Chapter Nine
German Grenade (Stielhandgranate)
Range B (Machine gun and Cannon), Camp Budapest
Progress is still too slow, thought Kostyshakov, and it’s really no one’s fault.
The ranges, so far, ran, from east to west, A, B, V, and G1. Range A was rifle and could handle a company in a day’s firing. B was for machine guns and the light cannon. V was for grenades, and had sections for practicing with weighted wooden dummies, still being prepared, to throwing a live one to a target at a distance, and to, as the sergeant major said, “Grow some balls,” by having a half dozen portions of trench system dug, for a soldier to count down the burning of the grenade fuse before tossing it around a corner.
Range G1, which would soon be followed by G2, G3, and G4, was a mock-up of a floor of a building, dug down into the ground to a depth of about twelve to fourteen feet. The log walls inside were still not quite complete.
A full verst from where the last G range was planned, there would be a demolitions range, D, for the engineers to practice and teach their trade. Past that, in three weeks or so, they would be finished building Course E, the bayonet assault course. Course Z, a confidence course comprised of obstacles that looked a good deal more dangerous than they were, would round out the training complex toward the end of the month.
Standing in a shaky range tower lashed together from tree trunks with the bark still on them, Kostyshakov watched as one of the two heavy machine gun crews frantically manipulated their gun’s traversing and elevating mechanism, to keep up with the unpredictable twists, turns, and speed of the sled downrange.
“Works after all,” Daniil muttered. “I am surprised.”
“What was that, sir?” asked Lieutenant Lesh, half shouting to be heard over the firing of the machine gun.
“Nothing . . .” Daniil twisted slightly to be able to speak more or less into the lieutenant’s ear. “I was just thinking aloud about how well the moving target trick works.”
“Pretty well, yes, sir. You might note how it speeds up and slows down. We alternate the gun crews on the job of pulling the rope. They like to fuck with each other.”
Kostyshakov nodded. “Good technique . . . do you have a grading . . .”
There was a explosion from Range V, off to the right. Daniil knew that Lieutenant Baluyev was experimenting with modifying the German stick grenades to serve as blinding and stun grenades. This explosion, however, was a good deal more powerful than one might have expected.
“Sir, I . . .”
“Never mind, Lieutenant,” he told Lesh. “I’ll go check it out.”
Deeply worried, Daniil scampered down the crude ladder and then jogged for the first of the trenches dug on Range V. The closer he got, the more worried he became about what he might find there. By the time he reached the earthen ramp that descended into the zig-zag trench, he was practically frantic. Down he went, then zigged left before zagging right to find Baluyev and two men he’d apparently detailed to assist him. One of the men sat on the floor of the trench, blinking and rubbing his eyes while swaying from side to side. He managed to sway despite having his back up against the trench’s wall.
The other of the enlisted men was still on his feet, but blinking even more than the first and only managing to keep to his feet by hanging on to an overhead beam supporting the trench’s revetments.
The really interesting one, though, was Baluyev himself. Gone was the fierce moustache, now. Gone, too, was about an inch and a half of the officer’s hairline. His eyes were closed, which closure did nothing to prevent a steady stream of tears exiting them to run down his face in a free cascade.
“Are you all right, Lieutenant?” asked Kostyshakov.
Baluyev used one hand to pry open a single eye. “I’m not blind, anyway, but we’re going to have to tone down the packing of those hand grenades. Just replacing half the filler with photographer’s flash powder is just too much, too much of both.”
The lieutenant suddenly turned away to vomit on the floor of the trench. “And I suppose I’ve got a bit of a concussion. Sorry, sir.”
“So what actually happened?” Kostyshakov asked.
“Replaced half the filler, like I said, sir. My two men and I were close up against the wall behind me. Unscrewed the cap. Pulled the big bead to start the fuse. Tossed the grenade around the corner. When it went off it was not only still powerful enough to knock us silly, but the flash powder followed the blast wave around the corner and just blinded us.”
“Maybe you should start small and work your way up,” Daniil suggested.
“Yes, sir. I think so, sir. I’ll give it . . .” Again, Baluyev had to bend and retch. “. . . give it a try, sir.” He wiped his fouled mouth on his sleeve.
“Are you able to carry on now or do I need I find another officer or senior noncom to handle the research?”
“I can start again in a couple of hours, I think, sir. The men . . .”
“Couple of hours, sir,” answered the one on his feet, whose name was Poletov.
“Think so, too,” agreed the other, sitting down. This one answered to Smirnov.
Kostyshakov looked more carefully as that latter soldier. He noticed, “You’re bleeding, soldier.”
“Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir. Must have been a bit of shrapnel, a part of the casing, that bounced off the wall and scored the top of my head.”
“Baluyev, one of the people we’re going to rescue, the tsarevich, is a bleeder. We can’t risk even scratching him.”
“Another reason to reduce the charge then, sir. Don’t know how much, though.”
“Yeah . . . once, again, restart, but start small.”
Quartermaster’s office, Camp Budapest
Kaledin stood at ease in front of Romeyko’s makeshift desk. “I think I’ve got three horses,” the Cossack told the quartermaster, “and fifteen mules that should make it and even be in good enough shape in six weeks or so to get work out of them. The rest?” Kaledin’s nostrils dilated as he shook his head, sadly.
“Have we found any turpentine, yet, sir?”
Romeyko looked over at Feldwebel Weber, who answered, “Some, sir. How much do you need per animal, Kaledin?”
“Well . . . you give it to them—very diluted—over a period of several weeks. Some of them, too, need it applied externally for some of their skin problems. I think I need about two vedro. Call it, in metric, maybe twenty-five liters. I could use some tobacco, too.”
“I found a dozen liters,” the German replied, “and have requests in for two dozen more. Tobacco? It’s not going to be very good tobacco.”
“Shitty tobacco would be fine. Also, maybe some diatomaceous earth, ‘Kieselguhr,’ I think you call it. As for the turpentine, the dozen liters should do for now,” Kaledin said, “provided the rest comes in.”
“Provided,” the German echoed, distantly and doubtfully.
“Problems, Weber?” Romeyko asked.
“Several,” the German replied. The left side up his moustache went up in company with his curling lip.
Romeyko followed that up with a “give forth” motion.
“One problem is that we’re on the ass end of nowhere and can’t raise a huge stink lest the enemy start thinking we’re more important than we seem to be. I mean, after all, he may not have many spies but he must have at least some. The other is that some things that should have been on the train never showed up, at least not in the quantities marked on the invoices.
“Example, we were supposed to receive one hundred and twenty kilograms of nails. Eighty showed up, with the remainder being taken up with rocks buried under the nails. There is no telling where the other forty went. Something similar happened with food, two days in a row. Taenzler fixed that by sending one of his men, armed, to the depot we’re drawing from and escorting the food here. But he’s still having to do that.
“Mine,” the German continued, “is a very proper, correct, and honest people . . . if . . . well, frankly, a little pig-headed. When they start stealing things like this . . . we . . . we are in trouble.
“No,” he hastened to add, his tone one of despair, “we will not lose the war for forty kilograms of nails, nor a couple of thousand daily rations. But those things are indicative of a deeper problem, a moral one, the rise of selfishness when total selflessness is needed.”
The German’s chin sank upon his chest. “I don’t think we’re going to win the war.”
Neither Romeyko nor Kaledin nor any of the clerks present had anything immediately to say to that. Yes, they and the Germans had been at war until quite recently. But Weber had become an ally and perhaps even something of a friend.
“If it’s any consolation,” Romeyko said, finally, “in Russia it’s worse.”
“Not a lot of consolation, no, sir, but thanks for trying.”
Range V (Grenades), Camp Budapest
An exceedingly rare pig, temporarily spared from Taenzler’s butcher’s knife, was tied to a log inside the trench. It, being a pig, didn’t have much of an idea about what was to happen to it.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, thought Lieutenant Baluyev as he unscrewed the safety cap at the base of the stick on the grenade he was currently holding.
Baluyev had, in total, a dozen modified grenades. The other eleven were lined up outside of the trench and far enough away that setting off one down inside would not set off the others.
The grenades were numbered, with one of his soldiers standing by to record the effects of each version. These ran from a half ounce to two ounces of TNT as the explosive filler, or a twelfth to a third of the normal grenade’s filler. The flash powder ran from completely filling the remainder to roughly half filling it for most of the samples. The exceptions were the grenades with under an ounce of explosive. In these cases the remainder of the casing was only a quarter to a half filled with flash powder.
Baluyev and the men had already had quite enough of that much flash powder going off in an expanding cloud around them. This grenade, for example, “Number One,” was the one with only half an ounce of TNT and perhaps a quarter filled with flash powder.
And it will be years, years, before my moustache is presentable again! Years!
The lieutenant let the screw cap fall to the floor of the trench. A small porcelain ball attached to a string dropped out.
“Grenade One,” Baluyev announced to the recorder.
“One lot, two dolya TNT,” the man answered, “two lot, four dolya flash powder.” A Russian lot was equal to about twelve and four-fifths grams, a dolya to about a sixth of a gram.
Baluyev pulled the knob and immediately tossed the grenade around the corner of the trench. Four seconds later he was rewarded with a considerable bang, and a flash which lit up the opposite wall in a most satisfying manner.
Hmmm . . . could it be that easy?
Baluyev went to investigate and discovered that, sadly, even a half ounce of TNT, going off in the confined space of the grenade’s head, was sufficient to shatter that head, sending fragments to scatter around the room. The pig, most satisfyingly, was staggering and seemed blinded enough that it ran itself, still pulling its log, head first into the wall.
Unfortunately, the pig was also bleeding into two places, small cuts from light metal fragments. This was no real danger to the pig, but what would have been almost harmless for the pig would likely have proven fatal to the tsarevich.
“No,” Baluyev muttered, “it couldn’t be that easy. Oh well, back to the drawing board.”
Turning to his two assistants, he shouted—he had to shout; they were still half deaf from the previous extravaganza, “Pick up the remainder and let’s give some thought to what we might be able to do to keep them from sending out any fragments. Oh, and give the pig some food.”
Camp Budapest
Okay, thought Baluyev, later in his tent, what do we know and what do we not know?
We know that even a very small charge of TNT will shatter the casing and send out some fragments. We know, too, that it is sufficient to also set off the flash powder. We know that it is also sufficient, in an enclosed space, to stun an animal about the size and complexity of a man.
Do we know what’s in the flash powder? Not exactly, but the drum says potassium perchlorate, magnesium, and lycopodium spores. I don’t know how we’d isolate these, or even if they’d still work if we could. Yeah, we’re stuck with what we have there.
How about if we strengthen the casing, make it stronger, thicker and heavier? Hmmm . . . out of what? Cast iron? Steel? Outside of our own abilities and the Germans are already pressed. Not enough time, either. So no.
Make the casing softer? Cardboard maybe? No, never hold up to rough use, and the private soldier is the very embodiment of rough use.
Right; can’t make it stronger, can’t make it softer, can’t reduce the charge. What’s left? What’s left? What the fuck is left?
Baluyev closed his eyes—he was still feeling the effects of the previous experiment—and lay back on his pallet. When the wave of nausea had passed, he opened his eyes to stare at the tent’s off-white roof. The small stove’s pipe ran up through a . . .
“That’s IT! That’s fucking IT! We can perforate the casing, then line it with cardboard. The casing will protect the cardboard from rough handling. The cardboard will disintegrate without fragments. Even the casing shouldn’t fragment on that low a charge, if the blast can escape through the holes.
“Hmmm . . . we’ll need to wax the cardboard to protect the whole thing from moisture, but that shouldn’t be hard.”
Baluyev stood, abruptly, bringing another wave of nausea. When that passed, he stepped from the tent, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Poletov? Smirnov? Get over here; we have work to do.”
Not far away and not long after, Captain Romeyko annotated his list to add “cardboard” and “wax,” as well as “hand drill” and “large bit.”
Fortunately, thought the quartermaster, all of that is obtainable no farther away than Sofia, which is not so far away.
Range A (Rifle), Camp Budapest
Captain Cherimisov, commander of the Grenadier Company, spent the bulk of his work-day on two tasks; the first was evaluating potential snipers on Range A, the second was looking for Lewis gunners on Range B. Since Grenadier Company was slated to storm the compound and liberate the Romanovs, these selections were of much greater import than such personnel decisions usually warranted.
Today, it was Number One Company, the Headquarters and Support, refamiliarizing their troops on the Mosin-Nagant.
He didn’t yet have a way to select for the kind of moral qualities, reactions, coordination, strength, and speed that he needed for his two assault platoons. Nobody did, to include Kostyshakov, and yet everyone knew, and Kostyshakov had pretty much said, that these kinds of qualities would be critical.
Kostyshakov left it largely up to Cherimisov to select his own company. For now, that meant technical skills, shooting, basically, which was all he could do.
For the nonce, this placed the captain directly behind one soldier, Guardsman Nomonkov, who seemed incapable of missing.
Part of that is probably vision, thought Cherimisov. But there’s something else going on, too. The target goes up and this man snaps off his five rounds, and when they’re marked every one of them, even at seven hundred arshini, is within a circle of four inches or less. I’ve watched him go through forty rounds, now, and the center of the target is so far gone we can’t really be sure he’s even hitting anymore, though we don’t really doubt he is.
“Once he’s done,” Cherimisov told the range NCO for that firing point, “Send him to me, over by the control tower. Can you replace him?”
“Yes, sir, no problem.”
“Sir, Guardsman Maxim Nomonkov reports!” The marksman subtly looked over Cherimisov, whose friendly grin completely failed to reach his cold, blue eyes.
As the soldier studied him, Cherimisov likewise studied Nomonkov’s face and stature. Short, stocky, little bit of an epicanthic fold to the eyes. Part Tatar or Mongol or something from the far east.
He returned the soldier’s salute, then ordered him to, “Relax. I just want to talk.”
“Am I in trouble, sir? Because they couldn’t figure out if I’d hit the target or not?”
The grin grew broader, and yet still failed to reach the eyes. “Not at all, Nomonkov, not at all. Tell me, where are you from?”
“Little village in Siberia, sir; place you never heard of, maybe sixty, sixty-five versta north of Tobolsk.”
“Ever been to Tobolsk?”
“No, sir; they asked me that a while ago. My people stayed in their own place.”
“Where did you learn to shoot?”
“My father. He’s a hunter and trapper, a line of work I devoutly hope to follow him in.”
“Have you ever used a scope with a rifle, Nomonkov?”
“Never even seen a scope on a rifle, sir, though I’ve heard about them. Probably don’t need one, anyway.”
“Why is that?”
Instead of answering, the rifleman just started scanning around the sky. Finally, he pointed and asked, “Sir, do you see that hawk up there?”
The captain looked, indeed, he concentrated, but finally, shaking his head, had to admit, “Nothing.”
“I do see him, sir. As near as I can tell I can see about twice as far as any other man or maybe a touch more. Certainly I can see clearly twice as far as anyone I ever met . . . except for my mother, who is like me.”
“Hmmm,” mused the captain, “if you can see that well without a scope, I wonder—indeed, I marvel—at the thought of what you can see with one.
“Still, shooting’s not about just eyesight. What’s your best position to shoot from?”
The part-Tatar shrugged. “I’m compact. Pretty solid. Doesn’t make all that much difference, though standing supported is best by a little.”
“Is your rifle clear?”
“Yes, sir. Of course. They don’t let us off the range with loaded rifles.”
“Cock it then, please, and take up a kneeling unsupported firing position.”
When Nomonkov had done so, the captain took a small coin from his pocket, an 1898 copper half kopek, and laid it on the barrel. The captain also took another one in his hand.
“Now squeeze off the trigger.”
When the Guardsman had done so, the coin was still sitting, unmoving, atop the rifle’s barrel.
“Do it again,” Cherimisov ordered. He was sure this would cause Nomonkov to knock the coin off the barrel, but, no, it remained where it was throughout the manipulation of the bolt and stayed there again when the trigger was squeezed off.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Never seen anyone who can re-cock a bolt action rifle and still keep it that steady.”
“Sir, I learned that trick from my father, too.”
That raised a laugh. “Indeed? Well, let’s go find your commander or Podpraporshchik Mayevsky. You are now officially in the Grenadier Company.
“Oh, and how’s your night vision?”
“Quite good really, compared to most, sir, but not up there with my day vision.”
Baluyev being occupied with grenade development, and Mayevsky supervising the range, made the transfer simple, if not easy. The latter man glared at Cherimisov with his one remaining eye, and insisted there’d be hell to pay if the captain tried to “steal our best shot. I won’t stand for it sir. The company commander won’t stand for it either. It’s an outrage! It’s just bloody theft! It’s—”
“An order from Kostyshakov,” interrupted the captain. “Mine, once formed, is the company that goes in to rescue the royal family. I get my pick of manpower because of that. But relax, Top; I’ll go and steal my other sniper from Second or Third Company.”
“Fuck!”
Which really doesn’t get me that far, Cherimisov thought. I can do this with the snipers and my two future Lewis gunners, and their crews. But there’s still no test for the rank and file. So how do I handle this?
“All right, Cherimisov, all right, THINK, for God’s sake.”
We want toughness and determination; that seems obvious. All right, I go to Kostyshakov and request a weekly road march, the first one to be hard and the subsequent ones to be progressively harder still. That whittles the numbers down to what? Say sixty percent that never falter? Okay, so within a month or so, I’m down to maybe three or four hundred to choose from. “The people who are with thee are yet too many.” But, don’t forget that some who falter are not weak. Remember to look at their feet at the end; the man with eighty or ninety percent bleeding blisters on each foot but can keep up past the thirty versta point has more toughness than the one who can but whose feet are fine.
Soooo . . . fine, when we’ve identified the tough ones, we select out from them the inept, the clumsy, the poor shots, the stupid. Maybe fifty more, then, that don’t make the cut.
Past that, we look for courage, but how? A nasty obstacle course, when we finish building one, might do. Moving forward under low fire from the heavy machine guns might help. But it’s got to be low fire, just a few feet above the earth, to make it worthwhile. We may lose someone. And . . . this is even riskier, maybe a count of three delay on using their grenades? No, not three . . . no, yes, three, maybe even four, because they’ll count faster than light.
And then we ask—sure, why not just ask?—who wants to be in on the rescue. I can talk up the risks, both in training and in the execution. So let’s let them select for who has what we’ve looking for.
And then . . .
Officers’ Mess Tent, Camp Budapest
The food was still nothing special . . . except that in terms of the terrible hardships of the Great War it was special. Kostyshakov’s perforated buttocks were healed. Better, the men had put on an average of fifteen pounds, more or less evenly split between fat and muscle.
“Sir,” Cherimisov told Kostyshakov, “at the end, if we’ve got too many, we just put them in the ring and let them fight over it.”
“Now that’s an interesting approach,” Daniil said. “Maybe. Let me add one more thing. Once we’ve got everyone qualified, we’re going to be having each of the rifle companies undertake a long series of live fire exercises. That should help find the witless and identify the courageous.
“Also, at this point I’m beginning to doubt the Germans are going to come through with their machine pistols. In that case, the assault platoons will be going in with flash and stun grenades and fixed bayonets, no ammunition except in their pouches. So pay attention to the ones who do well and poorly on the bayonet assault course, once we’re done with that.
“And one other thing; maybe, just maybe, we’re doing this wrong and we should think about some utterly miserable, very hard, gut-testing selection course before we do anything else.”
Cherimisov spread some ersatz butter on a piece of toast while thinking that over. Looking at the butter killed any urge to smile he might have felt. “Well . . . yes, sir, it has some things to recommend it. I’ve given it some thought. But who runs it? Take a couple of weeks just to set it up and get the testers ready . . . if they can be gotten ready. After all, while we have some good noncoms and officers, they’re all new to this, same as us.”
“I think you can do it in less time,” Daniil said. “I think you can set up a selection course in a week. We just need to identify, oh, your four lieutenants, your first sergeant, three Feldfebels, and maybe a couple of sergeants.”
“I already know who I want for lieutenants and Feldfebels, sir. And for first sergeant I want Mayevsky out of First Company.”
“Mayevsky? Jesus, won’t Baluyev scream over that one?”
Range V (Grenades), Camp Budapest
As it turned out, it hadn’t been as easy as all that. Certainly Romeyko had managed, with Weber’s help, to produce cardboard, wax, and a drill, as well as a broad metal bit for the drill. So far, so good.
The first problem had been that drilling tended to deform the casing. Their first attempt at fixing this, carving and putting into each casing a wooden mandrel, had worked, well enough, anyway, but the process of drilling destroyed each mandrel produced, such that they’d need a fresh one for each grenade to be modified. Baluyev really didn’t think there was time for that.
Smirnov had been the one to figure that problem out, in the form of, “We’re fucking idiots—begging your pardon, sir—but we don’t need to be whittling on wood. Every grenade comes with its own mandrel, in the TNT that’s been cast into it. We just need to drill them before we unscrew the heads.”
That had, in fact, worked well. While the TNT was not especially hard, it was also not especially compressible and had nowhere to go.
The old grenades had just been emptied of flash powder and exploded, to prevent confusion.
After perforating the casings and then unscrewing them from the grenades’ handles, the next step was cutting away the excess TNT. It was time consuming, but not that hard. What it was, though, was inherently sloppy and uneven, as the TNT was rather difficult to get out of the casing once it had been drilled.
What that had meant was that the top of the casing had to be completely cut away, to be replaced by more cardboard.
“Not a problem,” Baluyev had pronounced. “The way they’re carried remaining vertical will protect the top from rough handling . . . enough.”
Still, it had taken an hour to cut away enough TNT from one grenade to add the flash powder.
“Too long,” the lieutenant finally said. “Too long and too hard.
“Ideally,” he continued, “we’d melt the explosive out, then recast it in smaller cylinders. But . . .”
“I’ve heard the fumes are stone killers, sir,” said Poletov.
Nodding soberly, Baluyev replied, “I’ve heard the same thing; munitions workers turning yellow as canaries and take all kinds of damage to some organs. No melting and recasting.”
Smirnov offered a possible solution. “What if we take it all out, sir, then pulverize it and make a mix of TNT and flash powder? We can make a double wall of waxed cardboard, one right up against the holed metal casing, one inside to hold just the right quantity of TNT and flash powder. And we’ll save time not having to cut the top off. We hold the top of the inner tube in place with poured wax, just a little. The detonator section holds the bottom in place.”
“Let’s give that a try, then,” Baluyev agreed.
They’d nicknamed the pig Matilda, hence Baluyev’s, “Stop complaining, Matilda, this may hurt a little but it’s better than being turned into chops, ribs, and salo.”
What Matilda thought about this was inscrutable. Besides, she was busy consuming the mush they’d given her.
“Grenade One,” Baluyev announced to the recorder, Poletov.
“One lot, two dolya powdered TNT,” the man answered, “two lot, four dolya flash powder.”
Again, the lieutenant unscrewed the cap, letting the porcelain ball fall out. He gave the ball a sharp yank, moving the grenade’s roughened steel rod through its friction-sensitive igniter, thus torching off the short fuse.
Baluyev wasn’t, at this point, especially interested in letting the fuse burn down while the grenade was in his hand. He immediately tossed it around the corner to where Matilda stood, munching her mush.
It seemed longer, but it was only about four seconds before the party was rewarded with a satisfying, but not catastrophic, boom and bright flash.
Baluyev tore around the corner to see a very dazed pig, staggering aimlessly. The pig paid him no attention at all.
Good, at least temporarily blinded, but where’s the grenade? It’s gone. Shattered? Just because the pig isn’t bleeding doesn’t mean . . .
“Hey, sir,” said Smirnov from the lip of the trench, above, “the grenade got knocked up here.” He held it up to demonstrate that, “The casing is still entirely intact.”
“Hmmm . . . must have been greater resistance to the blast underneath that overcame the otherwise equivalent blast above. Still, what works, works.”
“Hey, sir, do you think we can get a reprieve for Matilda for her services to the army, the state, and the tsar?”
“Sadly not. It’s a cruel world and Kostyshakov informs me he’s planning a forced march for Saturday. The men will need what our girl here can offer. We can only remember her, with gratitude, in our prayers.
“And as long as we’re on the subject, Smirnov, and since you brought it up, kindly leash her and walk her back to Feldwebel Taenzler, would you? Good lad.”
Camp Budapest
Corporal Vasenkov took off his visored cap and ran his fingers through the sparse hair sprouting from his mostly bare scalp. He had never been a huge fan of hard marching, fast, and under heavy packs. He was even less enthusiastic given that he’d be marching in German boots, at this stage of the war footgear of even less than secondary quality, and not especially made for hard marching, given the stasis of the trenches to the west.
But, thought the corporal and secret communist, this will have something to do with the selection of men for the grenadier company, while the grenadier company is where I need to be, where the revolution needs me to be.
Sergeant Major Blagov walked the line, reminding the soldiery that, “This is going to be a stone bitch, people. Check your portyanki now, while you can.”
At that, perhaps half the troops pulled off their boots and checked—and in a few cases rewrapped—their foot wrappings.
Each man also had the makings of a full pack currently laid out on their ground sheets. The squad leaders and platoon sergeants checked, but no one was allowed to repack until either one of the two sergeants major, their own company first sergeant, or one of the officers had inspected two men from each squad. The packs wouldn’t have been unbearable except that, in addition, thirty-five pounds of rock were to be added to each pack. The rocks, too, sat on the ground sheet. They would be weighed for each man when the march was over.
“Vicious imperialist foolishness” is what I call it, thought Vasenkov, as he carefully repacked to put as much softness as possible between the rocks and what would otherwise have been the skin of his back. It’s the petty need for small men to show the world their authority.
Worse, as if the rocks weren’t enough, the men were also marching with their Lewis guns, and with the various support sections dragging, for example, the light infantry cannon and the heavy Maxim machine guns, while the poor bloody engineers had four flamethrowers—the newest portable German kind—“Wechselapparat,” that had the donut-shaped fuel tanks with a sphere of compressed air in the middle, to port along.
And then came the dreaded cry, “On your feet, gentlemen; ruck up, and fall in.”
Tsarist swine, thought Vasenkov, as he pushed his own slender frame upright.
The first four versta were easy. They were intended to be easy, more of a stretching exercise and chance for the portyanki to move than a test of character. When those were done, and the men feeling fairly good about it, Kostyshakov called a halt. Once again the sergeant major trooped the line with, “Boots off. Noncoms check your men’s feet. No time to fuck around. Rewrap if they need it. Ten minutes only . . . Boots off. Noncoms . . .”
Twenty-four more versta, a full fifteen miles, and five hours later, with no more breaks, the men marched into camp, footsore—bleeding a bit in most cases, with aching backs, sweaty despite the winter cold, and utterly miserable.
Not that everyone made it, no. A full twenty percent, or perhaps a few more, had fallen behind, leaving the others to have to spend even more time porting and dragging the heavy equipment. Many of those who’d fallen out would find themselves with the replacement detachment.
But not Vasenkov. He marched into camp with the rest, mentally cursing the leadership every step of the way.
“Well done,” Kostyshakov cheered the men who made it as they staggered in.
Swine, thought Vasenkov.