“I’ll see if we can squeeze that material out of the Germans.”
“That would be great, sir, and… I think… Lesh is ready to show you something.”
“Lead on.”
The trail blazed by Baluyev led first to the center of the range, and then half a mile downrange to near where most of the troops dug. Daniil saw nothing of any particular interest, even when they reached where Lesh stood, beaming. In the course of it, they passed four enlisted men, just waiting.
“You had something to show me, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. But you’re almost standing on it.”
Daniil looked down and saw a neat board, about one arshin on a side, or perhaps slightly less. A wheel was attached to the center of the board, via a vertical spike. The heads of four more spikes had been driven through the board, holding it firmly to the ground. Rope—roughly half inch stuff—led off in both directions from the wheel, which seemed to have a cavity around the rim in which that small bit of the rope lay hidden.
“It came from one of the manuals we got from the Germans, the one for the 37mm cannon, sir.”
Beginning to lose patience now, Daniil exclaimed, “What came?”
“Oh, sorry, sir; moving targets for the machine guns and the light cannon.”
“I really don’t…”
“Watch me, sir.” With that, Lesh ran about one hundred meters toward the far firing line, to where the four previously idle troops waited. Bending, he and the men picked up the free end of the rope and began to walk to the south.
“Look over there, sir,” said Baluyev, pointing to a clump of bushes from behind which slid a small sled, moving at the same pace as Lesh and his detail of rope haulers. Suddenly the sled picked up speed as the haulers started to run.
“It’s just going to lock up on the…” Daniil shut up as the sled suddenly changed direction, still moving forward at a man’s running speed.
“How…?”
“There’s a knot in the rope, sir. It doesn’t fit the cavity around the wheel so the rope jumps out of it, then pulls the sled in the direction of the next wheel, which can be just about anywhere.”
“Fucking fascinating,” Daniil said, wonder in his voice. “I’ve never seen…”
“Neither had we, sir. Neither had Federov. But as soon as he saw it he also saw the potential and brought it to us.”
“Bloody marvelous. It’s impossible—well, it’s been impossible—to have moving targets before, at least as far as I’ve ever heard, but this… Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”
“Yes, sir.”
“How much did you have to do with this, Baluyev?”
“Less than half, sir.”
“Okay. How good are you with explosives?”
“Better than some, less good than others, sir.”
“Well. I have this project for you.”
Quartermaster’s Shop, Camp Budapest
Romeyko, the battalion quartermaster, looked over the task board on the wall. It was better prioritized now, to be sure, but it was also substantially more full. For every problem we solve, two more arise, Romeyko mentally groaned. And some of the problems are starting to appear unsolvable.
Looking over the task board, Romeyko saw:
Machine Pistols
Pioneer tools
Nails
Map of Rodina
Canvas or heavy paper
Paint or ink
Straight edges, drawing
Horse blankets
Portable telegraph set
Money
Nine Kindjal
Nine Shashka
Lamb papaha
Blacksmith
Wrist watches, or at least some kind of watches, for 150
Field telephones
Communications wire
Cavity wheels
Nine hundred arshini of good rope
Spikes, heavy, sixty
Boards, one arshin square
Sheet tin
Civilian clothing and shoes, Russian
Binoculars.
Lathe to turn dummy grenades
Lead ingots
Explosives, bulk
He didn’t bother to look past those, but estimated, And still, two dozen important items after that. Different important items, yes, to some extent, but the number never shrinks.
He was also starting to feel the pinch of transportation, what with the need to haul ammunition to the rifle range—and more ranges, soon enough, as well as more and heavier ammunition—to having to feed the troops at several different locations, locations too far away from camp for them to walk back for lunch and dinner. The need to draw from the railhead hadn’t changed, but the need to disperse to where things would be used, while still drawing in firewood, too, since the coal was proving insufficient to the need, meant his three wagons still on loan were not enough.
Thank God for Taenzler.
Feldwebel Weber, who spent about half his time inside the wire, working with Romeyko, and half, outside, fighting with the system to try to get Romeyko the material the Russians needed, asked, “Something bothering you, Herr Hauptmann?”
Romeyko just pointed silently in the direction on which his eyes were already fixed.
“Well,” said Weber, “I have one good thing to report. One company set of pioneer tools has been found in the salvage depot at Kuestrin, along with a couple of dozen spares of various types. Also the other seven hundred thousand rounds of M1891 and belted Maxim ammunition has been secured. Should be here in about ten days, eight if we’re lucky.”
“Machine pistols?” Romeyko asked, hopes suddenly buoyed up by the news.
“They remain a problem,” answered Weber. “Major Brinkmann, bearing a requisition from Hoffmann, himself, has gone to Baden to try to get a portion of the first batch coming off the assembly line.”
Camp Budapest
There was a kind of constrained parade field in the center of the camp, surrounded on three sides by the off-white tents of the three companies, with a mix of tents, wooden buildings, and a dirt road, leading to the main gate, on the fourth side. In the middle of that field, under the supervision of Sergeant Major Nenonen, thirty men—thirty often cursing men, ten minimalist gun crews—went through the arcane but necessary ritual of disassembling and reassembling the frustratingly complex light machine guns.
Nenonen was the only man of the battalion with previous training on the Lewis, that having been a lengthy and difficult course run the prior year, not too far behind the then front. Nenonen was a veteran of the Finland Guard Regiment of the Imperial Guard.
“Step one,” Nenonen shouted, “is to remove the magazine. That’s that round thing on top for you, Private Durak. We do this by sticking a finger into the hole—you know how to stick a finger in a hole, don’t you, Corporal Blyad?—and push that little button, then lift.”
The troops tittered, neither man was actually addressed by his proper surname, but each had picked up a not necessarily complimentary nickname from his comrades, basically “dummy” and “fuck,” the latter for a corporal too much given to bragging about his amorous conquests.
“Now set the magazines down on your ground cloth.
“Next, your fingers on the bolt charging handle—that’s that little thing sticking out to the right—pull the trigger and ride the bolt forward.
“Now, flip your guns over so the trigger and pistol grip are away from you. See that little lever right where wood meets metal? Put your left hand in a reversed grip on the pistol grip, then use your right to twist the wooden stock towards you… that’s right; forty-five degrees and she’s free. Remove the stock and put it down on the ground cloth next to the magazine.