I’ve never seen morale so high here, thought the hidden Bolshevik. I suppose booze, freedom, and fresh air must be opiates of the people as much as religion is.
Field Camp, west of Sliven, Bulgaria
“Hold the poles loosely, dammit,” Nenonen bellowed, in a voice that threatened to cause an avalanche, to the hundreds of novice skiers struggling to move on their new skis. “Your hands will tire, gripping them like that, and then they, and you, will be useless. Let the loops take the force when you push off. Use your hands only for the lightest control.”
Nenonen sought out Kostyshakov, who was having a smidgeon less trouble than most, and asked, “You think you’re ready to take off, sir?”
“Well… lead from in front, and all that,” the commander replied. “That said, let me see if I’ve got it straight, Sergeant Major; I push down with one ski, causing it to flatten out, and the way the hair on the climbing skins is facing, it causes it to grip the snow? The other one slides forward because the hair isn’t facing that way? I use the poles a little for balance and a little to push forward, but not too much because my arms tire faster than my legs?”
“Yes, sir, and… No, goddamit!” Nenonen’s voice returned to a bellow, addressing any number of the practicing troops. “I thought we had this down when you were doing one ski at a time, people; kick-glide-kick-glide!” Turning his attention back to Kostyshakov, he continued, much more sedately, “So, yes, sir. All that. Shall we see if you can make it to the base of that low hill and back?”
Back to the troops: “Angle your bodies a little forward, dumb asses! Opposite poles by your lead foot!”
With Kostyshakov seen off, to the west, Nenonen began skiing himself around the area, critiquing, giving tips, and selecting. “You, Sergeant Bogrov? You look like you’re ready to head off. See the commander about halfway to the low hill? Go on and follow him there and back.”
Father Basil wandered the area of the camp, talking to the troops and passing on the occasional benediction. Unlike them, he stood out by wearing his normal black cassocks and skufia. On two occasions he stopped to join in a snowball fight. By mid-morning, the shifting wind brought him the smell of a pretty nice stew, coming from the odd wagon with the smokestack on it. He wandered over to investigate.
“Hello, Father,” said Feldwebel Taenzler, “Stew’s almost ready; care to try some?”
“That’s actually what I came to talk to you about,” said the cleric. “Today is Friday. It’s a fast day for us. So are all Wednesdays. It’s not a strict fast day, insofar as the men can have oil used in preparing their meal, but no meat or fish.”
Taenzler understood the problem immediately, if not in its full scope and depth. “Not even fish, Father? And I thought we Catholics were strict. But what am I to do? I’ve been begging, borrowing, and occasionally stealing food to put some meat on their bones. There is meat—horse meat, to be sure—in this stew. I can’t just dump it; they need the nutrition, the fuel.”
Father Basil considered this. With a whole continent on the verge of starvation, wasting food struck him as the greater sin, the thing more offensive in the sight of God.
“We fast more than half the year, Feldwebel, but… well… there are a lot of exemptions and exceptions. Let me think. We’re are travelling, I suppose. Even if we’re stopped for a couple of days. That allows some relaxation of the rules. Were you planning on feeding them before three in the afternoon? It is possible—according to Saint Isaac—to end the fast at three PM, by which time Christ’s body had been taken down from the cross. And then, too, when receiving the hospitality of others, which—since you’re a German, feeding Russians, this would be a case of—one doesn’t turn up one’s nose. You have a few Lutherans and even some Catholics among the battalion, yes? Well… a battalion is a kind of family, and when families are of mixed faiths that, too, allows some leeway. And, then, too, these men are still thin; I noticed it right off. To deprive them of food after their long captivity would be injurious to their health, and this is not permitted…”
“Father,” said Taenzler, “I know some Jesuits that I would just love to listen to you talk with. I’ll feed them this, as you say, today, and in the future… can you help me work out a menu?”
“Why, certainly, my son. I’d be happy to.”
“You know, Father,” said Taenzler, “the world would be a better place if more people were like you.”
Basil shrugged. “The world would be a better place if more people tried to be like Christ.”
“Amen, Father.”
Field Camp, west of Sliven, Bulgaria
As with everything else, it took longer than it should have to get the men capable of skiing cross country on the flat. Now it was time for uphill… and down. Lieutenant Collan, the first platoon leader of Fourth Company and another Finn, stood in his skis on the top of the same low hill that had been the turn-around mark for the last two days. The lieutenant seemed almost unnaturally happy, standing taller, somehow, than his scant height suggested he even could.
Daniil stood at the base of the hill. Quietly, Nenonen coached him. “Remember, sir, tips wide apart and ankles folded a little towards each other and forward to ascend. The steeper the slope up, the wider apart. Tips close and ankles rolled together and back to slow yourself or, if there’s a track in front of you, one ski in the track and one dragging on the outside.”
“This, Sergeant Major, is not my idea of fun.”
“Yes, sir, I know. But it’s a lot like learning to dance with a girl. You look and feel stupid when you’re first beginning, and spend every moment of the lessons embarrassed to tears… ah, but once you learn how…
“Now up you go, sir. And remember, poles behind you both up and down.”
En route from Sliven south to Camp Budapest
There were a half dozen men, one of them, Fedin, from Fourth Company, who had to be carried in the now much-lightened wagons. These had broken legs and twisted ankles and, in one case, a fairly bad concussion from a collision with a tree. Three of those, at least three, would likely not recover in time to make even the last lift. There were enough extra men to more than cover the losses, though.
Even Vasenkov, the Bolshevik, marched with a song in his heart. That was the most fun I’ve had since I was drafted, six years ago. Then again, that’s a really low bar to meet.
The Germans took over the singing again, as the battalion was passing through a Bulgarian village. This was the first chance since starting out that Vasenkov had actually had a chance to think. He didn’t like what he was thinking.
I am a Bolshevik. I detest the tsar. I detest the entire aristocracy, to include the tsar’s family. I was thrilled when I heard they were overthrown and more than a little pleased when I found out they’d been sent to Siberia, a fitting place given the numbers of revolutionaries the tsar and his minions sent to that cold and miserable place.
And yet these men with me, here, in this battalion… they have become my friends and comrades. How do I turn on Levkin, who shared his private bottle of vodka with us? How do I stab Sergeant Bogrov in the back, when he’s been such a kind teacher this whole time? I confess, I do not know if I can.