Tatiana and Alexander (33 page)

In the Mountains of Holy Cross, October 1944

DEEP IN THE DENSE
thick forest of the mountains, a hundred kilometers and six weeks past the bridge to Holy Cross, Alexander and his men were under fire for three hours one cold autumn afternoon.

They lived in the woods and slept in the woods, setting up their canvas tents when the fighting stopped, or wrapping themselves in their trench coats on the ground when it didn’t. They built fires, but food in the forest was more scarce than they would have liked. The rabbits scurried at the sound of a battalion of men. Neither the streams nor the fish were plentiful. But when there were streams, they at least managed to wash. The season for blueberries had passed, and they were all sick of mushrooms. Undercooked, the mushrooms gave Alexander’s men terrible stomach upsets and he finally had to forbid their use. The telephone wire frequently broke on the uneven terrain, and the army supplies did not last between reinforcements. Alexander had to make his own soap out of lard and ashes. But his soldiers cared nothing for staying clean, for keeping off lice. They were aware of, but indifferent to, the symbiotic relationship between lice and typhus. The men wanted to eat the lard, and soap be damned. The gunpowder, the mud, the blood remained on their faces and bodies for weeks. Everyone had trench foot: they just could never get dry.

They were a battalion by themselves in the woods, making their way up the mountains to get to the other side, but the Germans took positions atop the mountains, as they had in Sinyavino and Pulkovo and they only needed a few men to ward off Alexander’s many.

But at least before they had been making arduous progress. Suddenly they were stopped by the Germans at the foothills and they had not been able to penetrate the Nazi defense despite twice receiving reinforcements of men and ammunition. There had been no further reinforcements in eight days. In between bursts of fire from morning until night, German voices echoed through the woods. Not just above them, but to the left and right of them. Alexander began to suspect that the Germans had less of a defense
line
than an en
circle
ment. Alexander’s
troops had not moved a meter in the forest, and once again night was an hour away.

Alexander had to break the impasse or this forest was going to be his death. It had already been Verenkov’s death. The poor bastard couldn’t see the enemy, he fired blindly, but couldn’t move out of the way of anything. Fortune had carried him alive to these woods and stopped here. Alexander and Ouspensky buried him in the hole ripped by the grenade that had taken him and left his helmet hanging on a stick rising out of the ground.

“Who the fuck is that?” Alexander suddenly asked when the gunfire ceased. “I swear to God, I can hear Russian. Am I hallucinating, Ouspensky? Listen.”

“I hear the paper-ripping sound of the Maschinengewehr 43.” That was the German sub-machine-gun.

“Yes, that, but listen. They’re about to load another belt in, and you will hear someone barking commands in Russian. I swear to God it’s Russian.”

Ouspensky looked at Alexander with sympathy. “You miss Russia, Captain?”

“Oh, fuck,” Alexander said. “I’m telling you it’s Russian!”

“You think we’re shooting at Russian men?”

“I don’t know. Is that ridiculous? How would they have gotten here?”

“Hmm. Sir, have you heard of the Vlasovites?”

“The Vlasovites?”

“The Soviet POWs or partisans who have switched sides.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of the Vlasovites,” Alexander snapped. He did not want to be having this discussion with Ouspensky while he was trying to save his men. Ouspensky had absolutely no sense of urgency about anything. He was sitting behind a tree, reloading his Shpagin, setting up the shells in neat rows to load into Alexander’s mortar, as peaceful as if he were at a Crimean resort.

Of course Alexander had heard about the Vlasovites. In the primordial morass that had become the partisan war on the Germans, the Vlasovites—led by the eponymous Russian general, Andrei Vlasov—were the Russian soldiers who, when taken prisoner by the Germans, switched to the German side and fought their Red Army brothers in arms—ostensibly fighting for a free Russia. Having organized his Anti-Stalinist
Russian Liberation Movement and having found no support from Hitler, Vlasov had long been under German house arrest, but many Russians continued to fight under his name in German-led brigades.

“It can’t be the Vlasovites,” Ouspensky said.

“General Vlasov is not here, but his men continue to fight on the German side. He had over a hundred thousand of them. And some of them are in those woods.”

The fire died down for a minute and, as clear as skylight, they heard in Russian,
“Zarezhai! Zarezhai!”

Alexander exchanged a look with Ouspensky, raised his eyebrows and said, “I hate it when I’m fucking right.”

“Now what? We have no ammo.”

“That’s not true,” Alexander said cheerfully. “I’ve got four magazines left and half of one drum. And reinforcements will be here soon.” That was a lie. He suspected the telephone wire had been torn again, and now there was an added problem—the wire stringer was dead.

“There are at least thirty of them in the woods.”

“I better not miss then, had I?”

“You’re lying about the reinforcements. We already had our reinforcements. Konev brought you three hundred men with rifles and ammo two weeks ago. They’re all dead.”

“Stop your yapping, Lieutenant. Order your men to get ready to open fire.”

Ten minutes later, Alexander had nothing left in his drum. The fire from his men subsided.

“How far is the German border?” Ouspensky asked.

“About a hundred thousand German troops away, Lieutenant.”

Ouspensky sighed. “Now what?”

“Take out your knife. Soon it will be hand to hand in the woods.”

“You’re fucking nuts.” Ouspensky spoke quietly, so no one else could hear him.

“You have other suggestions?”

“If I had other suggestions, I wouldn’t be a lieutenant. I’d be a captain and you’d be taking orders from me.” Ouspensky paused. “Have you ever taken orders from anybody, sir?”

Alexander laughed lightly. “Lieutenant, in case you haven’t noticed, I do have superior officers of my own.”

“Well, where are they now? They need to order you to retreat.”

“We cannot retreat. You know that. There are two dozen NKGB troops behind us to make sure of that. They’ll shoot us.”

Alexander was very quiet and very thoughtful.

The two men paused, sitting side by side on the mossy ground, their backs against a tree. Ouspensky said, “Did you say the NKGB will shoot us if we retreat?”

“Instantly.” Alexander wasn’t looking at Ouspensky.

“Did you say
shoot us
?”

Now Alexander looked at Ouspensky. “What are you suggesting, Lieutenant?” he said slowly.

“Nothing, sir. But you are implying, aren’t you, that they have something to shoot at us with?”

Alexander was silent for a few minutes and then said, “Bring me Corporal Yermenko.”

A few minutes later, Ouspensky returned with Yermenko, who was wiping blood off his arm.

“Corporal, how is your ammo holding up?”

“I’ve got three eight-round boxes, three grenades and a few mortar shells.”

“Very good. Let me tell you the situation. We’re low on ammo and there are at least a dozen Germans in the woods.”

“I think, sir, more than a dozen. And they are armed.”

“Corporal, how good a marksman are you? Will your two dozen rounds last you against a dozen men?”

“No, sir, they won’t. I don’t have a sniper rifle.”

“Have you any ideas?”

“Are you asking me, sir?”

“I’m asking you, Corporal.”

Yermenko paused, moving his mouth in a thoughtful manner, while he adjusted his helmet. He was standing at attention and his arm continued to bleed. Alexander motioned for Ouspensky to get the first aid kit. Yermenko was still thinking. Alexander motioned for him to crouch and took a look at the corporal’s wound. It was a superficial grazing of the triceps, but it was bleeding steadily. Alexander applied pressure with a dressing, and while sitting next to Yermenko, said, “Tell me what you think, Corporal.”

Lowering his voice, Yermenko said, “I think maybe we should ask the…back troops for some of their ammo, sir.” He motioned behind him into the woods.

“I think you’re right. But what if they refuse?”

“I think we should ask them in such a way as to make that impossible.”

Alexander patted Yermenko on the back.

Lowering his voice further, Yermenko said, “I know they have dozens of semi-automatic rifles, at least three or four sub-machine guns, and they have not expended their rounds. They have grenades, they have mortar shells, and they have water and food.”

Alexander and Ouspensky exchanged glances. “You’re right, of course,” Alexander said, wrapping the bandage over Yermenko’s arm and tying the ends in a knot. “But I don’t know if they’re going to part with their ammo. Are you up to this assignment?”

“Yes, sir. I will need one man to distract them.”

Alexander got up. “That will be me.”

“Sir!” Ouspensky exclaimed. “No. You will send
me
.”

“You can come with us. But whatever you do, don’t tell them you have only one lung, Lieutenant.” Alexander handed Yermenko the wooden club he had made. Small pieces of sharp shell fragments were wedged deep into the carved-out wooden head. At the other end, the handle was attached to a rope Alexander had made out of tree bark so it would be easy to swing. Yermenko took it, gave Ouspensky rounds for his Tokarev pistol, they loaded their weapons, Alexander loaded a fresh 35-round magazine into his Shpagin, and the three of them walked silently through the woods to the NKGB encampment. Alexander could see a dozen men sitting in a social circle around a welcoming fire, chatting, laughing.

“Ouspensky,” he said, “stay here. I’m going to talk to them first. I’m going to ask for their help. You two wait for me here. When I turn around to walk back to you, if I sling my machine gun over my shoulder, it means we have peace. If I take a step with it in my arms, that means we don’t. Understood?”

“Perfectly,” said Yermenko, but Ouspensky, grim in the face, did not reply. Ouspensky took his job of protecting Alexander too seriously.

“Lieutenant! Understood?”

Sigh. “Yes, sir.”

Alexander walked forward, leaving Ouspensky and Yermenko ten paces behind in the bushes, and came up to the circle in a small clearing. The men barely turned or raised their heads to look at him.

“Comrades,” he said, coming up close to their circle, “we need your help. We have no ammo left, the replacement platoons aren’t here, nor have I been able to reach anyone by field phone. I have twenty men left
out of two battalions and I’ve got no support. We need your cartridges and your shells. We also need your first aid kits and some water for our wounded. And the use of your phone to call the command post.”

The men stared at him in silence and then laughed. “You’re fucking with us, right?”

“My orders were to break through the woods.”

“You clearly haven’t followed your orders, Captain,” said Lieutenant Sennev, glaring at Alexander from a sitting position.

“Oh, I’ve followed my orders, Lieutenant,” said Alexander. “And my men’s blood is testament to my obedience. But now I need your weapons.”

“Fuck off,” said Sennev.

“I’m asking you to help your brothers in arms. We are still fighting for the same side, aren’t we?”

“I said fuck off.”

Alexander sighed. Slowly he turned his back on the circle of men, holding his Shpagin. Before he was turned around completely, he saw the shrapnel club hurled by Yermenko sail through the air and with a siren wail embed itself in Sennev’s head. Yermenko must have been quite close to have heard it all, to have been so ready to throw the club. Alexander spun around, pointed his Shpagin and fired a shot at a time. He did not use the automatic fire. He didn’t waste a bullet on Sennev, who didn’t need one. Alexander fired five rounds, Yermenko fired six, and they were done. The NKGB men never had a chance to lift their weapons.

Ouspensky and Yermenko took all their arms and provisions, while Alexander piled the bodies one on top of another. When they were a sufficient distance away—twenty paces—Alexander threw his grenade into the pile of bodies and shielded his eyes. The grenade exploded. For a few moments the three men stood and watched the flames rise up.

“Perhaps they need a soldier’s farewell from us,” said Ouspensky, saluting them. “Farewell, and fuck you!”

Yermenko laughed.

As they walked back to their positions, Alexander slapped the corporal on the shoulder. “Well done,” he said, offering Yermenko a cigarette.

“Thank you, sir,” Yermenko said. He cleared his throat. “Request permission to go and find the enemy commander. I think if we take out their commander, their defense will fall.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. They’re very disjointed. In front, on the side, random fire, no
purpose. They’re not fighting like a trained army. They’re fighting like a partisan force.”

“We are in the woods, Corporal,” said Alexander. “You’re not expecting trenches, are you?”

“I’m expecting reason. I’m not seeing it. They are heavily armed and they’re shooting at us as if they don’t give a shit how long they’ll hold out. They’re defending the woods as if they have an endless supply behind them.”

“And how will this change if you bring me the commander?”

“Without the commander, they will retreat.”

“They’ll retreat, but we’ll still be in the woods.”

“We can move laterally, south. We’re bound to run into the South Ukrainian front.”

“The South Ukrainian front will be overjoyed to see us. Corporal, my orders were to break through
these
woods.”

“And we will. But sideways. We’ve been here two weeks, lost nearly everything, cannot replace our men and cannot move the Germans. Sir, please let me bring you the commander’s head. You’ll see, they’ll retreat. The Germans don’t do well without a commander. We’ll be able to move sideways.”