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He felt grateful for every step he survived, but conscious that each took him farther into danger. Any second now, he thought philosophically. He wondered whether a man heard the shot that killed him. What Walter feared most was being wounded and bleeding slowly to death, or succumbing to infection in a filthy field hospital.
He could now see the faces of the Russians, and he read amusement, astonishment, and lively wonderment in their expressions. He looked anxiously for signs of fear: that was the greatest danger. A scared soldier might shoot just to break the tension.
At last he had ten yards to go, then nine, eight. . . He came to the lip of the trench. "Hello, comrades," he said in Russian. He put down the box.
He held out his hand to the nearest soldier. Automatically, the man reached out and helped him jump into the trench. A small group gathered around him.
"I have come to ask you a question," he said.
Most educated Russians spoke some German, but the troops were peasants, and few understood any language other than their own. As a boy Walter had learned Russian as part of his preparation, rigidly enforced by his father, for a career in the army and the foreign ministry. He had never used his Russian much, but he thought he could remember enough for this mission.
"First a drink," he said. He brought the box into the trench, ripped open the top, and took out a bottle of schnapps. He pulled the cork, took a swig, wiped his mouth, and gave the bottle to the nearest soldier, a tall corporal of eighteen or nineteen. The man grinned, drank, and passed the bottle on.
Walter covertly studied his surroundings. The trench was poorly constructed. The walls slanted, and were not braced by timber. The floor was irregular and had no duckboards, so even now in summer it was muddy. The trench did not even follow a straight line-although that was probably a good thing, as there were no traverses to contain the blast of an artillery hit. There was a foul smell: obviously the men did not always bother to walk to the latrine. What was wrong with these Russians? Everything they did was slapdash, disorganized, and half-finished.
While the bottle was going around, a sergeant appeared. "What's going on, Feodor Igorovich?" he said, addressing the tall corporal. "Why are you talking to a cowfucking German?"
Feodor was young, but his mustache was luxuriant and curled across his cheeks. For some reason he had a nautical cap, which he wore at a jaunty angle. His air of self-confidence bordered on arrogance. "Have a drink, Sergeant Gavrik. "
The sergeant drank from the bottle like the rest, but he was not as nonchalant as his men. He gave Walter a mistrustful look. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
Walter had rehearsed what he would say. "On behalf of German workers, soldiers, and peasants, I come to ask why you are fighting us. "
After a moment of surprised silence, Feodor said: "Why are you fighting us?"
Walter had his answer ready. "We have no choice. Our country is still ruled by the kaiser-we have not yet made our revolution. But you have. The tsar is gone, and Russia is now ruled by its people. So I have come to ask the people: Why are you fighting us?"
Feodor looked at Gavrik and said: "It's the question we keep asking ourselves!"
Gavrik shrugged. Walter guessed he was a traditionalist who was carefully keeping his opinions to himself.
Several more men came along the trench and joined the group. Walter opened another bottle. He looked around the circle of thin, ragged, dirty men who were rapidly getting drunk. "What do Russians want?"
Several men answered.
"Land. "
"Peace. "
"Freedom. "
"More booze!"
Walter took another bottle from the box. What they really needed, he thought, was soap, good food, and new boots.
Feodor said: "I want to go home to my village. They're dividing up the prince's land, and I need to make sure my family gets its fair share. "
Walter asked: "Do you support a political party?"
A soldier said: "The Bolsheviks!" The others cheered.
Walter was pleased. "Are you party members?"
They shook their heads.
Feodor said: "I used to support the Socialist Revolutionaries, but they have let us down. " Others nodded agreement. "Kerensky has brought back flogging," Feodor added.
"And he has ordered a summer offensive," Walter said. He could see, in front of his eyes, a stack of ammunition boxes, but he did not refer to them, for fear of calling the Russians' attention to the obvious possibility that he was a spy. "We can see from our aircraft," he added.
