Chapter Twenty-two
L59 Being Launched
Airship Hangar, a mile and a half north of Jambol, Bulgaria
Sergeant Kaledin was pleased, actually, that they’d nixed the plan to carry his horses and mules aboard the airship. Oh, they were healthy enough, those that had survived, but he really didn’t know how they’d take to the changes in air pressure, the confinement, the noises and smells. Just as well they’re not going. And I’m glad that German had the presence of mind to put my poor mule, Lydia, out of her pain. She was a good mule and should not have been allowed to suffer.
Glad, too, I never had to make that case; I don’t think anyone would have supported me.
Kaledin led, rather than rode, a light wagon pulled by one of the surviving horses. He’d made this trip already, twice, to bring tentage for two hundred men along with a good deal of food. More wagons stretched behind him.
Most of the battalion remained back at Camp Budapest, but the first contingent to leave—Fourth Company—marched ahead of the Cossack sergeant, singing rather joyfully at being, finally, on their way to do great things. Shortly before turning off the road and heading straight for the hangar, they passed the ruins of an almost completely erased monastery that had once stood over a healing spring. The locals knew that a spring was there, somewhere, but the Turks who had destroyed the monastery had done such a fine job of the destruction that the people of the neighborhood had long since lost the memory of just where it had been.
Up ahead of Kaledin, the men marched with skis and poles over their shoulders. Kostyshakov, marching at the point, just ahead of Captain Cherimisov, turned about and called out, “First Sergeant, can you and the men give us a song?”
Mayevsky saluted and began:
Akh, vy, seni, moi seni,
Seni novyye moi,
At which point Fourth Company and that slice of Headquarters and Support with them began to belt out:
Seni novyye, klenovyye,
Reshetchatyye.6
The song continued with verses about leaving home, letting a falcon loose to fly, the falcon striking from the air, and an old man who was very strict indeed. Finally, it was also about going home at last.
“God,” said Kaledin, the Cossack, “but I do love the Russian Army.”
“They do sing rather well, don’t they?” observed Captain Bockholt to his exec and navigator, Maas, from the gondola of the airship.
“Yes, sir. If they can keep it up, we’ll have a more entertaining trip—or four or five—than usual.”
“I’m going to go find their colonel, Kostyshakov. Station yourself in the cargo bay to support Obermaschinistenmaat Engelke, in case any of the Russians want to argue matters.”
“Sir.”
With that, Bockholt left the gondola via the ladder to the ground. From there he left the hangar by a side door and strode to the little tent village, no more than thirty tents, if that, set up west of the hangar.
As soon as Kostyshakov spotted Bockholt, he told Cherimisov that he was going to see the German, and dashed away from the formation. He and Bockholt met in the middle ground, between airship and tents, and shook hands.
Said the skipper, “We’ll be ready for a eight-thirty departure tomorrow to cross over the lines, just south of Yekatarenoslav, at half past nineteen hundred, tomorrow.”
“Why just south?” asked Kostyshakov.
“Angle of the moon. We don’t want to silhouette ourselves against it, but we equally don’t want it lighting us up for the city to see.”
“The two fighters?”
“They’ll take off about an hour before we’re supposed to get to Yekaterinoslav, with orders to down anything they see flying not positively identified as friendly. We’re big, so more visible, but anything likely to see us will still—probably—be seen by them.”
Bockholt continued, “For the rest of the trip we’ll try to avoid major cities and bigger towns. It’s not that we won’t be spotted; we will. Rather, I want us, if we’re going to be spotted, to be spotted as far from a telegraph station as possible.”
“You heard no animals are going, right?”
“Yes. And you cannot imagine my joy at avoiding having my ship crapped on by a couple-score horses and mules. Or having them panic. Speaking of panic . . .”
“The vodka’s in the wagons, Captain,” said Kostyshakov. “Mind, I don’t know that any of my men would panic, but I also don’t know that they won’t. I’ve never flown before, myself, and I don’t mind saying I find the prospect a little frightening.”
“So did I,” said Bockholt, “before I tried it. Once I did, though, well! It’s truly enjoyable . . . most of the time.”
“And when it isn’t?” asked Daniil.
“Hmmm . . . how many of your men speak German? No, I’m not changing the subject, but they need to be briefed on procedures and concerns.”
“Well? Not many of them. Most of my officers do and a few of my noncoms. Is there a list of things the men should be told?”
Nodding, Bockholt answered, “There are a few. Number one is that it’s going to be cold up there, so cold—especially at night—that you will imagine Siberia in the winter to be downright tropical. And the hammocks we’ve slung for the men will let body heat out in all directions. They need to put on anything and everything they have that will hold heat in.”
“Right. We knew that.”
“Did my man, Signaler Mueller, explain about the no fires rule?”
Kostyshakov nodded, “He did. We’ve collected up all the carbide lanterns and separated the chambers. It was a major pain in the ass, too, to mark them so we can get matching ones back together. I’ve also had all the matches and lighters collected, as well as the tobacco, so they’ll have no motivation to try to create a fire.”
Bockholt smiled, appreciatively. “They will have a motivation, of course, but there’ll be nothing to burn they’ll want to burn. Still, I cannot thank you enough for that. But speaking of cold and fires; we have a very limited ability to produce hot drinks. I need every bit of it to keep functional the men who must run the airship. There’s none to spare—literally none—for anyone or anything else. I considered getting a thousand thermos bottles for hot drinks for your men, but the weight would have meant going over our limit.”
“I understand.”
“Ammunition?” Bockholt asked, though he was beginning to think his worries and doubts were silly.
“All stored with the cargo, to be issued, for the most part, only once we’re on the ground. Some of it is ready-stored. We’ll give that to the security men just as they debark.”
“Acceptable,” the skipper said.
“We’ve set up scales,” he continued. “As each man arrives at the loading spot, fully equipped, we’re going to weigh him. My crew will then lead him to a hammock that will give us the best balance for the airship. We’ll try to pay attention to unit integrity, but I cannot promise it.”
“Do what you must,” agreed the Russian.
“We’ve cleaned and sterilized one ballast bladder for drinking water,” the skipper continued. “Another is designated for urine. Since there’s a delay between drinking and pissing, it is faintly possible we’ll have to move someone around in flight. We won’t unless we must.
“We’re carrying fifteen chamber pots and have separated out and enclosed with cloth fifteen places your men can relieve themselves. They’re marked, nine for crapping and six for pissing. Your quartermaster, Romeyko, has designated two men per lift to be the chamber pot . . . mmm . . . caretakers.
“I know my man, Mueller, suggested we’d be able to let the men stretch a bit and walk about. He was in error. We must have absolutely minimal moving about,” said Bockholt. “Too many risks from people moving about in the ship.”
“I understand that,” said Kostyshakov. “Going to be hard on cold men.”
“I know,” agreed the skipper, “but not as hard as causing damage to the ship, six hundred meters above the ground, might be.”
“Point. How long will it take to load?”
“Our best estimate is three hours but I’m holding out for five. We’ll need to start putting men into their hammocks at five in the morning.”
“Lord God, what is that heavenly aroma?” asked Mayevsky of Taenzler, the pair of them standing by the Gulaschkanone, itself in the center of the little tent village.
“Meat in the stew,” the German chef replied. “Good meat. And good vegetables. And spices. Fresh bread with none of those less than desirable additives or undesirable subtractions. This is what I told your commander about; the kind of food that gives mixed feelings since we only feed this kind of food to our men when they’re about to be ordered into the attack.”
Taenzler shook his head a bit. “It’s not just for morale, but also for strength, energy, and health. Which makes me wonder why we don’t feed it to the men when they’re about to be attacked. It’s not like it’s all that hard to predict, after all, what with bombardments lasting weeks.”
“Above my pay grade,” said Mayevsky, “but, for us, no, you were never that predictable. This is tonight’s meal, yes?”
“Yes. For tomorrow morning I’ve got syrniki, draniki, and real butter, jam, and honey. We’ll issue the lunch and dinner—cold and dry, all of it, but the vodka and the salo, I’m afraid—with breakfast. After that you start loading. Though I’ve oversupplied tonight’s meal and anyone who wants to take some tomorrow will be welcome to it.”
“Feldwebel Taenzler,” said Mayevsky, with complete seriousness, “you’re a fucking treasure. Anyone’s army would be lucky to have you. And if you ever want a job with a different army . . .”
“First Sergeant Mayevsky, thank you, but when this obscenity of a war is over I just want to go home to my wife.”
“Ah, the wife,” Mayevsky sighed. “I miss mine, too. I haven’t seen her in almost four years.”
“Same. She writes. Says times are hard at home, food even worse and more scarce than what we get. Not enough coal to heat the house. And the little ones . . . it’s awful.”
“Cheer up, old man,” said Mayevsky. “At least you’ve had word. I’ve had nothing for over a year.”
Taenzler nodded, chewed his lower lip for a bit, and then walked to the other end of the Gulaschkanone. He extracted a bottle and a couple of glasses, then opened the bottle and filled the glasses from it. The bottle went back to its hiding spot before he returned and passed one of the glasses over.
“Ansatzkorn,” Taenzler explained, though the word meant nothing to Mayevsky. “Here’s to the success of your mission, the end of the fucking war, and getting home to wives and children we hope are still alive and well.”
“May it please God,” said the Russian before clinking glasses with the German and tossing off the glasses.
Half-choking and between gasps, the German explained, “It will serve . . . as a rather . . . strong . . . disinfectant, too.”
Vasenkov couldn’t help himself, he liked the old German cook who did so much to keep the men of the battalion well fed. As he passed by the Gulaschkanone, in the evening’s fading light, he had half a loaf of bread under one arm and his mess kit held out by the other.
Using his ladle, the German scooped up and deposited a most healthy portion into the mess tin. Then he scooped up some more, about half a ladle, and deposited that, too.
“Eh, there’s plenty,” he informed the Russian. “No sense in letting any of it go to waste.”
In fact, the Gulaschkanone was supposed to be able to serve two hundred and fifty men. The mere one hundred and thirty-seven of the first lift hardly overtasked it.
It’s not impossible, either, that Taenzler was padding the head count a bit. (“Oh, it’s easy as pie, Podpolkovnik Kostyshakov. Every man here is still officially here until the last of you has left and the camp is closed. Since there are no plans— at least, none I’ve been informed of—to close the camp, I drew a few days, okay, maybe a week, in advance . . . exigencies of war and all that.”)
Vasenkov took his meal and went to sit. He’d always appeared something of a loner to the rest of the men, though competent enough, to be sure, that no one went out of their way to sit with him, leaving him alone with his troubles.
On the theory that whatever an imperialist or capitalist wants you to do, you should do the opposite, I have secreted on my person three wooden matches. I could, I imagine, under one pretext or other, get close to one of those leaky gas bags they warned us about, make a hole, and light one off. Bring the whole thing crashing down like a meteor streaking from the heavens, but moreso.
Of course, I, too, will be riding that flaming meteor down. I have always been willing to lay down my life for the revolution. Well, at least since having my eyes opened to the future by the works of Marx and Lenin, I have. But suicide? This is altogether a harder thing. I’m not sure I can.
And even if I could bring myself to do it, kill all these men who are my comrades and friends? No; I don’t think I can do that either.
But I also cannot stand by and just let the royal family be rescued to serve as a rally point for the enemies of the revolution. If I believed in a God, I’d pray for guidance. What am I to do?
Vasenkov was one of the first to be loaded aboard. After a good—no, it was a remarkably good—breakfast, with his bedroll slung over one shoulder, his MP18 draped from his neck by his sling, pack on his back, breadbag and canteen properly slung, with his skis and poles over one shoulder, he presented himself.
“Skis, poles, and pack marked with your name?” asked his platoon sergeant, Feldfebel Kostin.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Vasenkov answered.
Kostin took the skis and handed them to a platoon runner to place in a forming criss-crossing pile on the cargo deck.
“Anything in your pack you need?”
“Oh, shit!” said Vasenkov. “Yes, Sergeant. Thanks for reminding me! My mittens!”
“Dig ’em out, then. Then turn over your pack to Sobchak.” This was the same Sobchak who had mistakenly shot his partner and friend, Sotnikov, and was now serving as a runner. The pack, too, went into a growing pile.
“This way, Vasenkov,” shouted the first sergeant, glaring with his one good eye and gesturing with one hand. The first sergeant stood at the base of a flexible ladder, one of several, that led upward to and past a large number of hammocks. There was a scale by the first sergeant with one of the German crew in attendance. The German weighed the Russian—“Skinny fucker, aren’t you?”—did some scribbling with a pencil on a notepad, then pointed to a hammock about eleven arshini above the deck.
Mayevsky asked, “See that fucking hammock the German pointed at, Vasenkov. The top one on that row? Empty?”
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“That one’s for you. Up you go, boy. No dawdling. Get up there; make up your bed roll; and get in it. Once you’re in you can have a belt of your vodka.”
Vasenkov scrambled up the ladder leading to his bunk. With one hand on the ladder he used the other one to take his bedding from across his shoulder. Untying it proved to be difficult, one handed, so he ran an arm through the ladder up to the crook of his elbow and used both hands. Then he whip-snapped the bed roll lengthwise along the bunk. After spending a few moments opening it and spreading it out, he found that he had not the first clue as to how to actually get into the hammock.
There were reasons I avoided the navy.
Standing below and watching the mayhem, Mayevsky thought, There’s always something you miss. We should have had training in this, too.
He pointed out the problem to the German sailor running the scales. The German muttered something that the first sergeant took to mean, approximately, There’s always something that you miss.
With a great Teutonic bellow, the German caught the attention of every man in the bay. Once he had that, with practiced skill, he, himself, scrambled up a ladder and demonstrated how it was done. This involved locking one’s arms into the outside folds of the hammock, lifting one’s lower body up to it, and then rolling over.
Well, shit, thought Vasenkov, as he retrieved his bedroll, draped it over his shoulder, and pulled himself in. Once settled in, it was still no easy matter to get the blankets and ground cloth under his body. He managed, eventually, as did all the others but one. That one, a cook from the First Company, fell to the deck screaming, arms and legs waving in panic. He hit with a thump that shook the ship, then had to be carried off with a possible back injury.
Some hundreds of German and Bulgarian ground crew stood around in clusters, each holding a strap that led to single, stouter straps that, in turn, led to the airship. Daniil couldn’t tell how many of the lighter straps led from each heavier one, but it seemed to be about ten to a dozen, maybe more in a few spots.
“Notify Strategic Recon that we’re on our way, Basanets,” said Kostyshakov, just before boarding himself. “Our estimated time of arrival is between one and four, AM, the day after tomorrow, winds depending. Fires to mark the landing spot, but not within one hundred and fifty arshini. Local security is their problem until we’re half unloaded.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Exec, who then pointed with his chin at something or someone behind Kostyshakov.
Daniil turned to see Mueller, the signaler cum liaison, standing at ease. “The captain requests your presence in the forward gondola, sir. He says, ‘This is something the Russian commander is going to want to see.’ From experience, sir, the captain is right.”
“I suspect so,” agreed Kostyshakov, in German. Turning to Basanets, he continued, in Russian, “We’ll be on radio listening silence unless something disastrous happens, something that scrubs the mission anyway. But you can get messages to us. Also, confirm that the two escort fighters at Yekaterinoslav are going to take off at the right time. Yes, not really our job, but maybe our lives if the Germans screw it up.”
With that, Daniil followed Mueller back inside, then along the walkway that led to a ladder which, in turn, led down into the open and then into the command gondola.
“Ah, Podpolkovnik Kostyshakov; this is something you won’t want to miss!” exclaimed Captain Bockholt. “The only thing more exciting than take off is coming home in one piece and unburnt.”
In front of Daniil’s eyes, the great hangar doors were slowly swung open wide. One of the command crew said something in aeronauticalese to the captain, who gave an equally incomprehensible answer. No matter, the import of the message was made clear as the ground crew began walking forward, dragging L59 forward with them by the straps.
It is grand, thought Kostyshakov. But it’s not the view or, rather, not the view alone. Rather, it’s knowing how big this bastard is combined with the view, the knowledge that men can not only build something this big but move it by hand and foot power.
It took just over two minutes from the moment its nose reached the opening for the airship to fully emerge. Presumably on command, all the men holding straps let go. The ascent was fairly gentle, but there was no doubt, even without being able to see, that the ship was going up.
“There are problems with ascending,” Bockholt explained. “If we go too high, the air pressure differential causes us to lose hydrogen. Lose enough and we lose lift. And, too, the lower temperature up there causes the hydrogen to lose volume hence to lose lift, too. Unless we’re bombing England, when we have to go as high as possible to stay out of the reach of the defenses, the smart course for an airship is rather low, a couple of hundred meters. That’s another reason for us to traverse Yekaterinoslav at night. Of course, too, we’re going to have to go a bit higher to get over the Urals.”
“How will we know where we are?” Kostyshakov asked.
“A mixture of dead reckoning— landmarks, compass, and speed—but we also use celestial navigation, chronometer and sextant, just as if we were on a ship at sea. Don’t fear, we’ll put you down where your forward team said they’d be waiting.”
Daniil took a last look out a side window. The ground was fast slipping behind. About two hundred and fifty arshini up, I should think.
“I think I should be getting back to my men, Captain.”
“Of course, sir. Sleep well. You’re as safe as in your mother’s own arms.”
* * *
My mother’s arms were never this fucking cold, thought Kostyshakov, shivering miserably, like everyone else, in the unheated compartment. Some of the men apparently had no trouble falling asleep, indeed, seemed to go to sleep as a way to avoid the misery.
Note to self: If I survive, and am ever in a position to do something about it, a way to heat airships, the designing of. Other note to self: After the troubles are over, back to school for engineering.
Nice to hear no one is panicking. Rather, it’s nice to not hear it. This whole flying thing? I’m not sure it’s got a future for anything but lunatics who actually like being someplace they can fall to their deaths from. For me, I swear, I will never take this mode of transportation again if I can avoid it. What was it that old Englishman said, something about being on a ship is being in prison, but with the added chance of being drowned? Well, at least on a ship you can walk around freely. Being on an airship is being in an insane asylum, with a straightjacket on, and the chance of being burnt alive.
Daniil took out his signed picture of Tatiana Nicholaevna Romanova. He never let any of the officers or men of the battalion see that he had it, lest they think this was all a personal crusade. But he’d look at it, sometimes, in the dead of night, by the light of a candle.
The fact is, I don’t even know if you still want me. There were only those couple of letters before I was captured, and those I had to destroy lest the Germans use them against you and Russia. Only this picture did both I and the Huns miss. Well . . . I can hope your heart has not grown cold toward me. And, if it has . . . well . . . this is still my sworn duty to you and your family.
Yekaterinoslav, Russia
It was about an hour before sunset, the weather clear and fine. Two German fighter pilots stood by their machines on an unimproved grass strip. The planes were both fueled, with a ground crewman standing by each to twist the engines to life.
Sergeant Karl Thom was an experienced pilot, first flying a reconnaissance plane and then, with twelve victories, to date, as a fighter pilot. He deeply resented being pulled from his slot in Jagdstaffel 21 for this nothing mission at the ass end of nowhere.
Adding insult to injury, he hadn’t been sent off with a new Fokker D. VII, oh, no. Instead, when tasked, his commander had decided that an old Albatros D. V would be plenty good enough.
To be fair, thought Thom, at least he let me take my pick of the D. Vs. And, given there’s nobody here to fight, a D. VII would have been a waste. I’m just angry at being pulled from the action. Well, that and that the D. V is a simply rotten aircraft, from its tendency to fall to pieces in a dive to its miserably placed instrumentation suite.
Thom’s mate, from a different squadron entirely, was also a Carl, with a C, Sergeant Carl Graeper. Graeper didn’t seem nearly as annoyed as Thom felt.
Maybe it’s because his squadron, Jasta 50, wasn’t getting D. VIIs when he was pulled out.
Thom consulted his watch. “About that time,” he announced to Graeper.
Both men climbed up their aircraft and into the cockpits. Two of the ground crewmen stood in front of the planes, their hands grasping the propellers. Another pair stood on tires, helping the pilots to settle in.
At a signal from their pilots, the former jerked the propellers counterclockwise, causing the motors to shudder into life. They sprang back, instantly, to avoid losing hands to the spinning blades. Then each pair bent down to drag away the chock blocks that held the planes in place.
Thom fed a little more gas to the engine and was rewarded with a steady drone and a propeller that disappeared into the thin blur in front of him. He began to taxi to the runway, then swung unto a wide right turn. The grass stretched out before him. Using his left thumb, Thom applied throttle, increasing his speed rapidly. In no time he was airborne and making a slow spiral upward.
Glancing over his left shoulder—God bless whoever decided to get rid of that miserable, sight-blocking headrest—to see Graeper rising behind him on the same basic upward spiraling pattern.
The spiral gave way to a long, slow set of turns, scanning three hundred and sixty degrees around for any threat to the airship he was tasked with protecting. There was nothing there, though.
For all the need for me here, I could have done as much by flying in France.
Making another left-hand turn, it was the shadow of the airship that Thom first saw, a huge, darkened, and regular shape on the ground. Until he realized it was too regular, the pilot initially thought it was a cloud casting that shadow. Adjusting he gaze, then, he saw it, the L59, lower than he really expected, gracefully and effortlessly moving toward Yekaterinoslav from the west.
Again Thom consulted his watch. A bit early but the sun will still be down before they cross by the town.
He began to descend to a lower level, largely with the fixed intention of getting on the ground before it became necessary for the ground crew to light beacon fires.
L59
High in his hammock, Vasenkov thought, I do not think I have ever been this cold in my life. Forget the calming effect; if it weren’t for the vodka making the blood flow faster, I think my hands and feet would be nothing but blocks of ice. And it’s worse for me than most because I am so thin.
But vodka won’t keep me from freezing solid on its own.
From his bread bag he took a sausage, squared off, hard, and dry, as well as a chunk of bread. “Landjaeger,” Taenzler called these. We don’t have sausage like this back home. Oh, well, how bad can it . . . At his first bite, Vasenkov realized he had fallen in love. These are perfect, wonderful. The perfect blend of lean and fat, perfectly cured, dry on the outside but, oh, so juicy on the inside. “Two with some cheese and a half a pound of bread makes a meal,” he said. I can see where they would.
Now if only those religion-addled fools in the other hammocks would stop praying so loudly . . .
From Yekaterinoslav, the L59 didn’t make a straight course for the landing point south of Tobolsk. Instead, it went generally east-northeast to a spot about thirty kilometers north of Severodonetsk, then turned due east, passing over the Volga River well north of Tsaritsyn. From that crossing, another five hundred kilometers saw it turn on a course of forty-five degrees, heading straight for the Urals’ southern foothills in the vicinity of Krasnoshchekovo. All of these legs were lengthened by the fact that the ship took a zig-zag course, partly to avoid towns likely to have telegraph service and partly to cast doubt about their ultimate objective.
It wasn’t until they passed a point just north-northwest of Petropavel that Bockholt ordered a turn, due north, toward the landing zone south of Tobolsk.
And then . . .
Landing Zone A, south of Tobolsk
Daniil was back in the control gondola, having been awakened by Mueller, who looked completely worn out, a sunken-faced, slack jawed zombie.
One suspects, thought Kostyshakov, that it’s a tougher job than it looks from the outside.
This part they hadn’t really been able to rehearse. Kostyshakov hadn’t had any real choice but to kick the strategic reconnaissance team forward as soon as possible, with only limited guidance on how to prepare to receive an airship. The airship’s crew had had limited time to both figure out and then show the men of Fourth Company how to secure an airship.
Going to be a total clusterfuck, thought Daniil, especially in the dark . . . even with moonlight.
The moon, for that matter, was pretty low in the sky. We’re so fucked.
A sudden light from above, from the skin of the airship, caused Daniil to jerk his head up. But where is the light . . .
He looked out of one of the open windows and down. There, hanging below him, was a very bright flare, rocking from side to side as it descended under a parachute. I did not know they could do that.
Within a couple of minutes, Daniil saw a bright flash from below and forward, followed by a tremendous bang and a rumbling sound. A couple of minutes later four large fires sprang up, two by two, forming a rectangular box around a narrow inlet in what appeared to be an icebound lake, below.
“Very good,” Bockholt said, with something approaching a tone of wonder in his voice. Turning to Kostyshakov, he added, “I don’t think my own men could have set it up any better. They even got the wind angle as right as they could, given the terrain.”
“What now?” asked Daniil.
“Now we vent hydrogen to reduce buoyancy and descend. It’s a little tricky. It’s also incredibly wasteful of hydrogen; that’s why we wanted your troops to blow a hole in the ice so we can pump up water as ballast to make up for the loss of load when you all unload. I wish there were some other way to do this, but there isn’t. Maybe someday.”
Back in cargo, First Sergeant Mayevsky was kicking hammocks, some of them, and prodding others from below with a stick he seemed to have acquired from somewhere. “Up you turds! Up! It’s time to earn our pay again. And if any of you lowlifes have somehow been so negligent as to have let yourself freeze to death, so signify by staying in your hammocks. We’ll just throw you overboard from a thousand feet. Don’t worry; you won’t feel a thing . . .”
* * *
6 Very free and loose translation:
Oh, you, my porch, my new porch
My new latticed maple porch
Yes, Russian folk and army songs, to the extent these differ, often revolve around sentiments about the merest things of home.