by Alma Boykin
She pouted, her full red lips and soft brown eyes reminding him of why he needed to go. Because she looked so good, and it had been so long, and, well, he knew they shouldn’t, not yet, but . . . And everyone knew that the imperial army needed every man who could carry a weapon right now. The Russians had worn themselves out, at least for the moment, and the imperials and Germans needed to shove them out of Galicia and eastern Poland while they could, reestablish the borders and get things stabilized before the southern passes opened and the Italians attacked. He had to get the Russians out of Galicia and away from his family.
“But you were injured! And your father, Lord Janos, says that so many families have lost their leaders that you might be exempt, now. And I want you to stay, to be here with Mátyás and me.”
The heat of his anger with Janos burned out István’s desire for Barbara just then. “And I want to stay, my lady, but I cannot. I am not exempt. I asked.” Stop trying to manipulate me through my wife, father! István kept his temper, but not easily. He needed to break something, and the best place to do that was with his regiment. “I’ve had three months of convalescent leave, my lady, my love. That is far more than most men, especially now. I love you and our son. But the best way for me to keep you safe,” and keep our honor and my conscience clean, “is to do my duty to the army.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. She leaned back a little in her chair, rearranged the baby, and reached for her teacup, drinking a sip before saying, “I do not agree, István. But I do not want to fight with you.”
Thank you, Lord. His mother never questioned his father’s actions once he announced his final decisions, and István had thought that perhaps Barbara might be the same. Alas, he’d married a modern woman. “And I do not want to fight with you, my love.”
He left two days later, on a troop train packed with tired and anxious men. A cold drizzly rain augured poorly for the weather as they headed north, and indeed, snow began falling as they passed Kszeben and began the climb through the Carpathian crest. Then it stopped, and only grey skies bothered them the rest of the way to Jarowslau, north of Przemysl. István made his way through the mild chaos of too many soldiers on a small station platform and started looking for his regiment’s muster sign. A sharp whistle cut through the crowd, followed by a familiar bellow. “Eszterházy!”
He looked around and saw Felix Starhemberg waving. “Here.”
István pushed through some Czech reservists who glared at him as they chanted, “What are we fighting for? Why do we bother with this war?” Someone would see to them very soon, István knew, and that would be the end of that.
“Felix!” They clasped arms, then Starhemberg waved to the riderless horses beside him.
“The black’s yours, at least for now. We’re short of horses, heavy coats, and artillerymen who can aim properly. Mount up. And congratulations.”
“Thank you. Sounds as if things are normal, then.” István checked the black gelding as he sidled, then swung up into the saddle. His back spasmed but the pain passed as if it had never happened. The cavalry officers rode out of the crowd, through the streets of Jaroslau, and south, toward Przemysl.
“They are, more or less. I can’t go into detail, but you know we’ve driven the Russians back to the east?”
“Yes, outside the fortress perimeter was the last I had heard.” They could hear booms from artillery and István tried not to flinch. He’d gotten too used to the quiet of Kassa.
“Correct. We’re going to drive the bear back to his den. The Tsar’s uncle, Archduke Nikolas, has pulled half the generals back to Russia for some reason, probably to roast them for not capturing the fortress for Christmas, ours or theirs, like he promised the tsar.” Felix checked his grey horse as it tried to shy at something. “Quit that, beast,” he hissed. Once the animal subsided and they cleared other traffic, including two ambulance wagons and an overloaded supply wagon, he continued, “We’re pushing, Affenberg is blocking south of us, and Lemberg will be ours again by Easter.”
István crossed himself at his friend’s words. “God willing.”
Felix gave him an odd look, then grinned. “Becoming religious in your old age? I hear fatherhood will do that to a man.” He winked and nudged István, who nudged right back.
“You should know, you have girls in how many cities and towns now?”
“Only ten.” The soldier riding behind them made a choking sound and the two officers exchanged smiles. Felix sobered. “We lost Bathory, and Eggenberg’s been medically discharged.”
Damn. Only two of us left now? Dear Lord, keep us safe. “I’m sorry to hear that. Who is leading their men?”
“No one you’d know. Promotions are coming fast and thick, thanks to the Russians.” The bitter tone in Felix’s words matched István’s own feelings. “Although not as fast as the Russians are ‘enjoying.’ We captured thirty thousand of their men two weeks ago, driving them back to Gródek.”
“Gródek! That’s very good news.” István thought for a bit. “But we have to roust them from Lemberg, if they’ve left anything of it.”
“They have, or so the pilots say.” Felix shook his head. “I never thought I’d say this, but those damned airplane men do have a use in the army.”
“Besides scaring the horses and taking up otherwise lovely pastures? Words fail me, Major Starhemberg. Did you suffer a head wound?”
Felix gave him a rude hand sign. István answered in kind. After that they rode in companionable silence. As the kilometers passed, István’s back began troubling him more, and his right leg felt a touch weaker than it should. Well, he was just out of fighting condition was all. They’d been without horses for how long? Four months at least, now that he thought about it. He’d be back to his old self soon.
A very rude surprise awaited István when he and Felix reached the regimental headquarters, a sprawl of tents surrounding a rural estate house. István left his mount with a groom and climbed up the shallow steps, then went inside and followed the sound of voices to what had once been a rustic dining room or gathering room. Instead of Marbach, he found former Lt. Col. Scheele waiting. Now-Colonel Scheele answered several messages before beckoning for István to approach. “What are you doing here, Eszterházy?”
“Reporting for duty, sir.”
“You’re in the wrong place. And you should be wearing proper insignia for your rank, or did you not get that message either?”
“Ah, no, sir.” What’s going on? Was I demoted, or promoted and assigned to a different regiment?
Scheele took pity on him, or recognized István’s confusion. The bald man’s expression shifted to one of sympathy. “You are now Lt. Col. Eszterházy, and assigned to the 33rd Logistics and support battalion. We desperately need someone who understands cavalry and combat. Colonel Marbach made the recommendation shortly before he was killed.”
“Col. Marbach? What happened, sir?”
Scheele shook his head. “You are not going to believe it, because I didn’t. Still don’t, and I saw it happen. He was riding out almost a month ago. His horse panicked and threw him—broke his neck, died instantly.”
“You are correct sir. I cannot believe it.” Except that he could, all too easily—stupid accidents happened even in wartime, and as nervous a some of the newly-impressed horses were around the smells and sounds of the army, well, it was probably a sign of the Lord’s favor that they had not lost more men to riding accidents. “God rest his soul.” They both crossed themselves.
“Amen. So, stay the night, since there is no point in you trying to find the 33rd in the dark, Eszterházy, and I’ll send you out in the morning. Congratulations on your promotion.” Scheele extended one gloved hand.
“Thank you, sir,” István replied, taking the hand and shaking it without thought. He couldn’t think. Too much had hit him too fast, and all the news left him reeling. How could they? How could they send him back to the damn fodder and bullet battalion? He’d done everything he’d be
en ordered to, had not made any major mistakes that he could recall. Or was this his father’s doing? If Janos is behind this I will horsewhip him myself, father or not. He needed to be fighting, not sitting at a desk counting bales of hay.
He broke the news to Felix, who stared at him, slack-jawed. When he recovered, he fumed. “They what? How dare they? You’re an Eszterházy, will be Count Eszterházy. Your cousin is one of his majesty’s private councilors. This is an outrage, an insult.”
“I suspect, and this is only a suspicion, that my dear father’s fingers are on this. He was complaining about my returning to duty, tried to get me to resign for the good of the family.” István began to see a hint of red out of the corners of his eyes and took a deep breath. He did not need to startle Starhemberg’s new servant.
“It is a mistake. Must be a mistake, no matter what Col. Scheele says. After this long, the supply battalion knows exactly what we need, so saying that you . . . It is a mistake.” Felix glowered at the floor.
István thought hard at supper and after. He would report as ordered. And file a protest, as many as he had to, to get back to the cavalry. Supply and support was a job for people like his brother, who could not fight. István could, so he should be back on the front line. Period, end, no discussion, no dear father manipulating things. The House raised no protests to my returning to the front, so father has no right to, either.
István clenched the fists hidden beneath his desk and wondered what was worse: being assigned to supervise the fodder counters or losing his horse. Felix had not been exaggerating about the shortage of beasts. As soon as István had reported to the supply battalion’s headquarters, they’d sent his horse back to the regiment. “You won’t need it here, sir,” the major had informed him. “If you do, there’s a few spares for the use of couriers and inspectors, if we do not need them for the wagons.” So István had to walk everywhere in the deep spring mud. And now two-footed mud stood beside his desk, being simultaneously ingratiating and defensive.
“Your decision . . . sir?” Major Gregor Tisza’s smooth voice grated on István’s ear.
“My decision remains unchanged. The rifles and ammunition are to standard and pass the batch tests. I’m not sending them back or approving a return to Zbrojkova’s munitions. The last two shipments from Zbrojkova contained more empty rounds than does a case of blanks.”
Tisza’s expression shifted from bland inquiry to annoyance, then back between heartbeats, so quickly that István wondered if he’d really seen it. “I am certain that they have corrected that problem . . . sir, and that the next shipments will be satisfactory.” His odd-colored eyes met István’s, and István felt some kind of pressure, as if the man were unconsciously using a Gift.
“No. Sigurd von Olnitz’s rifles and ammunition have passed the tests. If you are so determined to force the army to use Zbrojkova, file papers for a contract change with the appropriate departments and committees, Tisza.” After all, that was how the other units had done it when Zbrojkova’s ammunition turned into such a waste of shipment boxes and brass. If István had not known better, he’d almost suspect that someone in the factory near Prague had decided to sabotage the war effort. And the Silesian company’s rifles seemed less prone to jam, despite the damn Galician sand—another reason to drop Zbrojkova.
“Yes . . . sir.” Tisza whisked the pages off István’s desk and disappeared.
As the weeks passed, István’s irritation with Tisza grew into fear. Not fear of the man, but a deep-rooted concern that Tisza was abusing his position in some way. Tisza always acted friendly, but a touch distant, laughing and joking, ingratiating but never quite stepping over the line with Col. Hausmann. István’s observations from the train proved correct: Tisza’s uniforms, all tailored, cost far more than his salary should have allowed. Not obviously so, István had to admit, but if you knew fine material, you’d recognize the Italian wool of the uniforms and heavy English wool of Tisza’s greatcoats. And he always had a cigar, or real cigarettes, and fine liquors available for a small sum, all with the proper stamps and import marks on them. According to a remark István overheard, Tisza even offered whiskey from Scotland and Ireland, items supposedly unavailable inside the British blockade.
Tisza balked when István raised questions about some of the supply contracts, such as the one from Zbrojkova Small Arms, fueling István’s suspicions even more. I know the army buys from the cheapest source available, but cheap has to be functional. Screams from the front lines about the failure rates of the Zbrojkova shells and bullets had sent István digging through the contracts, at least those he could find. To his dismay, Zbrojkova had not been the cheapest, adding insult to real injury. Nor had there been the usual notes about supporting Bohemian industry. No, István could see no reason why they should continue buying defective goods just because Major Gregor Tisza advocated their maker. Maybe he’s got family connections to them, and they are giving him a little allowance. Which would not be the first time it has happened. Even if Zbrojkova improved their quality, István trusted Silesian-made arms more, given the grumbles coming out of Prague and Karlsbad about Czech independence and the rumors about platoons of Czech soldiers surrendering to the Russians and offering to fight beside them “to free all Slavs from the Habsburg yoke.” István forced his hands to relax before they began to cramp. He could well be seeing shadows—connections between Tisza and Zbrojkova that existed only in his own mind.
As he waited for his transfer back to the cavalry to be approved, István gritted his teeth and did what he could. He had to admit, he was learning a great deal about feeding and furnishing an army. He’d known that horses ate and guns needed bullets, of course. Everyone did. But the scale of supplying tens of thousands of men and animals, and airplanes and motor-trucks, with food and fuel, clothes and tack, tents and other shelter, made his head ache. He also discovered the difficulties of ensuring that the right things reached the correct places at the right time—if not earlier—a facet of war that he’d managed to ignore until now. Of course, the enemy also had a say in everything, damn and blast it.
István’s mouth twisted as he skimmed over the latest list of Russian interruptions of the supply lines. Now that the Germans had finally gotten over their holiday hangovers and were moving again, they provided an additional shield over the Silesian factories and roads and rail lines. As a result it took less time to get goods to the front from Olnitz than from Prague, now that the Russians had been chased back almost to their border.
Which brought István back to the matter of Major Tisza. The man’s attitude bordered on outright defiance. Yes, he’d been in supply since before the war had started. István granted him that much: Gregor knew logistics very well, and had a knack for anticipating certain needs. But he skirted the edges of everything, at least that István could see. The custom uniforms, the little extras he picked up, the not-quite refusal to obey orders that he did not care for—all of it grated on István’s sense of right. But Tisza was not breaking any rules, was he?
A few days later Tisza answered István’s unspoken question. Col. Hausmann had called everyone in the top staff together to pass along the orders from army group headquarters. They gathered in what had been the sales room of a shop of some kind, the windows propped open to let in the air on the first warm, sunny day in a month. Col. Hausmann counted noses and began. “We are retaking Lemberg soon,” the gravel-voiced Jew informed them. He polished his glasses and put them back on. “Ideally, once the Russians are evicted from the citadel, we will push them all the way out of Galicia. Possibly out of Poland as well, but,” he raised one hand in a shrug. “That is not for us to worry about.”
Major Virchow rubbed his luxuriant red mustache. “I trust the high command does not hope to take Lemberg in less than a week, sir.”
Hausmann frowned. “I highly doubt it, Virchow, since the Russians have proven uninterested in cooperating thus far.” He lifted a stack of pages from the table beside him. “Corporal.” The order
ly took the stack and passed out everyone’s assignments. István took his and began reading, only a quarter of his attention—at most—on the men around him.
Then he felt it. Someone was manipulating outside thoughts, using a Gift without training. István pretended to keep reading as he glanced over at the other staff officers, trying to identify the person responsible. Not Hausmann, not Virchow—that much he knew instantly. He lowered his shields a fraction and listened with mind and ears both.
“Of course, I quite agree,” the quiet, smooth voice assured Major Andrade. “I would not want to interfere in any way. It just happens that my assignment appears to be a touch lighter, so I can help if you need anything.”
What is he—? István turned a page and watched as Andrade agreed with whatever it was that Tisza had suggested. There, now that he had the signature, István could feel Tisza pushing on Andrade as he spoke. As much as he loathed the behavior, the skill and subtlety he felt impressed István. Tisza seemed to use just enough energy to nudge his target in the right direction, not pushing, exactly, and not coercing, but between his words and his emotional nudges, Andrade came around to Tisza’s way. He’s good. Very good, and I don’t know if he’s even aware that he’s doing it. If not, he’s got he best untrained mind I’ve encountered.
But why was Tisza so interested in helping Andrade? István’s gut told him that the Hungarian major did not really have a lighter assignment. Was he just trying to be a good teammate? Maybe he’d already done background work while completing an earlier task, so his assignment would, indeed, be less demanding. István turned another page and told his suspicions to settle down for the moment. He had enough work to do without wading into someone else’s behavior.
The next day István found Tisza waiting when he returned to his desk from making a check of the outgoing fodder for the cavalry regiment. They’d had to start importing even more grain and hay because the war devoured everything in Galicia within a hundred kilometer radius of the army, or so it seemed to István. I wonder if anything green can grow, between the shells, the trenching, and the animals? The hay wasn’t the best he’d seen, but not the worst either, especially for mid-spring, and he’d passed everything. István stopped by the latrine on his way back, and as he walked by the window of the house now containing the staff offices, he saw motion. Who’s that? He slipped into hunting mode, stalking quietly down the hall and around a corner to his office door.
