reports had come in during the last few days. Intelligence sections were reporting a major concentration of German tanks, infantry and motor rifle divisions.
The question of supplies had become more critical than ever.
Novikov discussed these reports with his section head, General Bykov.
With the characteristic mistrust of a strategist for intelligence officers, Bykov said, “Where do they get all these ideas from? Who tells them the size of all these supposed new German divisions? Scouts do like to fantasize.”
“But it’s not only our scouts. Our division and army commanders are under a lot of pressure. They’re saying exactly the same about these new German units.”
“Commanders are no better. They like to exaggerate the enemy’s strength too. But when it comes to their own strength, they’re only too modest. Their only concern is how to get more reinforcements out of the commander-in-chief.”
The front line was hundreds of kilometres long, and the Soviet dispositions were too shallow to contain a powerful thrust from an enemy who could swiftly concentrate large forces wherever he chose. Novikov understood this, though deep down he hoped that the front might be stabilizing. He hoped and believed—and was afraid to hope and believe. The Soviet front line was all too thin.
Soon the scouts’ reports were confirmed. The enemy was attacking in force.
German divisions had breached the Soviet front line and their tanks were now advancing rapidly. Novikov read the reports, correlated them and entered new data onto his map. This was anything but reassuring.
The main breakthrough had been from the south; other divisions were advancing to the north. There were signs of new pincer movements; several Soviet divisions were in danger of being encircled.
Novikov knew these curving blue fangs only too well. They grew so quickly on a map. He had seen them on the Dnieper and on the Donets. And now here they were again.
Today he felt more anguished than ever. For a second he was gripped by a mad rage. He clenched his fist. He wanted to scream, to strike out with all his strength, to bring his fist down on these blue fangs now threatening the sinuous, tender, pale blue curves of the Don.
“What’s the joy of seeing Zhenya,” he said to himself, “if it’s only because we’ve retreated all the way to the Volga? No, it’s not my idea of joy.”
He smoked cigarette after cigarette, wrote, read and thought, and once again bent forward over the map.
There was a quiet knock at the door.
“Yes!” Novikov shouted crossly. He looked at his watch, then at the now open door, and said, “Ah, Darensky, come in!”
A lean lieutenant colonel with a thin, dark face, his hair brushed back, walked briskly up to Novikov and shook his hand.
“Sit down, Vitaly Alexeyevich,” said Novikov. “Welcome to our new home!”
Darensky sat down in an armchair by the window, lit the cigarette Novikov offered him and inhaled. He appeared to have settled down comfortably but, after another drag, he got to his feet and began to stride about the room in his smart, squeaking boots. No less abruptly, he sat down on the windowsill.
“How are things?” asked Novikov.
“How things are at the front,” Darensky replied, “you know better than I do. But as for me personally, they’re not going well.”
“Same as before?”
“I’m being dismissed, posted to the reserves. I’ve seen Bykov’s order. It’s a bad business. The director of cadres has even said to me, ‘I know you’ve got a stomach ulcer. You can have six weeks’ leave to get yourself treated.’ ‘But I don’t want to be treated,’ I said. ‘I want to work!’” Darensky was speaking quickly and quietly, yet articulating each word distinctly. And then he went on, “Since we’ve been here in the city, I can’t stop thinking about the first day of the war. It keeps coming back to me.”
“Go on,” said Novikov. “I’ve been thinking about that day too.”
“Seems like we’re going through it all over again.”
“I don’t think so,” said Novikov, shaking his head.
“I don’t know. I feel I’ve seen it all before . . . Blocked roads, streams of vehicles. Anxious senior commanders. All asking which are the best roads, where they’re least likely to get bombed . . . But then I see an artillery regiment, all spick-and-span, as if it’s just out on exercise—and it’s advancing west! Scouts, advance parties—all present and correct. I stop a car and ask, ‘Who’s the commander?’ A lieutenant replies, ‘Major Berozkin.’ ‘Under whose orders are you advancing?’ I ask. The lieutenant demands my documents. After seeing the general’s signature, he replies in a ringing voice, ‘The regiment is advancing, under orders from Major Berozkin, to engage with the enemy.’ That’s what I’d like to see more of. While everyone else wants to retreat, Berozkin advances. His men just look down at the ground, while the women gaze at them as if they’re holy martyrs. I never saw Berozkin himself—he was further forward. And now. . . why is it I can’t forget this Berozkin? I want to meet him, to shake him by the hand. And meanwhile, I’m being packed off to the reserves. Why? It’s not right, comrade Colonel, is it?”
Darensky went on to explain that, a few weeks earlier, he had had a disagreement with Bykov. Before the beginning of a Soviet offensive on a particular sector of the front, Darensky had reported that the Germans were deploying large forces just to the south of this sector; he had provided sound evidence that they were preparing to attack.
Bykov had referred to his report as balderdash. Darensky had lost his temper. Bykov reprimanded him, but Darensky continued to argue his case. Bykov had sworn at him and ordered him to be dismissed from his post and sent to the reserves.
“You know I’m not easy to please,” Novikov replied, “but I can tell you one thing for sure. If I were given command of a unit, you’re the man I’d choose as my chief of staff. You’ve got intuition—and that’s what one needs to make sense of a map. And as for you and the ladies, don’t we all have our weaknesses?”
Darensky gave Novikov a quick look, his brown eyes twinkling. Showing a gold tooth as he smiled, he said, “It’s a great shame they haven’t given you a division of your own.”
Novikov went up to the window, sat down beside Darensky and said, “I’ll have a word with Bykov today, without fail.”
“Thank you.”
“No need for thanks.”
As Darensky was leaving the room, Novikov asked, “Vitaly Alexeyevich, do you like modern art?”
Darensky looked at him in surprise, laughed and said, “Modern art? No. Certainly not.”
“But it is, at least, modern. It’s new.”
“So what?” said Darensky with a shrug. “People don’t argue about whether Rembrandt’s old or new. They just say he’s eternal. Permission to leave?”
“Please do,” said Novikov abstractedly, and bent forward over the map.
A few minutes later Angelina Tarasovna, the chief typist, came in. Wiping her tear-stained eyes, she asked, “Is it true, comrade Colonel, that Darensky’s been dismissed from his post?”
“Unless it concerns your work,” Novikov replied sharply, “you are not to disturb me.”
At five o’clock Novikov reported to Major General Bykov.
“So what do you have to report?” asked Bykov, looking crossly at the inkpot in front of him on his desk. The sight of Novikov was always an irritation; it was as if this daily bringer of bad news were responsible for all the disasters of the retreat.
The summer sun shone brightly on the map—on steppes, valleys and rivers, and on the general’s pale hands.
Calmly and methodically, Novikov began to go through a list of place-names. Bykov marked them on the map with his pencil, nodding his head and repeating, “Yes, yes . . .”
By the time Novikov finished, the pencil in the general’s hand had moved down as far as the mouth of the Don.
Bykov looked up and asked, “Is that it?”
“Yes.”
The general was composing a report about events that had taken place several weeks ago. Novikov could see that this was of far more concern to him than the alarming situation developing right now.
Bykov began explaining the movements of the various armies, repeatedly emphasizing the words “axis” and “momentum.” “You see,” he said, moving the other end of his pencil over the map, “the axis of movement of our 38th Army is a straight line, from Chuguev to Kalach. And the 21st Army’s momentum of retreat is constantly decreasing.”
He demonstrated this too, with the help of a ruler. From his tone one might have thought that he had foreseen all this and was pleased to have been proved right. It might even have been he himself who determined the axis and momentum of the Soviet armies.
Annoyed by all this and incapable of playing the role of a meek subordinate, Novikov said, “Comrade General, you sound like a scientist in a sinking boat, explaining why the bow is underwater, the stern is up in the air and the boat is keeling over. The important thing is to plug the holes, not to say why the boat is going under. With this axis and this momentum we won’t hold out even if we fall back as far as the Volga. And there’s no sign of reinforcements.”
After attempting with an India rubber to erase a spot of sunlight creeping across a red axis of movement, Bykov came out with words Novikov had heard from him many times before, “That’s none of our business. The disposition of the reserves is a matter for the Stavka to determine.55 We too depend on our superiors.” He contemplated the fingernails of his left hand for a moment, then added crossly, “The general’s reporting to the commander-in-chief today. You must remain in your section, comrade Colonel. But until you’re summoned, you’re free to do as you wish.”
Novikov understood Bykov’s dissatisfaction. Bykov did not like him. When Novikov was being considered for the position of Bykov’s second in command, Bykov had said, “Well, I can’t say that would be wrong. Novikov knows what he’s doing. Still, he is rather quarrelsome. And conceited. Not a man who knows how to get the best out of people.”
And when Novikov was put forward for the Order of the Red Banner, Bykov had said, “Give the man a star—that’ll do.” And Novikov had indeed only been awarded the Order of the Red Star. But in winter, when there was talk of Novikov being transferred to one of the Army HQs, Bykov had been very upset, saying he’d never be able to get by without him. And when Novikov asked to be transferred to a front-line unit, Bykov’s refusal had been no less categorical.
Whenever anyone in the section was asked a difficult question, they always replied without hesitation, “Go straight to Novikov. Bykov will just keep you for an hour and a half in his anteroom. He’ll be in a meeting, or listening to a report, or having a rest. And when you get to speak to him, he’ll just say, ‘Ask Novikov. I’ve delegated this to him.’”
It was out of respect for Novikov’s abilities rather than for his rank that the commandant usually assigned him one of the best billets at each new location. The head of the service section, a man with few illusions about people, always gave Novikov the best cigarettes and the best gabardine for his uniform. And even the waitresses in the canteen used to serve him out of turn, saying, “The colonel never has a spare moment. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Battalion Commissar Cheprak, the secretary of the military soviet, once told Novikov that the Front second in command, looking through the list of commanders to be called to an important meeting, had said, “You know what Bykov’s like. Get hold of Novikov.”
Bykov was clearly aware of incidents like this, and he did not like it when Novikov was invited to meetings of the military soviet. Recently he had been more irritated than ever; he had heard about the memorandum Novikov had filed. As well as outlining plans and ideas of his own, Novikov had volunteered his criticisms of an important operation—and Bykov knew that the commander-in-chief had been impressed. He felt upset that Novikov had not even consulted him; he should not have bypassed his immediate superior.
Bykov saw himself as an experienced and valuable commander, with an exceptional knowledge of military regulations and an equally fine grasp of the complex system for the classification of documents. His files and archives were in perfect order and his staff carried out their duties with impeccable discipline. Making war, Bykov believed, was simple enough; getting people to understand the rules of war was a great deal harder.
Some of the questions Bykov asked were very strange indeed: “But how come they had no ammunition?”
“Their own dump was blown up and there had been no deliveries to the support-services dump.”
“Well, it makes no sense to me. It’s just not the way to go about things,” Bykov had replied with a shrug. “It’s every commander’s duty to keep a full stock and half as much again in reserve.”
Noticing Bykov’s sullen expression, Novikov thought about how, in matters of more personal concern, this man could show considerable flexibility and resourcefulness. When it came to imposing his own authority, he adapted only too well to changing circumstances. Military regulations might have nothing to say about such things, but he certainly knew how to get rid of someone unwanted, how to find an opponent’s weak spot and how to present himself in the best possible light.
After quickly sizing him up, Novikov concluded that even Bykov’s areas of expertise were of doubtful value.
“Afanasy Georgievich,” Novikov began, “may I ask you about another matter?”
By using Bykov’s first name and patronymic, he was intimating that he now wanted to speak about something quite different. Bykov gestured to him to sit down.
“Please do. I’m listening.”
“Afanasy Georgievich, it’s about Darensky.”
“Darensky?” replied Bykov, raising his eyebrows. “And what exactly about Darensky?”
Novikov could see at once that he was not going to get anywhere. This angered him.
“I think you already know. He’s a gifted commander. Why have him kicking his heels in the reserves when he could be doing something useful?”
Bykov shook his head. “I don’t need him myself, and I think you can get by without him too.”
“But Darensky did, the other day, prove to be right as regards the point under discussion.”
“That’s beside the point.”
“But it’s precisely the point. Darensky has a remarkable gift for divining the enemy’s intentions from only minimal data.”
“Then he should transfer to intelligence. I’m not interested in fortune-telling.”
Novikov let out a sigh. “I don’t understand. The man’s a born staff officer—and you don’t want to use him. And I’m not a staff officer at all. I’m a tank man—I apply for a transfer, and you won’t release me.”
Bykov grunted, took out his gold pocket watch, wrinkled his brow in surprise and held his watch to his ear.
“He wants his supper,” thought Novikov.
“Well, that’s all,” said Bykov. “You can go now.”