“Well, we’ve still got twenty minutes. Dis-miss!”
The captain kept Lazhenitsyn back.
“The most likely thing is firing procedures. If so, you’re the only one. If I get a chance I’ll point to you, bring you forward, and if I don’t—take the initiative and step forward anyway.”
But maybe they would focus on their equipment? The gun emplacements? Shelters for the gun crews? Camouflage? Storage trenches for shells? Or perhaps defenses against gas? Ensign Ustimovich—get over here!
Never mind, here he comes, fresh from his Gustava, the rascal Chernega, looking guilty and sly, still in a daze, but replete and pleased with himself, bowling along like a loose cannonball.
He raised his hand to salute with feigned contrition.
But this was the one man to get everybody ready! He was an officer now, but was as close to the men as if he had never ceased to be an NCO.
They had to step lively now, as if for battle. Sanya rushed back to his platoon. All at once he was seeing things with different eyes, less indulgently. Only a quarter of an hour to go and how far from perfect his battery was! Still time to sew a button on that slovenly Zhgar’s shoulder strap, remove the mess gear left outside the dugouts to dry in the sun, and all the tin cans saved for future use, take down the footcloths washed and hung out on branches to dry, but no time to strew fresh sand on the footpaths (which no one used anyway)—and there was no knowing what might be hanging up or lying around in the dugouts themselves. Or whether the mattresses were dry or damp. And what if the inspection team made them turn their undershirts inside out and found you know what in someone’s underarm seam? What a disgrace that would be for No. 3 Platoon!
But before the second lieutenant had finished explaining to the bombardiers what must be checked and put right (while his own anxious thoughts raced past them: What was being done about the gun carriages? Were the horses well groomed—on a dry day when there shouldn’t be a spot of mud on them?), the captain’s orderly was after him: officers to report to their senior officer on the double!
Lazhenitsyn set off at a trot, one hand steadying the map case at his side, to join Captain Sokhatsky. Chernega was rolling and Ustimovich wearily loping in the same direction.
Once again, long-legged Sokhatsky was standing with one foot resting on the tree stump, and one hand on his elevated knee, fingering his sword knot even more nervously than before. He gave them further information. Another telegraphic message had arrived from headquarters; they had not managed to find out why the inspection team was coming, but were able to supply the names of its members: a Petersburg general from GAU, a staff colonel from AAICF Upart, and for good measure one of their own generals, the Corps Artillery Inspector.
In the cryptic slang of Russian staff officers who had given up after three weary years of grinding out long, tongue-twisting appellations, this meant Lieutenant General Zabludsky, from the chief Artillery Administration, a colonel from the Artillery Administration of the Inspector General in the Field, and one of their own generals, the Corps Inspector of Artillery (bringing with him an artillery specialist attached to the brigade).
This made things a little clearer. It meant that superficial appearances—objects untidily scattered around, damp mattresses, the state of the cookhouse and the bathhouse—would be ignored. The inspection would definitely not be of the “lice we slay, to God we pray” variety. And it would most probably have nothing to do with tactics, since the Corps Inspector of Artillery, like the Chief Artillery Administration, was responsible only for artillery technology, not tactics. So among things that did not arise and need not be worried about were horses, liaison with the infantry, communications, camouflage, outer trenches, precautions against gas … the condition of their guns? Expenditure of shells? Storage of ammunition? And …?
“Fuses? Detonators? Effectiveness of fire?” Lazhenitsyn wondered helpfully.
Impossible to foresee, too late to put things right. The object of this inspection remained a mystery, a menacing mystery; since it had been kept secret even from Brigade HQ, where the team had spent the night.
Broadly speaking, the object of the inspection was nevertheless perfectly clear: to find irregularities and to nag, so that the counterobjective of No. 3 Battery’s officers was also perfectly clear: to conceal all conceivable irregularities by all possible means, and to encourage the inspection team to depart and leave them in peace. Captain Sokhatsky had no need to brief the platoon commanders on this—they understood very well. The difficulty lay elsewhere: the really crafty inspection teams made a point of bypassing senior and even junior officers and unearthed faults by interrogating NCOs and common soldiers.
“Put the brighter ones up front! Once you see what they’re getting at, put the best people in their way. It’s very easy to get mixed up and play your trumps badly. Hey! Why aren’t you wearing your swords, gentlemen?”
But at that very minute a telephone operator came running to say that they should parade without personal weapons (and Captain Sokhatsky quickly unbuckled his own sword). In fact, they were not to parade at all, because the battery was not supposed to know about the inspection.
So everybody was to go about his normal business, to do whatever he would be doing before the routine exercises. The platoon dispersed looking exaggeratedly casual.
But no more than two minutes later Sokhatsky, strolling casually along, suddenly, much to his surprise, saw the inspection team approaching: they could not all get into one car, and the Corps Inspector of Artillery and the brigade adjutant were trotting on horseback. (From the farm at Uzmoshye to the battery was less than three versts, a nice little outing on foot or by droshky. Motor transport had been provided to enhance their importance.)
Captain Sokhatsky, as delighted as he was surprised, ran at the double to receive the visitors, but even before he had raised his right hand to salute he had flapped his left at the sergeant major, who did not fail to notice it, the bugler sounded the call to fall in, and the whole battery, though taken entirely unawares, lined up by platoons with extraordinary rapidity, and looking more or less presentable, in two rows behind their guns, which were camouflaged with fresh pine branches.
The Corps Inspector of Artillery and the brigade adjutant swung nimbly from their saddles (men had run forward to hold their bridles) and the inspection team began awkwardly extracting their legs from the car.
The Petersburg general was a disappointment. Instead of standing at attention he hovered awkwardly while the captain made his report, and suddenly took off his cap to mop his brow and his crown (revealing a narrow head with a wrinkled brow and hair receding from the temples). He lacked not only the dignity of a general but the solidity you expect in any officer: his greatcoat did not hug his figure but hung loosely, and his mustache was so inconspicuous that his face looked bare.
The colonel from the Artillery Administration, however, was very tall and very handsome, with two carefully cultivated beards, mirror images of each other, each at an angle of forty-five degrees from the vertical and ninety degrees from the other. From his great height he turned on everyone a piercing and annihilating look, as much as to say, “You’re all scoundrels, out to trick me, but I’ll soon show you up for what you are.”
Then there was the staff captain, young, lively, incapable of standing still, always eager to be on the move.
And, finally, a rather subdued lieutenant. He immediately took out a big notebook and prepared to make notes.
At the sight of that notebook their hearts sank into their boots.
The general ambled, the colonel strode, and the staff captain bobbed along behind in the direction of the battery, with all the others following. Captain Sokhatsky ventured, as though duty-bound, to catch up with them, run on ahead, and give his orders in a high thin voice: “Battery—atten-shun! Dress by the …! Officers …!” After which, rigidly at attention, he reported yet again to the Petersburg general.
The general waved him away, embarrassed by th
ese unnecessary formalities. He took his pince-nez from his pocket, put them on, cast a casual glance at the ranks, and a less casual one at No. 1 Platoon’s (Chernega’s) No. 1 gun, and turned to his retinue. “Er … let’s see … how long have they been continuously in action?”
The Corps Inspector of Artillery leaned toward him and whispered something in his ear.
“Of course, of course, stand at ease,” the general said, smiling past the battery commander, addressing the soldiers directly. “Stand at ease, friends.”
Captain Sokhatsky relayed the order and, still standing at attention, listened in to what was being said in the general’s party.
While the rest of them were standing there, the lively staff captain bounded over to No. 1 gun, hopped onto its bipod, removed its cover, opened the breech, and looked along the barrel.
Whatever the general’s party were discussing it was obvious by now that guns were what interested them. (Had the barrels been cleaned properly the last time?)
The inspection team went into a huddle at this first stop, near No. 1 gun, and Captain Sokhatsky, looking rather guilty, answered their questions (every word was promptly recorded in the big notebook), but the junior officers were not called in. Chernega, who was nearest, could no doubt hear everything, but Lazhenitsyn, over by No. 3 gun, heard nothing.
Meanwhile the staff captain had transferred himself from No. 1 gun to No. 2 and was peering into it.
The men could see that their officers were worried, and many of them felt uneasy (nobody expects anything good from an inspection). Zhgar, a candidate for martyrdom, stood in the front rank with his eyes popping out, but stock-still. Unfortunately Sarafanov had also strayed into the front rank, with his belt, as always, slack. Behind him, lazily ironic Barou stood with his weight on one foot, while from the rear rank Beinarovich’s brilliant black eyes shone with pleasure to see the officers in difficulties.
Suddenly, the towering, double-bearded fine figure of a colonel broke away from the team and strode over to the left flank so rapidly that Lazhenitsyn in his confusion was of two minds as to whether to call his men to attention again, but remembered in time that with the whole battery on parade and senior officers present it would be wrong. The colonel did not even notice whether there was an officer with the platoon or not. Walking more slowly, he scrutinized the soldiers’ faces closely, repeatedly, with his clever and very sharp eyes and came to a halt in front of Zhgar—who else? The colonel, towering over the hangdog soldier lowly in stature, rank, and function, gently interrogated him. “Tell me, my friend, when a cannon is fired, is the barrel sometimes so hot you can’t touch it?”
Never in Zhgar’s life had a colonel—and such a gentleman at that—entered into conversation with him, man to man! Zhgar stood at attention, eyes bulging, threw back his head, and made a supreme effort. “Yes, sir!!”
“But how hot exactly?” the insidious colonel asked, more gently and disarmingly than ever. “If you put your cap on the barrel, will it start smoking?”
Zhgar had spoken indistinctly all his life, even when he was at ease, and you had to be used to him to understand him. He blurted out an answer. The colonel did not understand it, but he patiently renewed his question. This time he did understand.
“No, sir. Putting a cap on a gun is not allowed.”
“But supposing you did?” the colonel asked with a smile.
“No, never, it’s strictly against orders.” Zhgar had dug in his heels now. It was as if the battery had regularly received orders on the subject.
Lazhenitsyn’s mind was racing as he tried to see some sense in all this.
Beinarovich, at ease in the rear rank, took advantage of the general relaxation to steal a malicious glance at his second lieutenant and speak out without being asked. “It would catch fire!”
The colonel looked around and located this supporting voice. “You mean if a lot of shells were fired in quick succession?”
“That’s right!”
“So how much time is there between one shot and the next?”
Beinarovich looked lost. He hadn’t been ready for that one.
The colonel’s eyes moved on, to … where next? Barou. And once he saw the university student’s badge on his greatcoat, it was Barou he addressed. “How many shots a minute is rapid fire?”
He knew that the question was meant for him, but since he was not addressed by name, he ignored it, stood there unconcerned, with his weight on one foot and his eyes turned away.
As bad luck would have it, Sarafanov, standing in front and a little to one side of Barou, thought that the colonel was questioning him. He jumped, threw back his head as if shot, and stammered pitifully, “No, Your Honor, we don’t know the minute!”
“Don’t know the minute?” The colonel was surprised.
Undaunted by the fine gentleman’s persistence, Sarafanov repeated, “No, sir, we just can’t tell what’s a minute, Your Honor.”
Come to think of it, how could they? When they’d never in their lives worn a watch, how could they know what gentlefolk meant by a minute? And how valuable it could be.
The colonel’s piercing gaze swept the ranks again and came to rest on Mottele Katz, a little, round, dark man with eagerness to oblige in his eyes. “You tell me, bombardier.”
Katz, flattered by his attention, and anxious not to disappoint, made himself as tall as he could and said, “Three or four shots, Your Honor.”
“No more than that?” The colonel, looking surprised, seemed anxious for him to do better.
Meanwhile the diligent staff captain was clambering around behind the backs of No. 3 Platoon.
Katz, one of nature’s diplomats, tried hard to think of an answer that would make everyone happy—himself, this colonel, his own officer, and the whole battery. He glanced quickly at the second lieutenant, but was given no hint.
“Well … er … maybe … er… maybe sometimes five.”
“Only five?” The colonel was not at all happy.
“What about when the order ‘drumfire’ is given?”
“Well … er—mm—of course … it’s … er… more in that case,” Katz said, retreating step by step.
“But is such an order—‘drumfire’ or ‘uninterrupted fire’—ever given?”
The colonel’s question was now directed to the whole formation, not just Katz alone. He hung over them, obviously willing them to answer yes.
“Ten rounds a minute—is it ever that many?”
“Yes, it is.” Beinarovich shouted triumphantly.
Whether the muttering in the ranks amounted to an answer it was hard to say. Certainly no one else gave clear confirmation.
They couldn’t see that it was any disgrace if the battery fired a lot of rounds, but it was better not to answer, just in case: whatever you said or didn’t say, nothing good could be expected from the brass.
The second lieutenant was at long last beginning to suspect what kind of trap was being set, and wanted to intervene, but feared that interrupting the colonel might be a breach of discipline.
At that moment a loud voice could be heard from No. 1 Platoon—not a soldierly bark, but a naturally, comically loud voice, that of Chernega. Sanya did not catch what he said, but it was greeted with a burst of laughter from the main group, and the Petersburg general called out to the officers what sounded more like an invitation than a command: “Over here, gentlemen, please.”
The probing colonel was put out. He wanted to stay and ask a few more questions. But he had to go.
The nimble captain jumped down from his sixth cannon to join them.
“No,” said the Corps Inspector of Artillery, still chuckling at Chernega’s sally. “No such order has ever been given in our corps—neither ‘uninterrupted fire’ nor ‘drumfire.’ ”
His chuckle told the officers where they stood. Drumfire, once the artilleryman’s pride and joy, was that no longer, but for some reason a bad thing.
When the platoon commanders reached the improbable g
eneral—a lopsided figure with pince-nez—the gaze he turned on them was anything but stern.
“Tell me, gentlemen,” he asked with a confidential air. “You regularly observe where and how your shells explode, don’t you?” His eyes came to rest on Lazhenitsyn.
“Tell me, Lieutenant, do you ever notice that at a given elevation the distance a shell carries slowly but surely decreases? And that you have to raise your sights above what your initial calculations prescribed?”
This clever question, so subtly worded, those narrowed eyes scrutinizing him—it was like facing an oral examiner—warmed Sanya’s heart. It was as though this war, these guns (although they were the subject of the discussion), the uniforms the general and he were wearing, ceased to exist, and this was an experienced professor testing a student’s powers of observation, and a student eager to help establish the truth to the best of his ability.
“Yes, I have!” Sanya was surprised, surprised at himself—he had never drawn any general conclusion from all those particular instances, never talked even to the battery commander about it. “Yes, I have noticed that happening.”
The double-bearded colonel gave a loud cough of approval from somewhere behind Sanya’s head.
And down it went in the notebook.
The Corps Inspector of Artillery, though, raised his eyebrows, greatly surprised.
But before he could speak Chernega’s voice boomed out from beside Sanya. “Permission to speak, Your Excellency? I’ve never observed anything of the sort. It’s just normal dispersion. Sometimes past the target, sometimes short of it. Due to the wind and various other things.”
He spoke so forcefully that his voice alone was enough to dispel Sanya’s hazy notions. He would naturally be believed: he was probably the one who never left the observation post, and the lieutenant the one who was seldom there.
November 1916 Page 110