The old sage had not known how the war would unfold, but he did know that it would be brutal and ugly for the physically pampered and mentally weak Americans, who were notoriously unprepared for what war could be like if it occurred on their own soil. Volkhov would often point out that the total number of American deaths by war during the American Civil War was 150% of those experienced during World War II, this despite the fact that the total deaths by combat in that earlier war were only 75% of those in the latter. The same relationship was evident in a comparison of, say, the American Revolutionary War and the Korean War, with the corresponding numbers being 70% and 24%. This is not even to mention how untrained and ill-educated Americans are when it comes to the basest necessities of survival and for facing hardship if such a conflict were to break out in the homeland.
The point in war, Volkhov was fond of saying, is to stay alive, and too many Americans miss that point when war occurs in the streets of their own towns. As he climbed, Peter looked over his shoulder at his younger colleagues, who were at that moment lost in deep thoughts of their own but struggling gamely onward through the snow, and he decided that, if he had anything to do with it, they would not fail.
While packing their go-bags for the exodus, Peter had noted that, though their provisions were in good condition, he couldn’t say the same for himself. He’d leaned down a little too quickly to lift up a box, and then stood a little too awkwardly to set the box on the table, and felt a sharp pain in his back, the signs of aging that had plagued him more and more over the last several years. Throughout his life he’d participated in extensive military and espionage training, and he’d even been an instructor in the charm school’s SERE course for two years, but that was when he’d been quite a bit younger and in a lot better shape. Search, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training and experience would help, he thought, but he was out of practice and (if truth be told) out of shape. Like many people his age, he’d become soft and addicted to his creature comforts. For his younger colleagues, they had youth, but that youth was burdened with inexperience. If age but could, if youth but knew. He tightened his jaw and thought to himself that they would have to combine their wits and abilities if they were to make it out of this alive.
Peter knew that it was not a great plan. It might not even be a good one, but it was all they had. What they knew with certainty was that they could not make it through the winter on their own. If they’d stayed in Warwick, they would be dead already, and if they were caught by either side in the war that seemed to be around and upon them, things would not go well for them. If any of them were tortured or even closely questioned by either side, they would inevitably be found out, and all the protestations in the world wouldn’t help. The body of truth lies dead in the ditch in almost any war, a casualty of necessity and fear. Simply by virtue of their being Russian, they would be suspected and hated by anyone who caught them. What happened next would not be pretty, Peter thought. Especially for Natasha.
It is an interesting irony that in those cultures and times when women have been less equal, they have been more honored, treasured, and protected from war. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, Peter thought, grabbing a limb to steady himself as he stepped over a fallen log, but I know this to be true. Despite what many modern folks have come to believe, history reveals that when the artificial veil of civility is rent, and when the ghostly wisps and remnants of chivalry and ancient patriarchy are eradicated altogether and thrown to the ground during times of general upheaval… well, let us just say that throughout antiquity, and in every place and every time, women have fared the worst in times of war. Men are usually granted the dignity of just being killed, Peter thought.
He scratched his beard and glanced up into the sun. The more liberated the culture, the more horrible has been the treatment of women during and after that culture crumbles. Well, Natasha would have to be protected and watched over, he thought. She has no family left… that I know of. He looked around and watched the young woman walking behind him, and saw the lines of concern etched on her face. He determined that, even if she didn’t want it, he would stand in the breach and protect her.
All three of the travelers had some training. All three had gone through mandatory classes on spy craft, weapons, and tactics. However, they would now learn that there is a universe of difference between theory and the real world. Peter just hoped that the learning curve would not be too steep, and that the course in harsh reality wouldn’t kill them.
The air was crisp and cold and the sky was the bluest of blue—the kind of blue that seems impossible except by contrast. Every now and then a sharp breeze would blow and snow would fall from overhead branches where it lay trapped by pine needles and oak leaves. The snow, blown from the deposits in the trees, would swirl around them and make them uncomfortable, and, on a few occasions, it would crash down upon them, falling into their collars and sliding down their necks, melting from the heat of their bodies and trickling icy cold sludge down their backs in lacy jags, adding impetus to their chill. The cold on their backs mixing with the cold in their feet sent jolts through their systems to keep them moving ahead.
Coming over one low rise, they saw a small camp in the distance. They were far enough away and downwind so they hunkered down and watched the camp awhile from afar, wondering silently what they should do. The encampment seemed to consist of a few families, huddled around a roaring fire, their three large camping tents arranged in a triangle around the fire with the door flaps opening inward, toward the blaze.
Two of the campers, a man and a woman, were arguing loudly, and hints of words and voices tumbled through the icy air toward the hikers. They seemed to be married, the man and the woman, but it wasn’t entirely clear from the snippets of sound that reached the trio hiding along the ridge what the point of their argument was. Perhaps she was insisting on equality in the camping chores, or maybe he was blaming her for their current horrendous state. Whatever was their contention, it was clear that they blamed each other—as if either could have held back the uncertainty that now approached them. Pulling together in times of utter peril is a sign that the peril is understood and embraced. These people had no idea what they were in for, but they had camping gear, survival food, and with it, anger mixed with unhappiness. They thought they had prepared for occasions such as this, but now, as they argued in the cold, they found that they were woefully mistaken.
Peter turned to Natasha and Lang and put his finger to his lips, before whispering to them. “Obviously, these are some people who decided to ‘bug out.’ That’s the term used by preppers or survivalists who are of the opinion that they can rush out into the woods when things collapse and they’ll be okay. Volkhov purchased dozens of books that spoke of, or even encouraged, this phenomenon. He said that many Americans anticipated a major collapse of their society, but they were deceived in their ideas about how best to deal with it. Millions of people made rudimentary plans to escape the cities and towns by heading into the wilderness, but most of them have little or no training, let alone knowledge of what it would be like to live out here. They didn’t consider that there were millions of people, just like them, thinking the same thing. This will make things tougher for us.”