Red Army

Copyright © 1989 by Ralph Peters

ISBN: 0-671-67668-7

Excerpt from “The Wind Sprang Up at Four O’clock” in
Collected Poems 1909-1962
by T. S. Eliot, copyright 1936 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., copyright ©1963, 1964 by T. S. Eliot, reprinted by permission of the publisher.

Cover art copyright © 1989 Osyczka Limited

Maps designed by Tony Fradkin

The views expressed in this book are those of the author and do not reflect the official policy or position of the Department of the Army, Department of Defense, or the U.S. government.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

FOR MARION . . .

comrade in all of life’s campaigns

“Here, across death’s other river
The Tartar horsemen shake their spears.”

T.S. Eliot
“The Wind Sprang Up At Four O’clock”

Night came to Germany. In among the pines, the low, sharp-prowed hulls of the infantry fighting vehicles turned black, and the soldiers gathered closer into their squad groups, huddling against the weak rain. Whenever possible, the vehicle commanders had tried to back off the trails in such a way that the nearby trees formed a protective barrier, allowing a safe sleeping space. Those who failed to pay attention to such details risked being crushed during a night alert.

The bivouac site was not virgin territory. When the unit had pulled in under the last afternoon grayness, which was more an ambience than a true light, it was evident that other troops had recently vacated the area. Huge ruts and waves of churned mud, the signatures of tracked vehicles, had ruptured the trails and broken the forest floor. Tins and scraps of paper littered the remaining islands of moss and pine needles, and the smell of human waste was almost as strong as the odor of vehicle exhaust. It was all instantly familiar to Leonid, who had just over a year’s experience of training areas in East Germany, and he recognized his unit’s good fortune in occupying the site while there was still a bit of visibility. The vehicles were much too cramped to sleep in, even had it been permitted, and when you arrived at a new location at night you had no idea where you might decently lie down.

For the first few days after the unit hurried out of garrison, they had moved about only during the hours of darkness. But now the roads were constantly filled, and this last move had been conducted entirely during daylight, covered only by the overcast sky. Everyone craved news. It was evident that this was not a routine exercise, but little information reached the soldiers. Leonid had already heard enough rumors to cause him to worry. All of his life, his teachers and youth activities leaders had drummed into him that the United States and the other Western powers were anxious to unleash a nuclear war against the Soviet Union, and the descriptions of the horrors of such a conflict had been sufficiently graphic to stay with him. Now he wondered what in the world was happening.

Seryosha, the big man and unofficial leader of the squad’s privates, sat under the awning of the vehicle’s camouflage net, assuming its limited bit of protection against the elements as his due. He had opened an issue of combat rations. He picked at the food, telling more stories about his experiences with women. Seryosha was muscular and handsome, and he was from Leningrad. He loved to parade his sophistication.

Seryosha’s audience, to which Leonid belonged, sat in a rough circle. All lights were forbidden, but the officers had disappeared to wherever officers went, and several of the squad members smoked now. Along with the last feeble twilight, the welling glow of drawn cigarettes lent an eeriness to faces and objects that did nothing to improve Leonid’s mood. Off behind the trees, metal clanged against metal, and a voice fired a loud volley of what could only be curses in some Asian language. Then the local silence returned, coddled in the distant humming of the roads.

Sergeant Kassabian, their squad leader, came back from a trip into the woods. Leonid knew he was upset to find that Seryosha had broken open the reserve rations, but Kassabian paused before saying anything.

Seryosha ignored the sergeant’s return. “And city girls,” he went on, “know their way around. No nonsense, lads. They like it, too, and they know you know it.” He noisily fed himself another bite of dried biscuit.

“We’re not supposed to be eating those rations,” Sergeant Kassabian said suddenly, finding his courage.

Leonid could feel Seryosha grinning. Seryosha had a wide, ready grin that seemed to overcome all troubles. Leonid pictured that grin loaded with the chewed mush of the biscuit now. He resented Seryosha’s power but could do nothing about it.

Seryosha moved over to make room under the camouflage for another body. “Come and sit down,” he told Kassabian. “You can’t eat promises. If we wait for the battalion kitchens to feed us, it’ll be the same story as last night. Come on, sit down. If there’s a problem, I’ll handle it.”

Kassabian obediently took a seat beside Seryosha, as if the bigger boy’s natural authority might expand to include him. The rumble of another unit moving nearby seemed to bring a tangible weight to the darkness. The shadowy form of the sergeant seemed very small, almost childlike, beside the broad-shouldered outline of Seryosha. Kassabian was really just a conscript like the rest of them, except that he had been chosen for a few months of extra training, after which he had received the rank of junior sergeant. Perhaps in another squad, he might have gained more authority, but here Seryosha was impossibly powerful. When the officers were around, Kassabian passed on military orders and seemed to rule. But in the barracks, Seryosha was incontestably in charge.

“Seryosha,” Leonid asked tentatively, desperately wanting to be included in the intimate circle of the group, “you think it’s the real thing?”

The question was unexpected, and the seriousness in Leonid’s voice spoiled the atmosphere of imagined women and the freedom to touch them. Leonid realized that he had used poor judgment, but it was too late. When Seryosha answered him, irritation undercut the practiced nonchalance of his voice.

“Think they’d trust us to lug around live rounds if it wasn’t?” Seryosha laughed spitefully. “You think maybe we’re going to the range and we’ve just been lost for the last several days? You think you’re just out for a target shoot and snooze, boy?” Yet it was evident that Seryosha himself did not want to believe that they might truly go to battle.

Leonid tried to back out of his dilemma. “Lieutenant Korchuk didn’t actually say there was going to be a war.”

“Korchuk?” Seryosha said. “That sissy boy never says anything worth listening to. The Party loves you. The Party says, don’t play with yourself in your bunk at night. The Party says, don’t take a crap without a signed certificate giving you permission.”

It was always odd to hear Seryosha ridiculing Korchuk, the unit’s political officer, since Seryosha nevertheless went out of his way to cultivate Korchuk’s favor, and the political officer was so impressed by Seryosha that he frequently designated him to lead group discussions and badgered him to sign up for the whole Party program. Korchuk seemed to be struggling to win over Seryosha’s soul. But behind his back, Seryosha’s commentary on the downy-faced lieutenant was merciless.

Everyone laughed at Seryosha’s attack on Korchuk -- except for Leonid. When the lieutenant had come by earlier to cheer them up, he had only managed to frighten Leonid badly. Leonid had counted himself lucky to be assigned to the Group of Soviet Forces in Germany. He had hoped that in the German Democratic Republic, so close to the West, he might be able to collect a few unusual rock music records or tapes from special groups whose recordings were unavailable or very expensive back home. Instead, he had spent his first year restricted to barracks like a prisoner or on sodden training ranges, except for one escorted tour to a war memorial and a museum in Magdeburg. Then the routine had suddenly collapsed. The unit responded to an alert, hastening to its local deployment area. That much had been normal enough. But the accustomed return to garrison at the end of the test had been delayed. Instead, the unit had remained out all day, and at night they had marched their vehicles to a forest in the East German countryside. After that, the unit had shuttled about in a seemingly random manner for days. And then Lieutenant Korchuk had come by to ask them if they had any problems, and to encourage them to keep their spirits up. But the political officer had clearly been nervous about something, and he had talked a little too much and too earnestly about sacrifices for the Motherland and Internationalist Duty for Leonid’s peace of mind.

Leonid just wanted his two years of conscripted service -- easily the most miserable period of his life -- to end so that he could go home to the state farm outside of Chelyabinsk, to his mother and his guitar.

“And this girl, Yelena, she’s got a sister who wants to know what’s going on, see?” Seryosha went on with his tales. “Her father’s this big wheel in the Party, though, and everybody else is afraid to lay a finger on her. So I’m up in this fancy apartment, waiting for Yelena to come home ...”

Everything seemed to come so easily to Seryosha. Leonid tried to master the prescribed military skills, but his uniform was never quite neat enough, and he bungled the physical execution even of tasks he clearly understood in his mind. But Seryosha seemed to be able to do everything perfectly the first time. And he made fun of Leonid, who was included in the squad group, but only as a member of the outer circle. Now, however, Leonid felt compelled to reach out to the others, to get through to Seryosha that matters were serious, indeed, and that something had to be done, although he had no idea what that something might be.

Seryosha finished his startlingly vulgar story, in which he was, as usual, a hero of dramatic capabilities. As the admiring laughter subsided Leonid tried again to reach the others, despite the risk.

“I think,” Leonid began, searching nervously for the right words, “I think that things are . . . things must be bad.”

He could feel Seryosha turning in the darkness. “Things are,” Seryosha said imperiously, “the way they always are. In the shit. If you’re not in one kind of shit, you’re in another.” Seryosha laughed bitterly, then began again, speaking in exaggerated English, “Leonid,
baby.
Mister Rock and Roll.” Then he collapsed into Russian. “You’ve been in pig shit all your life out on your collective farm, haven’t you?”

“State farm,” Leonid corrected.

“Out there in Chelyabinsk,” Seryosha continued. “No, I mean from
beyond
Chelyabinsk. You must know what it’s like to be in the shit.”

Leonid desperately wanted to express something. But he did not know exactly what it was. He thought of Lieutenant Korchuk’s pale cheeks and scrawny mustache, and of a mental collage of troubling images. But none of it would fit into words.

“I wish we had some music,” Leonid said, drawing back again. It seemed to him now that he had never been happier than when he had been at home, with his small, precious collection of rock and blues music, his Hungarian jeans, and his guitar. He had dreamed of going to Leningrad, where a real music scene existed. Or at least to Moscow, where you could hear good blues. Now that he knew Seryosha, he had ruled out Leningrad. That garbage? Seryosha had said, when Leonid tried to talk to him about music. That’s old hat.
Nobody
listens to the blues. They’d all laugh at you in Leningrad. Everybody listens to metal music now, everybody who knows what’s going on is a metallist. You’d be lost in Leningrad, you little pig farmer.

The intensity of the drizzle picked up slightly, and the soldiers herded closer, each maneuvering for a greater share of the leaking protection of the camouflage net and stray bits of canvas.

“You know what?” Seryosha said. “If there is a war, I’m going to take care of one of those German bitches with her nose in the air. And I don’t care if she’s West German or East German, unless you can prove there’s a difference between a capitalist piece and a socialist one. It just drives me crazy when we’re driving by them and they act like they don’t even see you, like they’re looking right through you.” He paused as they all remembered deployments that took them through tidy German towns where the handsome women showed no regard for them at all. “I’m going to take care of one of them,” Seryosha resumed. “And when I’m done, I’m going to turn Genghiz loose on her for good measure.”

The group laughed. Even Leonid laughed at this image. Genghiz was their nickname for Ali, their Central Asian antitank grenadier. Ali did not understand enough Russian to get the jokes, but he always laughed along. Once, during the squad’s first field exercise, Ali had tried to sneak more than his share of the rations. Seryosha had begun the beating, and they had all joined in. The squad had almost gotten in trouble over the incident, but in the end, Ali had not needed to stay in the sick bay overnight, and Seryosha had concocted a tale to bring in Lieutenant Korchuk on the side of the squad. Ali never repeated his mistake, and he carefully did exactly what Seryosha told him to do as long as the task was clearly explained.