“Come on, men, we’ve got to push forward and attack before they organize.”
Filip held back a groan. He knew that voice. Gajda. And knowing Gajda, he’d been fighting for almost as long as Filip had, so exhaustion would be no excuse. Filip wasn’t injured. His head wound from Omsk didn’t even bother him anymore. Or maybe it did, but the rest of his head hurt so much from the constant noise and the lack of sleep that it all felt the same.
Filip stumbled to his feet and helped Novak up. “Brother Colonel, we’re low on ammunition. Where can we get more?”
Gajda looked at the two of them. “You came over the mountains?”
Filip nodded.
“With the original group?”
“Yes.” Novak’s voice was scratchy.
Gajda turned to point along the rail, the direction of Irkutsk. “Back there. Get some rations too. You can rest a bit, but be ready to move tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Brother Colonel.”
Gajda nodded curtly. “I push my men, but I try not to push them beyond the breaking point.”
When he trudged back with Novak, the thunk of metal echoed as a group of legionnaires worked to repair the rail line. Men shouted from time to time—orders, greetings. But for the moment, Filip didn’t hear any rifle fire. It had been almost nonstop for days, and its absence was strange in a wonderful sort of way.
“Filip!”
Filip snapped his head around, seeking the source of the familiar shout. “Dalek?” He didn’t look quite as rundown as Filip, but he was headed in that direction. “I thought you were a telegraph clerk now, not an infantryman.”
Dalek frowned, but there was mirth in the gesture. “I saw some green soldiers planning to shift the battle with only six men and a machine gun, so I decided to join them. I’m still waiting for my boxcar with its telegraphs to catch up.”
“Are they sending the trains up?” Filip looked along the track. Maybe Nadia was coming.
“They’ll send up the armored train as soon as the track is fixed. The rest will have to wait until we secure the lake.”
Of course. As long as the Bolsheviks held the lake, the track wasn’t safe for civilians. “What exactly were you doing with that machine gun?”
Dalek’s mustache twitched. “Keeping the Bolsheviks from moving that train of explosives, then drawing off all the Bolsheviks from Baikal Station so Anton and his group could sneak in and destroy it.”
“Anton . . . have you seen him?” Filip hadn’t forgotten the reason he’d ended up in Kultuk, but with everything else going on, he’d tried to stop fretting over it.
“He’s fine. For now.” Dalek slapped Filip on the arm and laughed at the dirt that came off. “Almost as filthy as you.”
Filip went back to the Sixth Regiment after that, with Anton, Emil, Dalek, and the others. The next morning, they were tasked with capturing Slyudyanka Station. By then, the rail lines were repaired, so an armored train went with them.
They swatted at mosquitos and wiped perspiration from their foreheads as they marched. Kral handed out orders as they neared the station. “Sedlák, take a group and try to sneak around on the lake side.”
Filip set off with ten men. The ground around the station was wider than it was along much of the lakeside rail line, with enough space between the lake and the mountains for a settlement. And with settlements came plenty of places for Bolshevik soldiers to hide.
“Just one more tunnel after this.” Emil’s voice sounded cheerful, but his expression suggested it was forced.
“And after that, only two thousand miles until we reach Vladivostok.” Dalek didn’t even try to be cheerful. Apparently, he was more cynic than comic today. They were all exhausted. They’d been exhausted for weeks, and it was affecting morale.
“But more of our men are coming east.” Emil fiddled with his canteen. “We’re going to get stronger.”
“Only if the Bolsheviks stop shooting at us.”
Filip gave Dalek a warning look. Breaking down Emil’s hope wouldn’t be good for anyone’s morale. He didn’t want Dalek to continue with how vast Russia was and how many men the Bolsheviks could conscript into their army and how easy it would be for someone to destroy the railway. They all knew the odds, and they needed what hope they had.
Dalek stopped. “Are those trenches?”
Filip swore. The Bolsheviks had dug in, and it looked as though they had a machine gun. “Someone needs to tell Kral.”
“I’ll go.” Anton studied the trenches and the surrounding buildings as if trying to memorize them.
Filip almost ordered Anton to stay. He’d promised Veronika that he’d bring Anton back unharmed. What had he been thinking? He had no control over who lived and who died. It had been a foolish promise. Sincere in sentiment but impossible to carry out during combat. And he was guilty of mixed motives—he wanted Anton to be safe, but he’d also been trying to impress Nadia. That would backfire if Anton were shot, but going back to Kral might not be any more dangerous than staying with Filip. “Tell him we need reinforcements if he wants us to attack.”
Filip watched Anton go, then focused on the enemy. The trenches were deep enough to hide the men inside. The enemy was prepared. Maybe that was why Gajda pushed them so hard. Every moment of delayed pursuit gave the Bolsheviks more time to dig in and made them even harder to dislodge. But there were limits to what men could do after weeks of fighting.
“More are coming.” Emil pointed to a building where a clump of uniformed men had gathered. “Should I shoot?”
The distance was close enough that Emil might hit a man, but that one shot would make the others dive for cover and alert the Bolsheviks to Filip’s much smaller group hiding in the tall grasses. Filip wasn’t sure it was worth the risk. “Hold a minute. If they start to move, we’ll shoot, but all together.”
The Reds milled about a while longer. Then something must have startled them, because one instant they were relaxed and careless, then the next they sprinted for cover.
Dalek grunted. “We missed our shot.”
Filip gritted his teeth. Maybe he should have attacked while the men were exposed. But they had little cover themselves, and they were outnumbered. It seemed foolish to start a skirmish they couldn’t win.
A shot sounded, and a bullet slammed into a nearby tree trunk.
“Get down.” Most of the men were already as sheltered as they could be in a slight dip in the ground, but Filip repeated the order anyway as enemy fire descended on them.
Filip looked along his rifle, searching for a target. Dalek fired, as did another of the legionnaires. Neither brought down their man. Filip caught movement around the trench, a swaying bayonet. He followed it to where its holder had to be and aimed, even though he couldn’t see his enemy in the shadows. The bayonet jerked, suggesting a hit.
The Bolsheviks showered them with rifle fire, and one of Filip’s men cried out. Emil crawled toward him and fished a cloth from his pocket to use as a bandage.
“How bad is it?” Filip asked.
Emil glanced back and shook his head, suggesting the wound was mortal.
Filip fired as quickly as he could find targets, but their position was poor. The sharp-smelling grasses might blur their outline, but they’d stop no bullets. Another legion man moaned in pain from a leg wound. They were exposed, but if they dashed across open ground to something more sheltered, they’d all be cut to pieces.
Two Bolsheviks ran hunched over toward the trench. Between them, they carried a machine gun. Filip aimed and shot one of them, but the other man—and the gun—disappeared from view. If the Bolsheviks set up the Maxim 1910, his group really wouldn’t be able to move. Maybe they should run now while they still could. Rifle fire would take its toll, but it wouldn’t be as devastating as machine-gun fire.