The refugee traffic had long since stopped attempting to pass through Hameln. The next wave of traffic would undoubtedly be combat vehicles attacking to dislodge the Soviet defenders. Levin marched along, reviewing the ranks of shops. The fire’s glow sent just enough light into the street to hint at inexhaustible riches. Levin had thought himself prepared for the inequitable wealth of revanchist West Germany. But now, in the bloodstained darkness, he could only wonder at the material splendor of this small city. He had studied the problem, and he knew that, somewhere, there must be horrid slums where the exploited were contained, where imported Turkish wage-slaves clung to one another in a desperate attempt to survive. Yet this casual display of riches, these shops bursting with merchandise of undeniable quality, troubled him profoundly.
Above the modern shop displays, handsomely preserved and restored medieval buildings leaned over the street, as if peering down at him. It would be criminal to destroy this, he thought. He recognized the necessity of seizing the bridges for the passage of Soviet forces, however. Now, he reasoned, it was really up to the NATO commanders as to whether or not all of this would perish. He himself had no wish to fight here, to risk the destruction of such monuments without necessity.
Past the old town hall, he turned right up another street of shops that led toward the hospital. Offhandedly, he considered the height of the old town hall, as well as its central location. This was where the battalion command post needed to be, in accordance with military logic. The hospital was too far north to allow firm control of the entire battalion. And its use was contrary to the laws of war.
He stalked by a shop whose broken window featured women’s clothing. The shock of a nearby blast had toppled one mannequin into the arms of another, as though she had been wounded and caught in her fall by a friend. It would be lovely, Levin thought, to bring Yelena here, after the peace, to show her the beauty of the place, and to buy her things in these shops. How much could he afford? he wondered. Then he laughed at himself. After the peace, everything would be reordered. More would be available for all of the people. Once a great European peace had been established, military spending could be reduced significantly. The transition would take time, of course…
In the meantime, there was a war to fight. Levin was proud of how well he had done in his first combat action. It was amazing how closely experience conformed to the texts over which he had labored. Envelopment was the preferred technique against a strong position… a well-organized defense could be remarkably strong…
Why had the battalion commander called him back? Levin could think of nothing that he had done wrong militarily. And, despite their personal differences, Levin knew that Gordunov was an officer of very high technical capabilities. The Soviet military needed men such as Gordunov. It was important, however, to restrain their excesses. Levin saw no point in wanton destruction. It was not in the spirit of Socialist internationalism. The goal of the good communist was to preserve all that was good, but to surgically excise that which functioned to the detriment of the oppressed masses. Of course, you could not consider a man such as Gordunov a true communist.
Levin was familiar with the stories about Gordunov’s adventures in Afghanistan. Gordunov was described as a survivor, one of the men with charmed lives who always emerged whole from the fire and smoke. But he was also renowned for his excessive violence. Reportedly, it was Gordunov’s style to kill every living thing around him.
Levin had heard so many contradictory stories about the failed military assistance mission to Afghanistan that he tried to separate the tales from the main currents of his political thought. He was frankly embarrassed by his country’s evident failure. But on a political level, he rationalized that the attempt to bring about a Socialist state had been premature in Afghanistan, since the inhabitants had not developed a sufficient level of political and social culture. The reports of brutality haunted his rationalizations, as well. But it had to be acknowledged that wars of that nature were always brutal. Professional officers excused the Soviet military failure in Afghanistan by pointing out that they had never been allowed an adequate level of troop strength, and that the Soviet military establishment had not been designed to fight such a war. Overall, there seemed to be two major schools of thought among the officers Levin knew personally. Airborne and special-operations officers had sought assignments to the contingent of Soviet forces in Afghanistan, eager for the combat experience and the awards. Gordunov, for instance, was one of the most highly decorated officers of his generation, and he was a very young lieutenant colonel. But officers from the other branches often had mixed feelings. Tank and most motorized rifle officers resented the difficulty of the circumstances under which mechanized forces had to operate and the lack of proportionate glamour for their branches, and support officers viewed many of their logistics tasks as verging on the impossible. The attitude of artillerymen had evolved over the years. Initially, Levin had been told, there had been so many problems with fire support that artillery officers regarded an Afghan assignment as a quick way to end a career. But the situation improved as new fire-support techniques were developed and mastered. By the final stages of the involvement, many artillery officers had regarded Afghanistan as a marvelous place to experiment with their guns, multiple rocket launchers, and automated control mechanisms. Aviators grew to hate the place almost to a man.
Levin arrived at the broad street that fed into the northern bridge and separated the old town from the hospital complex. The burned-out hulks of automobiles in silhouette looked like obnoxious modern sculptures. On the left, the river glowed with the reflection of the burning buildings on the west bank. Great pockets of fire rose on the far side of the river, and, as Levin watched, a mortar fired a parachute flare, then another, and a distant machine gun searched out targets. Levin looked at his watch. Past four. It would soon be light. That meant the enemy would be coming soon. Otherwise, the Soviet armored columns would beat them to the crossings. Levin had great faith in the Soviet tankers. They would not let their comrades down. He pictured how it would be when the Soviet tanks inevitably arrived, rolling over the bridges with salutes for the worn-out survivors of the air-assault operation. He imagined it in tones similar to the triumphant scenes that always ended films about the Great Patriotic War. This was genuinely the stuff of heroic legends, Levin realized, and he was thrilled to be a part of it. He felt as though all of his life had pointed him toward this event. He sprinted across the street toward the hospital.
“Anureyev’s badly wounded,” Lieutenant Colonel Gordunov told Levin. “He’s not going to make it. Shot by his own shitty little buggers in the dark.”
“Anureyev’s a good officer, Comrade Battalion Commander. I’m sorry.”
“Was a good officer. He’s meat for the worms now. But that’s what soldiering is about, too, Levin.”
“He will have died for a noble cause.”
Gordunov shook his head. Levin sensed that the battalion commander had been about to say something biting, then thought better of it. “Anyway, I’m putting you in command of the entire eastern bank. You need to get down to Anureyev’s positions on the southern approaches and have a quick look around. If the troops are spread too thin, pull them back. We’ll make the bastards fight for every block. But no matter what happens, remember that the primary mission is to retain the northern bridge. That doesn’t mean give up the southern bridge without a fight. But the priorities are clear.”