Red Army

Kryshinin looked at the baby-faced lieutenant. Somebody's sweet-heart. He touched the boy on the shoulder. "Good work. Good work, Lieutenant. Now let me see what I can do about those tanks."

The concussion of a nearby artillery blast almost knocked him off his feet. Someone screamed.

"In the barn," the lieutenant said. "The Germans. The family. They were still here, hiding. I didn't know what to do."

It had never really come home to Kryshinin before that warfare could 78

RED ARMY

have such complex dimensions. He thought for a long moment. The screaming clearly came from a female throat.

"They can take care of themselves," Kryshinin said, turning away to organize his battle.

Kryshinin called the artillery battery commander, ordering him to either come up and act as a forward observer the way he was supposed to, or send someone else. He was prepared for another argument, but the artillery officer's attitude had undergone a distinct change. He was excited now, too. He had contacted division, reporting that Kryshinin's element had reached the crossing site. The chief of missile troops and artillery had personally informed the division commander. He had approved Kryshinin's decision, and the advance guard from Kryshinin's regiment was on the way.

"How far back?" Kryshinin asked.

"Didn't say."

"Find out. We have enemy tanks coming for a visit. They want us out of here." He passed the grid where the enemy tanks were forming up.

Then he hastened to the air force officer's control vehicle. The hatches were sealed, and Kryshinin had to bang on the metal with the stock of his assault rifle.

Bylov, the forward air controller, opened the hatch one-handed, holding an open rations tin in the other.

"Taking a break," he told Kryshinin.

Kryshinin almost gave up. At the same time he realized, jealously, that he had eaten nothing since the previous night. But there would be time, he consoled himself. Later. If they were still alive.

"Have you informed your control post of our situation?" Kryshinin demanded.

The air force officer nodded, forking up a hunk of potted meat so strong-smelling that its aroma penetrated the garlic-and-onions stink of the artillery blasts.

"Listen," Kryshinin said, "we're going to need air support. If you want to be alive at suppertime, you'd better get some ground-attack boys or some gunships in here. The valley just beyond the ridge is filled with enemy tanks."

Bylov finished chewing and swallowed. "I'll see what I can do. But if they can't give me something that's going up now, it won't help."

"Try. And get out where you can see what's going on. Up there by the apple trees. Anywhere."

79

Ralph Peters

Kryshinin jumped back down off the vehicle, splashing in the mud. His camouflage uniform had been soaking wet since before dawn, and his trousers had been chafing his crotch. But the discomfort had disappeared in his current excitement. He raced for the tank platoon, instinctively running low, even though the enemy artillery had lifted for the moment.

The tank platoon had a problem. The platoon commander could not find any suitable firing positions along the ridgeline. In order to sufficiently decline their gun tubes to engage an approaching enemy, they would need to expose themselves to observation and fires.

"All right," Kryshinin said. "1 have a better idea. Pull back onto that low hill over there, just north of the road we took to come up here. There.

See it? Hide where you can watch the approaches to the tunnel.

Counterattack any enemy armor that gets through. Don't wait for orders.

Just hit them. We'll try to hold around the farm buildings. Do your best."

The lieutenant of tank troops saluted and immediately began talking into his microphone. The tanks belched into readiness.

Kryshinin hurried back toward his own vehicle. But before he was halfway, the sounds of combat came back, changed.

His infantry fighting vehicles and wheeled antitank vehicles were engaging. The enemy was on the way.

Kryshinin looked back across the canal. Still no sign of movement.

Kryshinin cursed the artillery officer, wondering what was keeping him.

He needed someone to call fires. Otherwise, they would be overrun before the guns did any good.

His tank platoon rolled powerfully down across a saddle and veered toward their new position. Kryshinin felt confident that they would do their job. The lieutenant had had a crisp professionalism about him.

One of the antitank vehicles had profiled too high on the ridgeline.

Now it caught a round in the bow and lifted over on its back, throwing scraps of metal upward and outward in a fountain. Kryshinin felt a sting on his shoulder, as though he had been bitten by an oversized insect. He almost tripped but managed to keep running.