“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.”
“Lord God, what is that heavenly aroma?” asked Mayevsky of Taenzler, the pair of them standing by the Gulaschkanone, itself in the center of the little tent village.
“Meat in the stew,” the German chef replied. “Good meat. And good vegetables. And spices. Fresh bread with none of those less than desirable additives or undesirable subtractions. This is what I told your commander about; the kind of food that gives mixed feelings since we only feed this kind of food to our men when they’re about to be ordered into the attack.”
Taenzler shook his head a bit. “It’s not just for morale, but also for strength, energy, and health. Which makes me wonder why we don’t feed it to the men when they’re about to be attacked. It’s not like it’s all that hard to predict, after all, what with bombardments lasting weeks.”
“Above my pay grade,” said Mayevsky, “but, for us, no, you were never that predictable. This is tonight’s meal, yes?”
“Yes. For tomorrow morning I’ve got syrniki, draniki, and real butter, jam, and honey. We’ll issue the lunch and dinner—cold and dry, all of it, but the vodka and the salo, I’m afraid—with breakfast. After that you start loading. Though I’ve oversupplied tonight’s meal and anyone who wants to take some tomorrow will be welcome to it.”
“Feldwebel Taenzler,” said Mayevsky, with complete seriousness, “you’re a fucking treasure. Anyone’s army would be lucky to have you. And if you ever want a job with a different army…”
“First Sergeant Mayevsky, thank you, but when this obscenity of a war is over I just want to go home to my wife.”
“Ah, the wife,” Mayevsky sighed. “I miss mine, too. I haven’t seen her in almost four years.”
“Same. She writes. Says times are hard at home, food even worse and more scarce than what we get. Not enough coal to heat the house. And the little ones… it’s awful.”
“Cheer up, old man,” said Mayevsky. “At least you’ve had word. I’ve had nothing for over a year.”
Taenzler nodded, chewed his lower lip for a bit, and then walked to the other end of the Gulaschkanone. He extracted a bottle and a couple of glasses, then opened the bottle and filled the glasses from it. The bottle went back to its hiding spot before he returned and passed one of the glasses over.
“Ansatzkorn,” Taenzler explained, though the word meant nothing to Mayevsky. “Here’s to the success of your mission, the end of the fucking war, and getting home to wives and children we hope are still alive and well.”
“May it please God,” said the Russian before clinking glasses with the German and tossing off the glasses.
Half-choking and between gasps, the German explained, “It will serve… as a rather… strong… disinfectant, too.”
Vasenkov couldn’t help himself, he liked the old German cook who did so much to keep the men of the battalion well fed. As he passed by the Gulaschkanone, in the evening’s fading light, he had half a loaf of bread under one arm and his mess kit held out by the other.
Using his ladle, the German scooped up and deposited a most healthy portion into the mess tin. Then he scooped up some more, about half a ladle, and deposited that, too.
“Eh, there’s plenty,” he informed the Russian. “No sense in letting any of it go to waste.”
In fact, the Gulaschkanone was supposed to be able to serve two hundred and fifty men. The mere one hundred and thirty-seven of the first lift hardly overtasked it.
It’s not impossible, either, that Taenzler was padding the head count a bit. (“Oh, it’s easy as pie, Podpolkovnik Kostyshakov. Every man here is still officially here until the last of you has left and the camp is closed. Since there are no plans—at least, none I’ve been informed of—to close the camp, I drew a few days, okay, maybe a week, in advance… exigencies of war and all that.”)