David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

‘Begging the Admiral’s pardon sir,’ Paul said, ‘but I don’t believe that’s the problem.’

‘Oh?’ Kolchak replied, ‘and just what is the problem?’

‘Desertions, sir. Not in the Legion but among the People’s Army. Since the formation of the Directory the rank and file have begun to fear a return to the pre-Revolutionary status quo.’

‘And you regard that as undesirable ?’

‘What I regard is neither here nor there, sir. It is what the men who make up the bulk of the army believe. The rank and file is drawn from the peasantry. The Russian peasant has traditionally supported the Social-Revolutionary Party.’

‘The so-called People’s Army,’ Kolchak said, ‘will find out that the situation has changed. General Boldyrev has assured me that discipline is to be restored. In future a proper officer corps will be giving the orders, not a jumped-up band of rankers who act as officers simple because they have been elected by their friends…’

‘Former tsarist officers?’ Paul asked.

‘Precisely. And this Legion of yours had better get used to the idea. They’re going to be needed in the front line while our new recruits are knocked into shape. There can’t be any question of divided loyalty, Rostov.’

‘The men are loyal’ Paul assured him. ‘To the Legion and to the Czech National Council.’

Kolchak’s eyes widened as if he was not entirely convinced.

‘I have been given to understand they mutinied.’

Paul frowned. ‘At Chelyabinsk, yes. But against the Bolsheviks.’

Kolchak shook his head. ‘I am speaking of the recent incident at Aksakovo. Didn’t their colonel shoot himself when his men refused to obey his orders?’

‘Colonel Šveck,’ said Paul.

‘I didn’t know his name.’

‘But the men were exhausted. They had been fighting since the summer and were expecting to entrain for Vladivostok. More than anything they want to go home and instead they were told they had to turn round and go back to the front.’

Kolchak said, ‘Do you believe a desire to go home is an excuse for disobeying a direct order?’

‘No, Admiral, of course not.’

‘We’d all much rather be at home,’ Ward said.

The admiral, Paul noted, didn’t state a preference. But then he was at home, unless one counted some comfortable Petersburg apartment or the wardroom of his flagship.

‘But I think it’s only fair to say,’ Paul felt compelled to add, ‘as regard to what happened at Aksakovo, that the men immediately regretted their action and returned to the front.’

‘But without their colonel,’ Kolchak observed acidly. He stood again. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, Rostov. We are very grateful for the effort the Czechs have made in stemming the Bolshevik tide in the Urals. They are tired of course, and will be relived of their responsibilities once we have a suitable Russian army able to take the field. I have already conveyed my thanks to your colonel…’ he hesitated as if momentarily misplacing the man’s name.

‘Colonel Voitzekhovsky?’ Paul suggested.

‘Colonel Voitzekhovsky. Indeed. And a Russian, I understand.’ He smiled then and Paul saw that his canine teeth were of a perfectly normal length. He held out a limp hand. ‘I have enjoyed our talk, Captain Rostov. I suggest you accompany us on our tour of the front lines. Perhaps my staff will appreciate your views on the Czech and on the Russian rank-and-file. I’ll have Colonel Voitzekhovsky informed.’ He turned to Ward. ‘If a berth might be found for the Captain…?

‘Of course, Admiral,’ Ward said.

‘Capital. Now, if you’ll excuse me gentlemen…? I have work waiting.’ He bowed slowly and left the carriage.

Ward turned to Paul.

‘Well, lad,’ he asked, ‘what do you think of the admiral?’

‘He seems a very competent officer,’ Paul said, trusting the anodyne remark would suffice.

‘You think so?’ Ward asked. ‘Well, we’ll see, we’ll see…’ He downed the last of his drink and placed the glass back on the table with enough force to break the stem. ‘From what you’ve said this evening it seems events have rather overtaken you.’

‘Yes sir. I said as much to Colonel Voitzekhovsky. That was why I was wondering if it might be possible to telegraph General Knox to see if I could be re-assigned. Perhaps to your staff?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, Ross,’ Ward said. ‘You’ll find the Twenty-fifth a stand-up battalion. Straight as a die. I’ll not get my die-hards involved in Secret Service shenanigans. I’m afraid you’ll have to muddle through as best you can on your own. Orders are orders. Admiral Kolchak wants you along on our tour of the front and I dare say you’ll have something useful to contribute.’

‘If I can, sir.’

‘That’s the spirit. And I’d steer clear of telegraphing General Knox, if I were you.’

‘Sir?’

‘I’m very much afraid he holds similar views to the admiral. Particularly concerning the Russian peasant.’

‘In what way, sir?’

Ward pursed his lips, looking for a moment quite prissy. I’m afraid, Ross, I’ve heard the general pass the opinion that the Russian peasant is a pig. And that the way to talk to him is not to his head but to his back via a whip.’

Paul didn’t know what to say so, for the want of any better comment, merely muttered, ‘I see, sir.’

‘Not my opinion, lad,’ Ward said, ‘but I’m just a soldier here following orders. You’d be advised to do the same.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Met this fellow Gajda yet?’

‘I only know him by reputation.’

‘I met him at the banquet. He’s not quite the man of the people some of his fellow officers are, either. General Knox is of the opinion he’s the sort of man Siberia needs now. He believes they’re not ready for a democracy. Maintains what Siberia needs is a dictator.’ He peered at Paul with steely eyes. ‘I came up through the trade union movement as you may know, and generally hold differing views. However, it seems to me that what Russia needs now is for someone to grab her by the scruff of her neck and give her a good shaking. Before these Bolsheviks really start doing the country damage. If that takes a dictator, then so be it. For Knox, it seems the only question is whether this is to be Gajda or Kolchak.’

Lying in the cramped berth Ward had arranged for him, Paul couldn’t sleep. He lay with his eyes open, listening to the clatter of the train and the snores of Middlesex bandsmen around him.

He had taken rather a liking to Ward. The man had a straightforward, no-nonsense attitude to what he found. With him, one knew where one stood. Not a position Paul had been used to of late. To his surprise, Ward had told him that he had been born the son of a plasterer. His father had died when Ward was just a small child and he had received no formal education, starting work when he was seven and navvying by the time he was twelve. He said he had learned to read and write while working on the railways and ship canals. He had joined the army and had served in the Sudan on Wolsley’s unsuccessful campaign to rescue General Gordon. After that, Ward had founded a labourers’ trade union and got himself elected as a Member of Parliament, taking a stand somewhere between the Labour and Liberal parties.

It seemed to Paul that Ward had become the sort of man that Corporal Jacobs might have aspired to be if he had ever got out of the shell-hole alive. When the war broke out Ward had apparently raised five labour battalions and, in 1915, a pioneer battalion, the 25th Middlesex, known — at least until they reached Vladivostok — as the ‘the Navvies’. As their colonel, he had commanded them in France before being ordered to the Far East, only to have their ship hit a mine on the voyage out. Ward, unsurprisingly, had safely evacuated his men into lifeboats.