The Winter Soldiers

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘Colonel Hawke’s not very happy with you, sergeant, putting your peloton at risk like that.’

  ‘It was for the regiment – such as it is – I think the 88th’s down to about a third of its strength. What’s more, I’d like to try another raid on their behalf. On our way back from Star Fort the other day I noticed a huge storehouse just inside the defences of Sebastopol. There’ll be coats and blankets in there. I’d like to get them for the battalion.’

  Lovelace sighed. ‘You’ve got to stop thinking about your old regiment. In any case, is it fair you should be making these raids for the 88th when half the army is freezing to death?’

  ‘I can’t worry about the whole Army of the East. I can only deal with those closest to me. I’m told the Chinese have the idea that because there’s so many people in China they can only afford to worry about their own family. Charity begins at home. It makes a certain amount of sense. If every family looks after its own, there is no general problem.’

  ‘Except in the case of orphans and abandoned old people.’

  ‘I knew you were going to bring up something like that,’ growled Crossman, thrusting his mittens into his pockets. ‘I have no answer for that, except to say that here, in the Crimea, we all belong to one family or another. There are no orphans or solitary old people. If each regiment sees to its own, then no one falls through the net.’

  ‘Look, sergeant, you keep forgetting something. You belong to me now. One day this army will have an intelligence-gathering regiment, a set of men dedicated only to spying and sabotage, but until then we have to make do and mend.’

  ‘You mean we have to keep our activities secret from Lord Raglan, who loathes and detests the type of work we do.’

  Lovelace nodded. ‘As you will. Lord Raglan, in that cosy farmhouse of his, is living in cloud-cuckoo-land. We cannot fight a war without information. We need to know their strength, their disposition, where their magazines are, where they keep their stores, how they supply themselves, and occasionally make them suffer the discomfort of having to do without their ammunition and supplies by blowing them up.’

  ‘I know all that,’ said Crossman, a little more irritably than he intended it to sound. ‘But my little group does more than that. We seem to be completely dedicated to destruction – of property and people. This business of spying on General Enticknap leaves a bad taste.’

  ‘I know that upsets you. I don’t like it either. But Hawke is our man, like it or not, and we have to keep him happy. In some ways he’s right, to try and weed out the cancerous elements in the army. We are soldiers and soldiers are employed for one purpose only, to fight wars for their country. If there were no wars, we would not be needed, but we both know that there will always be tyrants and despots who wish to wage war on their near and far neighbours. However, those wars are best fought efficiently, so as to get them over with as quickly as possible and return to a peace where trade and industry can flourish. Do you agree?’

  ‘Of course, but . . .’

  ‘Well then, generals like Enticknap prolong wars, drag them out, cause unnecessary death and suffering.’

  Crossman expostulated, ‘I have no proof that Brigadier-General Enticknap is prolonging this war.’

  ‘Ah, well, sergeant, proof is not a necessary ingredient, since you are in the army to follow, while it is up to others to lead. Colonel Hawke feels he has proof and that should be enough for me, let alone a sergeant. Do you see what I mean? We have to trust our superior officers, or there’d be no time for the actual fighting, it’d be all questions and answers. What has Gwilliams found out so far? I understand he gave the general a haircut just yesterday.’

  ‘I’ve written it down.’ Crossman removed two folded sheets of paper from under his sheepskin and gave them to Lovelace, who put them in his pocket without reading them.

  ‘Now,’ said Lovelace, ‘we have a new fox hunt for you.’

  ‘Just me?’ asked Crossman, stopping to hunch deeper inside his coat, his breath coming out as white vapour. ‘Or the peloton?’

  ‘All of you. You may be aware that during the last two months the number of deserters has increased dramatically. Some of them go into Sebastopol of course, those who have foreign connections – German, Polish, whatever. But others have gone over the hills, up onto the central plateau and the steppe. There are reports that a group of British deserters has taken over a Tartar farmhouse in the north and are operating as bandits. You are to take your men and kill or capture these deserters. They’re upsetting the local people who are not necessarily on the side of the Czar. Their ringleader is said to be a Corporal Reece, deserter from the 41st Welch. I’d like you to bring him back alive, if you can, so we can set an example.’ Major Lovelace’s eyes were quite cold and devoid of any expression as he delivered these instructions. Crossman had noticed that his commanding officer could be quite a warm and affectionate human being when speaking with him socially, but when in his role as commander of a group of saboteurs, assassins and spies he was quite ruthless.

  ‘It doesn’t sound a very savoury task. I can quite sympathize with a soldier who has run away from a place where he is expected to give all he has, including his life, and yet receives precious little in the way of food, clothing and shelter.’

  ‘Yet you will do it, sergeant.’

  ‘Of course, sir. I will do it.’

  The goose girl crossed their path ahead, with her grumbling birds. She looked up, saw it was him, and gave him a secret smile, before hurrying on. Crossman thought about her geese. She would have to guard them every waking, and sleeping, hour to prevent hungry soldiers from stealing them.

  ‘Oh, one other thing, sergeant. I want you to take Lieutenant Pirce-Smith with you. He needs to be initiated into our ways. You will be in charge of course. I’ll make that plain to him. He can’t expect to lead a peloton first time out.’

  Crossman stared at Lovelace. A great sense of foreboding fell on him. No officer in the British Army was going to take orders from a sergeant, not once authority had been left behind. He could foresee great quarrels and arguments, threats of court martial on return, at the very least refusal to carry out tasks necessary to protect the lives of the group. Once out there, in the wilderness, amongst the enemy, in the heart of the winter, every soldier had to pull his weight. If one man failed to do that which was required of him, then the whole was endangered. It was bad enough with the sometimes rebellious Wynter. It was worse with the civilian Gwilliams. There would be tenfold any leader’s problems with an officer who felt he should be in command, rather than some sergeant.

  ‘This won’t work,’ stated Crossman. ‘You know it won’t.’

  ‘It’s not my decision. It’s felt that where we went wrong with Lieutenant Dalton-James was that we excluded him from any field work. Except for the assassination of course, and he fell into that one by accident. Look,’ Lovelace put a hand on Crossman’s sleeve, ‘I know it won’t be easy. I know that. But actually Pirce-Smith is better material than Dalton-James ever was. Dalton-James was from a high-born family. Pirce-Smith is the son of a clergyman. Deep down he’s your basic English country squire type. He’s not completely out of touch with the common man.’

  ‘I don’t know if that’s better or worse.’

  ‘Whatever – it’s got to be done. I’ll wager that after one fox hunt he’ll decline any others. You won’t lose command, if I have anything to do with it.’

  ‘I hope not. It’s my one consolation. That out there I’m in charge of my own destiny.’

  Crossman had promised his men a hot meal in one of Vanity Fair’s expensive ‘restaurants’. They passed Mrs Seacole’s British Hotel and went into a shack owned and run by an Armenian-Egyptian, Karman Fussel. Fussel somehow managed to turn unappetizing goat meat into the most exotic food one had ever tasted. It was possibly the sauce he put on the sis-kebabs, or the way he basted them in their own juices, or the herbs and spices he used. Whatever, British soldiers had never tasted anything like Fussel’s
five course dinner of a small steak, followed by fried liver, then three sticks of kebab meat, melted goat’s cheese twisted round a roasting stick and finally frozen sherbet. Crossman had received some money from his stepmother and he used this to pay for the meal.

  After the meal, which was superb in everyone’s estimation, they all sat back in their chairs for coffee and a good smoke. Crossman had his chibouque, purchased in Constantinople, which he enjoyed to the full. The long curved stem on the pipe helped to cool the smoke before it reached his mouth and even the harshest tobacco, purchased from local Tartars who grew it on the slopes, tasted relatively sweet. Peterson had a short clay pipe, a favourite with most soldiers, which she used to send clouds of smoke up to the dirty ceiling of Fussel’s eating place.

  ‘This is the life, eh?’ cried Wynter, who then proceeded to burst into song. The others joined in, all except Ali and Gwilliams. Even the Australian Yorwarth knew the words, since the songs were part of his history and heritage too.

  ‘So?’ asked Peterson, just before they were to leave, ‘what’s this all about, sergeant? You taking us into the jaws of death again?’

  The place was beginning to get rowdy. Many soldiers had come to drink, not to eat, and some were far gone with the harsh liquor, which was not particularly cheap in price. A fight was brewing in one corner, where voices were raised over the general hubbub. It was likely there would be some floggings in the morning. It was all right to get drunk quietly: it was how you handled the drunkenness afterwards that was important. Crossman had to raise his voice to be heard by his soldiers.

  ‘What’s all what about? I just thought you soldiers could do with fattening up.’

  ‘For the slaughter,’ she said. ‘Come on, sergeant, we know there’s a fox hunt. There’s always a mission after you’ve been for a walk with Major Lovelace. What is it this time?’

  ‘I was told that we were to be sent on a holiday,’ replied Crossman. The liquor had mellowed him to an unusually jovial and teasing mood. Wynter’s eyes were opening wide and began brimming with hope. ‘Colonel Hawke, bless his boots, thought we deserved a long rest. He asked if we’d like to go to Yalta, to enjoy the hot Roman baths there. Yalta is a bit like Constantinople, much smaller of course, but with many pleasures. You remember the pleasures of Constantinople, that city of popes and emperors, do you not Wynter?’

  ‘Sergeant, I’ll never forget it.’

  ‘Yes, I don’t suppose any of us will.’ What Crossman remembered was the flea- and rat-infested barracks there, with its stinking drains and rotten interior, which had now become a hospital for the sick and wounded sent from the Crimea. ‘Well, Colonel Hawke asked me whether Yalta would be a suitable spa for my weary men.’ Crossman took a sip of his drink, knowing that all eyes were on him. ‘I of course refused,’ he continued in a serious vein. ‘I told Colonel Hawke that my men were strong in spirit, strong in body, and patriots to the core. It is not for us, I informed Colonel Hawke with great pride in my voice, to languish in paradise while others toil for the common good of the war. My men, I said, spurn the dissolute life of the wastrel. Duty, duty, duty, is the word that hangs from the lips of every member of my peloton . . .’ Crossman could see the more intelligent members of the group had already started to twist their mouths, having realized they were being joshed. Wynter, however, had still not got the joke. His mouth hung open in sheer disbelief. Fury was about to erupt from the depths of his simple soul. ‘No, I said to Colonel Hawke, what my men would really like to do is go north, up beyond the hills, and look for deserters. Another fox hunt would do their hearts good and turn yet another grey day into Christmas.’

  ‘You said that?’ cried Wynter, sorely wounded. ‘Why can’t we go to this Yalta? You never arsked us! You should’ve arsked us.’

  There was general laughter now. Crossman knew he had upset them all a little, with his cruel twist of humour, but Wynter’s swallowing the bait had applied a little balm to the hurt. Yorwarth ruffled Wynter’s hair and told him not to be so much of a baby.

  ‘You’re the bloody baby,’ snarled Wynter. ‘You ain’t even felt a razor on your chin yet.’

  ‘When do we go, sergeant?’ asked Ali. ‘I have to tell my woman.’

  ‘We start tomorrow. I’m sorry, I don’t know how long we’re going to be. It’s one of those open-ended missions. I’m not even sure how and what we do, when we find these deserters. It seems they’re living by raiding local farms and causing a great nuisance of themselves with the Tartars. You know at the moment the Tartars have no great love for the Russians, for this is the Ukraine, not Russia proper. However, if there are British and French who are raping and pillaging, and causing mayhem, then the Tartars just might re-form an old alliance with the Cossacks, and then we’ll be for it. The hordes led by Genghis Khan and Tamerlane will ride roughshod over the world again.’

  ‘What is he talkin’ about?’ cried Wynter, aggrieved. ‘Everybody else has got a sergeant what talks sense. We get one that talks drivel.’

  It was a true state of affairs, that when Fancy Jack Crossman had one drink too many, his education began to show. The ‘Fancy’ part of him peeked out from behind his normally rigid mask like a loose woman’s lace petticoats under her gown. That harsh wine made him feel rather superior to the company he had to keep. Even now Wynter had brought it out into the open, he was still sadly inclined to parade his knowledge.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘that anyone would join me in a glass of wine to toast Jason and the Argonauts?’

  ‘See!’ cried Wynter, accusingly. ‘There he goes again.’

  Ali said sourly, ‘Who was this Jason?’

  Before Crossman could patronize the group further, Gwilliams interrupted quietly. ‘Jason was a Greek. An ancient Greek. A sailor, who sailed over the Black Sea, just as we’ve done, looking for the fleece of a golden sheep. His ship was called the Argo and he stopped in a good many places, had a good many adventures. Jason came to the Crimea, just like us. It was called Colchis, then. While he was here he met the witch-princess Medea, who helped him yoke together two fire-breathing bulls with brass hooves so’s they could pull a plough. In the furrows, Jason planted dragons’ teeth and from these teeth sprang an army of fully-armed soldiers. Soldiers like you, Wynter, and you, Peterson. Warriors. Ready to do their damn duty.’

  ‘Milly McGee the harlot of Liverpool,’ groaned Wynter, ‘we’ve got another one. Two of ’em. ’Less he’s makin’ it all up.’

  ‘No,’ replied Crossman, impressed. ‘He’s not making it all up. We have an American scholar amongst us. You should get together with your countryman Rupert Jarrard,’ he suggested to Gwilliams. ‘He’s a follower of the ancient Greeks too.’

  Gwilliams spat on the stove, where it sizzled. ‘Jarrard? Him? He’s a fraud.’

  ‘You know him? You don’t like him?’

  ‘I know his kind and I don’t like his kind.’

  ‘I no like. I no like at all,’ growled Ali, furiously, shaking his matted curls angrily. ‘Always bad for the Turkish people.’

  ‘Rupert Jarrard?’ said Crossman, surprised by the Bashi-Bazouk’s outburst. ‘What have you got against him, Ali?’

  ‘Not the American, the Greek!’ cried Ali. ‘Turkish people no like Greek people. This Jason. I gut him like a fish if he comes to steal gold from my house. I rip stomach open. I cut off head.’

  They all realized at that point that Ali too was getting very drunk and that was a dangerous situation. Ali could change from a tame bull to a wild one in a few seconds, given enough alcohol and once he did that no one, not even Crossman, could control him. His thick hard body would break free of any restraint, would smash through any barrier, would roll down any opposition.

  It was time for more food, to soak up the strong wine. Crossman yelled for bread and potato mash, and some hot mugs of coffee. Fussel saw that they were sent over very quickly, having a landlord’s eye for trouble over the horizon. Ali had been drunk in his establishment once before and it had
taken seven men a week to clean the place up after the fight the Turk had started, plus a good part of the night’s takings for broken furniture. Food, however, would take the Turk’s mind off anything else. He loved his stomach more than he loved his ‘woman’.

  On the way back to the hovel, Crossman spoke with Gwilliams.

  ‘Where did you study Greek mythology?’ he asked.

  ‘There was a preacher who looked after me once, when I was young. He taught me to read. Once you can read there ain’t a piece of knowledge in the world that’s out of reach.’

  ‘That’s true. Not many people realize that, though, even when they can read. I don’t believe my brother and father, for instance, ever opened the pages of a book once they left the school room, save it was a pamphlet on the sale of horses, or sporting guns. Their knowledge of hunting is extensive, but it’s a knowledge learned by doing and observing, not from the written word.’

  ‘My learnin’ is patchy,’ admitted Gwilliams. ‘I only know what was in the preacher’s bookcase. O’ course, there was a good deal there, him being a man who liked history and facts, and was up on the beliefs of others.’

  ‘It’s still commendable. No harm ever came from knowledge. Plenty from the lack of it. Say, Gwilliams, how do you feel about this business of spying on General Enticknap? It doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘He ain’t nothin’ to me,’ said Gwilliams, kicking at a frozen rut to hide his impatience with the question. ‘It’s not like I was watching my own family, or even a brother American. Like I say, he’s nothin’ to me, at all.’

  ‘You don’t mind spying on your own side?’

  ‘You heard what I said, sergeant.’

  ‘I did indeed. I suspect you have a good memory, Gwilliams. What happens when all this information becomes redundant, of no use to you. What do you do to get rid of it from your mind? How do you cast it out?’

  Gwilliams stopped in mid-stride. The others were well ahead and he stared at their backs, as if gauging whether he could be heard or not. Finally he said what he was going to say.