Back | Next
Contents

Chapter Sixteen

German Dynamo Flashlight

Range G5, Camp Budapest

The red range flag, warning people to watch out, flew from a stout pole raised over the range.

It had taken longer to build the new range than Kostyshakov had estimated. Indeed, the sun was already near to setting on this day, before the range was ready to use.

But, then, it always takes longer than you expect it to, he thought, while standing and waiting to be the first man to go down this particular subterranean shoot-fest. Sad, but true.

Cherimisov had offered Daniil a guided tour, but he’d begged off. “No, I need to see it as every one of your soldiers executing it will see it; fresh and surprising. And I’ll want to do it again after sunset.”

Then Daniil had asked for a submachine gun and a magazine bag with six loaded magazines, holding one hundred and ninety-two rounds. He also had his pistol, his German flashlight on his chest, and his Adrian helmet on his head. Another bag with another six magazines was slung across Cherimisov, for the night rendition.

“Okay, sir,” said the captain, “just stand by the window frame Second Company built. When I say ‘Flash!’ that will be your signal to go or to continue on to the next chamber. The rules of the game are, in the first place, shoot the ones in olive while sparing the ones in lighter colors, and in the second, get the ones in lighter colors behind you. Note that there are a couple of places where Second Company erected canvas barriers. I’ll drop those at the right time. You may expect the unexpected on the other side.

“Ready, sir?”

Daniil noticed both his pulse and blood pressure rising as he took the bolt handle from the safety notch on his MP18. He replied, “Ready.”

“Flash!”

Daniil hurdled the windowsill to stand on the floor of the trench. Ahead, he saw a light painted target with what appeared to be golden curls—frayed rope—around the “head.” Not a target, he knew. Overhead, walking behind and well above, Cherimisov used the toe of his right boot to lift the looped end of a rope off of a peg. Down below, instantly, a weighted target swung out from the side of the trench opposite the other target.

It took Daniil half a second to recognize another target, another half second to realize it was enemy, and then yet another half second to decide to engage. Above, Cherimisov counted aloud, “One . . . two . . .”

Daniil fired before “three,” hitting the target with two of five rounds.

“Decent for a first run, sir, but you’ll have to decide and engage faster—and so will the men—or you will be a very dead soldier. Mayevsky and I dry ran this thing several times, alternating playing Bolshevik. We figure you’ve got—maximum—a second and a half to decide and shoot. A bare second would be better and safer, though even then there’s no guarantee. Also, your burst was too long. Shoot for three rounds, sir. Yes, it takes practice. Flash!”

Filled with anger—at himself, not Cherimisov or the range— Daniil moved forward and turned the sharp corner of the next section. There were two dark targets. Daniil fired at one, hitting it, then turned to the other. Once again, Cherimisov lifted a loop from a peg. This time a weighted target of an innocent swung out, half covering the remaining enemy target. Daniil couldn’t just fire from the hip; he had to lift the machine pistol to his shoulder and aim.

Overhead, the captain counted, “One . . . two . . .” He got to “three . . .” before Daniil was able to fire at the target’s head.

“We figure, sir, that pulling one of the Romanovs in front of himself, rather than shooting immediately, will take up a second or two. So, while you were slow, you weren’t that slow. Flash!”

Breathing heavily, Daniil rounded the corner and came face to face with a blank piece of dark canvas. Above, unseen, Cherimisov toed-up another loop. The canvas fell. On the other side was a chamber full of furniture, couches, chairs, table, and a cabinet. Some pieces were real furniture, others had been tied and hammered together from thin logs. There were no targets immediately visible. Overhead a few logs crossed the trench.

Daniil saw a large rock begin to fall from the log. That distracted him enough that he missed the target half-appearing from behind a cabinet. Overhead, Cherimisov counted, “One . . . two . . . three. Sorry, you’re dead sir. You want to back up and try this again?”

“Yes, please.”

Daniil went back around the sharp corner as the captain hoisted up the canvas again. “Ready . . . Flash!”

This time Daniil was ready. To his chagrin, however, a rock descended from near the half hidden target and, while he was engaging that, another—very small—target popped straight up from behind a chair. “One . . . two . . . three.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you are a dick, Captain Cherimisov.”

“Yes, sir. Many times. The second target would have gotten you. Ready . . . Flash!”


After perhaps ten minutes, an exhausted Daniil emerged from the final chamber into another but much narrower trench.

“That was . . . quite something,” Kostyshakov said.

“Yes, sir,” the captain agreed. “Can we start using it?”

“How many people can you run through in a day?”

“Maybe ten hours of adequate light, fifteen chambers, about fifteen seconds per, at full speed—but they won’t make full speed right away, so call it thirty—and we can do both assault platoons, even reinforced, in maybe six hours. If the second rendition is faster than the first, as I think it will be, we can get both platoons through, twice, in one day.”

“What about resetting targets behind them?”

“Mayevsky worked that out. A team follows the assaulter a couple of chambers behind, resetting the targets. Almost no delay. And we have a scheme to change the targets around so that they can’t predict what will happen the second time through.”

“Then start; there’s no time to waste.”

“Yes, sir. You feel ready to do the other one? It’s not really for individuals, but for two-man teams.”

“No, just show it to me. Can you start a platoon on Range G6 as soon as they finish here?”

“No, sir; in the first place, though the range is quick, it’s also exhausting. In the second, I don’t have enough people to run both at once. And I don’t know that it would save time to stop and teach another group to run them, even if they built them. And besides, the rifle companies need their training time, too.”

“Yeah . . . yeah,” Daniil agreed. “That last point, in particular, is well taken. Now show me G6.”


That evening, in the mess, Daniil observed to Cherimisov, “Those German dynamo lights, they really suck, don’t they?”

“No, sir, not exactly,” Cherimisov answered, wearing his normal serious face. “They’re a lot better than nothing. But, yes, I wish they put out three times more light than they do, for three times longer. But . . . what can we do?”

“No idea. Then, too, it may be better with six lights going in a room.”

“Yes, sir. Maybe, sir. Except I’ve tried it with six men and it’s still less than ideal.”

Range G6, Camp Budapest

The moon had set a little after eight thirty in the evening. Even had it been up, as a new moon, or nearly new, it would have provided approximately zero illumination.

Everyone in both assault platoons, plus the supernumeraries, had been through Range G5 at least twice. Some had had to go through it a half dozen times before they could reliably be expected to identify and engage enemy targets, while sparing civilian ones, quickly enough to presume the enemy targets hadn’t had enough time, had they been real, to kill either the soldiers of the assault platoons or the targets representing civilians.

They’d also gone, by buddy teams, through Range G6. But that was in daylight. Now they were going to do it again, as many as could be gotten through before dawn. Indeed, without tents, wrapped only in their overcoats and blankets, the men of the grenadier company lay in neat rows, sleeping until awakened by dyads to go through the range. It was darker than—as Platoon Sergeant Kostin said—“three feet up a well-digger’s ass at midnight.”

“Sotnikov,” the platoon sergeant said, nudging the guardsman with his boot, “wake up your pal Sobchak and go report to the ready gate. Aim for the beacon fire.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

Sotnikov rolled out from his blanket roll, then began to shake the man next to him. “Our turn, Sobchak. Get your gear on and let’s go.”

“Sure,” said the other, as he likewise emerged from semi-warm bedroll into bitter, biting, icy cold. Aloud, Sobchak listed the items he donned. “Helmet . . . on head . . . magazine bag strap, over right shoulder . . . nemetskiy dynamo light . . . chain around neck, light in front . . . water bottle . . . over left shoulder . . . left boot . . . on . . . right boot . . . on . . . machine pistol . . . in hand . . . bolt handle in safety notch. Okay, let’s go.”

Wearily, the pair trudged up to the medium-sized bonfire by the ramped entrance to the range. There were two pairs ahead of them, which caused an inner groan, right up until the German mess chief handed them mugs of steaming soup.

“Keep warm,” said Feldwebel Taenzler, in the broken Russian phrases he’d picked up since arriving in camp. “More—plenty more—if want.”

Spasibo,” said Sobchak, echoed by Sotnikov.

Bitte schoen,” replied Taenzler, with a friendly smile. He was fairly confident that all the Russians had picked up at least that much German during their time in the POW camps. And, if not, the tone and smile surely cover it.

As the pair nursed their soup there were sounds of heavy but intermittent automatic fire, as well as shouted commands, coming from the other side of the fire. A couple of minutes after those ended, First Sergeant Mayevsky came back to bring another pair forward. Ten minutes later, and then it was the turn of another pair. Finally, with two more pairs waiting behind them, the first sergeant came to get them. His speech was unusually civil.

“Listen boys—Sotnikov and Sobchak, isn’t it? Come over here to put your backs to the fire; you’ll need all the night vision you can muster for this one.

“Now this is a lot harder than the ones you’ve done so far. The nemetskiy lights really aren’t quite up to the job. So here’s my advice: stay pretty close to each other. That way, neither of you will get in front enough to get shot down by your own partner. Talk; talk a lot. Watch out for furniture you might trip over. And here’s a couple of pieces of string. Tie your machine pistols to the pull rings of the dynamo lights; it will allow you to start them up without losing any control of your weapon.”

“Hey, that’s clever, First Sergeant.”

“It was Corporal Shabalin’s idea; I can take no credit.”

Mayevsky waited a couple of minutes, while the two tied the pieces of string. “Okay, are you ready?”

“Sure, Top,” answered Sobchak.

“Sure,” Sotnikov agreed.

“Move ahead to the first window frame and announce to the Captain who you are and that you are ready. Just like the other ranges, he’ll tell you ‘Flash!’ to indicate you are to proceed. Remember to shout ‘Romanovs down’ in both English and Russian before you enter any chamber. Now, good luck.”

“Thanks, First Sergeant.”

Silently, then, the duo began their descent into the earthen ramp that led down into the trench. The limited light from the fire by the range gate ended there. There were no sounds but those from their own footsteps. Even that was limited by the ground, churned up but hundreds of pairs of feet already today.

“I don’t think they could have made this any creepier if they’d tried,” said Sobchak.

“What makes you think they didn’t try?”

“Good point . . . Oh, shit . . .”

“What’s the matter?” asked Sotnikov.

“Hit my fucking head on the . . .”

“Who’s down there?” asked the voice of the captain, unseen above.

“Sorry, sir, we misjudged how far in we were. It’s Sotnikov and Sobchak. We’re ready, sir.”

“All right,” Cherimisov said. “Flash!”

Both men gave a tug downward on their machine pistols, pulling the chains and causing the tiny generators in their lights to whir to life. By the glow, limited though it was, they could make out the window frame.

Sotnikov took up a position on the left bottom corner of the frame, scanning ahead. He knew that the target array for this rendition would be different from the ones they’d engaged earlier, in daylight.

Sobchak leapt through the window frame, rolling once on the other side before rising to one knee. His light went out before he could find a target, so he gave the MP18 another yank downward, before returning the stock to his shoulder. His eyes swept left and right but saw nothing untoward. In a second or two, Sotnikov had taken a position to his left.

“Me, forward,” said Sotnikov.

“Go,” agreed Sobchak. Giving the light another pull with his MP18, Sotnikov walked forward warily. He heard movement ahead, just as the light dimmed out. When he pulled the chain again, there was nothing there.

Was it in this section or the next one? I couldn’t be sure.

Sobchak heard Sotnikov say, “Your turn.” He gave the light another pull, even as Sotnikov’s also sprang to life.

Overhead, the captain said, “You’re awfully slow, gentlemen.”

“Yes, sir. But we can’t see much and I think there’s something ahead of us.”

Suddenly, a dark target dropped almost directly in front of Sobchak. He pulled the cord for his light and fired, hitting it several times, he thought. Well, at this range it’s hard to miss if you can see the target.

The noise is somehow worse in the dark, thought Sotnikov. Maybe it’s the surprise.

“Sobchak, where are you?”

“I’m set at the corner,” said Sobchak. Below him, almost before he’d finished saying it, Sotnikov was peering around the same corner.

How the captain knew they were there they couldn’t be sure, but he said, “Flash!” almost immediately.

“Romanovs down!” they both shouted, pulling the cords to their lights and jumping out, ready to fire. In the light they saw two dark targets, to either side of the chamber, and a light-painted one in the center. Two bursts and the targets went down. They made it to just past the light-painted target before their lights died out again.


Neither Sobchak nor Sotnikov could recall how many chambers there were to the trench system of Range G6. They couldn’t recall how many they’d passed through this evening. They knew they were confused. They knew they were tired. They weren’t quite sure any more, each, where the other was.

The chamber was set up with three enemy targets and two friendly silhouettes. One of the enemy targets was hidden; the other two stood in the open. Likewise, both friendlies were in the open, with one farther away from the entrance to the chamber and one nearer.

Sobchak was on one knee, his MP18 sweeping left to right. He fired, once, twice, at the two enemy targets. From his position, he couldn’t see the second friendly silhouette, this, quite despite pulling the cord on his dynamo light.

Sotnikov could see the second target. He also saw both enemy targets go down before there was a need for him to fire. He followed procedure—“get yourself between the Romanovs and any threat to them”—and so advanced to get on the other side of the second friendly target.

The floor was muddy here, a bit. Moreover, this was a chamber without any furniture to slow down movement.

Where the hell did Sotnikov go? wondered Sobchak. There’s no light, no shooting, nobody cursing from hitting his shins on furniture. He was about to call out when Sotnikov lunged forward in the darkness.

There was a third target in the chamber, and it was on a trip wire. Sotnikov tripped it, causing a weight to raise it from the floor of the chamber.

Not knowing exactly where Sobchak was, at that precise moment, and trying to get on the other side of the friendly silhouette, Sotnikov lined himself up with the target and Sobchak. At that moment, when Sobchak pulled his light to life again, he only saw an enemy target. He fired.

“Sotnikov, go,” said Sobchak. He received no answered. “Sotnikov!” Still nothing.

Maybe he’s behind me or turned the corner into the next chamber, Sobchak thought. He called again, “Sotnikov!” and was rewarded with a low, pain-filled moan.

With a faint inkling of what had happened, Sobchak whispered, “Please, God, no,” then sprinted forward, furiously pulling the cord of his light and frantically looking from side to side.

“God . . . no,” he said, when he came upon Sotnikov’s prone body.

“Medic!!!”

The medic, Antipov, had been following along and above with the captain, a stretcher on his shoulder. As soon as he heard the call he tossed the stretcher down into the chamber, them jumped down, following it. He was followed by the captain. The other two men, who had been following Sotnikov and Sobchak, resetting the range for the next pair, also bounded in, though from the same level.

“Put your lights on him!” Antipov exclaimed. “Let me see what I’m doing!”

Despite being in a state of shock and grief, Sobchak was the first to pull his light on. The captain and the other two followed suit.

There was blood everywhere, and a red froth coming from Sotnikov’s back. When turned over, Antipov discovered he was also frothing red at the mouth.

“Oh . . . this is so not good,” the medic muttered. “This is way past my level of skill. We need to get him to Dr. Botnikov.” The medic put leather patches over the frothing exit wound, and tied it off. He then flipped Sotnikov back over and did the same for the entrance wound in the back. He extended the stretcher, then asked for the others to help him get the wounded man onto it. When they had him placed, the four of them picked him up, somewhat roughly.

“This way!” Cherimisov ordered. “Shit, they were almost done. The quickest and safest way out is through the exit trench.”

Almost done, Sobchak mentally echoed. Almost done; God . . . why?

Sotnikov died on the way out.

Camp Budapest

The mess tent was just big enough for the eighty-four remaining men of the Grenadier Company, plus Kostyshakov, Romeyko, and the sergeant major. The others could have their breakfast outside; for now, the grenadier company needed to talk.

But mostly they need to feel that this was a one-off, thought Kostyshakov, so they can continue to train properly.

When asked what had happened, the most Sobchak could say was, “We lost track of each other, sir. Other than that, I have no idea of what happened.”

“I think I do,” said Cherimisov, who had talked extensively to Sobchak earlier in the morning. “Mostly. It was a combination of things. They lost track of each other, yes. But also the second Romanov silhouette ‘called’ Sotnikov to get it behind him, per our doctrine. No fault to Sotnikov. A target came up—it was automatic, on a tripwire—and blocked Sobchak’s view of Sotnikov. He engaged; it was perfectly proper to have done so. Unfortunately . . .”

“Yes, unfortunate,” echoed Kostyshakov. “Also unfortunately, we can’t really change the training; not if we’re to succeed in our mission. What we can do . . .”

He asked of the men stuffed into the mess like so many sardines, “Do you men know why we push the envelope in training, generally? Why we take risks?

“It’s because unless we do things realistically, and realistically for the most dangerous environment in the universe, we cannot know if our doctrine and equipment are good enough. So what I hope to get out of this session, beyond assuring you we won’t kill anyone deliberately, is fixing our doctrine and equipment. So, what can we do better?

“Sobchak, why couldn’t you make out Sotnikov on the other side of the target?”

The stricken soldier answered dully, “The targets are the same color as our uniforms, sir. They’re about man-sized. Their ‘faces’ are painted light about where our faces would be. And the light’s not really good enough to make out fine distinctions.”

“I think we all know about the lights. Nothing we can . . .”

“But, sir,” interjected Ilyukhin, the coal miner’s son, “there are better lights. Much better, if we can get them.”

Kostyshakov made a give-forth gesture.

“Coal miners’ lights, sir, carbide lamps. They’re small, light, simple, reliable, cheap to operate, and put out a good deal of bright light. They’re used on a lot of things, bicycles, some older automobiles.”

“Well . . . shit,” said Kostyshakov. “I never thought . . .”

From the muttering, some of it anguished, emanating from the crowd, nobody else had, either.

“Nobody did, sir. Even I didn’t really think of it until this morning. But we need to be careful of which ones we try to get. The German ones tend to be bigger, heavier, overbuilt. I’ve never seen one you can wear on the helmet, though they may exist. The old man really liked the Amerikanski ones, especially Just-Rites and Autolites.”

“I think our hosts might have trouble coming up with American lights, Ilyukhin,” Cherimisov said.

“Maybe less than you might expect, sir; before the war these things were traded and sold all over the world.”

“Maybe so,” the captain admitted. “You said they’re reliable. Are they so reliable we wouldn’t need spares?”

“Not many moving parts, sir,” replied Ilyukhin. “But there are things that can wear out. There’s a ceramic nozzle for the gas that can wear out in cleaning it; they do put out a fair amount of soot. Also there’s a felt filter inside, and a rubber gasket that keeps gas from leaking out of the chamber where the water and the carbide mix . . . well . . . mix isn’t quite the right word but it will do. Sometimes the ball that controls the flow of water will wear out, and let too much water into the chamber. But on the whole, sir, if you look in an honest dictionary for the word ‘reliable’? It should show a picture of a carbide miner’s lamp.”

“Military math, sir,” said Romeyko. “Shit goes wrong. If you want one to work, you must start with more than one. If we want . . . what? Eighty-five . . . no, eighty-four, now, we need more than eighty-four to begin.”

“Try for two hundred,” said Kostyshakov. “And see if the Germans will get us a repair kit with a lot of spare parts of the kind that wear out.”

“I’ll try, sir.”

“Sobchak? Sobchak? SOBCHAK!”

“What? Oh, sorry, sir, I was . . . thinking about Sotnikov. We were pretty close friends.”

“I understand, but you’re our only eyewitness. We need your attention here. We will have plenty of time to mourn later.” And I think maybe we need to ease you over to becoming a supernumerary and advancing one of the supernumeraries to your position.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“So would the light, these carbide lamps, have been enough that tonight’s accident wouldn’t have happened?”

“I don’t think so, sir. Our uniforms still match the targets’ and will match the Reds’ when we go in.”

“We can’t do much about the enemies’ uniforms. I don’t know what we can do for ours.”

A hand was tentatively raised.

“Yes, Fedin?”

A thin, wiry soldier stood up. “How about if we sew white cloth crucifixes on the backs of the uniforms, sir?”

“Problem there, is that when you boys are clearing a room you’ve mostly got your backs to walls. Don’t see where a crucifix on the back . . . Sobchak?”

“It wouldn’t have made any difference last night, sir. The target would have covered it up. No matter how big a cross it was, it would have been covered up.”

“How about white smocks?” asked the platoon leader for Assault One, the Finn, short, pale, and blond Lieutenant Vilho Collan.

“Five hundred plus sheets,” wondered Romeyko, aloud. “Or maybe six hundred. I don’t know. Maybe. Oh, and a seamstress, I suppose.”

“A sewing machine, Captain,” said one of the junior noncoms, Corporal Shabalin. “My old man was a tailor. I picked up enough of it, as a boy, for this kind of thing.”

“Sheets, white canvas, whatever our Teutonic hosts can come up with,” said Kostyshakov. “And the important thing will be white color, not the material. And, as Shabalin says, a sewing machine.”

Strelnikov, the spotter for sniper Maxim Nomonkov, said,

“Sir, it’s a long story but two sewing machines.”

“Two it is,” said Romeyko. “If possible.”

First Sergeant Mayevsky stood up and announced himself. “Sir, how do we know a fucking room’s been cleared? It hasn’t happened yet, but it could happen when we go back to the G1 through G4 ranges, and it is very likely to happen in action, that someone infiltrates behind us through stairways we didn’t know about, holes in walls the Bolshevik motherfuckers created themselves, holed ceilings and floors covered by rugs or furniture. And even if not, we’ll waste time we don’t have clearing rooms a second time. And what if the room being cleared a second time is occupied by some of our own people? Imagine a flash grenade going off in a room with one of the assault squads. I see a problem here, and it’s not a small one.”

Kostyshakov shrugged, not with indifference but with cluelessness. “I don’t know, Top. Somehow I can’t see us detailing one man per squad to carry around an open bucket of paint and a brush. Anyone?”

A very tall guardsman stood to his full six feet, four inches. “Lukin, sir. How about something simple, sir, like every man carries a piece of white chalk? No moving parts. It’s pretty obvious and visible, or will be if Ilyukhin’s lights are as good as he claims. Chalk, sir.”

“Sir,” asked one of the men, a Guardsman Poda, “what if there’s no snow. Do we want to be wearing white smocks that will make us stand out like sore thumbs against the ground?”

Kostyshakov shot a look at Shabalin.

“Let me think over that one, sir,” said the corporal.

“Not as much of a problem as all that,” said Mayevsky. “If there’s no snow on the ground on the approach, we take them off—they’ll be thin, right?—and hide them under our uniforms. Then we put them on, a matter of a couple of seconds, before we begin the assault. Once inside, the Bolsheviks will be blinded, while we’ll be able to see, so it won’t matter if we’re all in white.”

“Shabalin,” said Kostyshakov, “can you make these so they’re easy and quick to get on and off, but aren’t so loose they get in the way?”

“Would it be okay, sir, if they just cover down to, say, the crotch? For that matter, if we’re worried about moving quickly without fouling our own legs, those overcoats could use a bit of shortening, like maybe an arshin’s worth. Or . . . Jesus, I’m a dummy. Take a bit but how about if I take every man’s overcoat, cut it down, and then sew a white lining in it along with making some new button holes and adding some buttons?”

Kostyshakov looked up and to his left, chewing his upper lip and trying to picture it. Finally, he decided, “Romeyko?”

“Sir?”

“Add in about three thousand buttons to the request. But Shabalin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t remove the bottoms of the overcoats. Instead, trim them up so that they can be buttoned out of the way but let down for just standing, lying, or marching in the cold. Can we do that?”

Shabalin thought about it. “I’ll need more people than just me and Strelnikov, sir. For this much work we probably could use a dozen good seamstresses.”

“Romeyko?”

“I’ll ask our hosts, sir.”

“One other thing, sir?” asked Cherimisov.

“Yes?”

“If these miners’ lamps Ilyukhin is talking about are that bright . . .”

“At night, in a place as dark as a mine, very bright, sir,” said Ilyukhin.

“In that case, other than for a dress rehearsal we can probably do our live fire exercises in the day. Sir, we’d never have lost Sotnikov if I’d been able to see down into the chamber.”

“Not all of them,” Kostyshakov replied, “all these men still have to get used to a rescue under realistic conditions. But, yes, we can cut down the amount of nighttime work by a good bit.

“Anyone else?”

A junior noncom stood up. “Corporal Turbin, sir. We’re probably going to Siberia, right? In the winter? Has anyone considered skis or snowshoes?”

Shit, thought Daniil. “Romeyko?”

“On the list, sir.”

“Anyone else?”

“Poison gas . . . Big versions of those lights Ilyukhin talked about to blind those shooting at us . . . ladders that fold so we can carry them and can be fixed to climb . . . how do we get through windows in Siberia; they don’t open . . . and how about an Orthodox chaplain? Men going into battle need a chaplain!”


Back | Next
Framed