“Three were. I’m not sure about the other two. The peasants said they were accused of counterrevolutionary activities, and I suppose scouting for the legion counts.”
“They call anything they don’t like counterrevolutionary. It’s what my family was charged with, and we were simply trying to leave. My father had worked against them in the past, but in Piryatin, we were just trying to survive.” She folded her arms across her chest and tried to ignore the fresh pain that still came whenever she remembered those events.
“What did your father do that they hated him enough to track him down in the Ukraine?”
She could trust Filip, but she still hesitated. “He was one of the tsar’s officials. He supported General Kornilov last August. But the coup was all a misunderstanding, and it was against Kerensky, not against the Bolsheviks.” She sighed. “My father said the Bolsheviks should have thanked him. When Kerensky and Kornilov broke, it left everyone weaker except the Bolsheviks.”
“Maybe they feared his potential to threaten them.”
Nadia nodded. “He was still in contact with important people. Maybe they knew. What of your father? What did he do?” Filip had said his father had been convicted of treason, but treason could mean many different things.
“He and a friend helped organize a street demonstration. At first, they were calling for universal suffrage. But it soon took on an antidynastic tone, and they clashed with the police.” Filip broke off with a yawn.
“Did you sleep while you were gone?”
“A bit.”
She wanted to spend more time with him, but that wasn’t fair. He needed sleep, and she needed to follow orders. That was something she’d learned as a nurse, the importance of discipline. “Kral told you to rest. I suppose you had better follow his advice.”
He hesitated, then nodded.
“Will you attack Omsk tomorrow?”
“I can’t see any reason to wait. And I doubt Gajda will either. He believes in hitting the enemy hard and quickly.”
Filip had just returned, and tomorrow he’d be leaving again. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Taking Omsk would be no easy task.
Filip’s eyes wandered over her face. “I have reasons to come back, so I’ll do my best.”
Chapter Eighteen
Anton’s boots squelched as he pulled them from the mud. He understood why they’d been sent on a flanking maneuver around the rail line, but that didn’t make the marching any easier.
“Mud.” Dalek cursed under his breath. “They talk about battles and charges, but war is really about mud. Galician mud. Ruthenian mud. Siberian mud.”
“And may we all live long enough to see Czechoslovakian mud.” Emil straightened his rifle strap. Their squad didn’t have a full supply of weapons, but they were better off than most, thanks to the cache they’d hidden. “I’d rather deal with Siberian mud than Siberian snow.”
“We better be gone before the snows come.”
Anton didn’t say anything, but he agreed with Dalek. Winter in Siberia sounded like a good way to lose a few toes to frostbite. The days were long lately, but they’d be short in the winter months, dark and cold. Veronika would hate it, and so would he. Better to spend the winter in France or in their new homeland.
The legionnaires from Marianovka had split into two groups. The main force defended the station. Kral’s group of about two hundred, a quarter of them armed with rifles, were spread across the marshy taiga, moving toward Omsk. A few, like Filip, had other missions.
A runner dashed over to them. “They’ve come. We have better positions, but they’ve got more manpower. And machine guns.”
Kral’s group didn’t have a single machine gun. And while Anton was glad he didn’t have to cart it around, he would have liked the firepower. The Bolsheviks rode an armored train. Legion rifles could peck at it, but they’d do little damage.
“All right, move back to the track,” Kral ordered.
Hopefully the Bolsheviks had driven far enough west toward Marianovka Station that they wouldn’t notice the legionnaires who had sneaked around behind them. Anton, Dalek, and Emil hauled brush and whatever else they could find to make a barrier of sorts across the train tracks.
In the distance, small arms sounded as the Bolsheviks attacked Marianovka. Anton and a dozen others pulled out sharp Russian shovels and began digging. The rest of Kral’s group worked on destroying a section of track. If the Reds tried to retreat back to Omsk in their armored train, they’d be stuck, sandwiched between two groups of the legion.
***
Filip pried another steel railroad spike from its tie plate. Fedorov worked the opposite side and was several sleepers ahead of him. Other men worked on the fish plates, undoing the bolts so the rails could be pulled away.
Filip had snuck back into Omsk that morning after a lamentably small amount of sleep. He could have spoken less with Nadia, but he didn’t regret those moments. He’d thought he’d married a helpless aristocrat. Instead, he’d married a clever, determined woman who was helping the legion make its way east with weapons, medical care, and knowledge.
“Come, Czech. You’re falling behind.”
Filip grunted at Sokolov’s teasing. Most of the other men were railway workers, so of course they were more skilled than he at destroying rail line. “This one’s a bit tricky.” That was true enough; the edge of the tie had corroded, so there was less of a head for Filip to work his prybar under. He tried from a different angle and shifted the spike.
When Filip had found Sokolov that morning, he’d needed convincing that the northern rails should be destroyed. The Bolsheviks couldn’t escape on the southern line—groups of legionnaires blocked them to the west and to the east. As long as the Bolsheviks were gone, Filip didn’t care if they escaped west along the northern line, but there were other legionnaires in that direction. As Sokolov pointed out, if the Bolsheviks weren’t destroyed, they would regroup and attack elsewhere. Weakening the Omsk Bolsheviks was good for the legion. And if it happened to be good for the White Russians too, then that was something Filip could be happy about, regardless of their constant orders to stay out of internal Russian affairs. Neutrality might make sense in Prague or Paris, but in the middle of Siberia, it quickly became impossible.
“That’s enough. It will take more time to repair than they’ll have.” The verdict came from one of the other rail workers, someone who knew what he spoke of.
Sokolov motioned to Filip. “Come, Czech. We’ve a bridge to see to.”
***
Anton dropped to the ground as rifle shots tore into the grass in front of him. After they’d set up their barricade and broken the track, Kral had sent a runner back to Marianovka Station, and the legion there had pushed hard. The counterattack had driven the Bolsheviks back, so the Reds now attacked east instead of west. Right into Anton’s group.
A shell shrieked from the armored train and plowed into the ground a few meters to the left, exploding in a shower of mud, grass, and shrapnel. Their trench was only a few feet deep, and Anton did his best to use every bit of cover by pressing his body hard into the dirt.
Emil cried out, and Anton rushed over to him. “Are you hit?”
Emil nodded and reached for his back. Anton found the problem—a piece of shrapnel piercing his uniform just below his belt. He pulled away the layers of clothing, and the shrapnel pulled away with it.
“Is it bad? I’m not going to die, am I?”
The cut was scarcely wider than Anton’s thumbnail. It bled but not much. “You’ll be fine.”
Dalek glanced at the wound. “I’ve seen more blood from a squashed mosquito.”
Emil’s face colored. “Well, the mosquitos out here are enormous.”
“It’s always a surprise to get hit, especially the first time.” Kral nodded toward the shell hole. “That looks deeper than this trench. Come on.”