Chapter Five
German Military Locomotive, 1918
Kermen, Bulgaria
The sun was still down and the moon not yet up as the locomotive screeched to a halt in a cloud of steam. From inside the cloud—it and the station illuminated by the electric lights of the station—came the shrill cry of the whistle, the shriek of brakes, and the nails-on-a-blackboard sound of steel tires trying to grip steel rails. The whistle, contrary to many suppositions, was not always to warn pedestrians ahead, but also to tell the other locomotive that a stop was coming, so they could brake as well.
Behind the locomotive rode the tender, a coal and water car to feed the locomotive, while behind it stretched a dozen troop cars, two of what Daniil took to be mess cars, from the smoking funnels atop them, another three troop cars that he supposed were for the German guards, and nine more mixed freight and flatcars, presumably holding the equipment, ammunition, and perhaps some of the food.
Yes, food, he was certain, based on the sound of mooing cows from near the rear of the train. Daniil stood up from the large trunk on which he’d been sitting while awaiting the arrival of his new command.
The last three troop cars opened first, with about eighty uniformed and armed Germans emerging.
That’s less than they carry and less than Brinkmann told me were on the guard detail. Presumably the others got off on the far side to ensure nobody escapes. He glanced down at the trunk.
Most of the Germans spread out, forming a thin double line of skirmishers, encompassing the entire train station and loading platform, and facing in both directions. A handful of Huns, officers and senior noncoms, proceeded to unlock and push aside the sliding doors, allowing crowds of Russians to emerge, squinting against the light.
So thin they are, the enlisted men, thought Daniil. Their uniforms barely fit. The Germans must have fed the officers better than the rank and file, it seems, even in Fort IX. How’s that going to play out with rations that are less than great even for front line combatants?
From each carload, one or two officers plus one or two senior noncoms came to Captain Kostyshakov for instructions. Romeyko, having arrived the previous day with an even larger load, was not among them, but was puttering with something else on the platform.
“The camp’s about four versts2 northeast of here,” Daniil told them. “It’s mostly uphill. Job one is to load the equipment and supplies on the wagons. Whatever doesn’t fit the wagons goes on our backs.
“Job two is to make sure no one runs. For that . . .”
Daniil turned and opened the trunk, revealing a goodly number of pistols, plenty of spare magazines, holsters, plus several thousand rounds of strangely labeled ammunition.
“Romeyko, when I’ve finished, issue each company first sergeant and above one pistol, three magazines, and enough ammunition to fill them, plus one round.”
“Gentlemen, if someone tries to desert—note I said ‘desert,’ not ‘escape’—it will be on us to shoot them, if necessary. Better that than be seen as being mere stool pigeons for the guards.
“Once you have your arms, take charge of the men and get those wagons filled. They’re not marked by company; Romeyko will sort all that out when we get to camp.
“Job three . . . Basanets?” Daniil had to strain his neck to look the tall captain serving as his executive officer in the face.
“Sir?”
“Job three is for you, Mikhail Mikhailovich, to take a detail through every car occupied by our men and make sure they are completely devoid of any hint of who we are, what we are, where we came from, and where we’re going. No graffiti. No notes stuck in cracks. Nothing left behind. And get some of the shit from the cars carrying the cattle and spread it around.”
“Yes, sir,” Basanets agreed.
“Job four is marching to the camp. I want us to be out of here before sunrise—before the first hint of sunrise—with everyone accounted for and nobody in the town the slightest bit wiser about who we are.
“Questions?”
Seeing there were none, Daniil said, “Go, then. Draw your pistols.”
The officers and noncoms saluted, turned about smartly, and began to crowd around Romeyko.
“What are these?” Basanets asked. “I’ve never seen . . .”
“Amerikanski M1911s,” Romeyko answered. “Big bruisers, eleven and a half millimeter. The tsar bought something like fifty thousand of them. Some thousands ended up captured by the Huns. I talked a supply sergeant in their army out of one hundred and twenty, with magazines, plus another two hundred and forty magazines, and holsters and ammunition pouches for the lot. And a lot of ammunition. It didn’t take a lot of effort; he was just as happy to be rid of them. They’ve got slots on the holsters we can fit our belts through.
“You may as well go first, Mikhail. Pick one. Don’t forget your magazines and holsters.”
Basanets reached down and grabbed as he was told.
“Read off to me the serial number, please?” Romeyko asked.
“C49715.”
“Very good, thanks,” said Romeyko, jotting the number down in a ledger himself. Ordinarily, this would be a job for a Russian podpraporschik, a noncom, or even one of the rank-and-file clerks. As it was, everyone was too busy so Romeyko took weapons issue upon himself. It had, too, the advantage of putting him near the horse drawn wagons to make sure they were fully loaded.
“Next! State your name; take your pistol, your holster, your magazines, and your ammunition. Don’t be greedy, twenty-two rounds only.”
“Dratvin, Ivan . . . C84386. But I don’t even know how to load this thing, let alone use it.”
“Right . . . five-minute class after we finish issuing.”
The sun was just peeking over the horizon when the column set out. It might have begun to move sooner, but two of the men, thinking they might escape and perhaps get home a bit sooner, attempted to hide above the train’s axles and had to be flushed out at bayonet point. These now marched awkwardly, looped rope running from one neck to the other, gagged, with their hands tied behind their backs, stumbling, too, from the rope that kept their feet to no more than a two-foot, eight-inch step. A senior noncom, Zauryad-Praporshchiki—or Sergeant Major—Blagov walked behind them with a sharp stick, prodding them to keep up and kicking them when they fell, then lifting them by their hair.
Almost none of them knew just why they were here, where they were going, nor to do just what. Neither had the locked cattle cars they’d been brought in given them any degree of confidence about their individual or collective futures. They didn’t even know where they were, not even to the level of what country.
Daniil turned around, walking backwards to watch the column ambling along behind him.
The officers and noncoms we’ve armed already walk straighter. But the mass of them? They walk like sheep, listless, stupid, unknowing, and uncaring. Of course they do; they’re still weak from the camps while a few days’ decent—well, half decent—food on the train wasn’t enough to restore them.
And they are demoralized, still, Kostyshakov thought. Can’t blame them; they don’t really know anything. Probably worried about the future. So . . . in a little bit . . .
Halfway to camp, when the column was out of sight and out of earshot of the town, Kostyshakov, marching at the front, veered off the frozen dirt road and led the column into a half circle, in open field, just off the road.
When they were halted there, in that half circle, Daniil put up both hands, palms facing himself, and made come hither motions with his fingers, directing the men to break ranks and crowd in around him. The German guards gave each other questioning looks but didn’t interfere.
Once the soldiers were clustered around, the nearest perhaps a dozen feet away, Daniil ordered, “Front ranks . . . sit!”
That made it possible for the men to both hear and see him better, as well as for Daniil to see them better. He waited then a few moments more for the two in fetters to make it to the rear of the assembly.
“Guardsmen,” he began, “it is time now, now that we’re out of sight from prying eyes and out of hearing for eager ears, to tell you why; that, and what’s coming over the next few months.
“We are, in the first place, going to a camp that has been set up for us by the Germans, with whom— and I cannot emphasize this enough—we are no longer at war. They’re going to be guarding us, still, but that’s to keep word of what we’re engaged in from getting out.
“It’s not a bad place, I understand, that camp; tents, yes, but they have wooden floors, warm liners, and there are stoves for each with an adequate supply of coal. In this camp—it is called ‘Camp Budapest,’ and no, we are nowhere near Budapest—we reform as a composite Guards battalion. This battalion will eventually consist of two rifle companies, Second and Third, plus the First Company, consisting of the Headquarters and Staff platoon, which will include a small intelligence section, plus all supply and support, plus various heavy weapons. Oh, and a small strategic reconnaissance section. There will also be a short company’s worth of replacements. Finally, the smallest company, Grenadier, will be specially armed, equipped, and trained to take the lead in accomplishing our mission.
“No, before you ask, we will be paying zero attention to your previous regimental affiliations. Note, too, that though we are all from elite regiments, and our own battalion is elite, among us Grenadier Company will take a large share of the very best and will have rank to award commensurate with that.
“No, also before you ask, except for the support specialists in First Company, I don’t know who will be in which company. We are going to spend about three weeks, possibly four or even as many as five, if we must, identifying a certain type of man for Grenadier Company.
“Grenadier Company will not even form until we have identified the people who will fill it. All of us, until then, will be in First, Second, or Third.”
“You will be well fed; much better fed than the poor bastards left behind in the prisoner of war camps. Indeed, as you may have noticed on the train, we are now on the German feeding scale for their own combatant personnel. Yes, I understand the train food may have been a little rough and ready; it was still better than the previous camps’. You will also be paid, and at a better rate than you were getting in camp, too. Some alcohol will be available for purchase, but it will be rationed. We have no room for drunkards.”
And my, didn’t that perk them up?
“Security, however, means no women. No, not even whores.”
That got a groan, but it was mostly joking. Nobody really expected field brothels in the Russian army.
“If you can’t fuck the calories off,” Daniil continued, “you can reasonably expect to burn off all that extra food through training and working. Now . . . questions?”
One man, seated on the ground, raised his hand.
“Yes?”
The man who had raised his hand stood to attention. “Umm . . . beggin’ yer pardon, sir, Corporal Panfil, Leonid.”
“Yes, Panfil?”
“To do exactly what, sir?”
Daniil laughed, lightly. Nice when you can predict question one so completely. He raised his voice to carry. “Hmmm, didn’t I tell you all? I guess I didn’t. We’re going to go save the tsar and his family.”
Rostislav Mokrenko, Cossack by birth, cavalryman by trade, and prisoner of war until quite recently, still shook his head ruefully at how completely he’d been suckered by the red walls and redder banners of the interview room at Zittau.
I should have known, he thought, when I saw Kaledin sitting there that that was no assembly of Reds. He’s more of a Tsarist than I am. Hell, he’s more of a Tsarist than the tsar is . . . or was.
Glancing to his right, Mokrenko said to Kaledin, “You dirty bastard; you could have told me sooner.”
“Couldn’t, Rosti. Couldn’t take any risks with anyone spilling their guts. C’mon; you’re an old soldier; you know that, even without being told.”
“I suppose,” the other Cossack conceded. “And, what the hell; we get back into action.”
Head up, as the heads of the rest were also proudly up now, Mokrenko whistled the first nine notes of the hit song of a few years prior, “Farewell of Slavianka,” the notes usually accompanied by, “Vstan zva Veru, Russkaya Zemlya.” Arise for the faith, O Russian Land.
From where Mokrenko marched, side by side with Kaledin, the tune was picked up and the words added by each marching soldier, many perhaps thinking of his own farewell from his woman, years before:
“The moment of parting has come to us,
As you look to my eyes with alarm . . .”
Marching a dozen ranks back from Mokrenko and Kaledin, Vasenkov thought, Of course you sing, you reactionary swine. And I’ll sing with you, since I must.
Camp Budapest
The singing hadn’t lasted the full distance. Even with a modest pace and no equipment to lug by hand—the wagons had, in fact, proved adequate to the need— the men were worn out by the time they reached the camp’s gates.
They passed through the gates, now guarded by German soldiers who, now seen in daylight, looked a bit long in the tooth, between several ranks of tents, and onto a bare parade field, unadorned by anything like a reviewing stand.
I’d like to blame it, thought Daniil, on not feeding them breakfast at the station, but that’s not it. They’re just in wretched shape. Speaking of which, I wonder what . . .
“Basanets?”
“Yes, sir?” the captain asked, from on high.
“Take charge here for a bit. Divide them into their three companies, then turn matters over to Sergeant Major Blagov to see them through the mess and equipment issue. I want to go see what’s being served.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Basanets, accompanying it with a thin sketch of a salute.
The mess was one of the few solid buildings constructed so far, the others being the guards’ mess, the officers’ mess, the armory cum supply office, and the headquarters, plus a few officer’s shacks. Most officers, like the ranks, would bed down in tents, on straw. Even the sparse hospital, to be under a civilian MD, Dr. Gazenko, was only five tents separated from the main area and from each other. And one of those tents was to serve as an examination room, while another was for billets for medical personnel.
The messes were not large enough to actually seat anyone; for that there were tents and wooden tables and benches. There might be buildings to eat in, eventually. Even where buildings stood, already, though, the wood was cheap stuff, roughly sawn, and crudely assembled.
Just before entering the mess kitchen, Daniil passed by an enormous pile of mess kits and a crate of eating utensils, tied into sets, overseen by one of Romeyko’s few clerks. The kits were Russian models, copper. Their general form was like the Germans’, kidney shaped when looked at from above, but the dimensions were rather different. Water was steaming in a large kettle slung over a wood fire, for the troops to sterilize them before use. A few crude brushes hung from a rack next to the kettle.
The clerk stood and saluted, which salute Kostyshakov returned, saying, “At ease, soldier. Hand me one of those, would you?”
“Yes, sir.” The clerk reached down and grabbed one kit at random. Opening it, Daniil found it was perfectly clean.
“Are they all this clean?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; very thorough people, don’t you know, the Germans; that, and sanitary. Well, I suppose they have to be, packed in like they are. But apparently all the battlefield leavings they salvage they also clean and maintain.”
“How many do we have of the kits?”
“On the theory that some would be defective—none of them are—Captain Romeyko got seven hundred and fifty. We have a good many extras.”
Hmmmm, thought Kostyshakov, that’s a lot of pretty high-quality copper we can trade, if anyone has something to trade for it.
Daniil passed the mess kit back. “I’ll draw mine with the rest of the officers, after the men are fed.”
He stopped then to examine the lay of the kitchen. The door was just a space covered by a piece of canvas. The exterior walls were mud-chinked. There was some kind of oiled paper over the windows, impossible to see through but admitting a degree of light. An overhead covering, held up by four-by-fours and extending perhaps twenty-five feet from the door, provided a modicum of shelter for some of the troops. Gravel lay over the dirt, in near enough to the exact dimensions of the overhead shelter.
Of course, that’s not about troop comfort; that’s about keeping the ground dry—or drier—to reduce dragging mud into the mess.
Stopping at the door and pulling the canvas aside, Daniil felt the wood framing the door. It was overlapping rough-sawn pine with the bark still on. Some class of wood, at least, is still plentiful. Speaking of which . . . Daniil walked into the kitchen, hot and steaming after the cold morning air.
Pointing at the grayish brown half loaves on display, Daniil asked of the elderly German noncom responsible for both kitchens, “What’s in the bread, Feldwebel . . . ?” He noticed the chief cook wore an Iron Cross, First Class, on his apron. This was not common.
“Feldwebel Taenzler, Herr Oberstleutnant . . .” the head chef hesitated.
“It can’t be worse than what’s fed at the prison camps, Taenzler.”
“It varies with what’s available,” the German admitted, “and, yes, better than what’s served in the camps, from what I hear.” Picking up a half a loaf, the German continued, “These loaves have some wheat, a lot of rye, some lentils, some maize, a good deal of potato flour, and . . .”
“And a bit of sawdust?” Daniil prodded.
“Not sawdust exactly, that’s only for bread for prisoners of war, and that only if we’re desperate, but wheat and rye bran, yes. Under ten percent, by weight, but yes, sir, bran. I won’t say that some bakers, unscrupulous or desperate, take your pick, don’t sometimes resort to ‘tree flour’—or even worse things— but the army? No.”
Well, I’m glad of that.
“Is that what’s authorized for a combatant ration?” Daniil asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, what else have we got?”
“Officially? Officially, Sir, the men get about five or six ounces of meat a day, but officially Germany is winning the war, too. It’s very difficult, I find, to reconcile those two bits of information.
“Unofficially, a lot of the meat will be ‘war sausage,’ which we call a ‘mouthful of sawdust’; no, there’s no sawdust in that, either. It’s mostly vegetable in origin, flavored with some blood, some meat scraps, some offal, some fat. It’s not sawdust, but it feels like it is. I counsel against enquiring too deeply as to where the fat came from; suffice to say that at least it isn’t human. Oh, and water, too, of course, lots of water.
“We might get fish, occasionally. It’s likely to be past its prime. Some of the meat, too, will be horse . . . but you don’t get much meat from a horse anymore, what with overworking and underfeeding.
“Frankly, we get what we can at the front and those behind get less. But, then, too, it could be worse; we could still be trying to keep body and soul together with rutabagas, and not enough of those. And cattle starving because people were eating the rutabagas that the cattle usually ate.
“We’ll have some potatoes,” the chief cook continued, “some vegetables—I have my men scrounging for nettles for soup—occasional cheese—no, it isn’t good cheese— some peas, some beans. Every man’s supposed to get an egg a day but two a week is a surfeit of riches; one is more likely and not every week. Most of the time there will be a kind of fake egg made of potato or maize, some coloring, and maybe some additives that don’t bear thinking about. Butter is . . . well . . . it’s curdled milk, some sugar, and also some food coloring. Sometimes we get Schmaltz, which has the great virtue of, at least, being mostly real. Today, we have enough Schmaltz. Coffee . . . we have enough ersatz . . .”
“Roasted acorns, beechnuts, and chicory? I’ve had that; we all have,” Daniil said.
“That, yes. It’s not good, especially, but it is a little better than nothing. And on a cold winter’s night . . . not much sugar for it, mind, and rarely any milk.”
“And this,” Daniil asked, “is what you’re feeding your own men?”
“When we can get it,” the cook answered. “Sometimes we can’t. Mind, there is a better ration, but it’s usually only fed for a few days, maximum a week, before an offensive. It’s close to real food. But talk about mixed feelings . . .”
Note to self, talk to Brinkmann about getting on that superior ration scheme.
Daniil sniffed. “Stew?”
“Yes, sir, stew. I thought about porridge for breakfast but not only didn’t I have any real milk, I figured something a little heartier might be more to taste after the camps. Besides, we were able to scrounge some mushrooms to eke out the little bit of meat for today.”
“How did you end up running a mess?” Daniil asked, pointing at the Iron Cross.
The cook grabbed a long ladle and tapped his left leg with it, producing a hollow, wooden sound. “Verdun,” he answered, in full and complete explanation.
Daniil shook his head; he’d heard about the battle in great detail from de Gaulle; there were no words for someone who had gone through that particular hell on Earth. Finally, he said, “While you don’t actually work for me, do let me know if there’s anything I can do to help with your operation here. We’ll do our best.”
As I am pretty sure you will, old soldier.
“There is one thing, Herr Oberst? I could use at least one Russian cook to advise me on Russian recipes.”
“Now that, Feldwebel Taenzler, is an excellent idea. Indeed, we have some cooks, six or seven. Let me arrange to send them to you, some or all. Do you have anyone who can speak Russian?”
“Polish? I can at least get by in Polish.”
“We might have a Pole.”
While the men were drawing food, to be followed by individual equipment, less small arms, in one part of the camp, in another the remarkably unlovely Captain Romeyko and his assistants were laying out unit equipment packages on the still grass but soon to become dirt street in front of the quartermaster’s shop. This consisted of nine Lewis guns, in 7.62x54R, each, for Second and Third Companies, plus two 37mm light infantry cannon, French captures, two Russian Maxim heavy machine guns in the same caliber as the Lewis guns, for First Company, as well as two 13.2mm antitank rifles the Germans had been willing to part with.
Still more sat in the quartermaster shop, unneeded as of yet; more Lewis guns, extra 37mm jobs, a couple of the extra heavy machine guns, plus four sniper rifles the Huns had also been willing to pass over.
“Ammunition for all this?” Kostyshakov asked Romeyko.
“It’s not infinite,” Romeyko replied, “but it’s surprisingly generous. The Huns may not be able to produce enough food, but they seem to be able to produce more than enough ammunition.
“Of course, since what they’re giving us was mostly captured from us in the first place—well, us, the British, and the French—‘generosity’ may not be the precise word.”
“What have we got?” Kostyshakov asked. “Roughly, I mean; I don’t need to know down to the round.”
Romeyko pointed to a large angular, tarp-covered pile outside the camp, saying, “About a million, three hundred thousand rounds of our own rifle and machine gun ammunition. More should be coming. There’s also four thousand rounds of the German stuff, for the sniper rifles they gave me.”
“How many of those?”
“Four, but I figured we’ll wear out two in training and want to take two with us.”
“Okay,” Daniil agreed. “Go on.”
“We’ve got a bit over eleven hundred rounds of the 37mm. I could have gotten more but some looked a little iffy . . . well, no, worse than a little iffy. Again, I’d say ‘generous’ except that it’s captured French stuff and not compatible with their own 37mm infantry guns.”
“Horses and mules?” Daniil asked.
“‘Tomorrow,’ the Huns say, but I am cautioned not to expect too much.”
“How about grenades?”
“Hand grenades? Just over twenty-one hundred of theirs and a like number of our own. There’s also a drum of the photographer’s flash powder you wanted. That’s got to be enough, based on comparative sizes, for a few hundred grenades, at least.”
“Shotguns?” Daniil asked.
“Two, no spares, few hundred rounds of birdshot. Apparently, the Huns don’t issue them to their army, nor generally capture any. The two I was able to get were taken from civilians in the occupied zones.”
“The machine pistols?”
“Not yet,” Romeyko said. “My German counterpart has a request in, but it hasn’t been filled.”
“We really need those,” Kostyshakov said. “I don’t even want to think about trying this with just rifles.”
“Well, we’ve got the pistols,” the quartermaster pointed out.
“Think you can get another few hundred thousand rounds of the Amerikanski ammunition to practice with?”
Romeyko shook his head, doubtfully. “Maybe, but they probably wouldn’t have let me have the pistols at all if they’d had enough ammunition to justify issuing them to their own.”
“Nag about those machine pistols, then; we have to have them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about the dynamo lights?”
“Those, at least,” Romeyko said, “the Germans have come through with.”
“How many?”
“Sixty-two, but three of them don’t work. And we don’t have anyone with a clue to how to fix them.”
“Have we asked . . .”
“Yes, sir; the Huns don’t know either.”
Something about the two rows of nine Lewis guns each bothered Kostyshakov, but he couldn’t put his finger on just what it was. He stared at them a long time, thinking hard. It mattered. He knew it mattered but . . .
“Crap,” he said aloud. Then he told Romeyko, “We’re going to be pulling the Fourth Company’s personnel out of Second and Third. That means one of two things, either Second and Third will get shorted one of their Lewis guns, or Fourth Company will have to train people—and it won’t have the time for this, starting so late—on light machine guns they know little or nothing about.”
“Put out two more, one for each rifle company?” Romeyko asked.
“Yes, and quickly.”
Mokrenko, Kaledin, and Panfil signed for and took their mess kits, mugs, and eating utensils from Romeyko’s clerk, opened the mess kits and examined them, then dipped them in the hot water by their wire bales. They swished their utensils around in the water, poured the water out into the kettle, then got in line under the overhang. Ahead of them the canvas “door” barely ever closed, and never fully.
The mess line ran almost the full length of the kitchen, with only a two-foot gap to allow passage between the cooking area and the space where the men to be fed passed.
First up, Mokrenko saw, was an enormous pile of bread, three pound loaves, he guessed, one half per man. He followed the men ahead of him by sticking his half loaf under his left arm.
Next came a thick stew, ladled into the lower half of his mess tin by an indifferent cook. What it was thickened with, he couldn’t tell. Neither, looking down into his steaming mess tin, could he see any meat in it, though he thought it would at least have some much-missed fat.
There wasn’t any butter for the bread, but as each man got to that point in the line, a German cook took his mess kit and knifed onto it a few tablespoons of what looked to be some kind of fat.
Kaledin sniffed at it, warily. “Smells like . . . chicken . . . maybe.”
Seeing the doubtful look on the Russian’s face, the German cook dishing out the Schmaltz beckoned for him to stand closer. The cook then broke off a piece from the bread under Kaledin’s arm. On this he spread a little of the Schmaltz before offering the piece back to the Russian.
Doubtfully, Kaledin took the proffered bread and popped it into his mouth. “It’s not bad, actually, though we’ll probably have to find happiness elsewhere. I’d prefer salo.” That latter was basically pork fat, cooked or raw, sliced or diced, and something of a delicacy to the Russian palate.
“What is it, though?” Panfil asked.
“Chicken fat, I think, purified or rendered. Strong tasting, but one can certainly eat it.”
“We’re all skin and bones,” Mokrenko said. “Anything to put on a little meat and fat would be to the good.”
“Yes, but eat slowly,” Kaledin counseled, “if you don’t want to lose everything you’ll have eaten.”
Unsurprisingly, nary a scrap or crumb of the food was wasted. Men used to long semi-starvation will rarely turn up their noses at the unfamiliar. Outside each mess tent were three more kettles of water, two to wash and rinse out the mess kits, in succession, and one boiling kettle to sterilize them.
Sergeant Major Blagov stood there, a glaring, fearsome presence, inspecting at random to make sure the men cleaned their kits before leaving the area.
“From here, go to the area by the main gate,” Blagov bellowed. “One of the personnel clerks will give you your company area. Go there and wait. From there your companies will take you to equipment issue.”
Kaledin was sent to Strategic Recon, First Company, while Panfil went to the infantry gun section, and Mokrenko likewise to the strategic reconnaissance section of the same company. The clerk also told them where their company billets stood and directed them to report to the company sergeant major, forthwith.
While every man selected by the committees could read and write, few of them had watches. The company first sergeant for First Company, Mayevsky, fiercely mustached, with a patch over one eye, directed them to go to different tents, make themselves at home as best they could, telling them to assemble at noon to go draw personal equipment and uniforms.
At noon First Company formed ranks, in a single mass of just under two hundred and four men, plus the two sergeants major and First Sergeant Mayevsky standing outside the formation. At the latter’s command the company faced right and marched to the issue area.
The issue area consisted of about twenty wagons, for the nonce without horses, lined up in two rows of ten, fairly widely spaced. From the first wagon, each man was handed a knapsack—a rather crude, khaki-colored canvas thing with no frame, uncushioned straps, and a simple tie at the top to close it—plus a smaller cloth bag of similar color.
“As you get your equipment, either put it on or stuff it in those,” a quartermaster noncom advised.
The second wagon was piled high with hundreds of furazhka, the visored, peaked caps worn almost universally by the Imperial Army, and papakhas, which were pile winter caps, plus “Adrians,” steel helmets of a French design.
Mokrenko and Panfil expected to be given any old hat, with instructions to trade it off or make it fit for himself. Instead, the clerk looked them over, went to one part of the wagon behind him, and then another, returning with two furazhka that actually fit fairly well. The pile caps he passed over were big, but that was to be expected and preferred. A French-manufactured helmet followed.
“You’ll have to remove the French insignia yourselves,” the clerk said. “No, we don’t have Imperial insignia for the helmets. Supposedly someone is soon going to be working on it.”
The third wagon was fronted by a pile of shirts and tunics. “Find two shirts that fit,” said the man on that station. “Big is all right; make sure they’re not too small. The tunics are probably going to be a little big, anyway, given how much weight you’ve lost.”
And so it went, through trousers, two each—“No belts for your trousers; no suspenders, either. Take a piece of rope and a bit of wood and make your own!”—through boots, “sapogi” in Russian, two pairs of foot wrapping, called “portyanki,” and a heavy overcoat of a better manufacture than the Imperial Army had seen since 1915 or so.
Each man got an adjustable leather belt with shoulder straps and cartridges boxes for it, plus a shovel to hang from it. A Zelinski model gas mask was hung over one shoulder and a bread bag, a kind of a loose purse for men, over the other. Into the knapsack also went a pair of decent lined leather mittens. One canteen was given to each man, as was a small pot for boiling water and a bayonet without scabbard. Tent section, rope, poles, and pegs all went into the knapsack as did a small notebook, towel, toiletry bag, tin of fat for waterproofing boots, boot brush, and a little uniform repair kit with needle, thread, buttons, plus this, that, and whatnot. Three wool blankets—none of them of the best by this stage of the war—plus a ground cloth completed the ensemble.
* * *
2 A Russian unit of distance close to, but just slightly farther than, a kilometer. Four versts would be about two and a half miles, or an hour’s easy walk, on flat and level ground, for a man in good shape, bearing a heavy pack.