“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I want to join an army allied with their enemies. Desertion’s a capital offense. So is treason.”
Desertion was such an ugly word. Technically, it was a crime Filip was guilty of, but he found no shame in refusing to fight for an oppressive empire and instead fighting with his Slavic brothers. “Only if they catch us. And only if we lose the war.”
Emil still hesitated.
“Imagine victory. Picture going home to a land where no one looks down on you just because you’re Czech. Think about liberty, about finally having a voice.”
The lines of Emil’s mouth relaxed, almost into a smile.
“You’d return home a war hero.”
That changed Emil’s expression into an unambiguous grin, though he hid it quickly. He nodded. Filip took that as agreement. He held out his hand, and Emil shook it.
“Welcome to the legion, brother. I’ll show you the barracks.”
Hope still lit Emil’s eyes as he studied the encampment. Zemlanky-style barracks surrounded the parade ground, built mostly underground with only their thatched roofs visible.
“They don’t look like much,” Filip said, “but they keep in the warmth. And we won’t be here much longer.”
“When do I get a rifle?” Emil asked.
“We’re a bit short on weapons at the moment. But the French will supply us once we get to France.”
“Why would the French give us weapons?”
“The French will supply anyone who’s willing to fight the Germans.” And the Czechs and Slovaks were eager to battle Germans because defeating the German and Austro-Hungarian Empires was the only way they’d get a country of their own. Filip led Emil down the stairs into the cold, dimly lit barrack.
Emil studied the wooden bunks and rough tables. “How will we get to France? The Central Powers are in the way, and I don’t imagine they’ll give us safe passage through the front lines so we can fight them from the west instead of from the east.”
“That’s yet to be determined.” The latest plans involved traveling by rail to Arkhangelsk or Vladivostok, then traveling by ship. It was a roundabout way to get to France—some routes had them circumnavigating most of the globe—but as long as they got there, as long as they saw the end of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and the beginning of an independent Czechoslovakia, Filip was willing to travel as many miles as needed.
Filip introduced Emil to the rest of his squad. He excused himself when a sober-looking Dalek Pokorný ran down the steps and motioned Filip over.
“What is it?”
“The Ukrainians have just declared themselves an independent country.”
“Good for them. I hope we’ll soon join them in having a country of our own.” Ukrainian independence didn’t seem troubling, so Filip waited for a longer explanation.
“They’re negotiating with the Germans.”
“Ah.” Filip folded his arms across his chest. That complicated things. The Ukrainians were pleasant enough hosts while the legion assembled and organized new recruits for their journey to France. Most legionnaires were former war prisoners captured by the Russians, but the group included Czech émigrés and outright defectors as well. If the Ukrainians came to some sort of agreement with the Germans, their host’s new allies could cause problems . . . “What type of negotiations?”
“Help against the Bolsheviks.”
The zemlanky’s temperature seemed to drop several degrees. “They’ll ask the Germans in?”
“That’s the rumor.”
Emil’s fears, and those of every other legionnaire, would be significantly more potent if the Germans entered the Ukraine. In German eyes, the legionnaires were traitors. Filip ran a finger under his collar. “Do they hang traitors or shoot them?”
“Both.” Dalek’s voice sounded far too lighthearted, given the subject. “But they might reserve a little extra brutality for men who defected and joined the Družina as early as you did.”
Filip glanced at the men but kept his voice down. “I think it’s about time we left the Ukraine.”
“Yes, we’ll withdraw soon.” Lieutenant Kral had slipped down the stairs. He’d been born in Russia to Czech émigrés, but if he was captured, Filip doubted that fact would secure Kral any mercy.
“Do you have orders, Brother Lieutenant?” Filip was still getting used to the new way of addressing officers. He liked Brother far better than Excellency, but old habits took time to fade.
Kral spread a map across a nearby table, and Filip and several others crowded around for a better view. “Some of the regiments are heading east for Penza. But the First Division is still on the front, fighting the Austrians. The Russian forces on either side of them are now at peace with the enemy, but the legion is not, so they have to withdraw. We’re to keep the rail line open for them. I expect the Germans will try to cut them off.” Kral tapped a small town where several red lines converged. “The tracks running east join at Bakhmach. German forces are coming from the west and the northwest, so we’ll have to split our forces and hold them back until all our men make it through the depot.”
“I imagine the Germans will be well-motivated to stop us.” Filip studied the map. Bakhmach, Ukraine to Penza, Russia. Over six hundred miles.
“Our stated goal is to fight them in France, so I expect they’ll try to destroy us.” Kral’s words held not a hint of fear, but Filip wasn’t surprised. He’d known Kral since 1915. The man didn’t know how to be frightened. “We’ll need to evacuate every last legionnaire from the Ukraine.”
“Is the First Division on its way?” Filip was all in favor of fighting the Germans, but he preferred to do it in France, as planned. The legion was only two divisions strong. They were vastly outnumbered here. Better to fight from the west, surrounded by allies.
“Yes. And so are the Germans. Word is they’re trying to encircle us. At first light, we’ll start gathering boxcars for the evacuation.” Kral rolled up his map and left.
“He seems rather calm about the fact that a German army is trying to encircle and annihilate us.” Dalek sat on the table and swung one booted foot. “If I get killed by the Germans, I’m not sure I can forgive you for dragging me into this.”
“Blame His Imperial and Royal Apostolic Majesty Franz Joseph I. He’s the one who forced you away from Prague and into a war.”
“Yes, but he’s dead, and I don’t plan on wading through fire and brimstone to give him a piece of my mind.” Dalek wagged a finger at Filip. “You, on the other hand, convinced me to leave a perfectly acceptable camp for war prisoners, and now I’m about to get shot at again.”
“Perfectly acceptable?” Filip huffed. He’d visited Dalek’s camp last fall as part of his recruiting drive. Filip had been convalescing from a shrapnel wound received during the Battle of Zborov, and he’d been shocked to find his best friend in a camp surrounded by a twelve-foot-high barbed-wire fence and crowded with unwashed, lice-infested prisoners. “You were starving.”
“Not quite.”
“Close enough. And had you stayed, it would have gotten worse. The Russians can’t even feed their own soldiers. How long do you think they’ll keep feeding their prisoners?”
Dalek grunted, his standard way of avoiding arguments since the two of them had been children practicing gymnastics in one of Prague’s Sokol clubs. “Very well, off we go to see the world, if we can fight our way out of the Ukraine.”
Jakub Zeman sat on one of the creaky chairs. “I wish we were staying longer. That woman we saw today—I wouldn’t mind seeing her again.”
Dalek chuckled. “The grand duchess who rode across the proving grounds? You might see her, but I doubt a peacock like that would deign to converse with someone like you unless she were desperate and injured again.”
Zeman frowned. “She seemed to have a few words for Sedlák.”
Filip shook his head. If he closed his eyes, he could still picture the exquisite woman’s smooth black hair, clear gray eyes, and warm amber skin. “I was acting the part of groom. Trust me, she didn’t like me, but good breeding kept her polite.”