by Ralph Peters
The near end of the bridge was clear.
Captain Levin had taken the assault squad well around behind the enemy position. Gordunov understood at once, feeling simultaneous relief that an immediate problem was out of the way and a peculiar sort of embarrassment that the political officer had performed so well.
Gordunov caught the rifleman by the arm. “Forget what I told you before. Just go up to the top floor and tell Sergeant Bronchevitch to bring the battalion command radio down to me. Do you understand?”
The soldier nodded. There was fear in the boy’s face. How much of it was fear of battle and how much was fear of the commander, Gordunov could not tell.
As the rifleman scrambled back toward the hospital, Gordunov raised himself for a dash across the street, weaving behind the partial protection of wrecked cars in case any enemy troops remained on the scene. Each step on his bad ankle meant punishment.
Levin had already sent a team forward onto the bridge. The action continued on the far bank, but there was no more firing on Gordunov’s side of the river. Levin was excited, elated. His delight in his accomplishment made him look like a teenager.
“Comrade Battalion Commander, we have prisoners.”
“I see that.”
“No. I mean more. We surprised them.” He turned to the alleyway. “Sergeant. bring up the prisoners.”
The night had grown full around them. But the hot light shed by the burning vehicles revealed a string of eight more men in strange uniforms, all of them thirtyish or older, and some of them clearly not in shape for combat.
“They were up the road,” Levin said. “I think they were trying to decide what to do. We just came up on them. And we helped them decide.”
“You know all the uniforms. These are Germans?”
“Yes, Comrade Battalion Commander. Enlisted soldiers. This one is equivalent to a senior sergeant.”
The prisoners looked pathetic. In Afghanistan, when you managed to take the enemy alive, he showed one of two faces. Either the prisoner was sullenly defiant, or he blanked all expression from his face, as though already dead. Which he soon would be. But these men looked frightened, surprised, sheepish. They didn’t look like soldiers at all, really.
“The others are British. The ones who were shooting. We have three of them.”
In the background, two tank main guns fired in succession. Across the low arch of the bridge, streaks of automatic-weapons fire cut the fresh night. The rain had slowed almost to a stop, and the damp river air carried acrid battle smells.
“This town,” Levin went on, his speech rapid with nervous energy, “you have to see it to believe it, Comrade Battalion Commander. When we were enveloping the enemy we came from back there.” Levin gestured toward the dark alleyway. “It’s like a museum. So beautiful. The houses in the center of town must be four or five hundred years old. It’s the most beautiful town I’ve ever seen.”
“This isn’t a sightseeing trip,” Gordunov cut him off.
“Yes, Comrade Battalion Commander. I understand that. I only meant that we must take care to minimize unnecessary damage.”
Gordunov looked at the political officer in wonder. He could not understand what sort of fantasy world Levin lived in.
“We must try to keep the fighting out of the old part of town,” Levin continued.
Gordunov grabbed the political officer by his tunic and slammed him against the nearest wall. In Afghanistan, you stayed out of the villages when you were on your own. The villages were for the earthbound soldiers in their armored vehicles. When a village was guilty of harboring the dushman, it was surrounded with armor. Then the jets came over very high, dropping their ordnance. After the aircraft, the artillery and the tanks shelled the ruins for hours. Finally, the motorized riflemen went in. And there would still be snipers left alive, emerging from a maze of underground tunnels. Like rats. Gordunov hated fighting in the towns and villages. He liked the open country. But there had been times when the worthless Afghan People’s Army officers had gotten their troops in a bind. And the Soviet airborne soldiers had had to go in to cut them free. It was always worst in the towns. Towns were death.
The political officer did not attempt to defend himself. He only stared at Gordunov in bewilderment. Clearly, the two men did not understand one another.
Gordunov released the younger man. “Be glad,” he told Levin. “Just be glad… if you’re still alive this time tomorrow.”
Sergeant Bronchevitch hustled across the cluttered street, carrying the command radio strapped across his shoulders. Despite the darkness, he found his way straight to Gordunov, as if by instinct.
“Comrade Commander. Falcon needs to talk to you right away.”
Gordunov took the hand mike. “Falcon, this is Eagle.”
At first, Gordunov did not recognize the voice on the other end. “This is Falcon. Dukhonin… the chief’s dead. All shot up. We’re in a mess.”
It was Karchenko, a company commander. Gordunov had expected more self-control from the man.
“This is Eagle. Get a grip on yourself. What’s the situation close in on your end of the bridge? Can I get over to you?”
“I don’t know. We have the bridge. But we’re all intermingled with British soldiers. And German tanks are working down the streets. Their actions aren’t coordinated. But they’re all over the place.”
“Just hold on,” Gordunov said. He released the pressure on the mike, then primed it once more. “Vulture, this is Eagle.”
Nothing. Twilight static.
“Vulture, this is Eagle.”
Only the noise of firing in the distance.
Gordunov turned to Levin. The political officer did not back away. There seemed to be no special fear in him after the rough handling, just a look of appraisal. “Two things,” Gordunov said. “First, get the prisoners shut up somewhere so that one man can watch them. Don’t waste time. Then get down to the southern bridge and find Captain Anureyev. Just take a rifleman or two, you’ll be safer if you’re quiet and quick. If Anureyev has control of his bridge, take one of his platoons and work up the far side of the river. Don’t let yourself be drawn into a fight that has nothing to do with the bridges. I want this bridge reinforced. If Anureyev has the antitank platoon with him, bring two sections north. And tell that bastard to listen to his radio.”
Gordunov turned to his radioman. “Come on,” he told Bronchevitch. “Stay close behind me. We’re going across the river.”
Gordunov took off at a scuttling run, limping, crouched like a hunchback. As he passed the walkway along the riverfront he fired a burst into the low darkness. There was no response, only the feeling of coolness off the flowing water.
No one fired at them as they continued over the dark bridge. It was a strongly built, two-lane structure that would easily carry heavy armored traffic. And they had it in their possession. Gordunov was determined to keep it.
The pain in his ankle seemed strangely appropriate now. Toughening. A reminder that nothing was ever easy.
At the far end of the bridge, a Russian speaker called a challenge. Sergeant Bronchevitch answered, and they were allowed back onto firm ground.
“Where’s the commander?” Gordunov asked the guard.
“Up that way. Up the street somewhere.”
Gordunov didn’t wait for anything more. He didn’t want to stop moving until he had found Karchenko. Until the situation was under some kind of control.
A few hundred meters up the road, a hot firelight raged between the buildings. Closer to the bridgehead, friendly positions had been established to cover the main road and the lateral approaches. Machine guns. Antitank weaponry.
“Do you know where your company commander is?” Gordunov asked a waiting machine gunner.
The dark form mumbled, raising its blackened face from its weapon.
“He doesn’t understand Russian,” a voice said from the shadows.
“Where’s Captain Karchenko?”
“He was here
a while ago. But he’s gone.” Then the tone of the voice changed significantly. “Excuse me, Comrade Battalion Commander. I didn’t recognize you.”
“Where’s your lieutenant?”
“Putting in an observation post down by the water line.”
Too much time wasted already. “Branch. Give me the mike.”
The sergeant fumbled for a moment, then produced the microphone.
“Falcon, this is Eagle.”
“This is Falcon.”
“I’m on your side of the river. Are you in that action up north?”
“Just below it. Along the main road.”
“All right. I’m close. Watch for me coming up the street.” Gordunov handed the mike back to the communications specialist and took off at a limping trot. “Come on.”
A blast shook the last scraps of glass from nearby windows. Gordunov kept moving. At the far end of the street, several buildings had caught fire. Occasional forms dashed past the flames, but it was impossible to tell if they were Soviet or enemy. “Over here.”
Gordunov rushed across the road, rolling once and throwing himself into the doorway. His body already bore numerous scrapes and bruises, the inevitable wounds of urban combat, and, along with the ceaseless pain in his ankle, the collection of injuries made Gordunov feel like a wreck himself. But he knew the ordeal had hardly begun.
Sergeant Bronchevitch waited for Gordunov to clear the doorway, then he followed quickly, unable to roll with the radio on his back.
In the pale glow from the flames up the block, Karchenko appeared as though he expected the sky to fall on him at any moment.
“Do you have any damned control of this mess?” Gordunov demanded.
“Comrade Commander… we’re fighting.”
“Who’s in charge up the road?”
“Lieutenant Svirkin’s directing the blocking action. Gurtayev’s putting in the positions around the bridgehead.”
Directing the blocking action, Gordunov thought. What he meant was that the lieutenant was hanging on for dear life. Gordunov calmed slightly. “And what are you doing?” he asked Karchenko.
“This is my company command post. Between the bridge and the blocking force.”
“Where’s Major Dukhonin?”
“He’s dead.”
“I know. But where is he? Where’s the body?”
Karchenko didn’t answer.
“I said, where’s his body?”
“I don’t know.”
“You left him?”
“No. I mean, he was dead.”
“And you left him?”
“He was in pieces. We had to move. There were tanks.”
“You left him,” Gordunov said in disgust, arctic winter in his voice. It wasn’t a matter of emotionalism. Gordunov considered himself a hard man, and he was proud of it. He had been the toughest cadet in his class, and the best boxer in the academy. And he prided himself on his strong stomach. But the first time he had seen what the dushman did to the bodies of the Soviet dead, he had been unable to speak. The sight of the bodies had filled the bottom of his belly with ice. That was why airborne soldiers brought back their dead. And they never let themselves be taken prisoner. Because the bodies of dead soldiers were only for practice.
Now Gordunov made no mental distinction between dead comrades in Afghanistan and those killed by British troops or Germans. It was simply a matter of military discipline, of pride, as routine as wearing a clean, well-fitted uniform on parade. Airborne soldiers brought back their dead.
“The tanks would have killed us all,” Karchenko said, pleading for understanding. “We had to organize the position.”
Dukhonin had been all right. Another veteran. A professional. Dukhonin had been in the terrible fighting up in Herat in Afghanistan. And his chest was sewn up so that it looked as though there were a zipper across it. Now he was gone.
“Ammunition all right?” Gordunov asked, in a controlled voice.
“We got our full load in. I think Anureyev’s flight was hit a lot worse than ours.”
“More targets,” Gordunov said. “Listen. I sent Levin down to fetch you another platoon. I want you to block one hundred and eighty degrees off the river. You can weight the defense to the north, but don’t take anything for granted. Move your command post closer to the bridge. You could be overrun up here before you knew what was happening. And push out observation posts.”
A series of explosions crashed along the street.
“I’m surprised they’re shooting everything up,” Karchenko said. “The houses are full of people, you know. You don’t see them. But they’re here. Six of them in this basement. They thought we were going to eat them.”
“Keep the soldiers under control. How do you see the enemy over here? More Germans or more British?”
“Seems like a mix. The tanks are all German. I think we caught a German tank unit crossing the river up on the tactical bridges. But there was a British support unit tucked in near the landing zone.”
“Well, the British won’t care what they shoot up. It isn’t their country.”
“They’re tough. Especially for rear services troops.”
“We’re tougher. Get this mess under control.” Gordunov looked at his watch. “In ninety minutes, I want you to meet me in the lobby of the hospital across the river. Bring Levin, if he’s still with you. I’ll get Anureyev up. I want to make damned sure that, come first light, every man is where we need him. We got the bridge easily enough. Now it’s just a matter of holding it.”
“For how long? When do you think they’ll get here?”
A spray of machine-gun fire ripped along the street, punching into the interior wall above their heads.
“Sometime tomorrow.” And Gordunov got to his feet and launched himself back into the darkness, with Sergeant Bronchevitch trailing behind him.
Karchenko might not make it, Gordunov thought. But he did not know with whom he could replace him. Dukhonin had been his safety man, his watchdog on this side of the river. Now Dukhonin was gone. There was no one left he could trust.
He thought of Levin, the political officer. Levin didn’t have any experience. But he would have to use him, if it came down to it. Perhaps Levin on the eastern bank, while he took personal command in Karchenko’s area. Or wherever the action was the most intense. Gordunov hated the thought of relying on the political officer. But then he hated to rely on any man. He could only bear counting on Dukhonin because they had both come from the Afgantsy brotherhood.
In the darkness, Gordunov collided with a body rushing out of the shadows.
They both fell. The body called out in a foreign voice.
Gordunov shot him at point-blank range.
A return burst of fire from beyond the body sought him in the dark. Gordunov flattened and fired back over the body of the man he had just shot. When the body moved, Gordunov drew his assault knife and plunged it into the man’s throat.
There were several foreign voices now, calling to one another. Unfamiliar-sounding weapons began to fire around him.
Gordunov peeled a grenade from his harness, primed it, then lobbed it down toward the mouth of an alley.
As the fragmentation settled Gordunov crawled into a doorway. The door was locked.
“I’m shot… I’m shot…”
Bronch. The radio.
Gordunov held still. His radioman lay sprawled in the street, his boots still up on the sidewalk. He repeated his complaint over and over, aching with the damage a foreign weapon had done to his body.
Gordunov watched the darkness. Waiting for them to come out. As if on cue, the radio crackled with unintelligible sounds. Then an electronically filtered voice called over the airwaves in Russian.
Come for it. Come on, Gordunov thought. You know you want it.
The radioman moaned, face down, his radio teasing the foreign soldiers.
Take the chance, Gordunov thought. Come on.
Movement caught his eye. And Gordunov was ba
ck in the hills of Afghanistan, brilliantly alive. He didn’t let the leading figure distract him. He watched the point of origin for the covering man. When he had him fixed, he put a burst of fire into him, then shifted his weapon to catch the forward man against the side of a building.
The point man returned fire. But it sprayed wildly.
Gordunov pushed up far enough to break in the door. Then he scrambled to drag the radioman inside.
His hands slicked with blood. It reminded him of dragging a wet rolled-up tent. The boy seemed to be falling apart as he dragged him. He had clearly caught a full burst. Amazingly, he still whimpered with life.
Gordunov peeled the radio from the boy’s shoulders, flicking the moisture off the mike.
“Falcon, this is Eagle.”
“This is Falcon. Are you all right? We thought we saw a firefight.”
“My radioman’s down. I’m about a block down from you, just off on one of the side streets. Can you get somebody down here?”
“We’re all ready to move out.”
“No!” Gordunov screamed. He twisted his body around so that his weapon just cleared the wounded boy, and he held the trigger back until the weapon clicked empty. The approaching shadow danced backward as the rounds flashed into it, crashing against a wall. Gordunov hurriedly reloaded, then pulled out his penlight, careful to hold the point of light well away from his torso.
It was an old man. With a hunting rifle.
Stupid shit, Gordunov thought. The damned old fool.
But it had spooked him. For the first time in years, Gordunov knew he had been caught completely off guard.
The wounded boy was praying. It didn’t surprise Gordunov. Religious or not, he had known many a dying soldier to pray in Afghanistan. Even political officers, professional atheists, were not above appealing to a hoped-for god in their final moments. Gordunov forced himself back to business.