That made it possible for the men to both hear and see him better, as well as for Daniil to see them better. He waited then a few moments more for the two in fetters to make it to the rear of the assembly.
“Guardsmen,” he began, “it is time now, now that we’re out of sight from prying eyes and out of hearing for eager ears, to tell you why; that, and what’s coming over the next few months.
“We are, in the first place, going to a camp that has been set up for us by the Germans, with whom—and I cannot emphasize this enough—we are no longer at war. They’re going to be guarding us, still, but that’s to keep word of what we’re engaged in from getting out.
“It’s not a bad place, I understand, that camp; tents, yes, but they have wooden floors, warm liners, and there are stoves for each with an adequate supply of coal. In this camp—it is called ‘Camp Budapest,’ and no, we are nowhere near Budapest—we reform as a composite Guards battalion. This battalion will eventually consist of two rifle companies, Second and Third, plus the First Company, consisting of the Headquarters and Staff platoon, which will include a small intelligence section, plus all supply and support, plus various heavy weapons. Oh, and a small strategic reconnaissance section. There will also be a short company’s worth of replacements. Finally, the smallest company, Grenadier, will be specially armed, equipped, and trained to take the lead in accomplishing our mission.
“No, before you ask, we will be paying zero attention to your previous regimental affiliations. Note, too, that though we are all from elite regiments, and our own battalion is elite, among us Grenadier Company will take a large share of the very best and will have rank to award commensurate with that.
“No, also before you ask, except for the support specialists in First Company, I don’t know who will be in which company. We are going to spend about three weeks, possibly four or even as many as five, if we must, identifying a certain type of man for Grenadier Company.
“Grenadier Company will not even form until we have identified the people who will fill it. All of us, until then, will be in First, Second, or Third.”
“You will be well fed; much better fed than the poor bastards left behind in the prisoner of war camps. Indeed, as you may have noticed on the train, we are now on the German feeding scale for their own combatant personnel. Yes, I understand the train food may have been a little rough and ready; it was still better than the previous camps’. You will also be paid, and at a better rate than you were getting in camp, too. Some alcohol will be available for purchase, but it will be rationed. We have no room for drunkards.”
And my, didn’t that perk them up?
“Security, however, means no women. No, not even whores.”
That got a groan, but it was mostly joking. Nobody really expected field brothels in the Russian army.
“If you can’t fuck the calories off,” Daniil continued, “you can reasonably expect to burn off all that extra food through training and working. Now… questions?”
One man, seated on the ground, raised his hand.
“Yes?”
The man who had raised his hand stood to attention. “Umm… beggin’ yer pardon, sir, Corporal Panfil, Leonid.”
“Yes, Panfil?”
“To do exactly what, sir?”
Daniil laughed, lightly. Nice when you can predict question one so completely. He raised his voice to carry. “Hmmm, didn’t I tell you all? I guess I didn’t. We’re going to go save the tsar and his family.”
Rostislav Mokrenko, Cossack by birth, cavalryman by trade, and prisoner of war until quite recently, still shook his head ruefully at how completely he’d been suckered by the red walls and redder banners of the interview room at Zittau.
I should have known, he thought, when I saw Kaledin sitting there that that was no assembly of Reds. He’s more of a Tsarist than I am. Hell, he’s more of a Tsarist than the tsar is… or was.
Glancing to his right, Mokrenko said to Kaledin, “You dirty bastard; you could have told me sooner.”
“Couldn’t, Rosti. Couldn’t take any risks with anyone spilling their guts. C’mon; you’re an old soldier; you know that, even without being told.”
“I suppose,” the other Cossack conceded. “And, what the hell; we get back into action.”
Head up, as the heads of the rest were also proudly up now, Mokrenko whistled the first nine notes of the hit song of a few years prior, “Farewell of Slavianka,” the notes usually accompanied by, “Vstan zva Veru, Russkaya Zemlya.” Arise for the faith, O Russian Land.
From where Mokrenko marched, side by side with Kaledin, the tune was picked up and the words added by each marching soldier, many perhaps thinking of his own farewell from his woman, years before:
“The moment of parting has come to us,
As you look to my eyes with alarm…”
Marching a dozen ranks back from Mokrenko and Kaledin, Vasenkov thought, Of course you sing, you reactionary swine. And I’ll sing with you, since I must.
Camp Budapest
The singing hadn’t lasted the full distance. Even with a modest pace and no equipment to lug by hand—the wagons had, in fact, proved adequate to the need—the men were worn out by the time they reached the camp’s gates.
They passed through the gates, now guarded by German soldiers who, now seen in daylight, looked a bit long in the tooth, between several ranks of tents, and onto a bare parade field, unadorned by anything like a reviewing stand.
I’d like to blame it, thought Daniil, on not feeding them breakfast at the station, but that’s not it. They’re just in wretched shape. Speaking of which, I wonder what…
“Basanets?”
“Yes, sir?” the captain asked, from on high.
“Take charge here for a bit. Divide them into their three companies, then turn matters over to Sergeant Major Blagov to see them through the mess and equipment issue. I want to go see what’s being served.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Basanets, accompanying it with a thin sketch of a salute.
The mess was one of the few solid buildings constructed so far, the others being the guards’ mess, the officers’ mess, the armory cum supply office, and the headquarters, plus a few officer’s shacks. Most officers, like the ranks, would bed down in tents, on straw. Even the sparse hospital, to be under a civilian MD, Dr. Gazenko, was only five tents separated from the main area and from each other. And one of those tents was to serve as an examination room, while another was for billets for medical personnel.
The messes were not large enough to actually seat anyone; for that there were tents and wooden tables and benches. There might be buildings to eat in, eventually. Even where buildings stood, already, though, the wood was cheap stuff, roughly sawn, and crudely assembled.
Just before entering the mess kitchen, Daniil passed by an enormous pile of mess kits and a crate of eating utensils, tied into sets, overseen by one of Romeyko’s few clerks. The kits were Russian models, copper. Their general form was like the Germans’, kidney shaped when looked at from above, but the dimensions were rather different. Water was steaming in a large kettle slung over a wood fire, for the troops to sterilize them before use. A few crude brushes hung from a rack next to the kettle.
The clerk stood and saluted, which salute Kostyshakov returned, saying, “At ease, soldier. Hand me one of those, would you?”