Red Army

"I've written four already," Roshchin said. "Natalya loves to get letters. I've numbered them on the envelopes so that she'll know what order to read them in, even if they all arrive at once."

Bezarin wanted to ask the lieutenant when on earth he had had time to write love letters. But he kept to his resolve to behave decently. It suddenly occurred to him that this boy might not be alive for more than a few hours. And that he had a young wife who meant as much to him as . . . Bezarin switched mental tracks, recalling Roshchin's pride in displaying the stupid-faced bridal snapshot taken by some hung-over staff photographer in a cavernous wedding palace, where marriages were matters of scheduling and norms as surely as were military operations.

The stiff, unknowing smiles in the snapshot had made Bezarin unreasonably jealous as the lieutenant insisted on showing them to his new commander.

"I suppose . . . that you miss her," Bezarin said, measuring out the words.

"How could I not miss her?" Roshchin answered. "She's a wonderful girl. The best." There was new life in the lieutenant's voice now.

"And . . . how does she like army life?"

"Oh, she'll get used to it," Roshchin said cheerfully. "It takes time, you know. Really, you should marry, Comrade Commander. It's a wonderful state of affairs."

Advice from this naive, clumsy lieutenant was almost too much for Bezarin to bear. But he let it roll off.

"You should go and get a little sleep," Bezarin told the boy. "I don't want you to be exhausted. We'll get into the fight today."

206

RED ARMY

"Do you really think so?"

If we're not caught in this stinkhole of a forest, lined up like perfect targets on a damned road, Bezarin thought.

"I'm sure of it. And I want you at your best."

"I won't let you down, Comrade Commander. I wouldn't want Natalya to be ashamed of me."

Leave me, Bezarin thought. Get out of here, you son of a bitch.

"You'll do fine," Bezarin said. "Now get back to your company."

The first morning light had crept up on the two officers during their talk. To Bezarin, the mist wrapping loosely around the trees resembled dirty bandages.

"Go on," Bezarin repeated with forced affability. "I'll wake you in plenty of time."

The lieutenant saluted. Something in the alacrity of it made Bezarin feel as though the boy were saluting a grizzled old general, or his father.

Well, I'm not that old, Bezarin thought. Not quite. Thirty-one isn't old enough to be the father of a senior lieutenant.

For an instant, the terrible responsibility he had for the lives of his men glimmered in front of Bezarin. Then the vision evaporated into more conditioned and customary forms of thought. But the morning felt suddenly damp, and his head ached. He repositioned his tanker's helmet.

They said that the close-fitting headgear made you go bald, if the war went on too long. What would Anna think of him with a bald pate? And what did she think of him, anyway? Did she think of him at all now? He remembered how she had liked to touch his hair. With one specific, unchanging gesture. No, a bald head would not do. My captain, she said.

My fierce warrior captain. But he was a major now, and she was part of history.

Anna liked the birches when their small leaves went the color of old copper. One by one, the leaves deserted as the northern wind probed and gathered force. Then a gusting assault tore them away by the hundreds, revealing the silver-white fragility of the limbs. He remembered the feel of the buttons on a woman's dress. And if I see her again. If ever I see her again . . .

Bezarin smiled mockingly at himself. You can tell her you were supposed to be commanding a tank battalion on the edge of a battle and you thought of laying her ass down in some borrowed apartment.

But his practiced cynicism did not work to its full potential now. He attempted to turn his thoughts back to his duty. Yet he knew that she would be there now, just beyond the edge of his vision. That one time in his life he had been truly afraid. Terrified to ask a thin, laughing girl with 207

Ralph Peters

hair the color of pouring brandy if she would marry him. Because she laughed so easily when they were alone, and he knew he loved her helplessly and that he could bear losing her more easily than he could have borne her laughter in that unarmed instant. In the subtle light he could see the broad steel shoulders of his tanks taking shape up along the road, and it struck him as absurd that he should be allowed to command such lethal machines when he could not bring himself to risk the wound of a girl's decision.

The radio spoke.

Bezarin recognized the voice of the regiment's commander, passing a brevity code. Bezarin scrambled to copy the message, then to break it out using the sheets he kept in his breast pocket.

Movement. In ten minutes.