I had no idea that instead of instant death — and with it the kingdom of heaven — camels were capable of passing through sustained fire into a dream landscape of peace and quiet. I was glad. I never saw them again.
I was floundering about outside the Home from Home with the bloody wolf skin in my hand, and because the gunfire had eased up briefly, again I heard ‘Ilya!’ It was my captain calling. I went looking for him.
I hoped little Monkeyface would be safe in the saddle of a dream-world camel. I hoped he would travel all the way to a wonderful land. Then I resolved that another of Margash’s dreams would come true, and I pulled out the pistol. I released the safety catch and went in search of the Captain.
Captain Yegorov loomed in front of me so abruptly that I dropped the raised gun. Then Kozhanov’s lot started firing again. Captain Yegorov stood there as if there was nothing going on. He looked at me, fixing me with the searching stare of a seasoned, front-line warrior.
I hoped that the Captain would attribute any small differences between myself and Margash to the rapid changes that come about during an adolescence spent under fire… I half-crouched and tried to protect my head at least. The Captain stood motionless. He glanced at the wolf skin I was clutching, and his lips rippled into a tiny smile… He was glad he had found me! Shots crashed all around us, taking splinters out of the door of the Home from Home. We were veiled in a cloud of smoke, this time from a red flare. The Captain made a move towards me, not bothered by the black pistol I was offering him. My captain hugged me briefly, clutching me to him… It was just like that moment when the legend of Fedotkin and his boy came to life and Captain Yegorov embraced me on the burning tank… I couldn’t bring myself to squeeze the trigger. The Captain took the wolf skin from me. I stuffed the gun with the safety catch back on down my trousers, and ran after the Captain. The wolf skin full of its gobbets of dark blood led me through the smoke of the flares as I chased after him.
We ran around the Home from Home and came up against a funeral pickup. Gunner Kantariya was gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. Gunner Timosha stood on the runner, his sub-machine gun slung across his back. He was holding a sheet that had probably come from some nun’s bed. At a sign from Captain Yegorov, I swung onto the back under the pickup’s tarpaulin and landed on something soft. It was the entire wealth of the supply train they had there. I recognized the carpets I used to be tied to at night, and the grandfather clock and statuettes, and the washstand and mirror, the piles of knick-knacks, sacks full of watches and church treasures. Captain Yegorov’s entire wealth, the column’s treasure trove… And then the Captain knelt in the middle of it all, and right there on that mountain of carpets he spread out the wolf skin and ever so carefully placed the dinosaur egg in the middle of it. It was bigger than my head. He flipped the corners of the blood-soaked pelt over the egg, tied it into a bundle and carefully stowed the egg away… He had put his most treasured possession onto the pickup, and he had chosen me to be there! The pickup gave a jolt and I collapsed on all fours in front of Captain Yegorov, banging my head on the grandfather clock. Luckily, I caught it as it fell… Yegorov thumped on the cab. Kantariya tapped back and the pickup’s engine roared…
Around the gap blown in the barricade, our sub-machine-gunners stood and knelt in various firing positions. Some of the injured ones had got stuck in the barricade, and as I looked about me, two or three were completely lifeless… Animal legs poked their hooves up into the sky from where a machine-gun emplacement had been camouflaged with bundles of paper. We set off through the gap and in no time we were passing our tanks. The chain of tanks in the circular defence line was unbroken, although a few machines had come off their tracks and one tank had had its turret blown off. Gunner Timosha was holding the sheet, which was blowing in the breeze, and the sub-machine-gunners and tank crews looked at our white flag and raised their arms to greet us. They were glad we had come out to negotiate a truce… Bodies in black tank troop uniforms lay in the grass on the hillside. The canvas tarpaulin covering the back of the pickup flapped in my face. I kept a frantic hold on the bench-seat — we were driving across the wild terrain of the slope, over potholes and the pits left by shells. Captain Yegorov let out a shout of rage, because the big mirror on the washstand had cracked. He was cursing and clasping the grandfather clock to protect it, and he only fell silent when we were brought up short by the barrels of Kozhanov’s tanks.
The whole hillside was rippling with the activity of the sappers. Whole squads of motorized riflemen were scurrying into position. We passed by the dark-green wall of tanks, each protected by its red star. The tanks overshadowed a host of men toiling away with their entrenching tools, urged on by roaring NCOs. We passed all those new Russians in the trenches and gun emplacements, and I could tell they were in spanking new camouflage gear. Their trenches were bristling with weapons, light and heavy, and they struck me as rested, not worn to shreds and all battered and bruised like the ‘Happy Song’ men… It cheered me that along with Captain Yegorov we were off to negotiate a truce and the redeployment of the ‘Happy Song’ soldiers under the banners and battle colours of the new Russians, because what other option was there? We drove slowly through an armed human anthill. They reinforced their positions during breaks in the shelling, and there was no point trying to count the number of machine-gun nests. I had almost given up trying to keep such data in my keen saboteur’s head. Instead I was more concerned about getting myself a new tracksuit top to wear under my tankman’s jacket, so that, in the event of our making a move to clear Czechoslovakia of criminals, should the need arise — like if bandits launched an offensive — I could become a young country bumpkin, someone’s prisoner or something. It crossed my mind this would be a good preparation for the next stage of my wartime life. But I was wrong again.
Vyžlata’s pistol was digging into me and having such a thing on me could arouse suspicion, so I shoved it in among the carpets on the pickup. A swift kick sent it sliding as deep as possible into the Captain’s treasure trove. Not knowing where it was made me feel better straight away.
The shellfire of the ‘Happy Song’ tanks has wreaked merry hell, and not just with the terrain. We drove through a veil of insects. Armour-plated bluebottles and greenbottles were even getting in under the tarpaulin. We passed a dressing station. We could hear sighs, groans and weeping, and sometimes the occasional scream. It all came drifting through the air. It was the way they say things always are at dressing stations, especially at the front. I got that from the other soldiers of our column. We didn’t have one. But then, one tank column doesn’t make an army corps.