Red Army

"Target, six hundred," Bezarin shouted to the gunner as another enemy tank appeared. It was nerve-wracking to play this deadly game of hide-and-seek between the billows and eddies of smoke. "On the right."

"God, oh, God. They're killing us all." It was Roshchin. Bezarin knew beyond any doubt that the boy had lost control now.

"Roshchin," he called. "Get a grip on yourself. Fight, you son of a whore, or they will kill you." Bezarin remembered the loneliness and self-doubt of the boy in the early morning hours. But he could not pity him now; he felt only anger. Roshchin had a job to do, and all of their lives depended on it.

"Five hundred . . . fire . . . selecting . . . sabot up . . . adjust to four-fifty . . .fire . . ."

Bezarin's tank suddenly emerged from the smoke into the painful clarity of daylight. In his optics, he could see three British tanks and four of his own in a murderous shoot-out at minimal ranges. As he watched, the tanks destroyed each other in suicidal combat.

"Smoke grenades away," Bezarin screamed, fumbling at his controls.

"Target ..."

"Got the bastard."

"Three, can you hear me?" Bezarin called, his desperation rising.

Nothing.

"Where are you, Three?"

Instead of Dagliev, Roshchin came back on, pleading for help. Bezarin coldly ordered him off the net. An enemy tank appeared in Bezarin's optics, so close it seemed as though they were bound to collide with it.

"Target left. Get on him," Bezarin yelled to his gunner.

"Too close."

"Fire. "Bezarin's field of vision filled up with blast effects. But they had gotten the British tank first. Bezarin felt weak, almost nauseous, yet his pulse throbbed as though his heart would explode.

"Volga One, this is Ladoga . . . is that your element mixed up with the British on the crest?"

225

Ralph Peters

"This is One. I'm still in the smoke. It must be Two up there."

At the mention of his call sign, Roshchin came back up on the net. He was weeping. "They're all gone," he said, "everybody's gone."

Bezarin's gunner screamed. A British tank had its gun tube aimed directly at them.

"Point blank, "Bezarin yelled. "Fire." He did not even know what kind of round, if any, was in the breech.

A burst of sparks dazzled off the mantlet of the British tank's gun. A moment later, the enemy vehicle began to pull off of its position without firing. Bezarin sensed a kill and methodically directed his gunner. The next round stopped the British tank, and smoke began to climb from its deck. Roshchin cried into the battalion net as though he had lost his sanity. Bezarin found himself cursing the boy, even wishing that the British would kill him, just to stop him from blabbering. He feared that Roshchin's panic would become contagious.

"Roshchin," Bezarin said, disregarding the last radio discipline.

"Roshchin, take command of yourself. You're still alive. You can fight back. You're all right."

Bezarin could not even be certain that his transmission had reached the boy, who had begun to broadcast incessantly.

Suddenly, Bezarin lost his temper. "Roshchin, if you don't get off that radio, I'll shoot you myself. Do you understand me, you cowardly piece of shit?"

For the moment, Roshchin dropped from the net. Bezarin's driver barely avoided colliding with another Soviet tank in a last pocket of smoke. The driver halted the tank to let the other vehicle pass. Bezarin used the pause to help the gunner replenish the automatic loader's ready rack.

Roshchin called again. This time his voice was marginally more rational. "They're behind us," he cried. "I have enemy tanks to my rear."

"We're behind them, you stupid fuck," Bezarin called back. "Just shoot."

Kikerin, the driver, set the tank back in motion, throwing Bezarin off balance. As soon as he recovered, he tried to piece his unit back together over the radio.

"One, where the hell are you?"

"Can't talk," Voronich answered. He sounded out of breath. "We're fighting it out with an entire company. I think they lost their way in the smoke."

All right. At least Voronich was fighting. "Volga Three, this is Ladoga Five." No answer. Bezarin wondered if he had squandered an entire 226

RED ARMY

company, and his best company, at that, by sending them around the spur. He ordered his driver to head for a copse of trees that sat slightly higher than the tank's present location. As the vehicle moved Bezarin watched the treeline warily.

A British armored personnel carrier bolted from the grove like a flushed rabbit. Kikerin knew enough to stop the tank, and the gunner already had the target in his sights.

"Fire."

The British troop carrier exploded in a spectacular bloom of flame.