The Scarlet Generation

by Christopher Nicole

  Even as this change was made, they watched a laden train rumble by, passing another going west and empty, waiting in the siding. Through their glasses, Feodor and Tatiana watched it and the soldiers, who had re-made the fire, and several were sitting round it; they patrolled the line in twos, up as far as the bridge and back. “Should we not try at another place?” Tatiana asked, rubbing her lips against the cold.

  “We must do the maximum damage,” he told her. “Just blowing up a stretch of line will cause a delay of only a few hours. Blowing up the bridge will disrupt the line for a couple of days.”

  “We must risk our lives for a couple of days?”

  “That is the maximum we can hope for. A couple of days here, a couple of days there...it all adds up, and winter is just about upon us. Come on!”

  They cautiously made their way back to the swamp. It was well past midnight before they regained the trees, and then it was another couple of hours walk through the mud and the slush to a place dry enough to be both safe and reasonably comfortable. Tatiana fell to her knees. She was exhausted. It was far colder than the previous night, although it was not yet snowing.

  “We cannot stay here,” Feodor said. “We will freeze.”

  Tatiana took off her pack. “I must have some rest. And you too.” She unrolled her sleeping bag. “We will keep each other warm.”

  He considered for a moment, then discarded his own pack. “Get in,” he said. Tatiana slithered into her bag until she was up to her neck.

  Feodor then extracted his own sleeping bag, and using it as well as the two packs propped together created a shelter for their heads. Then he inserted himself into her bag, wriggling down the length of her body until he also was enclosed to his neck. He then reached up and arranged their blankets to close up any openings above them. Lastly he arranged their weapons beneath the shelter, beside their heads, so that they would not freeze and be instantly to hand if required. Finally he brought his arms into the sleeping bag, felt in his pocket and produced the flask of vodka. Tatiana took a swig, felt the warmth of the liquor tracing its way down her chest to her stomach, gave it back to him, for him to drink in turn. “Just the one each, I think,” he said, and restored the flask to his pocket.

  “We would create more warmth if we could take off our clothes,” Tatiana murmured, suddenly aroused for the first time in four months.

  He grinned. “We will be warm enough.”

  Tatiana kissed him on the mouth. He did not resist her. While she kissed him she took off her heavy gloves and touched his cheek. “Are my hands cold?”

  “They are warmer than your lips,” he confessed.

  “Let me warm them more.” She reached down and unbuckled his heavy outer belt. Then she could release the buttons on his winter trousers, and reach through to his inner belt. This too she released, before unbuttoning his uniform trousers. Beyond this was his winter underwear, a woollen combination set. But it had a fly and this too she unbuttoned, to thrust both hands inside and hold him. Now he in turn was feeling his way through her several layers of clothing; she was in fact dressed exactly as he was. A few seconds later his hands were between her legs. “Body warmth,” she whispered, kissing him again. “With no risk of pregnancy.”

  “We will need twenty personnel,” Tatiana told the assembled partisans. She and Feodor had discussed their requirements on the walk back to the camp. As always, Tatiana left all the planning to him; he was the soldier. But it was her business to lead. “I would prefer all the group to be volunteers,” she went on.

  Immediately, as she had known would be the case, Anatole and Gregory, Natasha and Sophie, stood up. “Are you going to be shamed by schoolchildren?” Tatiana asked. Several more of the men and two other of the women joined her. “Sergeant Shatrav?” Tatiana inquired.

  Shatrav hesitated, then he also got up. “I suppose we are all going to get killed,” he remarked.

  “We are all going to kill Germans, you mean,” she told him.

  *

  As before, Kaminskaya was left behind in charge of the camp. Two days later they were in position, and it was now that Tatiana outlined the plan Feodor had formulated. She did not like the plan, because it involved separation from Feodor, even if only for a couple of hours. Even more she disliked it because although she, as leader, had felt called upon to volunteer for the most dangerous part of the mission, he had not objected. But she had not argued against it; he would know best. “We will advance in two groups,” she said. “Sixteen in the assault group, four in the detonater group. I will command the assault group, Captain Ligachev the detonater group. He and I have synchronised our watches. When we are in position, and the appointed time has arrived, we will eliminate the guards. Remember, the guard hut is to be undamaged, or at least, no more than is necessary. That is why we are not using grenades. From the point of view of the next train through, nothing must have happened. Once we have accomplished our purpose, the group will fall back, except for Comrade Savin and myself. We will use German uniforms and appear to be on guard duty. We will rejoin you as soon as possible but you are not to wait for us.”

  “You will be killed. We will all be killed,” Shatrav grumbled.

  “If we are killed, we will have died fighting for the Motherland,” Tatiana told him. “But be sure about one thing: if any man, or woman—” her gaze swept them all before coming back to rest on Shatrav — “fails to do his or her duty, or shows any cowardice in the face of the enemy, I will kill him or her myself. Do not doubt this. It must be clearly understood, too, that any wounded who cannot regain the swamp under their own power will be abandoned. They will hand over their weapons, save for their revolver.” Once again she swept their faces. “I would strongly recommend that anyone who is too badly wounded to regain the swamp should kill themselves before the Germans can capture him, or her.”

  *

  They ate a brief supper, then they discarded their packs, to be picked up when they returned. “We need to leave someone here,” Feodor said, “both to guard our gear and to guide us back to it. Choose.”

  Tatiana’s emotions told her to select Sophie, who was too young, and despite her experiences, too basically innocent to be involved in something like this. But her instincts told her that that might turn out badly: Sophie was so frightened that if left alone she might well run away. Natasha was desperate to fight.

  “Gregory,” she said.

  “Me?” the boy cried. “I wish to go with you.”

  “You will be fulfilling a far more important task by remaining here,” Feodor told him. “You are our base. Without you, we are all at grave risk.”

  They made their way across the snow-covered field. When they were within a quarter of a mile of the bridge, the two parties separated. “Good luck,” Feodor said, squeezing Tatiana’s hand.

  “And to you, Comrade,” Tatiana said. Now she was on a killing high, the adrenalin racing through her arteries. She was going to war, properly, for the first time.

  She studied the guard-post through her glasses. As with four nights ago, the Germans had lit a fire beside the hut, and there were five men crouched around it. Two more were stamping up and down the line by the bridge. That meant, if Feodor’s calculations had been correct, that there would be two more actually inside the hut.

  “Shatrav,” she whispered. “Take three people and approach the guards on the bridge. Get to within point-blank range, but do not fire until I do. This is very important. No one must fire a shot until we are all ready. My first shot will be the signal.”

  Shatrav nodded, beckoned two of the men and one of the women, and crawled away into the darkness. “Romashov,” she turned to the next most senior soldier. “Your eight people will shoot the men sitting round the fire. Again, you will wait for my first shot. And remember not to shoot at us!”

  “Yes, Comrade Commissar,” Romashov said.

  “Anatole, you and Natasha and Surkov will come with me.”

  “I wish to come with you too,” Sophie
protested.

  “You will stay with Romashov,” Tatiana told her. “Don’t worry, we are all in this battle together.” She crawled away into the darkness, her three companions behind her. “Keep your weapons slung until it is time,” she told them. There was no wind and the slightest sound might alert the soldiers.

  It took them more than 15 minutes to gain a position some hundred yards west of the guard post. Then they crossed the railway line and crawled back along it, slowly approaching the guard hut. Beyond that, one of the soldiers rose from around the fire and moved towards the line, unbuttoning his flies as he did so. Tatiana flapped her hand to warn her companions to go down and remain still until he had finished, but as she did so a shot rang out. Instantly the Germans scattered from around the fire, drawing their pistols.

  “Shit!” Tatiana said. But there was no further point in concealment. She levelled her gun and squeezed the trigger, even as firing became general from the other Russians. Tatiana reached her feet and ran to the hut. A man had just emerged in the doorway, holding a rifle. He fell to another burst of fire, then she felt a tremendous jolt, and found herself lying in the snow.

  Natasha knelt beside her. “Tattie!” she screamed. “Tattie!”

  “Get the hut!” Tattie snapped. Anatole and Surkov were already there, firing into the interior.

  The shooting stopped; it had lasted less than a minute. Tatiana tried to sit up, and fell over again; the bullet was lodged somewhere in her body, she was sure, but she felt no pain at the moment; she was still suffering from shock. Shatrav stood above her. “Is it bad?”

  “I don’t know. Report.”

  “Six Germans dead, three wounded.”

  “Shoot them,” Tatiana said. “Ours?”

  “You are our only casualty. Comrade Commissar.”

  “Very good. Take command, Sergeant. Pull our people out, and return to the swamp.”

  Shatrav nodded. “We will make a litter to carry you, Comrade Commissar.”

  Tatiana raised her head. “My orders were that wounded had to fend for themselves. If I can get back, I will. But you must not wait for me.”

  Shatrav grinned. “I am going to disobey your orders, Comrade Commissar. You are our commander, and we have gained a victory.”

  Tatiana submitted; she had no desire to be left on her own in the snow, and she certainly didn’t wish to be abandoned to the Germans. But she had intended to be one of the fake guards, and this was now prevented. Anatole had already volunteered, and Romashov agreed to stay with him. The dead Germans were examined, and the two whose clothing was least bloodstained were stripped of their uniforms, which Anatole and Romashov put on. Neither was a good fit, but they were not going to be examined closely. Then the lamp in the hut was relit, and the corpses dragged out of sight. By now Natasha and Shatrav and the other women had delved into Tatiana’s clothing in search of her wound. They found it in her lower right ribs.

  “There is at least one broken rib,” the woman Christina said. Her gaunt features and raw-boned body hardly went with such a delicate name. “But you were lucky, Comrade Commissar; all this thick clothing took the velocity from the bullet, otherwise it might have gone right through you.” She actually removed the lead with her fingers, while Tatiana gulped vodka. Then Christina bound it up and Tatiana’s clothes were replaced.

  It was so cold that she actually felt very little pain; that would come later. “All set?” Shatrav had taken command. Anatole and Romashov nodded, faces grim. In the distance they could hear the wail of the train whistle as it approached Brest-Litovsk. “Then let us get out of here,” Shatrav said.

  A litter had been made from discarded German rifles and greatcoats, and on this Tatiana was laid. She suspected she would have done better to walk, for the improvised mattress was uncomfortable, and the four men carrying her could not help but trip and stumble or slip from time to time. Now they could see the train, coming ever closer; so contemptuous were the Germans of anything the Russians might be capable of that the carriages blazed with light. “Get down,” Tatiana said. They were still a mile from the trees, and could be picked out by keen eyes.

  The group sank into the snow, and Tatiana raised herself on her elbow to watch. The train roared up to the bridge. Tatiana peered into the gloom, but could not make out Feodor and his people; they would of course be in the gully carved by the stream. Nor could she make out Anatole and Romashov, but she could see the light glowing in the hut, and clearly the train drivers were happy with that, for the train never slowed as it approached the bridge. But the train itself...

  “The glasses!” she snapped. “Where are my glasses?” Shatrav handed her the binoculars, and she hastily focussed them as the train hurtled closer. “Oh, shit!” she muttered.

  It was a troop train; every carriage, and there were at least twelve, was laden with men. But there was nothing she could do about aborting the attack; they had not considered such a possibility, and had agreed no signals for it. Equally, she was not sure Feodor would consider it, even had he known the catastrophe that was waiting to happen.

  The train roared at the bridge, and then reached it. As it so did so, with perfect timing, Feodor fired his charge. There was a huge explosion. The night sky was seared with red. The watchers could see the train lifted from the track and hurled to one side. The first carriage behind it plunged into the gully with a scream of tortured metal. The second and third carriages were also derailed, coming off the track and falling over with huge crumps of noise, scattering men to and fro. But the nine carriages behind remained upright, and from them flooded men, forming ranks in obedience to the barked commands, opening fire into the darkness. They didn’t know what they were shooting at, but they were blanketing each side of the wrecked train with bullets.

  “Quick!” Shatrav said. “Back to the trees!”

  “Anatole,” Tatiana said. “Romashov!”

  “We cannot help them, Comrade Commissar,” Shatrav said. “They knew the risks they were taking.” Tatiana bit her lip, but she knew he was right, and now her broken rib was starting to throb. She let her head droop, as she was taken into the trees.

  The Germans continued to fire for another 15 minutes, then the noise slowly died. The partisans crouched close to the tree fringe, having located the glow of Gregory’s flashlight and regained their gear. He wanted to know what had happened, and looked close to tears when he was told that his friend was almost certainly dead. But what of Feodor, Tatiana wondered, as the pain steadily increased. “How long do we wait?” Shatrav asked. “If we are still here at daybreak the Germans may well come after us.”

  “We wait until Captain Ligachev joins us,” Tatiana told him.

  He looked as if he would like to argue, but then wandered off to join his friends. Natasha sat beside the stretcher. “Would you like some vodka?” She held the flask to Tatiana’s lips.

  “Where is Sophie?” Tatiana asked.

  “She is here. Somewhere.”

  “Thank God for that! Listen.”

  The Germans had stopped firing now, and the night was still. They could not hear what might be happening two miles away. But closer at hand there was sound, and then the glow of a light. “It is Captain Ligachev,” Shatrav said, hurrying forward.

  “Respond,” Tatiana commanded. “How many?”

  “All of them.” Gregory was excited.

  The four figures appeared out of the snow. “That was well done, Comrade Captain,” Shatrav said. “It was a splendid explosion.”

  Feodor looked over their faces. “Where is the Commissar?”

  “I am here,” Tatiana said. He knelt beside her. “Thank God you are all right,” she said. “I was so worried.”

  “As I was for you. Where are you hurt?”

  “I have a broken rib. But they would not leave me.”

  “Then I thank God for that,” he said.

  “Anatole and Romashov?”

  “They are dead.”

  “I should be also, but they would not
obey instructions and abandon me.”

  “They love you,” he said. “But who disobeyed you first, and fired the first shot?”

  Tatiana had forgotten that. “It was the girl, Sophie,” Shatrav said. “She was very frightened.”

  There was a scuffle at the back of the group standing round Tatiana. Sophie had tried to run away, but had been seized by two of the women and brought forward. “Did you fire the shot?” Feodor asked.

  Sophie bit her lip. “I...I didn’t mean to. I was shaking. And my gun went off.” She looked from face to face. “No harm came of it.”

  “No harm?” Feodor asked. “Because of you the Commissar might have been killed.” Tatiana opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She could indeed have been killed. But there was a more important issue at stake. Feodor spelled it out: “You disobeyed an order in the presence of the enemy. You are condemned to death.”

  “No!” Sophie gasped. “You cannot! Please!” She turned to Tatiana. “We are friends!” Tatiana glanced at Feodor, whose face was stony. But his eyes were warning her not to interfere. They were all in this together. Their survival depended on being able to trust each other, absolutely. She had shot a man for not obeying her command instantly. The group respected and feared her for that, and no doubt that respect and fear had caused them to save her life tonight. To show favouritism, even to an old friend, would destroy all that trust.

  Sophie saw Tatiana’s expression harden, and turned to Natasha. “Natasha,” she begged. “For the love of God!”

  Natasha bit her lip. The group watched as Sophie was stripped of her winter tunic and breeches, her fur-lined boots. Sophie made no effort to resist them, merely trembled, her trembles turning to shudders as the cold got to her. “There must be no noise,” Feodor said. “Use the swamp.”