Behind the locomotive rode the tender, a coal and water car to feed the locomotive, while behind it stretched a dozen troop cars, two of what Daniil took to be mess cars, from the smoking funnels atop them, another three troop cars that he supposed were for the German guards, and nine more mixed freight and flatcars, presumably holding the equipment, ammunition, and perhaps some of the food.
Yes, food, he was certain, based on the sound of mooing cows from near the rear of the train. Daniil stood up from the large trunk on which he’d been sitting while awaiting the arrival of his new command.
The last three troop cars opened first, with about eighty uniformed and armed Germans emerging.
That’s less than they carry and less than Brinkmann told me were on the guard detail. Presumably the others got off on the far side to ensure nobody escapes. He glanced down at the trunk.
Most of the Germans spread out, forming a thin double line of skirmishers, encompassing the entire train station and loading platform, and facing in both directions. A handful of Huns, officers and senior noncoms, proceeded to unlock and push aside the sliding doors, allowing crowds of Russians to emerge, squinting against the light.
So thin they are, the enlisted men, thought Daniil. Their uniforms barely fit. The Germans must have fed the officers better than the rank and file, it seems, even in Fort IX. How’s that going to play out with rations that are less than great even for front line combatants?
From each carload, one or two officers plus one or two senior noncoms came to Captain Kostyshakov for instructions. Romeyko, having arrived the previous day with an even larger load, was not among them, but was puttering with something else on the platform.
“The camp’s about four versts[2] northeast of here,” Daniil told them. “It’s mostly uphill. Job one is to load the equipment and supplies on the wagons. Whatever doesn’t fit the wagons goes on our backs.
“Job two is to make sure no one runs. For that…”
Daniil turned and opened the trunk, revealing a goodly number of pistols, plenty of spare magazines, holsters, plus several thousand rounds of strangely labeled ammunition.
“Romeyko, when I’ve finished, issue each company first sergeant and above one pistol, three magazines, and enough ammunition to fill them, plus one round.”
“Gentlemen, if someone tries to desert—note I said ‘desert,’ not ‘escape’—it will be on us to shoot them, if necessary. Better that than be seen as being mere stool pigeons for the guards.
“Once you have your arms, take charge of the men and get those wagons filled. They’re not marked by company; Romeyko will sort all that out when we get to camp.
“Job three… Basanets?” Daniil had to strain his neck to look the tall captain serving as his executive officer in the face.
“Sir?”
“Job three is for you, Mikhail Mikhailovich, to take a detail through every car occupied by our men and make sure they are completely devoid of any hint of who we are, what we are, where we came from, and where we’re going. No graffiti. No notes stuck in cracks. Nothing left behind. And get some of the shit from the cars carrying the cattle and spread it around.”
“Yes, sir,” Basanets agreed.
“Job four is marching to the camp. I want us to be out of here before sunrise—before the first hint of sunrise—with everyone accounted for and nobody in the town the slightest bit wiser about who we are.
“Questions?”
Seeing there were none, Daniil said, “Go, then. Draw your pistols.”
The officers and noncoms saluted, turned about smartly, and began to crowd around Romeyko.
“What are these?” Basanets asked. “I’ve never seen…”
“Amerikanski M1911s,” Romeyko answered. “Big bruisers, eleven and a half millimeter. The tsar bought something like fifty thousand of them. Some thousands ended up captured by the Huns. I talked a supply sergeant in their army out of one hundred and twenty, with magazines, plus another two hundred and forty magazines, and holsters and ammunition pouches for the lot. And a lot of ammunition. It didn’t take a lot of effort; he was just as happy to be rid of them. They’ve got slots on the holsters we can fit our belts through.
“You may as well go first, Mikhail. Pick one. Don’t forget your magazines and holsters.”
Basanets reached down and grabbed as he was told.
“Read off to me the serial number, please?” Romeyko asked.
“C49715.”
“Very good, thanks,” said Romeyko, jotting the number down in a ledger himself. Ordinarily, this would be a job for a Russian podpraporschik, a noncom, or even one of the rank-and-file clerks. As it was, everyone was too busy so Romeyko took weapons issue upon himself. It had, too, the advantage of putting him near the horse drawn wagons to make sure they were fully loaded.
“Next! State your name; take your pistol, your holster, your magazines, and your ammunition. Don’t be greedy, twenty-two rounds only.”
“Dratvin, Ivan… C84386. But I don’t even know how to load this thing, let alone use it.”
“Right… five-minute class after we finish issuing.”
The sun was just peeking over the horizon when the column set out. It might have begun to move sooner, but two of the men, thinking they might escape and perhaps get home a bit sooner, attempted to hide above the train’s axles and had to be flushed out at bayonet point. These now marched awkwardly, looped rope running from one neck to the other, gagged, with their hands tied behind their backs, stumbling, too, from the rope that kept their feet to no more than a two-foot, eight-inch step. A senior noncom, Zauryad-Praporshchiki—or Sergeant Major—Blagov walked behind them with a sharp stick, prodding them to keep up and kicking them when they fell, then lifting them by their hair.
Almost none of them knew just why they were here, where they were going, nor to do just what. Neither had the locked cattle cars they’d been brought in given them any degree of confidence about their individual or collective futures. They didn’t even know where they were, not even to the level of what country.
Daniil turned around, walking backwards to watch the column ambling along behind him.
The officers and noncoms we’ve armed already walk straighter. But the mass of them? They walk like sheep, listless, stupid, unknowing, and uncaring. Of course they do; they’re still weak from the camps while a few days’ decent—well, half decent—food on the train wasn’t enough to restore them.
And they are demoralized, still, Kostyshakov thought. Can’t blame them; they don’t really know anything. Probably worried about the future. So… in a little bit…
Halfway to camp, when the column was out of sight and out of earshot of the town, Kostyshakov, marching at the front, veered off the frozen dirt road and led the column into a half circle, in open field, just off the road.
When they were halted there, in that half circle, Daniil put up both hands, palms facing himself, and made come hither motions with his fingers, directing the men to break ranks and crowd in around him. The German guards gave each other questioning looks but didn’t interfere.
Once the soldiers were clustered around, the nearest perhaps a dozen feet away, Daniil ordered, “Front ranks… sit!”
2
A Russian unit of distance close to, but just slightly farther than, a kilometer. Four versts would be about two and a half miles, or an hour’s easy walk, on flat and level ground, for a man in good shape, bearing a heavy pack.