“The zeppelin carrying Lieutenant Lesh’s Third Company,” said Captain Basanets, from on high, “it never came. We’ve got no way to contact them from here, either.”
“So what have we got, then?”
“One rifle company, Second, the heavy machine guns and the light infantry cannon, the antitank rifles, most of the engineer platoon, plus the Fourth Company. In all, there are two hundred and eighty-seven men on the ground, or two hundred and ninety-five if we count strategic recon.”
Mentally Daniil recited what he knew was waiting for them in Tobolsk, Two hundred original guards, two hundred and fifty thugs from Omsk, fifty worse thugs from Tyumen, and soon another hundred and fifty fanatical cavalry from Yekaterinburg. I’ve got to take on six hundred and fifty men, with less than half that many? God, I know You like to test men, but I don’t think…
“We can still do it, sir,” said Cherimisov, from the back of the sleigh. At Daniil’s doubtful glance the captain said, “Well, we still have to try. We’ll never get another chance. They may be cold and rotting corpses in the ground before we find them again. Sir, it doesn’t matter what the odds are; we have to go anyway.”
And that much, at least, I know is the merest truth. We don’t have a choice.
“Get me Romeyko,” Kostyshakov said to Basanets. “No, wait; he’s still in Camp Budapest, isn’t he? Instead get me the senior man from the quartermaster’s shop. In fact, get me the senior man present from each staff section, and supporting platoon… and get me that coal miner’s son… mmm… Ilyukhin.”
“Well, sir,” said the coal miner’s son, “while, yes, you can make acetylene explode—indeed, it will on its own under some circumstances—you really don’t get much rumble for your ruble. A full pound of the calcium carbide only makes about a half a cubic arshin of gas or maybe somewhat less. Now that, of course, spreads out and mixes, but it’s still not all that much. And we only have…” Ilyukhin shot a glance at the representative from the quartermaster’s office.
“We’ve got a hundred pounds, sir, plus every man with a lamp is carrying a bit under a pound of his own. It’s not much.”
“All right, then,” Daniil agreed, “we’ll skip that idea. You may return to your unit,” he told Ilyukhin. “How are we fixed for regular high explosive?”
“That’s in the engineers’ bailiwick,” said the logistics NCO.
“About eight pood TNT, sir,” said the engineer platoon leader.
Kostyshakov just nodded, then said, “Let me mull that one, then,” said Daniil. “Now, one hour, every man ready, the sleighs packed, the lanterns charged with their fuel. Meet me here, everyone; I want to address the men.
“Oh, and Dratvin, Cherimisov, before you go, we need to have a little talk.”
The hour passed not so much swiftly as furiously, as the men raced to pack themselves, fit their skis, and get the heavy weapons ready for movement. For now, the few tents would be left behind.
As the men assembled in the now familiar semi-circle, Kostyshakov thought, I need to put on a performance that would credit an actor at the Mikhailovsky. The important thing, here, is to let them know—well, think—that I’m not worried. They won’t fret over how literal my words are, but will take the grand jest to heart.
“Very well, gentlemen—at ease!—it seems that God has said we’re just too good, and the enemy too weak and contemptible, for us to need every man to take them on. It’s on us, one short company of grenadiers, one rifle company, heavy on the light machine guns, plus two heavies, two antitank rifles, and two infantry guns. Plus engineers with flamethrowers.
“Moreover, since they are stinking Bolshevik rabble, they needed to be reinforced. At about six-hundred and fifty of them, and a bit under three hundred of us, I still think God is being generous to us. Why, as it is, we’ll have to hang our heads in shame for the rest of our lives that it took three hundred men of the Guards to destroy twice as many Bolshevik rabble. We will have to console ourselves, when telling our families and friends, in the future, that, if the job was too easy… well… it was a mark of God’s favor on us, and nothing else.
“But… you know… then again… Second Company? Captain Dratvin—Ivan Mikhailovich—would your men be too upset if I left them behind, to even up the odds with the Reds? I mean, seriously; they’re fellow Russians, however misguided they may be. They deserve at least a chance, don’t you think? What say you, Captain Dratvin?”
Dratvin folded his arms across a compact torso, and scowled, “I say, sir, and I speak for every man in the company, that if you try to leave us behind you will have a mutiny on your hands. Now, if you’ll take me, alone… yes, sir, yes, I know; that would too thoroughly disadvantage the Reds. But, you know… if my men can’t go, well, I am still going.”
Daniil scowled and said, “Mutiny, do you say? Mutiny? There is no more serious crime in the military! What say you, men of Second Company? If I leave you behind what will you do?”
The chorus was most impressive. “MUTINY!”
Daniil sighed. “So you really all insist, do you?”
“YES, SIR!”
Daniil theatrically put his forehead into the crook of his right arm, while exclaiming, “Tsk… all these long months and I find myself in command of nothing by lowly mutineers, practically Bolsheviks themselves. Oh, the shame of it.”
The laugh that followed told him the men understood the little play he was engaged in.
“Fourth Company, since those mutineers of Second Company insist on going, surely you will voluntarily stay behind, so that at least some of us will have bragging rights in the future. Captain Cherimisov?”
“Not a chance, sir. As little glory as there is to be had on this trivial excursion, we’re not letting Second Company have all of it!”
“Grenadiers? What say you?”
“NO, SIR. We’re going!”
Act over, Daniil smiled and said, “By the three hundred, then, shall we save them. Follow me.” With that, Daniil pivoted left, skied to the right flank, and began the long trek to the north.
When the sun fell, about halfway to Tobolsk, it could be seen that they were ghosts, phantoms, sliding across the often bleak and snow-clad Siberian landscape without a sound. Of course they were phantoms, the more obviously so from the few eerily bright lights that led the way. Eyes, they must have been, eyes from some hell-spawned demons.
No, no, might some have insisted; they were a monster, a millipede but composed only of snow and ice and demon-frost, as their legs flashed, driving their skis onward. Of course the assemblage was a monster, nothing ever seen in historic memory in frozen Siberia resembled this, though some of the old legends may have spoken of it.
But, no, they were neither ghosts, nor phantoms, not even an icy millipede. Rather the glowing eyes told of the biblical monster, Leviathan. They were, thus, a snake, a landbound leviathan almost straight out of Psalms.
They are my men, thought Daniil, feet sliding as fast as any of his men, following me into danger and death… and I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy or proud in my life.
The ground fell behind quickly as they slid at a steady five miles—eight versta—an hour, heading to the north. The moon rose on their right, within twenty versta of setting out. It was a waning gibbous moon, bright enough to cast ghostly shadows across the land and across the sleigh- and ski-borne column. Given their white smocks and trousers, they remained approximately as invisible as if they had been in complete darkness. The lights were soon put out, as unnecessary, Leviathan sleepwalking to take a nap.