“At least you took the initiative to hide what you could. We’ll be glad for that in time.”
Filip turned and straightened when he saw the captain’s uniform and the Sam Browne belt. The legion didn’t give its officers shoulder boards—that was too tsarist, too bourgeoisie—but some men didn’t need shoulder boards to look impressive.
The man held out a hand, and Filip shook it. “Radola Gajda, with the Seventh Regiment.”
“Filip Sedlák, with the Sixth. In town for the congress with my lieutenant, who is scheduled to be executed tomorrow after requesting a mixed tribunal for our arrested men.”
Gajda turned to the legionnaire Filip had been speaking with. “If we are low on weapons, then our first move will be to seize the armory. After that, the local militia’s headquarters.” His words were spoken casually, as if explaining the steps in roasting a pig. “Sedlák, what type of experience do you have?”
“Three years compulsory service in the Hapsburg Army before the war, six months active duty after the call-up, then in the Družina until the legion was formed.”
“A Družina man? I assume you’ve worked in reconnaissance?” Gajda’s eyes swept over Filip’s face as if he could see all Filip’s credentials at a glance.
“Yes, Brother Captain.”
Gajda gathered the men standing near the boxcar. “We don’t want a battle. Overthrowing the local Soviet is not our aim. But we can’t put up with this any longer. We’ve been meek as lambs, but no longer. It’s time to get our men back. What’s the state of our arms?”
“Ninety men, ten rifles.”
“Eighty men, eight rifles, six pistols.”
“One hundred men, nine rifles, ten pistols, and these two fists.” A brawny sergeant raised his enormous hands and balled them into formidable weapons.
The reports continued, most of them similar—few weapons but a good supply of men motivated by weeks of frustration over slow passage east and by the injustice of the local Soviet’s decision to release the Hungarians and sentence the Czechs to death.
Gajda and another man unrolled a hand-drawn map of Chelyabinsk and held it against the boxcar. Gajda motioned for Filip to take his end, giving Filip an up-close view as Gajda doled out assignments.
“Remember, this is a rescue mission. We don’t want to start a war, so hold your fire unless that becomes impossible. Men without firearms should take alternative weapons. Grenades. Rocks. Boards. Disarm and detain any sentries you come across. Take and hold all intersections in this zone.” Gajda used his finger to trace a circle on the map.
“Sedlák, you know where they’re being held?”
“Yes, brother.”
Gajda nodded. “Take a few men and cut the phone lines. We don’t want anyone warning them, and we don’t want them calling for reinforcements. After that, see what you can do with the sentries.” He ended with a traditional Czech wish for success. “Nazdar, Brother Corporal.”
“Nazdar, Brother Captain.”
Filip gathered a few volunteers. Makovec, Golova, and Novak. They seemed competent enough, but he would have rather had Dalek, Anton, and Emil. “Have you been through the city?” he asked.
“No,” Novak said. “We were told to stay at the train depot. Didn’t want us getting into scuffles with the Bolsheviks. Some peasants selling food at the station told us the town was mostly shut down anyway.”
Filip nodded. “It’s quiet. Almost seems abandoned. If this is the new prosperity for all that the Bolsheviks promised, then I’m not impressed. More like prosperity for none, but I suppose I should give them a little time. But not time to execute our brothers.”
The sun was down, so they approached the main part of Chelyabinsk in darkness. Between the four of them, they had Filip’s handgun that he’d plucked from a German officer in Bakhmach and a blunderbuss Novak had traded a few loaves of bread for. In addition to the firearms, Makovec and Golova had a grenade each, and some wooden boards they could swing. Filip had a knife.
A hush enveloped the town, as if tension from the confrontation at the train depot had left everyone too nervous to leave their homes. After a war and two revolutions, Filip would have expected it to take more than a brawl with a casualty count of two to frighten the local population, but perhaps the Soviets treated the locals the same way they treated the Czechoslovaks.
The group crept to the nearest building. They had to move swiftly; those telephone lines had to be cut soon. The other groups of Czechoslovaks were supposed to maintain silence for as long as possible, but it would take only one red guardsman to raise the alarm. Filip couldn’t fail—Dalek, Kral, and ten others depended on his success.
Filip led them along the same route he’d taken before, but they stayed near the buildings, in the most shadowed portion of the street. He halted them on one road, waiting for a sentry to walk past. Then they paused on another street but only long enough to discern that a looming shadow was too drunk to be a threat.
They stopped several buildings before their destination because an alert guard stood at the front of the militia’s headquarters. Filip studied the rooflines of the nearby buildings but couldn’t make out the phone wires in the dark. Maybe they ran behind the buildings. He waved the men back the way they had come and approached from the opposite side.
“Look for wires,” Filip whispered when they reached the building that held the prisoners.
Novak pointed. Filip followed the wire from where it entered the building back to the nearest telephone pole. “I don’t suppose any of you were lumbermen in civilian life?”
They shook their heads, which meant the task would fall to Filip. He borrowed several belts and strung them together to make a loose tether. He wasn’t a lumberjack, but he’d watched them work before. And he was a gymnast. Even with an imperfectly healed shoulder, he was confident he could climb a telephone pole. He handed Golova his pistol and started up.
With the right pressure from his legs, he could push himself up, then use the belts to keep from slipping too far down. He slid twice but not far, and the second half was easier than the first half, despite the muscle aches that grew in each limb as he climbed.
A single shot sounded in the darkness. It was some distance away, a few blocks at least. Had the turmoil of the last four years hit Chelyabinsk hard enough to make a rifle shot something to shrug away? Probably not. Everyone would be more alert now.
Filip took out his knife, cut the wire, and climbed back to the ground. Golova handed him back his pistol.
Their next task was the guard.
Filip turned to Novak. “Approach him and keep his attention long enough for me to sneak up on him.”
Novak nodded, then he and Golova rushed along one side of the building while Filip and Makovec rushed along the other.
But when they reached the front, there were now two guards instead of one. Both held rifles.
They weren’t supposed to shoot anyone, just take them prisoner, but the added guard complicated their task. Filip weighed the benefits of caution against the benefits of boldness, but he took too long deciding. Novak acted first.
Novak sauntered toward the guards. He no longer wore his hat, and his greatcoat, though obviously military, didn’t indicate his nationality, especially not in the dark. He held something small in his hand, but Filip couldn’t see what. His voice carried just well enough for Filip to hear him ask for a light in precise, factory-worker Russian.
As one of the guards searched for matches, Filip left the safety of the shadows and slipped silently toward the group.
Novak made a joke about the tsar and the kaiser. One of the guards laughed while the other struck a match and lit Novak’s cigarette.
Filip slipped his knife against the neck of the guard with the match and shoved the barrel of his pistol into the other guard’s back. Novak pulled out his blunderbuss at about the same time.