Vasenkov took his meal and went to sit. He’d always appeared something of a loner to the rest of the men, though competent enough, to be sure, that no one went out of their way to sit with him, leaving him alone with his troubles.
On the theory that whatever an imperialist or capitalist wants you to do, you should do the opposite, I have secreted on my person three wooden matches. I could, I imagine, under one pretext or other, get close to one of those leaky gas bags they warned us about, make a hole, and light one off. Bring the whole thing crashing down like a meteor streaking from the heavens, but moreso.
Of course, I, too, will be riding that flaming meteor down. I have always been willing to lay down my life for the revolution. Well, at least since having my eyes opened to the future by the works of Marx and Lenin, I have. But suicide? This is altogether a harder thing. I’m not sure I can.
And even if I could bring myself to do it, kill all these men who are my comrades and friends? No; I don’t think I can do that either.
But I also cannot stand by and just let the royal family be rescued to serve as a rally point for the enemies of the revolution. If I believed in a God, I’d pray for guidance. What am I to do?
Vasenkov was one of the first to be loaded aboard. After a good—no, it was a remarkably good—breakfast, with his bedroll slung over one shoulder, his MP18 draped from his neck by his sling, pack on his back, breadbag and canteen properly slung, with his skis and poles over one shoulder, he presented himself.
“Skis, poles, and pack marked with your name?” asked his platoon sergeant, Feldfebel Kostin.
“Yes, Sergeant,” Vasenkov answered.
Kostin took the skis and handed them to a platoon runner to place in a forming criss-crossing pile on the cargo deck.
“Anything in your pack you need?”
“Oh, shit!” said Vasenkov. “Yes, Sergeant. Thanks for reminding me! My mittens!”
“Dig ’em out, then. Then turn over your pack to Sobchak.” This was the same Sobchak who had mistakenly shot his partner and friend, Sotnikov, and was now serving as a runner. The pack, too, went into a growing pile.
“This way, Vasenkov,” shouted the first sergeant, glaring with his one good eye and gesturing with one hand. The first sergeant stood at the base of a flexible ladder, one of several, that led upward to and past a large number of hammocks. There was a scale by the first sergeant with one of the German crew in attendance. The German weighed the Russian—“Skinny fucker, aren’t you?”—did some scribbling with a pencil on a notepad, then pointed to a hammock about eleven arshini above the deck.
Mayevsky asked, “See that fucking hammock the German pointed at, Vasenkov. The top one on that row? Empty?”
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
“That one’s for you. Up you go, boy. No dawdling. Get up there; make up your bed roll; and get in it. Once you’re in you can have a belt of your vodka.”
Vasenkov scrambled up the ladder leading to his bunk. With one hand on the ladder he used the other one to take his bedding from across his shoulder. Untying it proved to be difficult, one handed, so he ran an arm through the ladder up to the crook of his elbow and used both hands. Then he whip-snapped the bed roll lengthwise along the bunk. After spending a few moments opening it and spreading it out, he found that he had not the first clue as to how to actually get into the hammock.
There were reasons I avoided the navy.
Standing below and watching the mayhem, Mayevsky thought, There’s always something you miss. We should have had training in this, too.
He pointed out the problem to the German sailor running the scales. The German muttered something that the first sergeant took to mean, approximately, There’s always something that you miss.
With a great Teutonic bellow, the German caught the attention of every man in the bay. Once he had that, with practiced skill, he, himself, scrambled up a ladder and demonstrated how it was done. This involved locking one’s arms into the outside folds of the hammock, lifting one’s lower body up to it, and then rolling over.
Well, shit, thought Vasenkov, as he retrieved his bedroll, draped it over his shoulder, and pulled himself in. Once settled in, it was still no easy matter to get the blankets and ground cloth under his body. He managed, eventually, as did all the others but one. That one, a cook from the First Company, fell to the deck screaming, arms and legs waving in panic. He hit with a thump that shook the ship, then had to be carried off with a possible back injury.
Some hundreds of German and Bulgarian ground crew stood around in clusters, each holding a strap that led to single, stouter straps that, in turn, led to the airship. Daniil couldn’t tell how many of the lighter straps led from each heavier one, but it seemed to be about ten to a dozen, maybe more in a few spots.
“Notify Strategic Recon that we’re on our way, Basanets,” said Kostyshakov, just before boarding himself. “Our estimated time of arrival is between one and four, AM, the day after tomorrow, winds depending. Fires to mark the landing spot, but not within one hundred and fifty arshini. Local security is their problem until we’re half unloaded.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Exec, who then pointed with his chin at something or someone behind Kostyshakov.
Daniil turned to see Mueller, the signaler cum liaison, standing at ease. “The captain requests your presence in the forward gondola, sir. He says, ‘This is something the Russian commander is going to want to see.’ From experience, sir, the captain is right.”
“I suspect so,” agreed Kostyshakov, in German. Turning to Basanets, he continued, in Russian, “We’ll be on radio listening silence unless something disastrous happens, something that scrubs the mission anyway. But you can get messages to us. Also, confirm that the two escort fighters at Yekaterinoslav are going to take off at the right time. Yes, not really our job, but maybe our lives if the Germans screw it up.”
With that, Daniil followed Mueller back inside, then along the walkway that led to a ladder which, in turn, led down into the open and then into the command gondola.
“Ah, Podpolkovnik Kostyshakov; this is something you won’t want to miss!” exclaimed Captain Bockholt. “The only thing more exciting than take off is coming home in one piece and unburnt.”
In front of Daniil’s eyes, the great hangar doors were slowly swung open wide. One of the command crew said something in aeronauticalese to the captain, who gave an equally incomprehensible answer. No matter, the import of the message was made clear as the ground crew began walking forward, dragging L59 forward with them by the straps.
It is grand, thought Kostyshakov. But it’s not the view or, rather, not the view alone. Rather, it’s knowing how big this bastard is combined with the view, the knowledge that men can not only build something this big but move it by hand and foot power.
It took just over two minutes from the moment its nose reached the opening for the airship to fully emerge. Presumably on command, all the men holding straps let go. The ascent was fairly gentle, but there was no doubt, even without being able to see, that the ship was going up.