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About Oregon daily emerald. (Eugene, Or.) 1920-2012 | View Entire Issue (March 16, 1943)
The Defense of Tivorsk... (Td. Note.—This story was awarded first prize in the Mar s;i: 1-Case-Haycox short story contest.1) By TED GOODWIN ‘•Tou sent for- me, sir?” I stood Before my commanding officer, gVvi to be inside the relatively warm office of the planning de pa rtment. “Yes, at ease.” The colonel looked hard at me. “We can co. iter-attack on the German fir k and hold 'our losses to one company.” “Hew, sir?” “That one company will hold this village. The regiment will evacuate tonight and swing south to ttack the Nemetski flank as t j advance on the plain to the -wad. Our intelligence reports pc oarations for an attack or, Ti vor.-K. Their main strength will be co: rentrated on the village. We \vd attack them from the south.” “What is my mission, sir?" “You will command the com par.y that holds Tivorsk." I saluted, “1 understand, sir.” ‘Here are your orders.” He handed me an envelope. “Tivorsk will fall, but it must be held for th ee days. By that time we will have destroyed their flank and re? rve.s. You must kill as many ns possible so they cannot organ ize .i defense in the village.” “And after three days . . . ?" ‘ For three days you must hold out ” The colonel explained. The colonel indicated a chair before he continued, “The enemy thinks to trap our regiment in this village. We will engage in op* .1 combat and then take the raiiroad he will leave undefend ed n the rear. After accomplish ing our primary mission, we will return here and mop up. You have met the Nemetski before, Captain, perhaps you will be here when the regiment returns. Shall wv drink to it?” He fished for a small flagon of vodka. “One thinks of many things," h>' said, "when assign ing missions. Mon are spent here to save three days, in another place to save three hours. Yet th vo is such a waste. Not in our country any more but it is told th..' in some places men waste w its in idleness.” He caught h i self. “You may instruct your mu . now, captain.” That piglit 1 called my corn par y together te relay the colo n i s orders. “Men, we may never le e Tivorsk. You have an hour t. write 1 biers. Only a limited iirt ibei can be sent by the sup ply section." 1 no colonel sent tor me just before tlic regiment left. He n-t«.*d if 1 had any message. * Yes," 1 said, “here is a letter t. ay mother and tliis field cap ft my little brother,” • i’ll deliver them, captain. You ha; ■ no wife?” ' .'hank you, sir. No.*1 Tae regiment moved out -that night, stealthily across the snow. Tin ir white winter uniforms were lost within a few yard's and 1 ti: tied back to my quarters. The men of my company were iti tiie temporary barracks in the onion-domed church, and as I lit n cigarette. I could hear singing. 1 walked through the snow to ward the building' and stamped my felt boots in the doorway. My bearded sergeant was leading the men in a hymn before the large ikon. About midway in the chapel a small group knelt in prayer for the coming battle and for their families in the 17 re publics. Their letters and small t:' -kets were on the way. each a cheerful message of victorious campaigns. They stopped singing and stood at attention when they saw me. “As you were, men,” I said, "Let's sing the river song.” As the deep chested voice of my men rang cut I thought, “If a Nemetski patrol hears this singing', they will return to their bivouac and swear we are all drunk. How drunk, they will find out tomorrow.” It was early yet but I expected an artillery barrage about the hour before dawn and its infan try attack. The citizens of the town had been evacuated with the regiment and would continue to the next village with their meager belongings. The sergeant anticipated my suggestion, “Comrades,” he said when the scng was finished, “Let's turn in early tonight, we may as well sleep before the ar tillery opens up.” iseioie 1 couiu snuii tut* ngut and get to sleep a soft knock sounded above the crackling' of the little unfrozen moisture still in the air. I put my coat on for a robe and opened the doer. A lad of about 15 was standing there muffled against the wind. “Come in,” I said, “I thought all the villagers left this eve ning.” “I didn't go," he stammered. “Well, it’s too late now.” 1 mut tered a little angrily, “You would lose your way in the storm. Your only chance is to get all the food and water you can find and hide till our troops return.” “But that’s why I stayed,” he pleaded, “I can help fight. I’ll fire a machine gun or even dress wounds.” “There will be no need to dress wounds, son. What’s your name?” “Niekolat, then T can help fight?" His eyes shone with fierce hatred. “The Nemetskis killed my father and mother. We lived on the collective farm at Tomer. They carried my sister away." My anger had already given way to regret that he would have to remain with the company, for I could see that he would some day be a fine guerilla with time and training. “Stay here tonight, then. Two can sleep warmer than one.” When we went to bed I couldn’t sleep. I kept going over the de fense plan. The first day we must yield only before tanks and ar tillery. The second day we could make a stand near the square. It was mined for tanks and fields of fire were cleared for machine guns. The third day we would snipe from housetops, cellars, and windows. We would back through the streets with our bayonets fixed. By the third night it would be over. About 5 a.m. the first shell came over and the church rocked a little as it burst beyond the village. X woke and my men were pulling on their fur-lined snow uniforms. The relieved guard was coming in to warm by the fire. We heard a sharp whistle as the next one came over. It, too, lit beyond the village. We hoped they wouldn't find our range in tile storm. After that, the dull quiet of falling snow was pierced with the shrieks of the barrage. We could tell the caliber of their guns by the different whistles. A long screaming rush of sound was ain 8S. The short, high noises were the whines of small shrap nel shells. It would be hours before enemy mortars could lob their explosives into the village. For over an hour the artillery fire overshot us with one now and then bursting on the far edge. We knew that the barrage would have to lift before the attack could start so we bus ied ourselves preparing ammuni tion. Our signal for the alert would be the lifting of the artil lery and there was a certain comfort in the shrill cries of met al hurtling overhead. They found our range just be fore dawn and the huge shells ripped up the ground and re duced a few houses to splinters. In a way it was good. No casual ties were caused, the men were well dug in. The shell holes would provide tank barriers and ma chine gun nests later. I moved around the defense positions and inspected the weapons and ammunition of my( men. We had enough ammunition for a week. The guns were in good condition. Each man took his gun to bed with him to keep it from contracting in the cold. Firing kept them warm during the day. My sergeant reported, “Sir, a boy is here and says you gave him permission to stay. He is cooking some kaptska in the commissar’s oven." “Very well, Sergeant, there are worse things than cooking kap utska." Continuing- my inspection oi the fields of fire and cover for our position, X stopped to return the salute of a soldier. It-seemed strange that I didn't know him. He was strangely thin for an in fantryman. On second look it was the boy. He had found an extra uniform and was moving about the area unnoticed. “ You sent for me, sir?" he asked. "I have fed the men.” “Yes,” I answered, ‘‘you stay with me until the battle starts, then perhaps we can decide where you should go.” I knew this didn’t answer the problem but we had time to say no more for the artillery fire lifted and we could hear the rum ble of tanks. My two anti-tank guns were located cn small knolls outside the village and would be the first targets for enemy mor tars once they gave their posi tions away. They held their fire till the tanks were within a hun dred yards. At that distance the first tank slowly opened like a can of er satz fish and stalled. Armor piercing shells were bearing on the second before tracer flashes gave away the gun's position. The enemy set up a small mortar then to put the gun out of action. Nic kolat and I were in a trench fir ing on infantry when we say one of our men snaking over the snow toward the German mortar. The Germans were watching the tank guns and this soldier got within 20 yards and threw his grenade. He was stopped by a rifle shot before he got back to his pineapple had given the an 8S. The short, high noises tank. I knew it was cold when the boy was hit. His blood didn't melt any snow or oven run, it seemed to pile up under the wound in a red ice mound. There were still three tanks and one of them made a direct hit on our right gun. The left gun set fire to one more. Then it went out a9 a mortar charge landed on the knoll. Nemetski infantry was de ploying as skirmishers and ad vancing behind the two remaining tanks. Our forces must have cut off all enemy tanks in the rear. The enemies' uniforms had been white but they were thin and blankets were wrapped around many of the soldiers. These made The Geyser Basins at Night € The yellow sun sinks to the lidge And sets, a scarlet ball, hazy sky Pours blackened mists beneath the earth’s arched bridge As darkening shadows lengthen, melt, and die. The witch of night rides high, and from her train A light wind filters, tingling, rimmed with frost. A moon, the gold of Midas, shudders. Pain Eclipses warmth; thereat of day is lost. But on the plain, the darkest night ne’er hides The writhing, seething columns of hot steam That rise within deep vents in the torn sides Of nature’s stove; nor hide the geyser's gleam. The snows of winter melt here as they fall; The crusty cones defy the flowers of spring. The autumn moon reflects along each hall Of water in the mouths which never sing. This is the land of a thousand fires, The glory of heaven, the breath of hell, The story of life, the aged sires Of time, contentment’s prison cell. A swish of wings encircles the low hiss Of steam and settles on a creaking limb; The nightbird calls, and its clear tones dismiss The silence. On the plain its cry sounds dim. The wind blows ripples in the grass and flowers That spread beyond the cauldron’s smoking shafts; Its ice obscures the gentian; all the powers Man has cannot control its frozen drafts. Breathe deeply air that sifts from off the peaks; Then catch the sulfur stench that haunts the lairs Of geysers. Tn the sickly smell that recks With brimstone feel the might which nature dares. Touch the great peaks’ slopes; the hand that's turned Drinks in the cold of fall on fall of snow. In blue springs place the fingers; flesh is burned With searing, scalding force from heat below. For this is the land of a thousand fires, The glory of heaven, the breath of hell, Which man may see if he desires; Where nature and the north wind dwell. Out on the field the mystic smokes ascend; A thousand pipes shoot forth their steaming trails. They twist, and then on windy nights, they bend Their forms to match the coldness and the gales. They dance with eerie rhythm; in their white Ana formless shapes the ghosts of gods appear Whose people where the Red Men. In the light Of myth they dwell and dance here year on year Their cries moan through the wind, their drumbeats come From deep within the earth; their essence shrouds The moon their father's face; meanwhile their numb And ghastly forms dissolve among the clouds. The wind grows soft, and in the moonlight pale The marble columns lift their heights to stars. The scattered shafts recall the Roman talc Of some colossal ruin, meant for Mars. For this is the land of a thousand fires, The glory of heaven, the breath of hell, Where the past wipes off it dust-cloaked lyres And sings of the days she remembers well. Through hours of the night, nights of the year, years Of the centuries, t'nc steam spurts forth and climbs the sky The minutes pass and grow; each day, night rears Its hood across the landscape but to die. Man sees today and passer to his bed; The. moon creeps up and lights, the blackened scene. Tomorrow someone else will view the red Of sunset and the steam-field’s gloomy mien. The roads of mankind cross the plains Like ribbons. In their blatant paths the trees Bow down and fall. The light of nature wanes, As mountains yield to man their hidden keys. Once, before these smokes, the Red Men’s prayers Rose to their gods. Ere that, the flowers and birds And animals claimed all the land as theirs; Their age outlives the wisest spoken words. This_, the land of a thousand fires, The glory of heaven, the breath of hell, Was not made for man, but to house the choirs Of the rocks’ old age in their mountain cell. Ross Yates fine targets in the snow. We picked them off with rifle fire, saving our machine guns to lay down a grazing fire a close range. I wa3 shouting and firing when I felt myself pulled back into the trench. It was NickoS. I had forgotten him and every thing else and was climbing out of the trench to charge. A boy about 16 crawled out of his shell (Please turn to page eight)