Daniel Yarosh - The Death of Hercules - A DocuNovel

“Max,” Sholom yelled at him. “Get to the motor pool. We are leaving tomorrow.” It was a warm spring night, and although after dinner time, there were still a few hours of light. The camp was alive with soldiers scurrying about, carrying supplies, taking down tents and stowing gear. Max was directed to fill all the vehicles with petrol, seal off the petrol supply car, and prepare them for an early morning departure. He worked diligently, noting all the time the location of the trucks, motorcycles and armored cars. After the sun set, activities wound down, and for security there were no fires. Max rested on his bedding, but he only pretended to sleep.

Shortly after midnight, with the slow sound of snoring around him, Max got up from his bed and retrieved the supply bag he had hidden in a tree near the motor pool. It contained scraps of debris he cleaned from the vehicles that he thought might be useful one day. Inside were a compass, a bag of nails and screws, a few feet of rope and a few wood boards.

He quietly slipped into the motor pool. First, he let the air out of the tires of the motorcycles by slitting the inner tube near the fill stem with his pocketknife. Then, as silently as possible, he opened the hood of each of the cars and trucks and removed the air compressor starters and put them in his supply bag. Except for the staff car. Next, he gathered all the starting crank handles he could find and carefully placed them in the back of the staff car. Finally, he climbed under the Fiat-Omsk armored tank and pocketed the two large cotter pins that held the timing rod, and then gently slid the rod down on the ground.

Max then slipped behind the wheel of the staff car and took a deep breath. This was the point of no return. He started the long car’s engine, engaged the gear, and started to roll out of the motor pool without headlights. The noise would no doubt awaken some of the sleeping men, but it would take them time to realize what he had done. When they would rush to the chase, they would find their motorcycles disabled and no starters for their cars or trucks. This wouldn’t stop them, but it would give Max perhaps an hour head start. He rolled passed the perimeter guard. He looked to his left out of the cab and saw the sentry sitting by a small fire with Marusya, who held a bottle of vodka. She looked surprised and peered into the car, but in the darkness only her camp light reflected off the car window. She could not make out who was behind the wheel. He gave her a thin-lipped sarcastic smile. When he cleared the sentry, Max gunned the engine, turned on the headlights and drove down the road as fast as he dared.

Max took out the compass and placed it on the seat beside him. He was not sure where he was, but he knew where he had to go. At every choice of turn, he would take the larger road heading south. He could have taken a motorcycle which was faster, but without refilling the range was suspect and he did not know how far he had to travel, especially if he could not get to Proskuriv.

The night was warm and dark, and the quiet calm contrasted with Max’s pounding heart. He had leaped from the cliff with no safety net, but he knew that he had to escape the madness of the militia. The news of his parents’ imprisonment was only the last step out.

He saw no cars or trucks on the road, and it was eerily quiet. What Max did not understand was that he was driving directly into an offensive launched by the anti-Bolshevik White Volunteer Army. Supreme Commander Anton Denikin, formerly Lieutenant General in the Imperial Russian Army, ordered a breakout of his forces of nearly 75,000 men from Odessa on Thursday, June 11. Led by their fat and alcoholic, but remarkably successful, General Vladimir May-Mayevsky, they headed northeast toward Kharkiv to confront the Bolshevik Red Army and lay siege to their fortress. Every available train, car, horse-drawn cart and armored truck in Southern Ukraine was mobilized toward advancing the White Army. Max was driving directly into their left flank. But for the moment, the roads were clear and silent.

He was tired from lack of sleep, and the darkness, quiet and gentle bouncing of the heavy staff car along the road was hypnotic. He slowly moved from high anxiety to fighting to stay awake. After an hour of driving, he heard a gentle growl in the distance. He perked up. The growl changed to a roar and then back to a growl. He knew that sound. Motorcycles. They had sent somebody for him. At the top of a ridge, he looked back and saw two headlights following his road. He immediately shut his headlights, but this meant he had to drive slower to avoid a crash.

He drove through the deserted small farming town of Kul’chynky, and just to the south a road intersected from the east. He turned the staff car left and pulled over to the side. He took his supply bag and headed back to the intersection. Turning right he backtracked up the road 100 meters. There he pushed some logs and boulders onto the road to narrow its passage. He then took a rock and hammered several nails into and through two wood boards. These he placed nail side up on the narrow passage and covered it with some brush. He walked back to the staff car, started it up, and continued on the smaller road eastbound with the headlights out. If the motorcycles somehow avoided his trap, they would no doubt continue on the other road south.

He drove slowly for 20 minutes with no sign of pursuit. He switched on his headlights and picked up speed. Farm fields surrounded him on each side with no crossing driving roads in sight. Finally, he slowed as he drove through another small farming village and came upon a road intersecting from the south. He turned right and continued. The road became a rutted dirt path and descended. Farmland stopped and was replaced by marsh weeds. The road was pockmarked with water filled holes. Soon he was in wetlands and the road was an untended cow path. His wheels spun in the muck, and he downshifted to first gear, lowering his speed but improving his traction.

Max had come to the Sluch River. The road he had been chased on led to a bridge over the Sluch and onward south. The path he was on also led to the river, but because of repeated flooding this part was not cultivated and was abandoned to the slow, broad, flat stream. His inched forward, occasionally tossing up chunks of mud and stones when he gunned the engine for more traction. Then he hit a rut and the car tilted back and to the left. He got out to examine the problem, fear gripping his chest. Was this how his brave plan was to end, lost in a swamp?

The left rear wheel was suspended over a deep crevice in the road, while the other wheel was buried in a muddy hole. He retrieved the last wood board and wedged it under the left wheel. He then returned to driving and rocked the staff car back and forth until it sprung from the potholes. With his headlamps he saw the rickety bridge ahead, narrow but sufficient for his car. He gunned the engine, shifted through his gears to high speed, and raced to the bridge on hydroplane. He bounced high enough to hit his head on the cabin roof, but the car made it to the bridge. He downshifted and carefully crawled across the span. The road on the other side ascended the riverbank, and he was on his way.

He was fully awake now and making careful calculations. The pursuit was either disabled or about to turn around as they approached the Ukrainian Army stronghold of Proskuriv. He had been diverted east, and if he could regain his southern direction, he would approach the town from the best direction.

Two hours after he left the camp Max arrived at the north bank of the Bug river overlooking Proskuriv. He recognized the landscape and saw only a few lights in buildings scattered around town. He looked south to locate the train station. The staff car was too conspicuous, so he drove it into the brush and covered it with tree branches. He gathered his supply pack and headed toward the bridge. The train station was only a few blocks past that. The train tracks followed the Bug river valley down to Odessa. It was 3 am Thursday morning June 11, the streets were quiet, and no one noticed a shabbily dressed hobo with a pack slung over his shoulder walking determinedly toward the station.