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His feeling of helplessness was aggravated by the memory of his unit's canal crossing near Salzgitter the evening before. The flagmen had waved the vehicles onto the tactical bridging at regulation intervals, and the only signs of war were a few burned-out hulks from the day's battle. The tone of action, even the sense of urgency, was reminiscent of a demonstration exercise at which a very important observer was present, nothing more. Then, without warning, the canal exploded with fire, heaving tanks, bridging, water, and flames into an inscrutable sky. No one knew exactly what had happened, but Bezarin lost an entire tank platoon and, by sheer chance, his battalion chief of staff and operations officer. Since he had already been forced to send forward two officers to replace losses in committed units, the loss was a sharp blow, burdening him with the need to compensate personally for the cadre shortfall. At the same time, he had surprised himself by thinking frankly that he was glad he had not grown closer to any of the men who had been killed?

The unit had been quickly rerouted over an alternate bridge. But the incident felt like a warning—and a personal challenge to Bezarin. Then, in the growing darkness and confusion, they had been diverted well to the south as the attack up ahead bogged down again. The fatal crossing had been unnecessary. Now he and his tanks waited on a sunken road at the 204

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edge of a wood in Germany. Bezarin had not expected too much of Lieutenant Colonel Tarashvili, the regiment's commander. But it seemed outrageous that he had sent no word, no information on the situation whatsoever.

A compact figure vaulted up onto the deck of Bezarin's tank, almost slipping on the clutter of newly added reactive armor. The movement took Bezarin by surprise, isolated as he was in his thoughts and his padded tanker's helmet. But he quickly sensed a familiar presence. He canted his helmet back so he could hear.

The visitor was Senior Lieutenant Roshchin, commander of the Fifth Company, Second Battalion—Bezarin's youngest and least-experienced company commander. Bezarin had kept close to Roshchin's company during the deployment and march, nursing him along. Yet there was something about the boyish lieutenant that brought out Bezarin's temper. He found himself barking at Roshchin over small oversights or inconsequential misunderstandings, and his own lack of self-control only made him angrier still. Through it all, Roshchin reacted with servility and a few mumbled excuses. The boy had the feel of a spaniel addicted to his master's beatings.

Even now, Bezarin almost shouted at the lieutenant to get back to his company. But he captured the words while they were still forming on his lips. Roshchin, he realized clearly, would be nervous, frightened, unsure.

Universal human emotions, as Anna would have called them.

"Comrade Commander," Roshchin said, "any word?"

The simple question seemed unforgivably inane to Bezarin, but he was determined to be decent toward the boy.

"Nothing. How's your company doing?"

"Oh, the same, thank you, Comrade Commander. Most of the men are sleeping. Always one crew member on lookout, though, just like the regulations say." He huddled closer to Bezarin, who could smell the night staleness of the boy's breath now. "The march was exhausting; you're all shaken to bits by the time you stop." Bezarin could feel the lieutenant searching through the darkness for a sign of human solidarity, but he could not find the right words to soothe the boy. "I couldn't sleep, myself," Roshchin went on. "I really want to do everything right. I've been going over my lessons in my head."

A number of sharp retorts bolted through Bezarin's mind. Roshchin was a graduate of the Kasan tank school, renowned for the poor quality of its alumni. Bezarin painted in the lieutenant's features from memory.

Short, like virtually every tanker. A blond saw blade of hair across the forehead, and the small sculpted nose you saw on certain women with 205

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Polish blood. There was neither crispness nor presence to Roshchin, and Bezarin worried over how the lieutenant would perform in combat.

"The war must be going well," the lieutenant said, his voice clearly asking for confirmation.

It was as though Roshchin studied to say things that permitted no reasonable reply, as though his every utterance demanded that Bezarin make a fool of him.

"Of course it's going well," Bezarin responded, forcing the words out, sounding stilted to himself, a bad actor with a poor script.

"I wish I could have a cigarette. One smoke," Roshchin said.

"When it's light."

"Do you think we'll be able to send letters soon?"

Anna. And the letters unwritten, the words unsaid. A remembrance impossibly foreign to the moment.

"Soon, I'm sure," Bezarin said.