“No man can ask more,” Mokrenko agreed, then bellowed, “Shukhov, you lazy excuse for an engineer, pack your bags! And set up two sleighs; we’re taking them for the town.”
Interlude
Sverdlov and Trotsky: Strange happenings
Sverdlov could have figured it was someone coming to pay a call by the ringing bells from the carriage or sleigh. It had been, as was perhaps to be expected, Trotsky with some potentially dire news.
The Cyrillic type on the paper in his hand began to blur in his vision, but Yakov Sverdlov forced himself to focus on the report. Trotsky wouldn’t have hand delivered this summary at midnight if it weren’t important. Recently shuffled from Foreign Affairs to Military Affairs, the lateral demotion had done nothing to dim Trotsky’s ambition, nor dissuade him from waking up Lenin’s right-hand man for trifles.
On the heels of two major setbacks, Trotsky was still somewhat timid in council, and wanted Sverdlov’s backing to bring up new business. Trotsky had initially opposed the dissolution of the Constituent Assembly and had failed to gain anything of note at the negotiations of Brest-Litovsk, but rather the opposite.
Reaching the end of the report, Sverdlov set the paper down, removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“So, the Germans are sifting through our people,” Sverdlov said. “Is that it?”
“Yes, Comrade Sverdlov,” Trotsky said.
Sverdlov opened his eyes and examined the Commissar for Defense. A man of middling height with a shock of brown hair over a prominent forehead, beakish nose and goatee, Trotsky’s eyes were bright and penetrating, even at this late hour.
“You don’t think they’re just sifting for manpower to use against the Western allies, do you?” Sverdlov said.
“No, I don’t,” Trotsky said, “though that’s one of the stories they’ve apparently put out. From what we can tell, they’re not asking anything about the Western Allies, but about ideology; how they feel about the tsar, about communism and such. Furthermore, it’s not a broad enough effort for them to recruit significant manpower. The Germans have more than a million of our people imprisoned, but they’re focusing their efforts on a few Guards regiments and maybe some Cossacks. Even if every man they’ve interviewed volunteered to fight for them, it wouldn’t be enough to make a difference in France. They can burn up twenty thousand men a day there, some days.
“At this point, my best guess is that they intend to toss the men they’ve recruited into the scale, here, to start or exacerbate a civil war.”
Sverdlov drummed the fingers of his right hand on the report.
“Right,” he agreed. “We’re the target. It’s not many men, but perhaps enough to cause trouble for us. You’re right, Leon, bring this to the committee at the next meeting. I will back you.”
“There are some other oddities, too,” Trotsky said. “Some very strange things going on.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Airship Hangar, a mile and a half north of Jambol, Bulgaria
Sergeant Kaledin was pleased, actually, that they’d nixed the plan to carry his horses and mules aboard the airship. Oh, they were healthy enough, those that had survived, but he really didn’t know how they’d take to the changes in air pressure, the confinement, the noises and smells. Just as well they’re not going. And I’m glad that German had the presence of mind to put my poor mule, Lydia, out of her pain. She was a good mule and should not have been allowed to suffer.
Glad, too, I never had to make that case; I don’t think anyone would have supported me.
Kaledin led, rather than rode, a light wagon pulled by one of the surviving horses. He’d made this trip already, twice, to bring tentage for two hundred men along with a good deal of food. More wagons stretched behind him.
Most of the battalion remained back at Camp Budapest, but the first contingent to leave—Fourth Company—marched ahead of the Cossack sergeant, singing rather joyfully at being, finally, on their way to do great things. Shortly before turning off the road and heading straight for the hangar, they passed the ruins of an almost completely erased monastery that had once stood over a healing spring. The locals knew that a spring was there, somewhere, but the Turks who had destroyed the monastery had done such a fine job of the destruction that the people of the neighborhood had long since lost the memory of just where it had been.
Up ahead of Kaledin, the men marched with skis and poles over their shoulders. Kostyshakov, marching at the point, just ahead of Captain Cherimisov, turned about and called out, “First Sergeant, can you and the men give us a song?”
Mayevsky saluted and began:
At which point Fourth Company and that slice of Headquarters and Support with them began to belt out:
The song continued with verses about leaving home, letting a falcon loose to fly, the falcon striking from the air, and an old man who was very strict indeed. Finally, it was also about going home at last.
“God,” said Kaledin, the Cossack, “but I do love the Russian Army.”
“They do sing rather well, don’t they?” observed Captain Bockholt to his exec and navigator, Maas, from the gondola of the airship.
“Yes, sir. If they can keep it up, we’ll have a more entertaining trip—or four or five—than usual.”
“I’m going to go find their colonel, Kostyshakov. Station yourself in the cargo bay to support Obermaschinistenmaat Engelke, in case any of the Russians want to argue matters.”
“Sir.”
With that, Bockholt left the gondola via the ladder to the ground. From there he left the hangar by a side door and strode to the little tent village, no more than thirty tents, if that, set up west of the hangar.
As soon as Kostyshakov spotted Bockholt, he told Cherimisov that he was going to see the German, and dashed away from the formation. He and Bockholt met in the middle ground, between airship and tents, and shook hands.
Said the skipper, “We’ll be ready for a eight-thirty departure tomorrow to cross over the lines, just south of Yekatarenoslav, at half past nineteen hundred, tomorrow.”
“Why just south?” asked Kostyshakov.
“Angle of the moon. We don’t want to silhouette ourselves against it, but we equally don’t want it lighting us up for the city to see.”
“The two fighters?”
“They’ll take off about an hour before we’re supposed to get to Yekaterinoslav, with orders to down anything they see flying not positively identified as friendly. We’re big, so more visible, but anything likely to see us will still—probably—be seen by them.”
Bockholt continued, “For the rest of the trip we’ll try to avoid major cities and bigger towns. It’s not that we won’t be spotted; we will. Rather, I want us, if we’re going to be spotted, to be spotted as far from a telegraph station as possible.”
“You heard no animals are going, right?”
“Yes. And you cannot imagine my joy at avoiding having my ship crapped on by a couple-score horses and mules. Or having them panic. Speaking of panic…”
“The vodka’s in the wagons, Captain,” said Kostyshakov. “Mind, I don’t know that any of my men would panic, but I also don’t know that they won’t. I’ve never flown before, myself, and I don’t mind saying I find the prospect a little frightening.”
“So did I,” said Bockholt, “before I tried it. Once I did, though, well! It’s truly enjoyable… most of the time.”
“And when it isn’t?” asked Daniil.
“Hmmm… how many of your men speak German? No, I’m not changing the subject, but they need to be briefed on procedures and concerns.”
“Well? Not many of them. Most of my officers do and a few of my noncoms. Is there a list of things the men should be told?”
Nodding, Bockholt answered, “There are a few. Number one is that it’s going to be cold up there, so cold—especially at night—that you will imagine Siberia in the winter to be downright tropical. And the hammocks we’ve slung for the men will let body heat out in all directions. They need to put on anything and everything they have that will hold heat in.”
“Right. We knew that.”
“Did my man, Signaler Mueller, explain about the no fires rule?”
Kostyshakov nodded, “He did. We’ve collected up all the carbide lanterns and separated the chambers. It was a major pain in the ass, too, to mark them so we can get matching ones back together. I’ve also had all the matches and lighters collected, as well as the tobacco, so they’ll have no motivation to try to create a fire.”
Bockholt smiled, appreciatively. “They will have a motivation, of course, but there’ll be nothing to burn they’ll want to burn. Still, I cannot thank you enough for that. But speaking of cold and fires; we have a very limited ability to produce hot drinks. I need every bit of it to keep functional the men who must run the airship. There’s none to spare—literally none—for anyone or anything else. I considered getting a thousand thermos bottles for hot drinks for your men, but the weight would have meant going over our limit.”
“I understand.”
“Ammunition?” Bockholt asked, though he was beginning to think his worries and doubts were silly.
“All stored with the cargo, to be issued, for the most part, only once we’re on the ground. Some of it is ready-stored. We’ll give that to the security men just as they debark.”
“Acceptable,” the skipper said.
“We’ve set up scales,” he continued. “As each man arrives at the loading spot, fully equipped, we’re going to weigh him. My crew will then lead him to a hammock that will give us the best balance for the airship. We’ll try to pay attention to unit integrity, but I cannot promise it.”
“Do what you must,” agreed the Russian.
“We’ve cleaned and sterilized one ballast bladder for drinking water,” the skipper continued. “Another is designated for urine. Since there’s a delay between drinking and pissing, it is faintly possible we’ll have to move someone around in flight. We won’t unless we must.
“We’re carrying fifteen chamber pots and have separated out and enclosed with cloth fifteen places your men can relieve themselves. They’re marked, nine for crapping and six for pissing. Your quartermaster, Romeyko, has designated two men per lift to be the chamber pot… mmm… caretakers.
“I know my man, Mueller, suggested we’d be able to let the men stretch a bit and walk about. He was in error. We must have absolutely minimal moving about,” said Bockholt. “Too many risks from people moving about in the ship.”
“I understand that,” said Kostyshakov. “Going to be hard on cold men.”
“I know,” agreed the skipper, “but not as hard as causing damage to the ship, six hundred meters above the ground, might be.”
“Point. How long will it take to load?”
“Our best estimate is three hours but I’m holding out for five. We’ll need to start putting men into their hammocks at five in the morning.”
6
Very free and loose translation:
Yes, Russian folk and army songs, to the extent these differ, often revolve around sentiments about the merest things of home.