Look to the Wolves

by Look to the Wolves (retail) (epub)

  The lieutenant stared at him. A tall, slim man with a trimmed black beard and wide moustache, small hooked nose. Glancing at Bob: then at Ibraim who was still flat out in his corner. Back to Corporal Fomin then, resignedly: ‘Which other stables, comrade?’

  A minute later, Bob pushed the doors shut behind them. The oil-lamp was still burning; Fomin had taken it from the lieutenant and hung it back on its hook. Schelokov, still blanketed, was walking down the line of boxes, peering in at each horse in turn. Coming back now. ‘Doesn’t seem to have disturbed them much. But two o’clock, for God’s sake…’

  Bob was pushing his straw together, prior to re-laying his blanket over it. ‘Thought we had trouble, for a moment.’

  ‘You took a while to wake up, I must say.’

  ‘Not as long as our tame Tartar.’ Ibraim had slept through all of it, hadn’t moved. ‘Did Fedorenko tell you what that lieutenant’s name was?’

  ‘Volodarski, I think. Yes – Yuri Volodarski. Why?’

  ‘Doesn’t have the manner of a Bolshevik, does he.’

  ‘Well – quite a few joined them who should know better.’

  ‘Anyone you knew?’

  ‘No – thank God…’ He’d remade his own straw bed. ‘You going to douse that lamp?’

  * * *

  Surprisingly, Volodarski paid a second visit to them at first light. They were stirring anyway by that time, had the lamp lit and were getting their gear together, on the point of going over to the kitchen to fetch their breakfast ration of tea and bread, when he pushed the doors open and came in, shutting them quickly against a blast of wind and snow. Bob had already ascertained that the weather wasn’t very much different from yesterday’s.

  ‘Comrade Sergeant Krotov?’

  Schelokov shut and latched one of the boxes, and came down the flagged passageway.

  ‘Yes, comrade Leitnant Volodarski.’

  ‘You know my name.’

  ‘Captain Fedorenko mentioned it, in the conversation I had with him.’

  The tall man nodded, put out his hand. In fact he wasn’t any taller than Bob, but his slimness made him look it. ‘Wanted to catch you before you left – to apologize for disturbing you last night. May have been a bit rude, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No bones broken, comrade leitnant.’

  ‘Well, good.’ A glance at Bob. ‘Good morning, comrade.’ He nodded to the Tartar, then turned back to Schelokov. ‘You’re heading towards Taganrog, I’m told.’

  ‘Yes. Did you come up on that route?’

  ‘No. Across country, from Debaltsevo. That’s more easterly from here, you want to go more directly south. But that’s the other thing. Corporal Fomin tells me you have no map and you’re worried about where to stop and get feed for your horses after this. I just want to suggest you ask for guidance from any patrols or formations you meet along your line of march. Bound to meet some – and they’ve all come from somewhere and have to be going somewhere – to state the obvious, but—’

  ‘Exactly how we heard of this place.’

  ‘There you are, then. Should be the answer to your problem all the way along. And as to the map – I’ve no spare, but if you want to make a copy of mine I’m sure Captain Fedorenko’d supply pen and paper – huh?’

  ‘Take me a week, comrade. But if I could just have a good look at it—’

  ‘Of course. Here.’ He moved closer to the oil-lamp. ‘Now – you see where we are now – here, this cross.’

  ‘Yes. Yes…’ Schelokov peered at the map. Narrowing his eyes in the poor light. Volodarski said, ‘Of course, if the railway was open through Debaltsevo – which it isn’t, I hasten to add – that’d be your easy way of getting down there. Two days’ ride to Debaltsevo, then sit back and enjoy it, eh?’

  ‘If our people had secured the line and Taganrog – or Korsun, even.’ Schelokov shrugged. ‘Not yet, eh?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. Good enough going to have taken Debaltsevo this soon, I’d say.’

  ‘Certainly. What well-handled cavalry can do, eh?’ He’d seen enough of the map. ‘Thank you, comrade.’

  ‘Nye za shto.’ Folding it carefully. ‘In point of fact there’s a very rum situation on the railway line at Debaltsevo. Well – to the north of it.’ He checked the time, on a wrist-watch. ‘Look, I must be off. Haven’t been to bed yet, d’you know that? And you want to be on your way.’ He stopped with his hand on the door. ‘This train, though – extraordinary. Stuck there – we’ve got it trapped, you see – full of foreigners. English pilots, no less – Royal Air Force, would you believe it? With their machines, what’s more, flying machines, on flat cars – just damn well sitting there!’

  19

  The horses were moving at an easy, steady canter, having no problems with the foot or so of soft snow overlying a hard-beaten base. Churning it up, though – more than fifty wide, powerful hooves throwing up a great wake of it to cloud away across virgin snowfield on their right. Snow was still falling too, but it was a thinner fall than yesterday’s and riding east they had it behind their left shoulders, with a visibility range ahead of several hundred yards.

  Bob asking himself – the question in his mind fairly constantly – whether this could be true, was possible… The same train – carrying the squadron’s ‘B’ Flight? Or whether it might be the other ‘A’ Flight, which was Scott’s. Sam Scott’s voice echoed in his memory, explaining in his patient way, The one we expect to find here at Kupyansk is “B” Flight, Kinkead’s. “A” Flight – to follow, if it does, seems unlikely now – is mine…

  It seemed even more unlikely now – that they’d have sent a second flight up when they hadn’t even deployed the first. Or at least hadn’t decided to at that stage. They’d been waiting for General Holman, and for their own CO – and of course for an engine to move the train… How long ago – a week? More – eight, nine days. And still only less than a day’s slow travel south from Kupyansk… Could have been that much delay, obviously: one hadn’t envisaged anything like it, that was all. And to have sent the other flight up that way would have been lunacy: the object at that time had been to get the train out before it was too damn late.

  Before, in fact, they got trapped. As it seemed they had.

  Two days’ ride to Debaltsevo, Volodarski had reckoned when he’d first mentioned the railway – as a potential means of transporting the horses south, once the lines were open, etcetera. But they were aiming to make it in one day, not two. You wouldn’t cover that distance in the daylight hours, obviously but it might be better anyway to get there after dark. Undoubtedly the horses were going to suffer: although in theory each rider could change mounts twice. So that if the journey took fifteen hours, say, no single horse would actually carry a man’s weight for more than five hours.

  Any that went lame along the way you’d turn loose. The fewer the better because the pretext would be that you’d come to entrain them for Korsun – or Pokrovsk even. Having been given to understand – Schelokov would say – that the railway was functioning and that whole area was in ‘our’ hands by this time.

  * * *

  Volodarski had walked over to the house with them, when they’d gone for their bread and tea. He’d been on his way there in any case, for a cock-crow call on Captain Fedorenko, and Bob – sore and stiff, trying not to hobble – had asked him why the train with the airmen and their flying machines was being allowed to ‘sit there’, as he’d said it was. Why not storm it, pull the bastards off and shoot them?

  The lieutenant had grinned at Schelokov. ‘Fire-eater you’ve got here!’

  ‘Same question’s been in my own mind, though, comrade leitnant. Been flying in support of the counter-revolutionaries, haven’t they, those foreigners?’

  ‘Well, they have, you’re right. But it’s in our own interests to act with caution. As it was explained to me, certain negotiations are in progress. You see, there’s good reason to believe that all the English forces – “military missions”, they call them – are in pro
cess of being withdrawn. Including those aviators, of course. Well, obviously we don’t want to provoke any change of heart. Clearly an option would be to storm the train, shoot them or take them prisoner. But it’d raise a storm in England – might even result in larger forces being sent, in reprisal. There’d be no legality in that but – could happen… So the position is – or was, when I was there – we’d told them that if they off-loaded their flying machines, secondly handed over any Russians who are with them, and thirdly gave their word to clear out of our country and not come back, then we’d allow the train to proceed. It’d be to our advantage, you see – we’d get them off our hands, and we’d have those machines.’

  ‘But if they’re still there – or were, as you say – seems they can’t be accepting the terms. So – excuse me, comrade leitnant, I still don’t see—’

  ‘Why we don’t storm the train and take the machines for ourselves anyway.’ Volodarski’s tone had been that of a man exercising patience. ‘As I explained – we’d sooner avoid an incident that could be used as an excuse for – further interference. As I also mentioned, negotiations are in progress. At the time I left – midday of the day before yesterday – one of our leaders was said to be on his way from Moscow to take charge on the spot.’ The lieutenant had stopped, and pointed at the back of the house. ‘Small door there. Oh, you know, of course… So – I wish you a good journey south, comrades, and may you be among the first into Taganrog.’

  Bob had murmured as they went on towards the kitchen, ‘This is a bombshell. To put it mildly. If we could get to that train—’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘Think he was telling the truth?’

  ‘Hardly invent it, would he?’

  ‘It’s just so – incredible… And why’s he so damn friendly?’

  ‘Smarmy is the word I’d use. I’d guess because he’s a fish out of water – as you noticed yourself. Also hedging his bets. Sergeants have been known to become colonels overnight, in this rabble.’

  ‘So we believe it about the train. And if we could get to it, Boris Vasil’ich—’

  ‘Let’s get to the rations first.’

  They’d collected Ibraim’s as well as their own. Bob acting like an automaton, his thoughts centred on that train. Visualizing it standing there – as if it was waiting for them…

  Outside, on their own again, he’d looked at Schelokov.

  ‘Debaltsevo?’

  A wag of the grizzled head. ‘Better give it a little thought, Robert Aleksandr’ich…’

  They’d discussed the various angles, for and against. The big attraction in it, obviously, was that in opting for it you’d shed that rather frightening problem of the distance to Taganrog, the time it would take to get there and the fact it might fall to the Bolsheviks within days. When the train did move south, according to Volodarski’s account it would be doing so as an outcome of current negotiations, would in fact have a laissez passer from the Bolshevik hierarchy. So it would get through – whoever held Taganrog or, for that matter, any other place. The train would get through, and you could bet that three men on horses probably would not.

  It didn’t seem likely that the RAF on the train would agree to hand over any Russian personnel they had with them. This had worried Schelokov, to some extent – on his own account and Ibraim’s. Bob pointed out that if some commissar was on his way down there to conduct negotiations, it followed that the terms were negotiable; and he thought that Kinkead – or Collishaw, whom he hadn’t met but would be the same sort of man – would be much more likely to agree to off-load aeroplanes – perhaps with vital components missing – than to hand over Russian friends, knowing they’d have either a bullet or a rope waiting for them.

  An argument against trying for the train was that conceivably it mightn’t get away at all – if the negotiations foundered, and eventually the Reds did storm it. But this seemed very unlikely too. The Bolshevik leadership would not want to provoke warlike reactions in Britain. Especially at this stage, with complete withdrawal very much on the cards. Why foul that up? Political attitudes at home were ambivalent, and Trotsky, Lenin and company surely must know it.

  ‘Another point, Boris Vasil’ich, is we’ve no idea what may be happening behind us by this time. Whether the Cheka may have worked out what transpired up there. I’d guess it won’t be many days before they set the dogs on our trail.’

  Schelokov had nodded. ‘I agree. It’s been worrying me too. So happens there’s been nothing we could do except keep going.’

  ‘But now there is.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose…’

  * * *

  They’d crossed one railway line yesterday and had another to cross today. In early afternoon, probably. Yesterday’s had been a line directly south from Kharkov leading to Ekaterinoslav or thereabouts, and today’s was also from Kharkov but running south-east – it joined the line which came down through Kupyansk at a point well south of Debaltsevo. One had to approach any railway line with caution, not knowing for sure whether the Reds might have brought it back into use and be sending troop trains or armoured trains down it. It wouldn’t have been operational even as recently as yesterday – or Volodarski would have mentioned it – but things were changing fast and they’d be exerting every effort to get their ‘iron roads’ into commission as soon as they could. Particularly when the land was snowbound as it was now, so that without the railways the only possible large-scale movements were by cavalry. This line might have been out of action for quite a while – blown up, probably, somewhere or other. But it could be in use again now, and in any case railway lines were as often as not patrolled. That was the point: one could probably bluff one’s way through all right, but one wasn’t looking for delays of any kind, or confrontations that could be avoided. As Schelokov had put it, any long run of good luck had to come to an end eventually.

  He’d made this somewhat obvious statement a few hours ago, in the course of a discussion as to what they’d do if they found the train had left before they could get to it. It was a frightening contingency, which one might have to face with a bunch of knocked-up horses in tow and no known refuge anywhere. But he’d also been speaking in general terms, and Bob’s answer had been that he didn’t think they’d had more than a reasonable share of luck this far anyway. It wasn’t luck to be handier with a rifle than the opposition was, or to set a scene for an ambush so the odds would be heavily in your own favour. Not to have been caught napping by the team with the lorry – that had been luck, and so had stumbling on to the wretched Maltsev. But being caught at Irina’s camp – nothing lucky there. Getting out of the stable – it had been luck that there’d been a physical way out, the loose planking, and that their captors had been as slack as they had been, but it hadn’t been luck to have taken immediate advantage of those factors.

  He’d called – shouting over the drumming of the horses’ hooves – ‘Mistake to confuse good luck with initiative, Boris Vasil’ich!’

  A sideways grin… Schelokov had started the day on the chestnut that was his favourite, and looked relaxed, comfortable in the rhythm of the canter. Shouting back, ‘Also a mistake to pay ourselves compliments too soon, Robert Aleksandr’ich!’

  * * *

  They changed horses when they reached the railway line, having been in the saddle then for five hours. Schelokov and Ibraim had carried out a quick examination of the horses, and pronounced them sound.

  ‘Luck’s holding – this far. But they’re tiring – and that compounds itself, you know?’

  One-third of the way, roughly, at that stage.

  There’d been no trains on the line; the rails themselves were snow-covered. No signs of patrolling either. They’d walked the horses for a spell, while choosing a point of departure where a track from a crossing pointed more or less in the right direction. Schelokov was navigating with the help of his pocket compass. And starting off again – in a mood of affability, pleased at the way the horses had been holding up this far – he demons
trated how to put a horse directly from a walk into a canter, without its having to progress through a trot. It was a matter of watching (or feeling, when you’d learnt how to do it) the fall of the animal’s feet. When the offside rear leg was coming forward, you put your weight down on that side just as the hoof was about to touch the ground; the horse went down on to that leg and, willy-nilly, straight into the cantering action.

  ‘Simple, eh?’

  He’d done it at the first attempt. ‘Any other little tricks?’

  ‘Dozens. These swords we’re wearing, for instance—’

  ‘That’s something I’ve meant to ask. I thought cavalrymen had sabres – curved things, not—’

  ‘Some do. More usually officers and NCOs – in most regiments, invariably officers in full fig, parade kit. But it depends. There are uhlan and dragoon regiments as well as hussars, for instance. And Cossacks, with different traditions again. As for us – my God, but we looked smart, Bob! You should’ve seen us…’

  Reminiscences flowed, then – in a shout, the only way one could communicate – as the white miles rolled under them. About his cavalry school, for instance, where bookwork was minimal, the achievement of very low marks in any written or technical tests virtually de rigueur, and in his own famous, unnamed regiment, duty officers smuggling the ladies of the town in for night-time entertainment.

  ‘You’d have to do something, I suppose. Seeing as you weren’t allowed to marry under the age of sixty?’

  ‘Usually a little earlier than that. But one achieved it, of course, by ensuring that one did not become involved with women of the kind one might have married.’

  ‘Reserved yourselves exclusively for the tarts, eh?’

  A frown: ‘I’d say, for the courtesans. The demi-monde.’

  ‘Ah. I beg their pardon.’

  ‘As I believe I mentioned—’ the brief smile was ironic – ’we were an extremely exclusive regiment.’