The End of War - A Novel of the Race for Berlin - [World War II 02] Read Online Free Page B

tonight. He wagers that all the tanks he sees around him are Maskirovka. Clever. He decides he likes these tank officers in the tent ahead of him.
     
    Misha slips next to him. He runs a slender hand around the rim of a wooden cask that suffices for a wheel.
     
    “Nicely done,” Misha murmurs with a wheeze. “I never saw better.”
     
    Ilya nods. He waits while his companion’s breathing slows to normal. After two minutes, Misha seems ready. Ilya rolls onto his stomach. Misha makes no move to follow.
     
    “Misha. Now. Let’s do it like we discussed.”
     
    The other private wags his head.”No, Ilyushka. I’m thinking no. You go the last bit without me. I’m not really designed for this sort of thing.”
     
    Ilya shifts forward to sit again next to his companion. “I’ve got you this far. You can come the rest of the way.”
     
    “I’ll make a mistake. We’ll get caught.”
     
    “Maybe. Maybe not. We have to go on to find out.”
     
    “Why do you want me with you, Ilya? We just met. What do you know about me? I’m the last person in the company I’d take.”
     
    “That’s why you’re the one I picked.”
     
    Ilya looks into the man’s eyes. He does not tell his comrade the complete truth: that he wants the others to see that if Ilya Shokhin can get puny, scared Misha to do this, he must still be a very good leader of men.
     
    He looks into Misha’s eyes. This little sissy will finish the job.
     
    “Michail Stepanovich. Let me ask. Do you like being in the Eighth Guards penal battalion?”
     
    Misha makes no answer. None is needed.
     
    “You’ve been stuck in it since, what, July? Do you like knowing you’ll be in the first rank of every attack from now on, just a target so the men behind you can find out how strong the enemy is and where they’re shooting from? Hmmm? Do you take pride in being an infantry private, surrounded by cowards, bandits, brawlers, and madmen, instead of an intelligence captain carrying General Chuikov’s coffee? Do you like your shame as much as you used to like your medals and your cot? What do you hear from home, is your family proud of your accomplishment?”
     
    Misha tenses at this mention of his family.
     
    “I didn’t run,” he says. Ilya raises a finger. Misha lowers to a hiss. “I didn’t run. I evacuated headquarters before the Germans surrounded us. I had battle maps all over the place. I couldn’t let them be captured.”
     
    Ilya eases his tone. “The commissar tells me you were screaming, Misha.”
     
    “I grabbed the plans and I evacuated. That’s all I did.”
     
    “You ran to the rear without your rifle.”
     
    “I forgot it. The commissar was wrong. I forgot my gun. There were Germans everywhere.”
     
    “And General Chuikov, if I’m not mistaken, informed you that’s when you need your gun most, Misha.”
     
    There is not much light but there is enough for Ilya to note a gleam rimming Misha’s eyes.
     
    “Ilya,” the man says, “please.”
     
    “Yes”—Ilya pauses and chews on the word—”please.”
     
    Please nothing, he thinks. There is no please in this life, no being granted a favor for the asking. Does Misha believe there is justice, that you get what you deserve, or that you can keep what you earn? No. Ilya will never make that mistake again. Anything can be taken away, whether or not it’s fair, or if it even makes no sense. Do or do not say “please”; no one hears you.
     
    Misha has dried his eyes. He looks firmly into Ilya’s face. He wants to ask a question of his own now. This must be what Misha’s training is: queries, not battle.
     
    “You were a major?”
     
    “Yes, Misha. A major.”
     
    “How long have you been in Eighth Guards?”
     
    “Before Stalingrad. When we were still the Sixty-second.”
     
    Misha’s eyebrows go up. Anyone who fought at Stalingrad has an aura for those who did not see it, the greatest single battle in the history of mankind. One medium-sized Soviet