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Chapter Eighteen

Carbide Miner’s Lamp

Parade Field, Camp Budapest

The chaplain, as it turned out, had been easy. When the Germans asked, Father Basil Seizmonov, from Burgas, had been directed by his bishop to see to their Russian co-religionists, even if they were, for the nonce, temporal enemies. Since Basil had attended seminary in Moscow and spoke excellent Russian, he’d been an obvious choice.

Now with the mass of the battalion on the parade field—less only a few Polish and Ukrainian Catholics and a couple of Finnish Lutherans, and even some of them had shown up—Father Basil began his homily.

“Today,” he said, “is the Sunday of Zacchaeus, the tax collector. The questions presented by remembering this day are many. Why was Zacchaeus so determined to see our lord, Jesus Christ? Why did Christ, the pure one, not just associate with this vile person, this tax collector, but even invited Himself to the tax collector’s house? What does this mean for us, we who are, all of us, sinners . . .”


Claptrap, thought Vasenkov, even as he joined the others in crossing himself, bowing, touching the Earth, and making prostrations. One more dose of opium for the deluded masses. Fools, the lot of you.

On the other hand, as even Vasenkov had to admit, the training regimen, so far, had been so time consuming and exhausting, both, that he hadn’t had a lot of time to really think out what he was going to do.

Escape and try to warn the revolutionary government of what these Germans and their counterrevolutionary traitors are planning? How? It’s a long way to Russia, and longer now—getting longer by the day—since the Germans have commenced a new offensive. I might manage to get away with one of those machine pistols, but the cadre and the Germans, both, are very damned touchy about ammunition. If I got caught with one or two rounds, maybe I could get away with it. A magazine’s worth and they’d put me against a wall or chain me inside one of those room clearing chambers and use me for a live target. That bastard Cherimisov would and his lackey, Mayevsky, would be happy to put the chains around my neck.

No, I don’t think I can get to the revolutionary authorities from here.

So, what do I do then? I cannot in good conscience allow them to start the counterrevolution. A bloody civil war is the last thing the Rodina needs.

All I can do, I suppose, is continue to play on and watch for an opportunity to sabotage them.

And as long as we’re on the subject, could there be any better proof that this Christ was a charlatan than that he forgave a tax collector? I don’t bloody think so . . . 


As it turned out, Vasenkov wasn’t the only one at services with concerns other than the divine.

Snow shoes or skis? thought Kostyshakov. Snow shoes or skis? I’ve asked the senior Finns in the unit and they tell me snowshoes are a massive problem. They use different muscles and use them differently, so that someone just starting out might be laid up for a week or more with torn muscles. On the other hand, they are just as certain that they can have every man in the battalion skiing cross country, and a lot faster than they could march, in a day, two at the outside, given a little snow. And we’ve already got plenty of snow on the ground up in those hills to the north.

The only thing I’m absolutely certain of is it has to be one or the other. Booted feet would be the worst way for us to travel, once we’re dropped off by the zeppelin.

I think it’s in the hands of fate, really. If Romeyko can come up with skis, I’d prefer the skis. If all the Germans can find for us are snowshoes, snowshoes it will have to be.

And then there’s that request for poison gas. I can certainly see the use of it. And Dr. Botnikov says we could make it ourselves with the right materials. Why bother with that, though; the Germans and Austrians have plenty and would likely lend us some.

But how would we use them? A cylinder? Oh, hell, no; the wind is far too unpredictable. There are no shells small enough for our infantry guns and, even if there were, there wouldn’t be enough gas in one—or fifty—to do much good. Grenades? Similar problem with the added disadvantage that, if we did manage to get enough in one, my own people would be too close. I suppose we could take in a couple of dozen larger shells with us and put some explosive in where the fuse normally goes. But then what? We push them through a window into a basement full of Bolsheviks? What’s the gas do that the high explosive wouldn’t already? And if we’re using high explosive, alone, we can rely on the concussion in a closed space and don’t need the weight of the shell.

So I think, screw it; no poison gas.

On the plus, we don’t have to take two good men and put them to work making white smocks. The Germans asked the Austrians and they’re providing us what we need, along with trousers. As for shortening the coats, the Germans suggest pinning them up. I think that works for me.

Meanwhile, apparently the Bulgarians mine a good deal of coal and have plenty of those carbide lamps Ilyukhin suggests. May even be here by now . . . 

Quartermaster’s Office, Camp Budapest

“I asked for two hundred,” the rat-faced Captain Romeyko said, apologetically. “They sent me one hundred and forty. Of those, after he looked them over, Ilyukhin tells me sixty-five are good, and he might be able to fix up another forty or so from parts. To be fair, they did sent us a fair number of parts, flints, gaskets, even some reflectors and nozzles.”

“How long before we have these one hundred and five, give or take?” asked Daniil.

“Three days to fix that many up, sir. I’ve gotten Ilyukhin a couple of helpers.”

“So long? No!” Kostyshakov shook his head, emphatically. “We need those things in the hands of the assault platoons and their immediate attachments immediately. Yesterday, Sunday or not, would have been better.”

Said Romeyko, “Takes a certain amount of training, the coal miner’s son says, to use them safely and to get the best use out of them. And most of them still will need work.”

“Okay, fine,” Daniil agreed. “Today, late today, Ilyukhin trains the grenadier company to use them, as well as the officers and senior noncoms of the other three companies. Issue is to the grenadiers’ assault platoons and engineers, plus the company headquarters. As he fixes more, they’ll be issued to the other three.”

“Why should Number One Company get any, sir? I’m not complaining, just asking.”

“It’s a good question, Romeyko. In the first place, because I want to have one. In the second, because being able to see your hands in front of you at night is useful to you, to the adjutant, to the heavy machine gun section, to the infantry gun section, and even to Kaledin, leading his horses and mules . . .”

“Okay, sir. Ummm . . . speaking of horses and mules, we have some problems.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been working with the liaison noncom—I think he’s a noncom—Captain Bockholt sent us, Mueller’s his name, trying to figure out loads. It’s tough. You want to see, sir?”

“Yeah, show me.”

Romeyko pulled up a cloth to reveal a couple of chalkboards. “Sir, I started with the presumption that we’ve only got about nineteen tons per load. That’s more than they took to Africa, and assumes we’ll be able to load some heavy equipment and supplies low, to make up for ballast, plus that they’ll be able to reduce fuel a good deal. It also means we’ll have to land near a body of water and cut a hole in the ice for them to pump in more water for ballast. I think you knew that.

“It’s also a five- or six-day round trip. That’s got a couple of different implications. One is that the first troops on the ground will start eating carried rations on Landing Day minus three, and will not stop eating carried rations until maybe twenty-seven days later. That means that for every man we send in the first lift, we have to provide over eighty pounds of food. And, in this weather, that means probably one hundred pounds would be better. So our nineteen tons of lift means also that we can only carry a maximum of one hundred and thirty-nine men.”

Kostyshakov looked over the calculations on the upper left hand corner of the chalkboard and said, “Okay, but . . . ?”

“But I don’t think we should do it that way. Instead, we should go in as light as possible, in manpower, and carry extra food for later lifts. So, sir, I suggest that the first lift should be nothing but the Fourth Company and a small slice of your staff, no more than ten men, say. That means we can bring in an additional six tons, plus a little, of food and fodder.”

“Speaking of fodder, the very last ones to come in should be Kaledin’s mules and horses.”

Kostyshakov held up one hand. “Stop right there. I need at least six horses to come in early, with the first lift, to mount some of the grenadier company for local security patrolling.”

“Ugh,” said the quartermaster. He began scribbling on the chalkboard. “That seriously screws up my calculations. But . . . okay, off the top of my head, six horses, about four tons, just in themselves, and then twenty-seven days of oats and hay . . . at twenty-six pounds a day, plus water for three days, at eighty pounds a day, minimum, for the three days of flight. Let me think . . . that’s just under two tons for fodder, three quarters of a ton for water . . .

“Sorry, sir, but that’s not doable. We need to leave behind maybe two horses, or maybe seven or eight men.”

“No,” said Kostyshakov. “Short the horses’ fodder. We’ll bring in more with later lifts. Hmmm . . . I thought the captain said twenty-one tons of lift.”

“He did, but once we figured out the modifications we would need to store the gear, the supplies, the equines, and the troops, we came up with about two tons of wood, chain, rope, buckets, and hay to spread under the horses and mules when they let go, which they will.

“Okay, sir, so we’ve got one lift and one company on the ground, with a half dozen horses. The next lift . . .”


The sun was still up, though it hung low in the west. The men of Fourth Company, plus another twenty from the other three companies, sat in a natural amphitheater between the camp and the ranges.

Ilyukhin had never spoken in front of a crowd before, let along one the bulk of whom outranked him. Still, he had the commander’s backing, both commanders’, as a matter of fact, and the courage of a coal miner to guide and guard him. If he was nervous, it was tolerably hard to see it.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “oh, and you, too, Corporal Bernados, if I can have your attention.”

The joke at Bernados’ expense went over well, even if it was a tired joke in a dozen armies already. The engineer corporal shut up, since talking was what had made him the butt of the joke, then gave the coal miner’s boy the shish, the Russian version—thumb between index and middle finger—of the universal, one fingered salute. This got more laughs, still.

“Now,” continued Ilyukhin, “fun and games being over, if you would line up by twos and take one lamp for each two men, then return to your seat.”

After each pair had taken a lamp, Ilyukhin held up one of the lamps for illustration’s sake.

“There are at least four different models of lamps here. Most are Amerikanski. Some are British. Some are either locally or Russian made. A couple, even, are German. They all operate the same way and they all have similar risks. Oh, yes, there are some risks here.

“To begin with, the lamp works by combining water with calcium carbide to produce acetylene gas. The gas escapes out the nozzle of the lamp where it is set afire to produce light, which light is reflected in the shiny silver curved concave plate on front, around the nozzle.”

At the word “gas,” one of the senior noncoms from Second Company, Sergeant Dmitriev, began to look slightly nervous. Dmitriev was a late-caught POW, so had had the chance to be gassed by the Germans. Most of the cadre, having been caught earlier, had not had this experience, hence tended not to think about the fear of gas on the part of those who had, in fact, been gassed.

“Let’s look at the parts of the lamps, shall we?

“In front, as I mentioned, is the reflector. In the middle of the reflector is the nozzle, the place where the acetylene comes out. If you look at the reflector, about halfway between its edge and the nozzle, you will see a rough, serrated wheel. That’s the striker. You can’t see it unless you look at the striker edge on, but there is a round flint under it that is being pushed against it by a spring.

“When the acetylene starts flowing, you can turn the striker to produce a spark to light it afire. In a bit, I’ll show you an old timer’s trick for that that the old man taught me.

“Look on top; you will see three things. One is the water chamber. The other is a cap that keeps the water from splashing out when it’s filled. Go ahead and use your thumbs to open it.

“The last thing on top of the lamp is the control lever. This sets how much water is allowed into the calcium carbide chamber—the chamber below—to produce acetylene. All the way to the left, no water is flowing. All the way to the right, a fair stream is flowing. In between it provides less water than to the left and more than to the right. Make sure, for now, that your levers are all the way to the left.”

As expected, the men didn’t just make sure the levers were all the way left, nor that the water cap could be opened. Instead, they fiddled with both an average half a dozen times each. It was with difficulty that Ilyukhin controlled his exasperation at both the waste of time and the risk to the lamps.

Children; I’m in an army composed of children.

“Now hold the top piece firmly in your left hand and grasp the bottom firmly in your right. Turn the bottom piece to the right until it screws off.”

Ilyukhin waited a bit, then walked around to help out those who were having trouble. To be fair, those having trouble were simply afraid to risk breaking these very unfamiliar lamps.

Returning to “center stage,” the coal miner’s son then said, “Go ahead and put the acetylene chamber down between you. Look now at the back of the lamp, by the water hole. Some of you have thick wire hooks there; others have flat and broad ones. Those, once we have enough to issue to everyone, are going to get forced into the slot of your helmets where the French insignia used to be. This wouldn’t be enough to hold the lamps steady. Look below the hooks. See the thick wire projections coming out from the center?”

Here, Ilyukhin made a tripod from the index, middle, and ring fingers of his right hand. This he placed against the palm of his left. “It takes a tripod, you see, to get stability. Between the hook and the two prongs, a tripod will be formed, resting on and stuck in your helmets; that will keep them in place, and pointing wherever you aim your head.

“Big improvement over those pull toys we’ve been using, no?

“Now, a little warning; these things can leak gas from places where you don’t want them to. If you look around the edge of the calcium carbide chamber you will see a rubber—or maybe in some cases thick leather— gasket. If that is defective, and you don’t get a good seal of the chamber, the gas will escape and catch fire. You can burn the shit out of yourself, trust me, if this happens.

“Also, one nice point. When the water and calcium carbide meet, they create not just acetylene, but heat. When your hands are freezing cold, you can wrap them around the calcium carbide chamber and warm them.”

Ilyukhin picked up a two-pound can of calcium carbide and opened it by prying the lid off. “I am going to pass this around. Each pair of men take about ten little pea-sized pieces and put them into the bottom chamber of your lamps. Do not screw the chambers on yet.”

Ilyukhin waited while the can of calcium carbide made its rounds. Shortly after the first row of students had taken their allocation and put it in the lower chambers, he said, “I’m now going to pass around a bucket of water and a cup. Open up and fill the water chamber of your lamps. Make sure that the control levers are all the way to the left before you do. Close the small round cover tightly as soon as you have filled it.”

That took still more time. Nonetheless, the time came when the pitcher reached the last pair in the back row.

“Now here’s the trick I told you about.” Ilyukhin quickly screwed his chambers together. He then moved the control lever about halfway to full on. “I’ve now got water dripping down into the calcium carbide. Watch my hand.”

He then covered the reflector with the fingers of his left hand, while holding the lamp with his right. “Note that my middle finger is resting on the striker. What is happening is that acetylene is building up in the area my fingers have sealed as it comes from the nozzle. My hand over the reflector is holding it in place. Now when I do this”—here, Ilyukhin pulled his left hand sharply away, dragging his middle finger over the striker, creating a spark that set the accumulated acetylene afire. It quickly devolved into a single bright flame, coming from the nozzle—“we have light.

“Go on and do it now,” he finished.

The men screwed the lamps back together, then turned on the water flow. Sergeant Dmitriev took one sniff of the garlic aroma coming from his own plus the lamps all around him, and screamed, “GAS!!!”

Dropping the lamp before any of them but Ilyukhin’s had been set alight, Dmitriev covered his nose and mouth in the crook of his right arm, stood, and tried to run away. “GAS! GAS! GAS!”

This started a near riot as about half the others, knowing that some forms of blister agent did, indeed, give off a garlic aroma, likewise dropped their lamps and tried to run.

Kostyshakov drew his Amerikanski pistol and fired it into the air. “Freeze, Goddammit. It’s NOT that kind of gas.”

Fuck, thought Ilyukhin, I should have realized.

“It’s harmless gas,” the instructor said. “Yes, maybe it smells like some that are not, but it is. Just relax. Nobody’s trying to poison or burn you. Now, gentlemen, if we may continue . . . ?”

Kostyshakov thought, If the mere threat of being gassed can panic a fine old soldier like Dmitriev, maybe I should reconsider bringing some with us.

Camp Budapest

There’s an old army saying, common to many armies, actually, to the effect that uniforms come in two sizes, too large and too small. This was certainly true of the snow-white camouflage smocks and trousers the Austrians provided to the Germans, with no knowledge that they were to be used for Russians.

Fortunately, the Austrians produced skis—and those all fit, of course—along with the smocks. Also, fortunately, the overwhelming bulk of the smocks were too large, rather than too small.

Even with the lamps now issued and in use by the Fourth Company and some of the leadership and specialty groups of the others, Kostyshakov had put in place and continued a moratorium on maneuvering live fire training until such time as distinctive white uniforms could be provided, to prevent another case of target misidentification.

“But time is getting short,” he ordered. “Smocks and trousers that fit to the Fourth Company and the others going on the first lift. The others we’ll alter as we can to make them fit.”


“Skis must be fitted to the skier,” said Sergeant Major Nenonen, the Finnish Operations sergeant major. “And so must the boots, as well as the boots to the skis, and each individual ski to a given foot, right or left.”

The Finn found himself spending a lot more time doing things other than operations than he found strictly wise. Still, if no one else knows how and I do, what’s to be done but do it myself? And they don’t, but within a couple of hours, Romeyko’s clerks and the senior noncoms will have learned how to measure a man for skis and boots, and to fit the latter to the former.

“Come right up, Top,” said Nenonen to Mayevsky.

The one-eyed Fourth Company first sergeant was tall. Nenonen sized him up and said, “Put your hand straight over your head, would you, Top? . . . yes . . . call it ‘three arshin, four inches.’ ” Nenonen hunted along a large number of skis, sorted by size, right to left. “Hmmm . . . these look about right. Put your hand up again, please.”

Nenonen placed one ski’s rear end on the ground and put the tip up to Mayevsky’s hand. It just reached the first sergeant’s palm. “Am I good or what? Okay, now what size boot do you wear?”

“I take a size forty-five,” said Mayevsky.

“Size forty-five!” Nenonen called out to one of Romeyko’s clerks, who promptly produced an Austrian ski boot.

“Looks a little goddamned big to me,” said Mayevsky.

“They are. You’ll end up wearing either two pair of wool socks or a double foot wrapping, because of the cold. No real need to try them on, since they are loose, but hold them to the bottoms of your feet to make sure they’re a little big. Ah . . . yes, they’ll do fine.”

Nenonen drew a flathead screwdriver from his pocket. “Okay, Top, now let’s fit these to your skis. Later on, I’ll show you how to lacquer and wax the skis and how to attach climbing skins for uphill climbs. Also how to care for the metal edges. For now, watch closely because the next man you will fit yourself while I watch and critique. Oh, and, yes, let’s get you a couple of pairs of real socks. They’re not great socks, but they’ll do for as long as we will need them . . .”

En route, Camp Budapest to northwest of Sliven, Bulgaria

It did snow in Bulgaria but, being so far south in the Balkans, with so much moderation of climate by the nearness of sea, it didn’t snow all that much. To find snow, one had to look for it. That was why Second Company, Fourth Company, and a slice of Headquarters and support were currently trekking, all in white, from their normal camp to the mountains north and west of Sliven. A fair sampling of their German guards, of course, came along too, while the best of Kaledin’s patients, now fairly healthy animals, but in need of exercise, followed along, towing Taenzler’s Gulaschkanone and wagons with tentage and rations.

As they marched, they sang:


Soldatushki, bravyj rebjatushki,

A kto vashi otciy?

Nashi otciy—russki polkavodcyj,

Vot gde nashi otciy!


Soldatushki, bravyj rebjatushki,

A kto vashi matki?

Nashi matki—belye palatki,

Vot gde nashi matki!5


It was an old song, “Soldiers, Brave Lads,” of a century prior, written around the experiences, the lives, of Russian soldiers fighting Napoleon. It was also a simple song, suitable for simple soldiers. If simple, it was also buoyant and boisterous.

When the last verse of that one died out, echoing in the hills around Sliven, they broke into the “March of the Siberian Riflemen”:


“From Taiga, the dense Taiga

From Amur, river Amur

As silent, fearsome thunder

Into battle march Siberians

As silent, fearsome thunder

Into battle march Siberians

Made them tough

Silent Taiga,

Ruthless storms of Baikal

And Siberian snow.

Ruthless storms of Baikal

And Siberian snow.”


Given where they were headed, the song made a certain sense. They left out the fourth verse, by common consent, since that one sang of invading Germany and Austria, reaching the Rhine and Danube. This the officers and men thought would be in very poor taste, all things considered.

They marched with their rifles and machine pistols slung, simple packs across their backs, bedrolls slung from their left shoulders to their right hips, and their newly issued skis and poles over their shoulders.

When they got close to a village, Kostyshakov called over Feldwebel Weber and asked if the German guards might sing something to avoid suspicion. Taenzler, overhearing, called out, “Die Wacht am Rhein,” since, after all, singing about defending against the French wasn’t remotely anti-Russian, while singing about invading Russia would have also been in extremely poor taste.

Thus, a reborn regiment of the Russian Imperial Guards, of no name or number yet, marched through main street of the little Bulgarian village of Nicholaevo with the words ringing on the breeze and from the houses,


Es braust ein Ruf wie Donnerhall

Wie Schwertgeklirr und Wogenprall

Zum Rhein, zum Rhein, zum deutschen Rhein . . .”


Good-naturedly, the Russians, who had heard the song often enough in their prison camps, joined in with either words or by very loud humming or whistling. The effect was, on the whole, rather impressive.

Past the village, the Germans stopped their singing while the Russians started a new song, from another Guards regiment, one which began, “The Turks and the Swedes know us well . . .”


Setting up camp, despite the best efforts of both Russian and German noncoms, was slow and confused. The snowball fights that kept breaking out didn’t speed matters up any, either.

Daniil was tempted to simply storm into the middle of it and start bellowing orders. Or at least have his sergeant major do so. But, No, this is not a critical task and time, today, at least, isn’t pressing. As long as they get it all set up sensibly that will be fine. And let them have their fun, anyway. They’re good boys and have done well, so far. Hmmm. . . . maybe a little vodka?


Much to his chagrin and shame, Vasenkov found himself having a good time throwing snowballs, pitching tents, and even joking over dinner. The march had gone well, so the commander, that lackey of Tsarism, Kostyshakov, had ordered an issue of vodka for the troops. It was nothing too generous, of course, just a few ounces per man, doled out by the German, Taenzler, but it gave the entire enterprise a festive air, something free and fun.

I’ve never seen morale so high here, thought the hidden Bolshevik. I suppose booze, freedom, and fresh air must be opiates of the people as much as religion is.

Field Camp, west of Sliven, Bulgaria

“Hold the poles loosely, dammit,” Nenonen bellowed, in a voice that threatened to cause an avalanche, to the hundreds of novice skiers struggling to move on their new skis. “Your hands will tire, gripping them like that, and then they, and you, will be useless. Let the loops take the force when you push off. Use your hands only for the lightest control.”

Nenonen sought out Kostyshakov, who was having a smidgeon less trouble than most, and asked, “You think you’re ready to take off, sir?”

“Well . . . lead from in front, and all that,” the commander replied. “That said, let me see if I’ve got it straight, Sergeant Major; I push down with one ski, causing it to flatten out, and the way the hair on the climbing skins is facing, it causes it to grip the snow? The other one slides forward because the hair isn’t facing that way? I use the poles a little for balance and a little to push forward, but not too much because my arms tire faster than my legs?”

“Yes, sir, and . . . No, goddamit!” Nenonen’s voice returned to a bellow, addressing any number of the practicing troops. “I thought we had this down when you were doing one ski at a time, people; kick-glide-kick-glide!” Turning his attention back to Kostyshakov, he continued, much more sedately, “So, yes, sir. All that. Shall we see if you can make it to the base of that low hill and back?”

Back to the troops: “Angle your bodies a little forward, dumb asses! Opposite poles by your lead foot!”

With Kostyshakov seen off, to the west, Nenonen began skiing himself around the area, critiquing, giving tips, and selecting. “You, Sergeant Bogrov? You look like you’re ready to head off. See the commander about halfway to the low hill? Go on and follow him there and back.”


Father Basil wandered the area of the camp, talking to the troops and passing on the occasional benediction. Unlike them, he stood out by wearing his normal black cassocks and skufia. On two occasions he stopped to join in a snowball fight. By mid-morning, the shifting wind brought him the smell of a pretty nice stew, coming from the odd wagon with the smokestack on it. He wandered over to investigate.

“Hello, Father,” said Feldwebel Taenzler, “Stew’s almost ready; care to try some?”

“That’s actually what I came to talk to you about,” said the cleric. “Today is Friday. It’s a fast day for us. So are all Wednesdays. It’s not a strict fast day, insofar as the men can have oil used in preparing their meal, but no meat or fish.”

Taenzler understood the problem immediately, if not in its full scope and depth. “Not even fish, Father? And I thought we Catholics were strict. But what am I to do? I’ve been begging, borrowing, and occasionally stealing food to put some meat on their bones. There is meat—horse meat, to be sure—in this stew. I can’t just dump it; they need the nutrition, the fuel.”

Father Basil considered this. With a whole continent on the verge of starvation, wasting food struck him as the greater sin, the thing more offensive in the sight of God.

“We fast more than half the year, Feldwebel, but . . . well . . . there are a lot of exemptions and exceptions. Let me think. We’re are travelling, I suppose. Even if we’re stopped for a couple of days. That allows some relaxation of the rules. Were you planning on feeding them before three in the afternoon? It is possible—according to Saint Isaac—to end the fast at three PM, by which time Christ’s body had been taken down from the cross. And then, too, when receiving the hospitality of others, which—since you’re a German, feeding Russians, this would be a case of— one doesn’t turn up one’s nose. You have a few Lutherans and even some Catholics among the battalion, yes? Well . . . a battalion is a kind of family, and when families are of mixed faiths that, too, allows some leeway. And, then, too, these men are still thin; I noticed it right off. To deprive them of food after their long captivity would be injurious to their health, and this is not permitted . . .”

“Father,” said Taenzler, “I know some Jesuits that I would just love to listen to you talk with. I’ll feed them this, as you say, today, and in the future . . . can you help me work out a menu?”

“Why, certainly, my son. I’d be happy to.”

“You know, Father,” said Taenzler, “the world would be a better place if more people were like you.”

Basil shrugged. “The world would be a better place if more people tried to be like Christ.”

“Amen, Father.”

Field Camp, west of Sliven, Bulgaria

As with everything else, it took longer than it should have to get the men capable of skiing cross country on the flat. Now it was time for uphill . . . and down. Lieutenant Collan, the first platoon leader of Fourth Company and another Finn, stood in his skis on the top of the same low hill that had been the turn-around mark for the last two days. The lieutenant seemed almost unnaturally happy, standing taller, somehow, than his scant height suggested he even could.

Daniil stood at the base of the hill. Quietly, Nenonen coached him. “Remember, sir, tips wide apart and ankles folded a little towards each other and forward to ascend. The steeper the slope up, the wider apart. Tips close and ankles rolled together and back to slow yourself or, if there’s a track in front of you, one ski in the track and one dragging on the outside.”

“This, Sergeant Major, is not my idea of fun.”

“Yes, sir, I know. But it’s a lot like learning to dance with a girl. You look and feel stupid when you’re first beginning, and spend every moment of the lessons embarrassed to tears . . . ah, but once you learn how . . . 

“Now up you go, sir. And remember, poles behind you both up and down.”

En route from Sliven south to Camp Budapest

There were a half dozen men, one of them, Fedin, from Fourth Company, who had to be carried in the now much-lightened wagons. These had broken legs and twisted ankles and, in one case, a fairly bad concussion from a collision with a tree. Three of those, at least three, would likely not recover in time to make even the last lift. There were enough extra men to more than cover the losses, though.

Even Vasenkov, the Bolshevik, marched with a song in his heart. That was the most fun I’ve had since I was drafted, six years ago. Then again, that’s a really low bar to meet.

The Germans took over the singing again, as the battalion was passing through a Bulgarian village. This was the first chance since starting out that Vasenkov had actually had a chance to think. He didn’t like what he was thinking.

I am a Bolshevik. I detest the tsar. I detest the entire aristocracy, to include the tsar’s family. I was thrilled when I heard they were overthrown and more than a little pleased when I found out they’d been sent to Siberia, a fitting place given the numbers of revolutionaries the tsar and his minions sent to that cold and miserable place.

And yet these men with me, here, in this battalion . . . they have become my friends and comrades. How do I turn on Levkin, who shared his private bottle of vodka with us? How do I stab Sergeant Bogrov in the back, when he’s been such a kind teacher this whole time? I confess, I do not know if I can.

If I could stop the rescue from ever leaving Bulgaria, that would be fine. The wicked tsar and his rotten enemy-sympathizing wife will be shot, I am sure, and none of my friends and comrades will be hurt. But I have no idea how to do that.

* * *

5 Soldiers, brave lads,

Who are your fathers?

Our fathers are Russian commanders,

That’s who our fathers are!


Soldiers, brave lads,

And who are your queens?

Our queens are white tents,

That’s who our queens are!


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