Frontline

Chapter 86 Frontline

"The 5th Army stopped the German advance yesterday 15 kilometers west of Mozhaisk," Zhukov said, pointing to a dot on the map. "They fought for a day and then retreated. The Germans did not advance further; they are waiting for supplies."

Their tanks were moving too fast; the infantry couldn't keep up, and the artillery couldn't keep up either. They needed to stop and wait.

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"This is our chance. Not a chance to win, but a chance to stall them. Every day we delay, they will be one day less likely to take Moscow. Every day we delay, our reinforcements will travel nearly a hundred kilometers further from the Far East."

He walked back to the table, took a piece of paper from the drawer, spread it on the table, picked up a pencil, and wrote a few lines. Then he folded the paper and handed it to Lorraine.

"This is a letter to the 5th Army headquarters. When you get to Mozhaisk, go to them. They will arrange for you to go to the front. See whatever you want. But there's one condition," he looked up, meeting Loran's eyes, "you are not allowed to participate in combat. You are not a Soviet soldier; you have no obligation to die here."

Lorraine took the letter, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

"When are you leaving?"

"Now, an ammunition truck is about to depart. You will ride in that truck."

Loran saluted, turned and walked out.

Outside, it was already broad daylight. The clouds were thick and grayish-white, obscuring the sun. A wind blew from the west, carrying the smell of gunpowder and earth. The soldiers were still under the tree; the ammunition boxes had been unloaded, and they squatted there, using their bayonets to pry open a wooden crate containing artillery shells. A young soldier picked up a shell, examined it, and then put it back. His face was dirty, his lips were chapped, and his fingers were covered in frostbite.

Loran found the ammunition truck and climbed into the cargo compartment. The compartment was already piled high with wooden crates, with only a small open space near the rear panel. He sat down, wrapped his coat tightly around himself, and leaned against the crates. The driver climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine. The truck jolted and began heading west.

The road was terrible. The asphalt had long been destroyed by bombing, riddled with craters and rubble. The truck weaved through the potholes, each time it went over one, the truck lurched violently, and Loran's head slammed against the wooden crate, the pain making his vision blur. He braced himself against the side of the crate, steadying himself, and looked out the window.

The fields were receding. No longer grayish-yellow, they were black. Not the black of soil, but a scorched black. Vast swathes of land had been turned over and over again by artillery shells, like a torn sheet of paper. Occasionally, a few trees still stood, their trunks charred black, leafless, like sticks stuck in the ground. A destroyed tank lay overturned by the roadside, its turret blown off, the hull overturned, its tracks still spinning, emitting a piercing creak. No one went to shut it off. Perhaps no one was alive enough to do so.

After driving for about an hour, they passed a small village. The village was gone. Only a few walls remained, with dark, gaping windows like the eye sockets of a skull. Chimneys lay fallen, broken into pieces. A dog, skin and bones, crouched beside the ruins. Seeing the truck, it stood up and barked weakly, like a cough. An old woman sat motionless on a rock, clutching a bundle. Her face was gray, her eyes closed; it was unclear whether she was dead or asleep. Looking at the old woman, Lorraine thought of Anna's mother. She should have already returned home from the factory.

The truck continued westward. The road worsened, with more and more craters appearing. The driver had to slow down, sometimes even stopping to check the road conditions before continuing. Loran saw several bodies lying by the roadside, covered with military overcoats, a thin layer of dust on them. No one was there to collect the bodies. There was no time to collect them, nor the strength to do so.

After driving for about two more hours, the truck stopped in front of a village. The village was larger than the previous one, but still dilapidated. Several wooden houses remained, their roofs patched up with tarpaulins and planks. Several military trucks, marked with red stars, were parked at the village entrance. A few soldiers were squatting beside the trucks, eating. Their meal consisted of black bread and hot water; the bread was so hard that it had to be torn with teeth, and each piece had to be chewed for a long time before swallowing.

Loran jumped out of the car and walked into the village. The command post was in a wooden house at the east end of the village, where two guards stood at the door, rifles at the ready. Loran showed his pass and Zhukov's letter; the guards glanced at them, saluted, and opened the door.

The cabin was dark. Only a kerosene lamp hung on the wall, its dim light illuminating the faces of several people. They sat around a rough wooden table, on which lay a map. They were dressed in military uniforms, their epaulets bearing stars; some were colonels, others major generals. A man in his fifties sat at one end of the table, his hair graying, his face deeply wrinkled. He was looking at the map, a red pencil in his hand. Seeing Loran enter, he looked up.

"Who are you?"

Loran handed Zhukov's letter. The man took it, opened it, glanced at it, then folded it and put it in his pocket. He stood up and held out his hand.

"I am the commander of the 5th Army. My surname is Govorov."

"Lorraine. An observer from England."

Govorov nodded. "Zhukov mentioned it in his letter. You want to go to the front?"

"Yes."

Govorov was silent for a few seconds. He walked to the map and pointed to a point 0 kilometers west of Mozhaisk.

"The German vanguard is here. The 10th Panzer Division, the 7th Panzer Division, and an SS motorized division. Their infantry hasn't arrived yet, but their tanks have. Yesterday they tried to break through our lines, fought for five hours, and then retreated. This morning they started shelling again, which lasted for three hours, and now it's stopped."

He turned around and looked at Loran.

"Our defensive line is ten kilometers west of the city. The defenders are an infantry regiment, plus some militia and logistics personnel, totaling less than two thousand men. They have no tanks, no artillery, only rifles and anti-tank grenades. If they attack now, we won't last a day."

He looked into Lorraine's eyes.

"Are you still going?"

"go."

Govorov nodded. He called over a young officer, a second lieutenant, with a thin face and dark circles under his eyes.

"This is Ivanov. Let him take you. He will take you to the front lines."

Loran followed Ivanov out of the cabin. It was almost dark outside. The clouds were still thick and greyish-white, obscuring the sun. The wind was colder, making the branches whistle. Ivanov walked ahead, his steps quick. He wore a worn-out military overcoat, collar turned up, hat pulled low. He carried a rifle, butt up, barrel down, finger resting on the trigger guard.

They walked west along a dirt road. The road was narrow, flanked by birch trees. The trunks were thin, the bark white with black spots like eyes. The ground was covered with fallen leaves, soft and yielding underfoot. The air smelled of rotting leaves mixed with the earthy odor. After walking for about half an hour, the road began to descend, the trees on both sides grew denser, and the light became dimmer. Ivanov walked ahead of him, his pace still quick.

"Have you ever fought in a war?" Ivanov asked without turning around.

"I've fought with them."

"Where?"

North Africa.

Ivanov was silent for a few seconds. "North Africa. Very far. Are there Germans there too?"

"have."

Are they the same as the Germans here?

Loran thought for a moment. "Same. Tanks are fast, there are many planes, and the soldiers are very capable."

Ivanov did not ask any further questions.

They emerged from the birch forest, and suddenly the view opened up before them. A river stretched out before them, narrow but with a swift current. The water was grayish-brown, carrying silt and churning among the rocks. On the opposite bank was an open area, beyond which stretched a dark forest. A row of trenches had been dug along the riverbank. The trenches were shallow, only chest-deep, with wooden planks at the bottom, covered in mud.

Ivanov led Loran along the trenches. Every few steps, a soldier crouched in the trench, rifles leaning against the trench walls, muzzles pointed towards the opposite bank of the river. Their faces were dirty, their lips chapped, and dark circles under their eyes. Some were smoking, some were dozing, and some did nothing but stare at the opposite bank. No one spoke.

They walked to the very front of the trench. There was a lookout hole there, made of sandbags, with only a small opening showing. Ivanov crouched down and pointed to that opening.

"Look from here."

Loran crouched down and put his eyes close to the peephole.

The open field across the river stretched out in the dim light. It was greyish-black, pockmarked, and riddled with bullet holes. Beyond the open field lay a dark forest. The forest was quiet, still, but Loran could see blurry shadows among the trees—vehicles, grey, parked there. Further away, occasionally a glimmer of light would flash, then disappear again.

"Their tanks are hidden in the forest," Ivanov said. "They don't come out during the day, they only move at night. Last night, they pushed forward five kilometers. Tonight, they might push forward again."

Loran straightened up and gave his seat to Ivanov.

"How many of you are there?" he asked.

Ivanov squatted down next to the observation hole, not looking at Loran, but staring at the opposite bank of the river.

"Less than two thousand. Two battalions, plus some militia. On the other side, there's at least an armored regiment, several thousand men, and hundreds of tanks."

He stood up and patted the dirt off his knees.

"If they attack, how long can we hold out?"

Loran was silent for a few seconds. He looked at the gray-black open space on the opposite bank of the river, the shell craters, and the gray shadows hidden in the forest.

"One day," he said. "Maybe less."

Ivanov nodded. He didn't ask why. He turned and walked back along the trench. Loran followed behind.

They reached the middle of the trench, where there was a bunker. The bunker was made of wood and earth, and was very low; one had to stoop to enter. Inside sat a man in uniform with three stars on his epaulets—a captain. He was looking at a map, which lay open on his lap, its corners pressed down with a pencil. Seeing Ivanov enter, he looked up.

"Who is this?"

"An observer from Britain," Ivanov said. "Sent by General Zhukov."

The captain looked at Loran, sized him up for a few seconds, then nodded and pointed to a wooden crate next to him.

"sit."

Loran sat down. The wooden crate was low; his knees touched his chin as he sat on it.

The captain rolled up the map and stuffed it into his pocket. He took out a pack of cigarettes, pulled one out, put it in his mouth, and struck a match. The light from the match illuminated his face. It was a thin face with high cheekbones and deep dark circles under his eyes.

"What are you here to see?" he asked.

"Let's see how you fight this war."

The captain took a drag of his cigarette. "What did you see?"

"I see you are waiting."

The captain nodded. "Yes, we're waiting. Waiting for them to come. If they don't come, we'll wait. If they come, we'll fight. We'll fight, retreat, and wait. Until they come again."

He stood up and walked out of the bunker. Lorraine followed behind.

Night had fallen. There was no moon, no stars. Only the wind blew from across the river, and it was cold. The soldiers in the trenches huddled in their overcoats; some were smoking, some were talking in hushed tones, and some were dozing. In the distance, in the forest across the river, a faint light would occasionally flash before going out again. It was either a German flashlight or the headlights of a tank.

The captain stood on the edge of the trench, looking across the river.

"You're from England," he said. "Does England have winter?"

"Yes, but it's not this cold."

The captain smiled. It was a very brief smile, like a flash of light that disappeared from his tired face.

Are there Germans in Britain?

"Yes. It's across the strait."

"Have they attacked?"

"No. We blocked them."

The captain looked at him. "Then you guys are stronger than us. We couldn't hold them off. They attacked, and we retreated. We retreated from the border to here, a total of seven hundred kilometers."

He threw the cigarette butt on the ground and stubbed it out with his boot.

"But there won't be any more refunds."

He turned and walked along the trench. Lorraine stood there, watching his figure disappear into the darkness.

Ivanov walked over and stood beside him.

"You'll stay here tonight," he said. "I'll take you back tomorrow morning."

"No need to see me off," Lorraine said. "I can get back by myself."

Ivanov glanced at him but said nothing. He led Loran to a small bunker behind the trench. The bunker was made of wood and earth, just big enough for one person to lie down. Some dry grass was laid on the ground, and a blanket was placed on top of the grass.

The blanket was thin and faded from washing.

"Just make do for one night," Ivanov said.

Loran nodded. Ivanov turned and left.

Loran lay down, pulled his coat tighter, and covered himself with the blanket. The hay was hard and hurt his back. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds outside. The wind was blowing, the branches were rustling. Occasionally, a cannon shot or two would ring out in the distance, muffled, like someone knocking on a door far away. Further away, in the forest on the opposite bank of the river, there was the sound of an engine, very faint and distant, like something enormous breathing.

He thought of Anna. He wondered where she was. He wondered if she was cold, hungry, or afraid. She had said she wasn't afraid. She said she wasn't afraid. But she was only eighteen. What was he doing when he was eighteen? In Paris, studying at university, sitting in cafes drinking coffee, arguing about history with friends. He didn't know what war was. He didn't know what death was.

He didn't know what fear was.