THE LAST EAGLE
A NOVEL
BY RICHARD TURNER
Copyright © 2014 Richard Turner
Editing and Formatting By B&R Publishing
All Rights Reserved
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 1
BEGINNINGS
SOUTHERN RUSSIA, AUGUST 1919
Thick black clouds of smoke crept ever skyward, like a dark, malevolent genie escaping from a bottle, blocking out the golden afternoon sun. Beneath the pall, a city was dying. The thunderous sound of guns pounding the city to rubble filled the air. An all-consuming madness gripped the country. Ideology and visceral hatred blinded the once proud nation. Already exhausted from three years of war, brothers now fought brothers for their beliefs…for how they wanted Russia to be.
On a smoke-covered hill overlooking the doomed city, a dust-covered figure slowly raised his binoculars and with some satisfaction, surveyed the carnage below. Captain Sokolov, a worn and gaunt-looking man, tried to focus his binoculars upon his target, the train station located in the centre of the growing conflagration. Cursing aloud, he tried to will away the billowing impenetrable wall of smoke. Behind him, his powerful and deadly 76mm Putilov breech-loading artillery battery stood silent, waiting like a bull desperate to enter the ring, itching to join the fight. Tired and war-weary, Sokolov had first fought the Germans and Austrians, now he was fighting his fellow countrymen in a revolution that would decide the fate of Russia for generations to come. A crooked smile crept across his dirt-stained face as a destructive rain of artillery shells fell mercilessly onto the still defiant Czarist’s position. For too long the Whites had blocked their advance…but not today; today they would punish those who had tried to stop the relentless Bolshevik advance across Southern Russia, sweeping all before it. The fight here would soon be over and the war would move along to another town, to another place still foolishly defying the will of the people. From his observation post, Sokolov could see down into the poorly manned White Russian trenches, zigzagging like a jagged scar dug into the earth all along the front of the town. He mournfully shook his head, knowing that it would be old men and mere boys forced to fight for the Czar. An image flashed in his mind, frightened boys huddling down inside the trenches praying for salvation, but there would be none. A chill ran down his spine. Sokolov knew that no mercy would be shown here today.
A lone horseman, his horse lathered and weary, rode up the ridge. A pimply-faced youth pulled up on the reins, sharply saluted Sokolov, and then hurriedly handed him a note from his Regimental Commander. Sokolov looked up at the boy and tiredly shook his head. It seemed they were running low on soldiers too. Quickly reading over the note, Sokolov nodded his concurrence to the dispatch rider who saluted once more and then as fast as his horse could travel, took off down the ridgeline to deliver the same message to the next gun position.
At last, the end was coming.
Sokolov wearily looked at his watch. In the next five minutes, his division would once again rush forward in another frontal assault on the White trenches defending what was left of the battered town. Sokolov was what the Reds had termed ‘a military specialist’, an ex-Czarist officer who had offered his service to the Reds when the revolution broke out two years earlier. He had gambled that the Czarist Whites, lacking the support of a huge swath of the army, would lose. He had always considered himself pragmatic and had once again been proven right. The war had steadily gone in the Reds’ favour. However, his future was tied to how loyal he was to the revolution and, perhaps more importantly, how well he and his men performed on the battlefield. Years of war had pushed Sokolov’s nerves to the breaking point. Words were whispered around him; unwanted attention from the regiment’s political officers reminded him that he was useful to the cause, but not a truly trusted man. Sokolov was always conscious of the extra attention given to him by his superiors, but so far, he was relieved that he had not been singled out for any special re-education, a euphemism ex-Czarists called ‘the firing squad’.
Throwing a long-dead cigarette that hung limply from his mouth onto the ground and crushing it with his heel, Sokolov called his junior officers and NCOs over to him. Quickly, he passed on his new orders. It was simple: they had to blast out of existence the White trenches stubbornly blocking the Reds’ path into the town. His men didn’t question the order; they never did. To a man, they knew it was never good to question orders; with a silent nod, they ran back to their guns and made ready. Sokolov let out a deep breath and ran his hand over the stubble on his broad chin, stepped away from his tiny command post and then watched with a grin on his face as his sergeants barked out his orders to the men waiting by the guns. In unison, Sokolov’s gun crews smoothly reloaded their pieces and then, with a loud hurrah, they reported they were ready.
Sokolov knew his men would not let him down. They were well-trained by him and were unswervingly loyal to the Bolshevik cause. Bringing his binoculars up, he looked down on the mass of Red soldiers preparing for the coming fight. Sokolov saw red banners being raised everywhere, and then with a loud cheer, the soldiers, most still in their teens, clambered out of the shallow trenches dug hurriedly into the ground the night before. Quickly forming up, the men were forced by their sergeants into long khaki lines as if they were heading out on parade. With their junior officers extolling them to glory for the revolution, and machine gun crews placed in behind for added encouragement; the soldiers set off jogging towards the shattered White lines.
It was time.
Raising his arm, Sokolov turned towards his men. Over the din of battle, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “Boys, for the people and the revolution, send the White bastards to hell.” Instantly dropping his arm, his battery’s guns, as one, roared to life. The ground shook behind Sokolov as a deadly volley of high-explosive shells tore through the air. With great pride, Sokolov watched the strike of the rounds, observing that nearly all of his shells struck the White’s trench line. He watched as a machine-gun bunker that had been mercilessly mowing down Red infantrymen struggling through the jagged gaps in the barbed wire exploded, launching earth, rock, and splintered wooden debris skyward. A lusty cheer erupted from the gun line.
The open ground quickly turned into a killing field as the Red infantry surged forward like a long narrow khaki wave racing towards the distant shoreline. Through the smoke, bullets tore into the advancing Reds, killing dozens at a time. Lumbering beside the struggling men were five large, but slow-moving, British-made Mark V tanks. Captured in fighting earlier in the spring, they had been turned against their former masters with deadly effect. To Sokolov, they resembled some kind of monstrous mechanical beasts that belched thick clouds of oily smoke as they slowly crawled forward, their guns firing in support of the beleaguered soldiers still pushing forward into the withering fire from the enemy trenches.
It wasn’t a surprise to Sokolov to see that some Whites had managed to survive the lethal rain of shells and were now beginni
ng to fight back with dogged determination. He would never voice it for fear of being branded counter-revolutionary, but he admired the fighting spirit of the Whites, many of whom had been his friends before the revolution.
Soon the pervading smell of cordite filled the air. Sokolov felt his throat go parched. Reaching down, he grabbed his canteen and took a long swig of cool refreshing water. Feeling detached, almost an observer to the war, he looked down. His heart instantly knotted in his chest; he could see that many Red soldiers had fallen during the advance. The ground was littered with their lifeless bodies. Many a wife or mother would learn weeks or months from now that the one they had loved had died for the revolution. Nothing more than hollow words, thought Sokolov. Words alone would never replace the loss that the war had caused throughout Russia. Dead and dying men lay where they were or helplessly crawled along on the ground crying out for help, help that would never come. Sokolov knew the wounded would have to lie where they were. No man was allowed to stop and help a hurt comrade; to do so was a death sentence for both men. The once smartly dressed lines had become jumbled and mixed. New gaps were created with every casualty taken as the soldiers pushed on towards the White lines. Any man who slowed down risked being shot by his own officers, or by the machine-gun crews waiting behind the struggling mass of young and terrified men. Sokolov, a career artillery officer, had never been able to comprehend why anyone would be so foolish as to be in the infantry. They died by the thousands, yet there always seemed to be more and more ill-trained recruits being forced into the uniform of the Bolsheviks every day. The war was an insatiable beast that needed feeding.
The sound of guns pounding the outskirts of the city rumbled along like the distant thunder of a late summer’s storm.
On the porch of an old abandoned farmhouse, a white-haired man wearing a rumpled dirty white tunic covered in medals stood and peered back towards the roaring fires engulfing the doomed town. Major-General Alekseev sadly shook his head in defeat. During his long career, he had loyally fought against the Japanese, the Germans and the Austrians, but Alekseev had never imagined that one day he would be fighting his fellow countrymen. He stood in silence while long files of wounded soldiers, some on foot and some in overloaded carts pulled by starved horses, mingled with those who had simply given up and were abjectly walking away from the frontlines. They slowly filed past him, without ever looking up, and, in true Russian fashion, they did so without making a sound.
The tremors from the Red artillery shells hitting the ground steadily grew stronger and closer to his command post. Alekseev knew it was all over that it was only a matter of minutes before the Bolsheviks arrived. As a loyal patriot, he would never voice it, but he knew that fear, like an unseen infectious disease, was spreading fast. Like a dam struggling to hold back the water, his men would soon break and flee for their lives. It was only a matter of time.
The thick black smoke from the burning wheat fields near his post filled his lungs, making him cough and gasp for air. With a heavy heart, he watched his command fall apart around him. Slowly, he removed his battered and sweat-stained white-peaked cap, ran his handkerchief over his dust-covered face, and then looked longingly up at the hazy, smoke-filled sky. Incredibly, perhaps portentously, he could make out a pair of eagles circling high above him. Alekseev smiled and thought back to the simpler days of his youth when, as a young man, he had once enjoyed a privileged and carefree life in the Crimea riding for hours across his family’s land with his younger brother. That idyllic life had all changed horribly for the worse when the Bolsheviks had ruthlessly seized power for themselves from a fragile and weak provisional government. To him, it seemed that a brutal insanity had gripped Mother Russia and that she was engaged in an orgy of reckless hate and self-destruction.
Alekseev’s bloodshot eyes had seen enough. He turned his back on the war, and with his head hung low, he shuffled back inside, silently walking past the multitude of wounded and dying soldiers spread out along the deck of the farmhouse, as if they weren’t there. Precious few officers and soldiers dutifully remained at their posts, and those that did pretended not see him or, like the soldiers outside, they just lowered their heads and pretended that he was no longer there.
Defeat and death seemed to permeate the very air they all breathed. General Alekseev wearily made his way to his office. His once bright green eyes were now sunken and bloodshot. His skin had turned shallow and pale. He couldn’t remember when he had last washed or even shaved. His once immaculate uniform was a mess. With a deep sigh, Alekseev sat down in his Spartan accommodations, a sad, tired, and broken man. Without looking down, Alekseev drew his German made Mauser M1896 pistol from its leather holster. It felt heavy and deathly cold in his weak hands. Carefully, he placed it on the table in front of him; he knew there was only one thing left to do before he ended it all and took his life in disgrace. Alekseev slowly reached down and took out a small, slender brown leather folder from inside his desk, opened it up and then removed several sealed letters along with a couple of well-worn photographs. Delicately picking up one of the pictures, with a sense of detached love and loss, Alekseev felt his heart strain as he stared at the image of a beautiful young woman lovingly holding a child in her arms.
With a tear in his eye, he stood and then walked over to the still burning fireplace, the contents of the briefcase clutched tightly in his shaking hands. Taking a deep breath for courage, Alekseev stared longingly once more at the photographs, before throwing them into the burning fire. Quickly catching fire, the once prized photographs curled up, turning black and grotesque as the flames consumed them. Looking down, Alekseev saw that both his hands trembled uncontrollably as he threw all but one of the sealed letters into the fireplace, erasing them for all eternity as he had the photographs. Slowly turning about, he stumbled, as if in a daze, as he returned to his dirty and cluttered desk. Alekseev sat down, took out his fountain pen, quickly wrote a short letter, and then carefully placed it inside a dark-green envelope. Reaching over to a lit candle on the corner of his desk, Alekseev heated up a small piece of deep red wax. Slowly, almost delicately, he poured the wax onto the back of an envelope. Letting it cool for a couple of seconds before firmly imprinting it with his family ring, a two-headed eagle surrounded by stars.
A young, dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes entered the room, sharply came to attention, saluted his superior officer and then remained silent, waiting to be spoken to. Like that of his commanding general, the youthful officer’s once immaculate uniform was now filthy and threadbare.
“Constantine, I want you to take my personal bodyguard, Sergeant Tarasov, and a squad of trustworthy men and leave here immediately,” said Alekseev, looking deep into the sharp eyes of the young officer.
The captain started to speak but was quickly cut off by a raised hand.
“I need you to do something…something very important for me,” said Alekseev. “You are the only officer remaining on my staff that I still trust. I want you to escort my wife and our granddaughter away from here and deliver them into the safekeeping of Admiral Kolchak. His forces are advancing from the east and should be only about a hundred miles or so from here by now. There is a train waiting for me at the station, I will remain here, and you will go in my place.”
“Sir—,” Bagration said, about to protest, but was again cut off by Alekseev.
“Constantine, you are a good and honourable man. I want your word that you will do as I ask and defend them with your life.”
“General, I give you my word that no harm will come to them as long as I live,” replied Bagration firmly.
Alekseev slowly rose to his feet and placed a weary hand on the young officer’s shoulder. “Also, once you have seen to the safety of my family, I want you to take this letter to my brother in England and remain with him until he sees fit to dispense with your services,” Alekseev explained as he handed him the leather briefcase. “Constantine, I have never in my life asked so much from one man. Do you under
stand what is being asked of you?”
Bagration looked the tired general in the eyes. “Yes sir, I do,” earnestly answered the young officer. “But what about yourself? Surely you will be coming. The Bolsheviks will be here shortly. You cannot remain…to do so would be suicide.”
“I must remain with what is left of my command,” replied Alekseev, sadness and defeat filling his voice.
“Sir, they will hang you as a traitor.”
“I know my dear Constantine, but no matter what you say, I will not be leaving here. I have failed Russia and unlike you, I do not deserve a second chance. Please understand that you take with you valuable information that will help our nation proudly rise once more from the ashes when this terrible war is over.”
Suddenly, out of the sky, an artillery round landed close to the farm with a thunderous explosion, ripping apart some of the straggling soldiers on the road. The farm shook violently; several windows shattered inwards, showering the unfortunate wounded soldiers lying on the floor with shards of glass.
Alekseev pretended to be unfazed by the death and destruction around him. “Go…go now Constantine, you cannot waste any more time with me.” Reaching into his desk, Alekseev pulled out a small purse full of gold coins and tossed it over to Bagration. “This isn’t much, but it will help you. Now please go, you do not have much time.”
Knowing there was nothing more he could say or do, Captain Bagration gritted his teeth, came to attention, saluted, and with dogged determination in his eyes he turned about and went to find Alekseev’s loyal Cossack bodyguard, Sergeant Tarasov.
The Last Eagle (A Christopher Sheppard Adventure Book 1) Page 1
