Dan Smith - Red Winter

The mist swirled about them, mingling with the smoke, burned away in places by the steam that hissed and jetted from beneath the wheels of the engine. The length of the train was shrouded in a nightmarish whirlpool of cloud, and the stink of burning coal, and there was that awful sound underlying everything; that terrible moaning.

Few men had the energy to speak, but those who did spoke in heightened voices, confused chatter, edgy with panic that began to build, smothering the monotonous groan of the wounded and the dying.

And with the wind so still and the air so cold, there was another dimension to the horror of this train. When the doors were opened, so the atmosphere from within the carriages was released, and warmed by the wood-burning stoves within, the tepid air that escaped was sweet with the scent of decay.

Watching from my place in the woods, it occurred to me that this whole land was dying, and I wondered if anything could revive it.

The chaos grew as more and more soldiers disembarked from the train until there were three or four hundred of them littering the forest. Many lay down as soon as they were clear of the metal beast, dropping wherever they could until bodies covered every part of the frosted ground. There were men with their arms in slings, others with bandaged heads or chests, men with missing limbs, diseased men resigned to their fate. Others were becoming more vociferous, calling to their commanders, asking what was happening, what was to become of them. The commanders ignored them and carried on with their task of emptying the train and setting able men to clear the dead from the roofs.

So it was into this sea of uniformed men that I went unnoticed, stepping from the trees and going among them, searching for any alert enough to answer my questions.

Crouching to speak to one man, I asked where they were coming from, had he heard of Koschei? But he just stared through me as if I wasn’t there, so I moved to the next man and then the next and the next, stepping over and among them, asking the same question but receiving no response other than the blank stare of men who have seen enough.

Up ahead, close to the front of the train, a soldier faced the carriages, ordering men down from the roof. I took him for a commander of some sort because he assumed an air of authority. He was dressed in a good winter coat and wore a thick hat. Round his shoulder he wore a leather strap from which hung the wooden case of his pistol. He had sturdy boots on his feet, and he moved back to avoid the poorly dressed men who tumbled from the roof and limped from the doors.

When I was three carriages away, the commander looked in my direction and our eyes met. He had a severe face, mean and hardened by war, only now it displayed a hint of confusion, his eyes narrowing as if he recognised me or wondered at my purpose. When he moved, though, starting to come towards me, one of the disembarking soldiers fell against him, jostling him backwards. The commander regained his footing and held the man firm with both hands, turning him and helping him to sit on the ground by the track.

I pulled my hat low to cover my brow and tugged the scarf over my mouth to hide my face as I continued, picking my way among them. I watched the commander squat by the wounded man and light a cigarette for him, looking up in my direction, just as someone reached out and grabbed the hem of my coat.

I stopped and turned to look down at him.

‘Are you a doctor?’ he asked. ‘They said there would be doctors.’

He was sitting cross-legged, his cap tipped to one side, his coat unbuttoned. The dressing on the left side of his face had once been white but was now a dirty brown. Beside him, a younger man sat with the head of another comrade face down on his lap. He was turned towards the forest, staring at the bones of the trees while running his hand through his comrade’s hair as if to comfort him.

I crouched beside the soldier who had grabbed my coat.

‘Are they going to leave us here?’ he asked.

‘Of course not.’

‘Then why are they making us leave the train? They said there would be doctors; that they were taking us to the doctors.’

‘They will,’ I said, glancing around at the commanders walking the length of the train, checking doors and roofs, ordering the last stragglers from the cars. ‘Are there prisoners here?’ I asked. ‘In any of these carriages?’

‘Are we there? Is this where the doctors are? Is that what you are?’

‘No. Listen to me.’ I kept control of my temper. I had to remain discreet. ‘Are there any prisoners on this train? Women and children? Are you headed for any camps?’

‘They don’t tell us anything,’ he said.

‘But you must have seen .’ I felt as if I wasn’t getting through to him, but I needed to find out what he knew.

‘I’ve seen no prisoners. Just soldiers.’

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure as I can be.’

I nodded and took a deep breath to calm my nerves. ‘Where are you coming from?’ I asked. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Tambov.’

‘But you’re going the wrong way. You’re heading towards Tambov.’

‘No.’ He shook his head and looked about. ‘No, that can’t be right. We came from there. Fighting the Greens… Or was it the Blues? I can never remember.’

‘Do you know Koschei?’ I asked him.

‘Koschei?’ He looked confused. ‘Why do you—’

‘Do you know him?’

‘From the skazka ? You want me to tell you a story?’ His voice was thick with sarcasm.

‘Or do you mean the man?’ A voice spoke beside me and I turned to look at the young soldier who was staring into the forest. His face was streaked with blood, and his uniform was caked with dirt, but he didn’t appear to be wounded. He continued to look into the trees while running his fingers through the dark hair of the man resting his head in his lap.

‘Yes,’ I said, moving closer to him. ‘Yes. The man. Do you know who he is?’

‘No.’ He turned his head but still didn’t seem to be looking at me. His eyes were vacant, as if unseeing. ‘But I’ve heard of him.’

‘How? What do you know?’

‘That he’s like the devil. They say he boiled a priest and made the monks eat the soup.’

‘What?’

‘Stas would have told you. He knew him.’

‘Stas?’

The soldier looked down at the man lying in his lap. ‘He died on the train.’

I shifted and reached out to touch the dead man. I knelt in the dirt and hefted him so that his face was to the sky. The young soldier made no move to help, but also made no complaint.

I brushed the dead man’s hair away from his face and recognised him straight away.

‘Dotsenko,’ I whispered.

Now the soldier looked at me. He leaned in so his foul breath was in my face. ‘You knew him?’

I took my hand away from Stanislav Dotsenko’s body, wondering how he had come to be on this train. ‘I fought with him.’

‘You fought with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you’re a—’

‘Did he say a name?’ I asked. ‘Did he say who Koschei is?’

‘Nikolai Levitsky,’ the man whispered.

‘What?’ The shock of hearing my own name was like being charged with electricity. Any regret or sadness I felt for Stanislav Dotsenko was shattered and I was suddenly aware of everything around me. My senses heightened, as if I saw better, heard better. But he couldn’t have said my name. I must have misheard. ‘What did you say?’

‘Nikolai Levitsky.’

‘No.’ I sat back. ‘No. That’s not right.’ I looked around, hoping no one else had heard it. From having been just another man in a crowd of men, I now felt singled out. I knew it wasn’t so, but it was as if all eyes and thoughts were on me.