Prohibition of Interference. Book 1. Макс Глебов

our van. One could sense that in peacetime he was an incorrigible optimist, and he dragged his easy-going attitude to everything that was going on here, in this wooden wagon, which was approaching the front with replenishment for the infantry divisions that had suffered huge losses in the fighting.

      “What are you so gloomy about, soldier?” the boy asked, fidgeting and making himself comfortable.

      “War is no fun,” I shrugged, trying to let my disturbing neighbor know that I was not in the mood for conversation.

      “You're afraid, aren't you?” There was no negativity in his voice, but rather genuine surprise, “My name is Boris and I am from Voronezh.”

      “Pyotr,” I introduced myself and shook the outstretched hand, “Of course I'm afraid. It's foolish to underestimate your adversary.”

      “Don't be afraid,” Boris lowered his voice, but the smile never left his face, “and keep your voice down, or better still, shut up than talk like that. If your words get through to the commissar, you'll get in trouble, and do you want that? The morale of the Red Army fighters is high and unshakable. And it should not be sapped.”

      “Morale is important,” I didn't argue, “so we'll strengthen it.”

      “No, Pyotr, you're not afraid,” Boris looked at me carefully, “That's what I thought at first when I heard you say that, but I guess I was wrong. You're very serious, and you seem to know something that we ordinary soldiers aren't supposed to know.”

      Is it really written all over my face? It's really not a long way to get into trouble if the first person I meet sees right into my mind…

      “My father told me about World War I,” I carefully answered my interlocutor, who turned out to be overly perspicacious, “He did not go to war himself, but he talked to those who had been there. I wouldn't want to be in those trenches. Not many people came back from there.”

      “So he was telling you about the imperialist war,” grinned Boris, “Well, that's another thing. The people there died for the interests of the bourgeoisie, and we are going to defend our socialist homeland. You have to understand the difference.”

      “I'm not arguing,” I decided not to escalate the discussion. I have attracted too much attention to my modest person, it's time to change the delicate subject, “Do you know when we're going to get weapons? I feel uncomfortable – the front is coming soon, and my hands are empty. I grew up in the taiga, you can't do without a gun there. Even now I feel like I'm naked.”

      “In the taiga, you say? A hunter?” Boris was interested. I noticed that the other neighbors in the van were beginning to listen to our conversation.

      “Of course I'm a hunter. In the taiga, all men are hunters.”

      “And you must be a pretty good shot, with all that practice?” asked the guy on the next bunk with the unruly frizz of hair which he kept trying unsuccessfully to smooth out.

      “My father was pleased,” I answered evasively, “but it's hard for me to judge, I have no one to compare it to. My skills were enough for a successful hunt.”

      “I don't know about weapons,” Boris remembered my question, “they'll give them to us, don't worry. When we arrive, we'll be assigned to a combat unit, and then we'll get weapons.”

      “Okay, if so…” I yawned in a pointed manner and leaned against the swaying wall of the wagon, “I'm going to sleep for a while, I'm sleepy.”

      I closed my eyes and lightly tensed the right facial muscles, activating the interactive mode with the contact lenses. To begin with, where are we? Thus, the nearest major station is Khristinovka. This is 300 kilometers south of Kiev and 20 kilometers northwest of Uman. We'll be there in a couple of hours if we don't get stuck passing someone again, or if the Germans don't bomb the way.

      The situation on this section of the front is changing quite rapidly. Kiev is still holding on thanks to the fortifications built before the war, but the Germans are advancing stubbornly on the flanks, encircling the city from the north and south.

      That's where they're taking us, to the south flank, only why are we still going forward? It's not like we're a regular unit with guns, ammunition, and a clear mission. We still need to form some units, at least to train those who are completely out of the loop, they have to give us weapons, finally. Where are we going? And why so careless? German planes should already be flying in even here, and a train going to the front in the middle of the day is not a target that Luftwaffe pilots would consider of secondary importance. But this is understandable to me, with my level of awareness, which no one else here has, including the leadership of the Red Army and Wehrmacht, although the Germans are better at it – no matter how you look at it, air supremacy greatly improves the quality of air reconnaissance.

      So, what else don't the higher-ups know about? Or they know, but have not yet had time to react properly and give the necessary orders. The communication here and now… Let's not talk about sad things.

      No one but me on this train knows that less than a couple of hundred kilometers west of our train, the Germans have thrown a fresh infantry division into battle, and the defense of the city of Gaisin, which seemed more or less stable, has collapsed, burying under it the hope of holding the front. Major General Volokh's 18th Mechanized Corps, which had held the 12th Army's defenses together a few days earlier, was dismembered, suffered heavy losses and was rapidly losing combat effectiveness, retreating chaotically to the east.

      But that wasn't even the worst part. In the path of the Wehrmacht division that took Gaisin, there are still enough Red Army troops that, although retreating, put up a fierce resistance, regularly launching counterattacks. Much worse, Major General Hubert Lantz's First Mountain Division, taking advantage of the success of its neighbors, formed a strike motorized group that made a 70-kilometer dash southeast in one day and found itself deep in the rear of the Soviet forces, and more and more German 49 Corps units began to be rapidly drawn into the resulting gap. The Soviet defense near Uman was disorganized, and no one in the leadership of the southwestern front really knows what is really going on there. And so into this meat grinder we go, remaining in serene ignorance as to what fate awaits us in the near future.

      I felt totally powerless. Here and now nothing depended on me. No one will listen to the ravings of an ordinary soldier, who is not even a soldier yet, but a green rookie, who hasn't even smelled powder and isn't even assigned to any military unit.

      I opened my eyes, stretched out my shoulders and back, and stood up from my seat. There was surprisingly no one at the small window, so I looked out.

      The train still waddled leisurely forward, disguising itself with a column of smoke from the chimney. At another bend in the track, I was able to get a closer look at our echelon. At the last station, where the steam locomotive was refueled with water and coal, someone clever or just responsible enough decided not to neglect air defense equipment in the front-line zone and hitched a platform to the train with an anti-aircraft machine-gun mount of Tokarev design. The barrels of the 1931 Model Maxim quadruple-mounted machine guns stared up into the sky, and the helmets of the crew could be seen above the sandbags.

      M4 quadruple anti-aircraft machine-gun mount. Its basis – four machine guns designed by Maxim. Developed by the team of N.F. Tokarev in 1928–1931. The mobile version was mounted on railroad platforms and in the bodies of trucks. Caliber 7.62 mm. Used to fight air targets at altitudes up to 1400 m. It was also successfully used against infantry and unarmored vehicles.

      The presence of at least such protection from air attack could not help but rejoice me, but I did not believe in its high efficiency. It was a pity that the machine-gun platform was four cars away from me – if anything happened, I wouldn't even have time to warn the anti-aircraft gunners of the danger.

      “What are you looking at?” Boris was there again.

      “I just felt stuffy, so I thought I'd get some fresh air.”

      “You call this smoke from a steam locomotive fresh air?” my traveling companion, who was overly talkative, grinned, wincing slightly.

      The