by Ashton, Hugh
“I can certainly do that, but I have another suggestion. There’s another armoured train joining us here. I want to test the Zaamurets against this more conventional type of train. I believe that the greater mobility of the Zaamurets will compensate for its relative lack of firepower.”
Brian coughed. “Excuse me, but sir, I couldn’t help noticing that the guns in the Zaamurets appeared to be made of wood.”
Petrov nodded sadly. “That is true. They were indeed wooden replicas. However, they have now been replaced with the real thing. The armourers have been working since we arrived.”
Harry raised his eyebrows.
“Why? you are asking, I believe,” Petrov continued. “The reason is painfully simple, I’m afraid. We don’t have enough machine-guns to go round, and we Russians are not a very honest race sometimes, even in the army. If we left the Zaamurets unattended with the guns in place, we would find nothing in the gun ports when we returned. We keep the guns here at the proving ground, under lock and key.”
“What sort of tests will you be conducting today?” asked Brian.
“A very simple one,” replied Petrov. “Timed target practice for the machine-guns and the artillery pieces. Each train will start along the straight test track at a set speed, and as soon as the targets pop up, the train must do whatever it needs to do – slow down, stop, whatever, to fire at them. The targets will be between 200 and 500 metres away, and will appear for exactly two minutes. We will count the number of shots fired, and the proportion that actually hit the target.”
“There is obviously some reason for this?”
“Of course – I believe that the lighter, faster Zaamurets has more of a future in the Imperial Army than the slower, more expensive and somewhat cumbersome conventional armoured trains. It presents a smaller target to the enemy, creates less wear on the track bed, it’s more flexible and cheaper, of course, and is more easily controlled by a central commander. Of course, there are others who believe that the thickness of the armour and the weight of the firepower are more important considerations. The only way to settle the argument is by a practical application of the devices, don’t you feel?”
“There might be a use for both types of train, though, sir? Different circumstances may demand different weapons,” suggested Harry. “After all, you don’t build a navy simply out of dreadnoughts. There is room for battle cruisers, and light cruisers, and destroyers and torpedo boats in a fleet, as well as the battleships.”
“Of course you are right, Lieutenant. This is why we describe the Zaamurets as a ‘rail cruiser’. The more conventional type of train is a battleship. But there are those who argue that there is no room even for a cruiser in this war. I want to prove that they are wrong.”
“He’s got a bee in his bonnet about this sort of thing,” Brian said to Harry after Petrov had left them to make some further arrangements for the afternoon.
“I wish some of the senior officers in our army were the same way,” said Harry. “The things he’s worrying about are all things we should be thinking about in the British Army. It’s a crying shame the way our lads are stuck in the mud, with no way of moving. I’m not saying that this rail cruiser thing is the answer, or that this Netopyr, whatever it turns out to be like, is the way to win a war, but Petrov seems to be thinking about new ideas, at least. It’s what our generals should be doing, instead of all ordering these mad charges against machine-guns and barbed wire.”
“You’re right there, Harry. But while you have officers like Wobbler Wilkins in charge, I don’t see any changes happening soon. And the cavalry are worse. They’re not going to give up their smart uniforms and all the horsey business to become mechanics. You’d have to start a special section of the Army to make all these new machines work properly.”
Petrov returned. “Let’s be off and see the Zaamurets in action, if you’re both ready to go.”
“I’d like to see it from the inside, sir, if you don’t mind,” said Harry.
“And why not?” smiled Petrov. “That sounds like an excellent idea. I’m only a little worried that you don’t speak Russian.”
“In which case, may I also request that I see the exercise from the inside of the Zaamurets?” requested Brian.
“Excellent. I’ll be happy to have a report from you on what it’s like inside when the cruiser is in action. Maria and I will be observing from the outside.”
-oOo-
The hiding place that Kolinski had found for himself in the armoured train was none too comfortable, as he discovered while waiting for the crew to arrive. However, he could find nowhere more suitable, and he was forced to remain, cramped and uncomfortable, in the main gun turret of the front car.
After about thirty minutes, he could hear noises from the locomotive as coal was shovelled into the firebox, and pipes hissing as the steam pressure built up. There was a slight vibration from the pent-up power of the locomotive, which he would normally never have noticed, but in the otherwise silent metal tomb of the armoured car it was disturbing, and his head rattled gently against the steel of the turret. A blast from the locomotive’s whistle startled him and made him jump, banging his head painfully. He swore to himself, but not too loudly, and settled down again. Noises from the rear of the train told him that the train crew were boarding. He hoped that it would be only a skeleton crew, and that the front carriage would remain unoccupied, as it seemed to him that he would never be able to straighten his limbs again if he had to remain in the turret for very much longer. On top of everything else, he felt a need to urinate, and there was no way that he could do that if the carriage was occupied.
Whatever luck he had been enjoying up to this point now deserted him, as the carriage filled up with a noisy crowd of soldiers. He could see nothing from his perch high in the turret, and he doubted whether they could see anything of him, but he still drew his legs up higher to keep them out of sight, though the cramp became worse, and the position put extra pressure on his bladder.
The sound of the soldiers’ chatter continued, and the smell of smoke from coarse tobacco filled his nostrils, which he had to pinch to avoid sneezing. He heard a rattle and a clatter from in front of the carriage, and a lurch as the train started, nearly throwing him off his perch. There were a few cries from the soldiers below, who had obviously likewise been caught off balance, and then another sudden jerk as the train stopped again.
“It’s Major Strepkin, I bet,” came a voice from below him. “Probably forgotten his scent bottle or his lace hankies.”
There was laughter, and another high-pitched effeminate voice. “Now, my good men, I want you all to behave yourselves properly and listen to me,” it said, presumably parodying the unfortunate Major Strepkin. More laughter.
“Time for a drink,” called out another voice.
“What have you got, Volodya?”
“The usual. Want some?”
Kolinski now heard the sounds of a cork being drawn and a bottle being passed round with healthy sighs of appreciation. The sound of gurgling liquid put an extra psychological pressure to his bladder, and he started to become desperate. He looked around frantically, and noticed a steel helmet on a shelf just below his feet. It would do, if he could manage to retrieve it without being seen by the men below. Would it be possible? he asked himself.
Just then, the train jerked into movement again, this time without stopping. It was noisy up in the turret, and also uncomfortable, with smoke and ashes from the locomotive’s boiler blowing in through the gun mounting, irritating his eyes, and making his nose itch. A change in the noises from below. Leaning forward, he could just make out what was going on. A pot of soup and some bread had appeared, and the soldiers were crowding round, dipping their mess tins into the pot and arguing with each other about the bread. Quickly he reached down, straining a muscle in his back, and picked up the helmet. It was then the work of a moment to unbutton himself, and a sense of relief filled him as the helmet filled in its turn.
N
ow he was faced with another problem, but not for long. There was an observation hatch at the rear of the turret, and he undogged it, emptying the contents of the helmet out of the hatch to be carried away by the slipstream of the train. He decided not to refasten the hatch, allowing the coal smoke from the engine to escape from the cramped turret, and rested the helmet on his lap, not daring to put it back where he had found it.
After a little while, the noises of eating ceased, and the smell of cigarette smoke again assaulted his nostrils, but this time, with the ventilation from the open hatch, the urge to sneeze was nowhere near as strong as it had been earlier.
The journey went slowly, and the pain in his cramped limbs turned imperceptibly to a dull ache, which he ceased to notice after a while. He knew, from similar experiences in the past, that his arms and legs would be in agony for some time after he emerged from his hiding place, and that he would be unable to move quickly, or indeed, do anything which required any physical exertion for at least ten minutes. There was no chance of a sudden spring down from his perch to overpower the soldiers below, even if that had ever been a possibility.
His chance came after what seemed like half a day after the train had started, but was in reality probably closer to a couple of hours. The soldiers below were dozing or resting; at any event, there was no sound of conversation coming from below, and he fancied he could hear snoring from time to time, but he had no way of knowing if they were all asleep, so he dared not move.
The noise of the train seemed quieter than it had done when they had first started off, so he could hear the metal door to the car opening and a new voice shouting.
“All right, you load of peasant swine! On your feet! I’ll teach you to sleep on duty, you pigs.” There was the sound of a blow, and a cry. “We’ll be taking part in a live fire exercise against the Zaamurets, and the Colonel is expecting you all to do better than last time. All of you, on the double. To the command car where the Colonel will give you all your orders. On your way, scum.” More blows, more cries, and then blessed silence. Kolinski uncurled his cramped legs, and almost screamed with the agony as the circulation crept back into them while he dangled his feet below him. His arms were not in quite as bad a state, but they still pained him as he used them to massage his thighs and calves. Since the NCO had talked about a live fire exercise, it was pretty clear that his turret would not be a suitable place for him to continue hiding. He had to find somewhere else. Come to that, the corpse of the railwayman that he had stuffed into the ammunition locker would probably also be discovered soon, but he wasn’t so worried about that. No-one would be looking for the killer on the train itself, he was pretty sure.
He noticed a roof hatch that he could reach if he climbed a short ladder. The catch was stiff, but he managed to open it after some effort, and climbed onto the roof of the moving train, closing the hatch behind him. Although the roof was smooth metal with little to hold onto, he managed to get some sort of a grip on the hatchway from which he had just emerged.
Worse, though, was the fact that he would be in plain view of the main turret’s still open rear observation hatch, not to mention the clear view from the two machine-gun cupolas behind him. And if he looked back, he saw that he was exposed to the field of fire of most of the train’s gun turrets.
God damn it all to hell, he was going to have to find some way to hide or get off the train before the turrets were manned.
Thinking about it a bit more, he relaxed a little, realising he was actually quite safe. The big guns couldn’t fire at him at this short range, and they wouldn’t dare use explosive shells. The turreted machine-guns wouldn’t dare fire at him, either, for fear of hitting the locomotive or the main gun turret, and if he kept his weight on the hatch, there was no way that anyone could come from there. The only possible danger was if any soldier could be persuaded to go out onto the roof of another car and make his way to meet Kolinski face to face. He decided to close the turret observation hatch, all the same. No point in courting fate unnecessarily, he told himself.
He had just returned to his position on top of the hatch, with some difficulty, as the train was going over a series of points, making the car rattle and jerk, when he noticed with horror that the main gun turret was now turning to left and right. Although he could not now be seen from that turret unless it turned round to face the rear, it showed the turret was now manned. Someone would discover the damp and probably smelly helmet that he had left there. Even worse, he realised, was the fact that the machine-gun turrets behind him would probably be manned by now.
He stole a look behind him, and saw faces peering out of the observation slits in both cupolas. As he watched, there was a puff of smoke and a bang which he could hear clearly over the noise of the train, and a bullet whanged off the roof of the train, only about thirty centimetres from his nose. Too close for comfort, he told himself. Although he was probably right in assuming that they wouldn’t use the machine-guns against him, there was still the risk that there was an officer with a pistol in the turret, or worse, a Siberian sharpshooter with a rifle, waiting for the opportunity to finish him off with a single well-aimed bullet.
He carefully slithered over to the side of the car, clinging as best he could to the rivets forming the only protrusions on the roof. Several times he nearly lost his grip and slipped off as more bullets sped past him, one actually passing through the sleeve of his coat. He flattened himself still further against the roof, but a few more bullets cracked past him, another parting his hair as he gripped the rivets as tightly as possible, and reached the edge of the car. He swung his legs over the side, using his finger ends to hang on to the shallow lip formed by the armour plates bolted to the side. He was now dangling from the edge of the car, his legs swinging against the side as the train rolled and rattled its way along the track. He swayed his way, hand over hand, towards the locomotive, until he could drop onto the platform between the tender and the front car. With a sigh of relief, he massaged his aching arms, and prayed that he was now safe, at least for the moment.
Almost for the first time, he looked around at the scenery, noticing that the train was passing through a birch forest. There was no sign of human habitation other than the railway, and he wondered how far the train was from its destination. He didn't have long to wait. Within a few minutes, he could hear the squeal of the brakes as the train started to slow down. Kolinski craned his head and saw a high wire fence running through the forest, and gates blocking the train's path. Obviously the train was required to stop, and if there were guards and soldiers at the checkpoint as well as the train's crew, this spelt trouble. Once again this journey, he was going to have to jump from a moving train. Luckily, the ground on either side of the track appeared to be soft, and the train, which had been running along a slight embankment, was now on the level of the surrounding ground, so there appeared to be no danger, as long as he jumped well clear of the track.
He landed on soft ground, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on a birch tree, and rolled into a shallow ditch as the train rattled past him, slowing to a stop as the locomotive reached the gates. As the train stopped, several men jumped out of the command cars, and rushed forward to the car from which he had just jumped, brandishing guns. One of them ran forward to the gates, and started talking to the sentries. A blast from a whistle, and about twenty armed men spilled out of a guardhouse beside the gates. He had to move fast to avoid being spotted, but there seemed to be no way to move without exposing himself to the view of the guards and the train crew. Now he could see figures on the roof of the train, scanning the surrounding forest with binoculars, adding to his problems. If he didn’t move fast, all would be lost, and there was little hope of his ever reaching the Netopyr and either acquiring it for the Revolution or disabling it.
His only hope, strange as it seemed, was to get closer to the gates and the fence. The soldiers had been concentrating on searching the train and the immediately surrounding area, but were now spreading out, away f
rom the gates, leaving only a couple of sentries there. So all he had to do…
He crept as low and as quietly as possible towards the gate, picking up a handful of large stones on the way, and stuffing them into his pocket. When he was only about five meters from the gate, behind a screen of vegetation, he was still unobserved by the sentries. He pulled the stones out of his pocket and lined them up in front of him as silently as he could. He aimed the first stone at a post about ten meters away from him on the other side of the gate, and it hit the post with a satisfying thunk, dropping to the ground, and rolling away noisily. Both sentries immediately turned towards the sound, presenting their backs to Kolinski. He threw the next stone, a little further this time, and the sentries moved away from the gate to investigate. A third well-aimed stone, and they called to the other soldiers that they had the fugitive cornered. Kolinski grinned to himself, and continued throwing the rest of the stones in a pattern that led the sentries away from the gate and drew the rest of the soldiers in that direction. A quick look round, and Kolinski slipped out of his hiding-place towards the gate. He could see no-one outside the guardhouse or in the sentry boxes, and made his way through the gate, crouching almost double as he passed the windows.
He had just reached the edge of the woods on the far side of the fence when a volley of shots rang out, and bullets cracked past him. He was grateful for the low standard of marksmanship in the Imperial Army, but soon realised after the second volley that he couldn’t escape for long. One bullet actually hit his boot. The shock threw him to the ground, and he picked himself up, noticing as he stood that the heel had been removed by this fluke shot. No time to stop and pick up either the heel or the gold in it, though, he thought. He ran clumsily, on account of the unevenness of his boots, into the cover of the woods, and moved behind the cover of a large tree trunk to protect him from the bullets of his pursuers. He noticed the tree’s branches were arranged almost like a ladder, and it occurred to him that if he were to climb the tree and lie full-length along one of the thicker branches, it was unlikely that anyone would spot him.
