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)