I knew it was lie from the way she said it, from the way neither of them would look at me, from the way Anton shuffled out of the room, and from the disapproving look on Chekov’s face.
We stood in the awkward silence for a moment.
“You might want to re-button your blouse before you go down to see Mama,” I said.
Her cheeks flared once again. Her hands shook as she fumbled with the buttons.
I should have been angry or disappointed, but I wasn’t. These were normal things, things that young men and women our age did. We should have been going to dances and parties, meeting eligible young men, stealing kisses and looks, gossiping about them to compare notes on who made the best jokes, who was the best dancer, who was the most charming.
Papa would take such behavior with stoicism. Mama, I wasn’t sure. The last thing she needed was another burden to bear.
Olga straightened her skirt as she turned for the door and stepped past me.
I grabbed her elbow, pulling her back gently.
She looked at me over her shoulder.
“Was it worth it?” I asked.
The look in her eyes said that it was. That she’d do it again.
And I couldn’t blame her.
Chapter Nine
Range B (Machine gun and Cannon), Camp Budapest
Progress is still too slow, thought Kostyshakov, and it’s really no one’s fault.
The ranges, so far, ran, from east to west, A, B, V, and G1. Range A was rifle and could handle a company in a day’s firing. B was for machine guns and the light cannon. V was for grenades, and had sections for practicing with weighted wooden dummies, still being prepared, to throwing a live one to a target at a distance, and to, as the sergeant major said, “Grow some balls,” by having a half dozen portions of trench system dug, for a soldier to count down the burning of the grenade fuse before tossing it around a corner.
Range G1, which would soon be followed by G2, G3, and G4, was a mock-up of a floor of a building, dug down into the ground to a depth of about twelve to fourteen feet. The log walls inside were still not quite complete.
A full verst from where the last G range was planned, there would be a demolitions range, D, for the engineers to practice and teach their trade. Past that, in three weeks or so, they would be finished building Course E, the bayonet assault course. Course Z, a confidence course comprised of obstacles that looked a good deal more dangerous than they were, would round out the training complex toward the end of the month.
Standing in a shaky range tower lashed together from tree trunks with the bark still on them, Kostyshakov watched as one of the two heavy machine gun crews frantically manipulated their gun’s traversing and elevating mechanism, to keep up with the unpredictable twists, turns, and speed of the sled downrange.
“Works after all,” Daniil muttered. “I am surprised.”
“What was that, sir?” asked Lieutenant Lesh, half shouting to be heard over the firing of the machine gun.
“Nothing…” Daniil twisted slightly to be able to speak more or less into the lieutenant’s ear. “I was just thinking aloud about how well the moving target trick works.”
“Pretty well, yes, sir. You might note how it speeds up and slows down. We alternate the gun crews on the job of pulling the rope. They like to fuck with each other.”
Kostyshakov nodded. “Good technique… do you have a grading…”
There was a explosion from Range V, off to the right. Daniil knew that Lieutenant Baluyev was experimenting with modifying the German stick grenades to serve as blinding and stun grenades. This explosion, however, was a good deal more powerful than one might have expected.
“Sir, I…”
“Never mind, Lieutenant,” he told Lesh. “I’ll go check it out.”
Deeply worried, Daniil scampered down the crude ladder and then jogged for the first of the trenches dug on Range V. The closer he got, the more worried he became about what he might find there. By the time he reached the earthen ramp that descended into the zig-zag trench, he was practically frantic. Down he went, then zigged left before zagging right to find Baluyev and two men he’d apparently detailed to assist him. One of the men sat on the floor of the trench, blinking and rubbing his eyes while swaying from side to side. He managed to sway despite having his back up against the trench’s wall.
The other of the enlisted men was still on his feet, but blinking even more than the first and only managing to keep to his feet by hanging on to an overhead beam supporting the trench’s revetments.
The really interesting one, though, was Baluyev himself. Gone was the fierce moustache, now. Gone, too, was about an inch and a half of the officer’s hairline. His eyes were closed, which closure did nothing to prevent a steady stream of tears exiting them to run down his face in a free cascade.
“Are you all right, Lieutenant?” asked Kostyshakov.
Baluyev used one hand to pry open a single eye. “I’m not blind, anyway, but we’re going to have to tone down the packing of those hand grenades. Just replacing half the filler with photographer’s flash powder is just too much, too much of both.”
The lieutenant suddenly turned away to vomit on the floor of the trench. “And I suppose I’ve got a bit of a concussion. Sorry, sir.”
“So what actually happened?” Kostyshakov asked.
“Replaced half the filler, like I said, sir. My two men and I were close up against the wall behind me. Unscrewed the cap. Pulled the big bead to start the fuse. Tossed the grenade around the corner. When it went off it was not only still powerful enough to knock us silly, but the flash powder followed the blast wave around the corner and just blinded us.”
“Maybe you should start small and work your way up,” Daniil suggested.
“Yes, sir. I think so, sir. I’ll give it…” Again, Baluyev had to bend and retch. “… give it a try, sir.” He wiped his fouled mouth on his sleeve.
“Are you able to carry on now or do I need I find another officer or senior noncom to handle the research?”
“I can start again in a couple of hours, I think, sir. The men…”
“Couple of hours, sir,” answered the one on his feet, whose name was Poletov.
“Think so, too,” agreed the other, sitting down. This one answered to Smirnov.
Kostyshakov looked more carefully as that latter soldier. He noticed, “You’re bleeding, soldier.”
“Yes, sir. I suppose so, sir. Must have been a bit of shrapnel, a part of the casing, that bounced off the wall and scored the top of my head.”
“Baluyev, one of the people we’re going to rescue, the tsarevich, is a bleeder. We can’t risk even scratching him.”
“Another reason to reduce the charge then, sir. Don’t know how much, though.”
“Yeah… once, again, restart, but start small.”
Quartermaster’s office, Camp Budapest
Kaledin stood at ease in front of Romeyko’s makeshift desk. “I think I’ve got three horses,” the Cossack told the quartermaster, “and fifteen mules that should make it and even be in good enough shape in six weeks or so to get work out of them. The rest?” Kaledin’s nostrils dilated as he shook his head, sadly.
“Have we found any turpentine, yet, sir?”
Romeyko looked over at Feldwebel Weber, who answered, “Some, sir. How much do you need per animal, Kaledin?”
“Well… you give it to them—very diluted—over a period of several weeks. Some of them, too, need it applied externally for some of their skin problems. I think I need about two vedro. Call it, in metric, maybe twenty-five liters. I could use some tobacco, too.”