Fortunately, the Austrians produced skis—and those all fit, of course—along with the smocks. Also, fortunately, the overwhelming bulk of the smocks were too large, rather than too small.
Even with the lamps now issued and in use by the Fourth Company and some of the leadership and specialty groups of the others, Kostyshakov had put in place and continued a moratorium on maneuvering live fire training until such time as distinctive white uniforms could be provided, to prevent another case of target misidentification.
“But time is getting short,” he ordered. “Smocks and trousers that fit to the Fourth Company and the others going on the first lift. The others we’ll alter as we can to make them fit.”
“Skis must be fitted to the skier,” said Sergeant Major Nenonen, the Finnish Operations sergeant major. “And so must the boots, as well as the boots to the skis, and each individual ski to a given foot, right or left.”
The Finn found himself spending a lot more time doing things other than operations than he found strictly wise. Still, if no one else knows how and I do, what’s to be done but do it myself? And they don’t, but within a couple of hours, Romeyko’s clerks and the senior noncoms will have learned how to measure a man for skis and boots, and to fit the latter to the former.
“Come right up, Top,” said Nenonen to Mayevsky.
The one-eyed Fourth Company first sergeant was tall. Nenonen sized him up and said, “Put your hand straight over your head, would you, Top?… yes… call it ‘three arshin, four inches.’” Nenonen hunted along a large number of skis, sorted by size, right to left. “Hmmm… these look about right. Put your hand up again, please.”
Nenonen placed one ski’s rear end on the ground and put the tip up to Mayevsky’s hand. It just reached the first sergeant’s palm. “Am I good or what? Okay, now what size boot do you wear?”
“I take a size forty-five,” said Mayevsky.
“Size forty-five!” Nenonen called out to one of Romeyko’s clerks, who promptly produced an Austrian ski boot.
“Looks a little goddamned big to me,” said Mayevsky.
“They are. You’ll end up wearing either two pair of wool socks or a double foot wrapping, because of the cold. No real need to try them on, since they are loose, but hold them to the bottoms of your feet to make sure they’re a little big. Ah… yes, they’ll do fine.”
Nenonen drew a flathead screwdriver from his pocket. “Okay, Top, now let’s fit these to your skis. Later on, I’ll show you how to lacquer and wax the skis and how to attach climbing skins for uphill climbs. Also how to care for the metal edges. For now, watch closely because the next man you will fit yourself while I watch and critique. Oh, and, yes, let’s get you a couple of pairs of real socks. They’re not great socks, but they’ll do for as long as we will need them…”
En route, Camp Budapest to northwest of Sliven, Bulgaria
It did snow in Bulgaria but, being so far south in the Balkans, with so much moderation of climate by the nearness of sea, it didn’t snow all that much. To find snow, one had to look for it. That was why Second Company, Fourth Company, and a slice of Headquarters and support were currently trekking, all in white, from their normal camp to the mountains north and west of Sliven. A fair sampling of their German guards, of course, came along too, while the best of Kaledin’s patients, now fairly healthy animals, but in need of exercise, followed along, towing Taenzler’s Gulaschkanone and wagons with tentage and rations.
As they marched, they sang:
It was an old song, “Soldiers, Brave Lads,” of a century prior, written around the experiences, the lives, of Russian soldiers fighting Napoleon. It was also a simple song, suitable for simple soldiers. If simple, it was also buoyant and boisterous.
When the last verse of that one died out, echoing in the hills around Sliven, they broke into the “March of the Siberian Riflemen”:
Given where they were headed, the song made a certain sense. They left out the fourth verse, by common consent, since that one sang of invading Germany and Austria, reaching the Rhine and Danube. This the officers and men thought would be in very poor taste, all things considered.
They marched with their rifles and machine pistols slung, simple packs across their backs, bedrolls slung from their left shoulders to their right hips, and their newly issued skis and poles over their shoulders.
When they got close to a village, Kostyshakov called over Feldwebel Weber and asked if the German guards might sing something to avoid suspicion. Taenzler, overhearing, called out, “Die Wacht am Rhein,” since, after all, singing about defending against the French wasn’t remotely anti-Russian, while singing about invading Russia would have also been in extremely poor taste.
Thus, a reborn regiment of the Russian Imperial Guards, of no name or number yet, marched through main street of the little Bulgarian village of Nicholaevo with the words ringing on the breeze and from the houses,
Good-naturedly, the Russians, who had heard the song often enough in their prison camps, joined in with either words or by very loud humming or whistling. The effect was, on the whole, rather impressive.
Past the village, the Germans stopped their singing while the Russians started a new song, from another Guards regiment, one which began, “The Turks and the Swedes know us well…”
Setting up camp, despite the best efforts of both Russian and German noncoms, was slow and confused. The snowball fights that kept breaking out didn’t speed matters up any, either.
Daniil was tempted to simply storm into the middle of it and start bellowing orders. Or at least have his sergeant major do so. But, No, this is not a critical task and time, today, at least, isn’t pressing. As long as they get it all set up sensibly that will be fine. And let them have their fun, anyway. They’re good boys and have done well, so far. Hmmm… maybe a little vodka?
Much to his chagrin and shame, Vasenkov found himself having a good time throwing snowballs, pitching tents, and even joking over dinner. The march had gone well, so the commander, that lackey of Tsarism, Kostyshakov, had ordered an issue of vodka for the troops. It was nothing too generous, of course, just a few ounces per man, doled out by the German, Taenzler, but it gave the entire enterprise a festive air, something free and fun.
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