Whimpering…
It was the only sound, other than men’s hard breathing. One’s own included – gasps almost like sobs. The screaming must have finished very suddenly: he hadn’t noticed the actual cessation. Well – two or three seconds could have passed since it had ceased, and now there was only this whimpering – which could have been a child’s. A soft impact, then, and it stopped. Ibraim straightening – at the far end of the wagon, where the snipers would have been – wiping the blade of his knife on the other sleeve. His sword was in that hand, and the knife in his right. Beyond him one rifle was still propped with its barrel out through one of the loopholes, and the other was clutched in the arms of a boy who’d been decapitated. Ibraim sliding his sword into its scabbard – left-handed with the knife still in the other hand. He had blood all over him: slitted eyes shifting around – looking for movements, obviously – but his face as mask-like as ever, utterly without expression. Schelokov said, panting, ‘There were seven of them. Seven, for God’s sake.’ He’d been well blooded too. Staring at Bob now: ‘Well. Earned your butcher’s apron, by the look of it.’
* * *
The essential was to move fast. Move now.
Nothing on the outside looked any different. Peering out through the loopholes the snipers had used, one saw the floodlighting around the train down there exactly as it had been – no change, and no movement anywhere.
Seemed – uncanny. As if there should have been some sort of reaction to so much noise. Even though it had lasted hardly any time at all.
Schelokov had just suggested – having his problems, Bob guessed, in getting his thoughts together – ‘Might even get the train moving out tonight – possibly? Need to shift this one, obviously, but – look, your friends’ train might push it, shunt it off somehow?’
‘They won’t have steam up on that engine, Boris Vasil’ich. Any more than this one has. Take an hour or two to raise steam, I imagine. Might, I suppose – but there again—’
‘Let’s get over to it, anyway. Before we get other visitors here.’
He was right – others might come. Change of watch, or a commander checking – whatever… But this business of the transit from here to the other train was a major problem now. Schelokov was convinced that the spotlight would blind those snipers to movements between here and the RAF train’s engine, while Bob felt equally certain that to appear even for a moment out there would be suicidal.
Against the spotlight’s dazzle, he thought, you’d show up like a cut-out target on a shooting range.
‘So what’s your alternative?’
‘Don’t have one. At least, nothing that wouldn’t tell them they’ve got trouble – like as not provoke an attack on the train. Incidentally, the armoured train your friend said they’ve got standing by at the station – that’s the real menace, isn’t it? What you just said about moving the RAF train doesn’t take account of it either.’
‘So what’s this idea you have that might provoke attack?’
‘If we shot those trucks’ lights out before we started. We’ve got snipers’ rifles here—’
‘My God, yes…’
Staring at each other. Both about half alive, still, among the litter of those who weren’t, and the sickening blood smell. The simple truth being that you’d be dead if you did not keep going, and thinking sanely. Sanely enough at least to know you did want to remain alive – which only a few days ago had seemed at least questionable…
Schelokov, he thought again, might not have been as clear-headed as usual, at this stage: he was certainly grasping at this straw… ‘You’re right, Bob! Shoot out the headlamps, and switch this one off…’ Glancing up to where cables looped around a corner stanchion led from a stack of motor batteries to a trapdoor in the roof at that end. Access to the spotlight, obviously. Schelokov frowned – the sight of those wires giving him another thought – ‘You’d think they’d have rigged a field telephone between here and the other posts, wouldn’t you?’
‘Probably don’t have any. But – Boris Vasil’ich – wait a minute…’
There was a stepladder propped against the wall near the batteries. He’d looked for one, after seeing that hatchway and the cables, realizing there did have to be some means of access. Stepping over the young sniper’s headless body, he pulled the ladder out to set it under the hatch: Schelokov murmuring ‘Hold on’, stooping to take hold of a booted leg and pull that one aside. The deck was slippery, you had to be careful. ‘There you are. But what’s this for?’
‘The light should be adjustable. Solve our problem, if it is.’ He stopped on the ladder to push the hatch up, then went up another step, and another, until he could get his head into the hatchway and his arms out through it. Head and shoulders out – right out in cold, clean air – a blessing in itself after the charnel-house stink inside. He was looking down the beam, with the falling snow drifting through it from right to left, at an end-on view of the RAF train’s engine. A wisp that could have been smoke – but wasn’t, must have been either imagination or – refraction, the light playing tricks. But the whole front of that engine was illuminated, from its snowplough upward: and with any luck, a very small adjustment would make all the difference. At least, enough difference.
It had to be adjustable…
It was. Even without loosening the hexagonal knob which he found on the side of the casing. A slight squeak came from its bearings as he applied firm but cautious pressure upward. The beam lifted: it was still centred on the engine, but higher than it had been. The lowest two or three feet of the engine, and its snowplough, were now in darkness. You could crawl out now under that silver beam.
* * *
The watch on duty in the engine’s cab from midnight to 0400 consisted of Flight Sergeant Hodges with Airmen Price and Peabody, and one of the Russian civilian railwaymen whom they all called Ivan. Watches had been maintained on the footplate day and night since they’d been trapped here, as a precaution against any attempts to remove the engine and also in order to keep the boiler fire alight. This was the Russian’s job. Economy with fuel was obviously essential, but by keeping a low fire going you’d be able to raise steam quickly when, or if, the need or opportunity arose. When there was some breakthrough in the present stalemate, for instance. If the bastards decided suddenly they’d had enough, the thing would be to move out quick before they changed their minds.
‘Wouldn’t lean out too far, lad, if I was you.’
Peabody pulled his head and shoulders back in over the edge. He was well muffled against the cold, with a wool scarf filling all the gaps between his greatcoat collar and the RAF cap, and gloves on the hands that grasped his Lee-Enfield. He was taking his turn as lookout, Hodges and Price inside the cab taking advantage of the warmth from the furnace.
He told them, ‘Shifted the light, those buggers have. Shinin’ right up, now. Wasn’t before, was it?’
Hodges took his pipe out of his mouth, and growled, ‘Somethin’ to do with all the hollerin’ and yellin’ we heard, p’haps.’
Peabody glanced at him, shrugged, looked upward again. ‘Over the top now, see?’ The beam caught the falling snow in it: snow-crystals glittering in the brilliance… None of it settled in or on the cab, because of the warmth from the furnace. Hodges said, ‘Be annoying the customers on the ’illside, I dare say.’
‘Wouldn’t show that far, I reckon…’ Peabody looked to his left: ‘Hah. Workers of the world on the bleeding march again, lads.’ He watched Ivan coming from the tender, bringing one large shovelful of coal to throw into the furnace and keep it going. Hodges and Price had to move out of the way for this.
Peabody, gazing back towards the lights on the parked lorries, began to sing Why are we waiting. Ivan hooked open the left-hand furnace door and slung the coal in, landing it exactly where he wanted it. Straightening, he pushed the iron door shut with the shovel and told Peabody in English, ‘Russian peoples also sing. But now, sad songs only.’
‘Wouldn’t say t
hat was a jolly one, exactly.’
‘Sing us one o’ yours then, Ivan old cock!’
Price joined in: ‘Yeah! What about Ochie What’sit?’
A voice called – out of nowhere – ‘You – in the train – d’you hear me up there?’
‘Gawd, what the ’ell—’
‘Shurrup, Pea-brain! Listen!’
Silence. A long way off, wolves were howling. Ivan’s hand moved as if to cross himself, stopped as Hodges asked, looking round at their startled faces, ‘Who’s the ventriloquist, then?’
‘I suppose I am.’ A man’s head and shoulders were materializing in the space between the engine and the tender, expanding upwards beside the steel plate that bridged the coupling. Lifting his hands as a rifle-barrel swung towards him… ‘Don’t shoot – d’you mind? I’m British – my name’s Cowan. Lieutenant-Commander – Navy… Look – is Major Scott still with you? He knows me, d’you see…’
* * *
‘Really is you inside there?’
Scott’s brown eyes quizzed him from the seat opposite the one he’d flopped down on. He added, ‘Thought I was dreaming when he told me. You real, Cowan?’ Scott had only minutes ago been woken out of sleep, and showed it, but was in other respects immaculate. Moustache neatly clipped: Sam Browne and buttons gleaming in the oil-lamp’s glow. Vaguely shaming – if one had cared – given a damn for anything at that moment except for having got here, achieved the miracle. Although even now – well, only as far as that miracle went. It had been like this all the way along: you scraped through one crisis, and more or less immediately faced the next… Scott glancing at Schelokov – grey beard, bloodshot eyes – then at the Tartar who’d hunkered down in the corridor, from where he could watch them both with that dog-like, wooden-faced persistence, through the open doorway. On their way through into this passenger coach Bob had stopped to remove his swordbelt and sword, then the filthy, blood-splashed greatcoat – after extracting the Webley pistol and spare magazine from its pocket; he’d dropped them in a heap and told the young pilot whom Scott had sent to fetch them – lieutenant, name of Beasley – ‘Might tell them to burn that.’ Throwing his Red Army cap on top of it: ‘And that. Go in the furnace, couldn’t it?’ The others had followed his lead, shedding their coats and caps, but retained their swords. Ibraim had been additionally burdened with half a dozen rifles which they’d brought from the other train, thinking they might have been needed here. Bob had added as he’d shambled on, ‘Burn every damn stitch, when I’ve stripped.’ He’d known by then about the furnace being alight, having seen its glow through a small glass peephole in the iron door while they’d been waiting, and asked the airmen about it – before Beasley had arrived, stammering ‘Commander Cowan – sir? Major Scott’s compliments – oh—’
He was duty officer, had been sent by Sam Scott while he, Scott, was in the process of turning out, and he’d noticed Schelokov, then, not having been aware that there were any others besides Bob. Bob had introduced them – Major Boris Schelokov, late of the Imperial Russian Cavalry, and Ibraim as his batman.
They stank: and were as much aware of it as these people whom they could see reacting to it. But at least having dumped their coats they weren’t so noticeably blood-spattered.
In the compartment, Bob stripped off the tunic which he’d taken from one of the cavalrymen at the Valki farmstead, threw it out into the corridor. Tea was being prepared for them, and some kind of food – supper being reheated probably. Scott murmured – he seemed uncharacteristically stumped for words, poor fellow – ‘Been through it a bit, haven’t you?’
‘A bit.’ He nodded. ‘But listen – isn’t time for chat, now. I know we’re filthy, we stink – fix all this later, tell you about it – later…’ Words weren’t coming easily to him, either. ‘Here and now – look, who’s in command – Colonel Collishaw, is it?’
‘Ray Collishaw flew General Holman from Kupyansk to Novo Cherkassk. That’s Denikin’s HQ now. Holman’s concerned with the withdrawal of missions, and Ray was to set up arrangements for handing our crates over to the Volunteers. Including these – which the Bolshies want to get their dirty paws on.’
‘So who’s—’
‘Marcus Kinkead. You met him, didn’t you.’
‘Any chance he’d join us?’
‘On his way. Turning out. I sent Beasley.’
‘Right. Good. Thing is, you see, this train ought to be moved – I mean now—’
Davies looked in, then. Jim Davies – Captain, MC – as spick and span and surprised-looking as Scott was. He had Bob’s sword with him: Beasley hadn’t known what to do with it, apparently. ‘He said you’d told him to burn it, but—’
‘Anything you like. Keep it – souvenir – or throw it away.’ He nodded, thinking that with Bolshevik blood caked on it it would make an excellent souvenir. He personally didn’t want it in his sight, that was all. The throbbing in his head came and went: at this moment it wasn’t as noticeable as it had been. He raised a hand, as in greeting – or farewell – ‘Good to see you again, Davies. But – if you’d excuse us now – awfully sorry, but—’ turning back to Scott – ‘Tell ’em to get steam up, could you? I’ll explain when Kinkead comes, but—’
‘Speak of the devil.’ Scott glanced up as the Flight’s CO stepped past Ibraim and stopped in the narrow doorway. ‘You remember Commander Cowan, Marcus—’
‘Of course I do. But how in hell did you get here?’
Bob shook hands with him, shook his head at that question, introduced Schelokov – apologizing again for the state they were in – and then, with Kinkead still standing and Scott leaning forward with his forearms on his knees – mouth slightly open in continuing surprise – put the situation and his proposals to them as succinctly as he could manage. Listing points in what seemed a logical sequence, starting with the fact that the blockading train now had only dead men in it.
‘How the devil—’
‘We killed them.’ Second point: it was likely there’d be an attack on this train. From what the sergeant on the roadblock had said, there was undoubtedly a general feeling amongst the troops that action should be taken, and Bob’s instinct was that the Bolshevik leadership would lose too much face with their own people if they continued to allow a trainload of pro-White foreigners to resist their demands.
Three: there was an armoured train in the station at Debaltsevo. Armoured trains carried heavy guns as well as troops. If they decided to make use of it – and you could assume it was there for some purpose – that would be that.
Schelokov had fallen asleep. If Bob had been able to make this dissertation in Russian he might have managed to stay awake, but the flow of English had proved too much for him. He had his head back against the board partition; Bob could see the scar of his wound through the grey hair on this side of his jaw and neck. He’d heard the heavy, regular breathing, and seeing now that he was asleep he told the two pilots quietly, ‘This man’s a bloody marvel. Without him I wouldn’t be here now, that’s certain… Listen – d’you have an engine-driver or some such who could join us? Thing is, that train we’ve come from – if you moved this one up, then took that one’s brakes off—’
‘Push it along in front of us?’
He’d nodded, indicating Schelokov again: ‘His idea, originally. But there’s more. One needs – you know, the technicalities…’
Kinkead shouted down the corridor to Beasley to send for someone called Baibakov, then came in and sat down beside Scott. ‘Baibakov’s a good egg. Hates the Reds like poison, bless him. He has two civvy assistants – firemen – and a bunch of Volunteer Army recruits they drafted into the job at Kupyansk. Rules ’em with a rod of iron.’
Bob nodded. Barely hearing him, letting that information – which seemed somehow off the point – wash over his head while he got back on track… Thinking: Debaltsevo – the armoured train. Plus troops in the station, presumably… ‘Major – how many officers and men in this Flight?’
‘Ninety.
With Scott here and Davies, ninety-two.’
‘How many rifles?’
‘Oh – enough to go round. Officers have revolvers, of course.’
‘We brought a few rifles with us, too.’
‘I saw them out there. With that – er – Tartar, is he?’
‘Yes. Don’t underestimate him, either. He’s – extraordinary. In action – you wouldn’t believe it… But listen – machine-guns, could you take some off your aircraft?’
Scott nodded. ‘Already have.’
‘Made holes in some of the box-cars to fire through.’ Kinkead explained, ‘In case of the attack which you say we should now expect. It was always a possibility, obviously – although I personally doubt it could be quite as imminent as you believe.’
‘Could we have the furnace stoked up, anyway? If you decide not to move you could always let it die down again, but—’
‘All right.’ This time he shouted without moving from his seat: ‘Beasley! In here, a minute!’ Looking back at Bob: ‘Go on, Cowan.’
‘Could you mine the track behind you here with aircraft bombs?’
‘Could, surely. Armourers’d be happy to display their skills.’
Look to the Wolves Page 37
