David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

If he had taken a liking to Ward, though, Paul had to admit he hadn’t cared for Kolchak.

Not that his impression of the admiral was entirely free of being coloured by the fact that Kolchak had had nothing complimentary to say about Paul’s father.

His mother had extolled the admiral in her letter to him (he found it curious how he could now recall the missive when a few months earlier he could barely remember a word she had written). She had been impressed, although he was aware — and not without a tinge of vicarious embarrassment, for she was never conscious enough of her own affectations to feel embarrassment on her own behalf — that a little flattery and attention went a long way as far as his mother was concerned. And while the admiral had seemed relaxed during the meeting with Paul, there had been something almost defensive about his manner that Paul could only put down to the peculiarity of his position: a landlocked admiral thrust suddenly into a position of political responsibility. No doubt he would have been much more at ease in a purely social situation; it was a mark of most members of the old tsarist officer corps that they flowered most brilliantly on societal occasions. Paul assumed it to be a consequence of the fact that between the Crimea and the Japanese wars there had been little else for them to do beyond polishing their social skills — bar chase around the Caucuses after a few unruly brigands.

Although Kolchak, he had to admit, was something of an exception. He had earned himself some renown as an explorer, dog-sledding around the arctic. There was also his reputation for bravery, gained during the Revolution when he had loyally refused to surrender his sword to mutineers, throwing it over the side of his ship instead. Prepared to die for the act, the theatrical gesture had instead won over the sailors who spared his life. Paul doubted that such an act of compassion met with much approval in Bolshevik circles as, once back in Petersburg, — at least according to Sofya — Kolchak had become involved in Kornilov’s abortive coup.

Having popped into his head again, Paul allowed the thought of Sofya to insulate him from the grunts and snorts of the Middlesex bandsmen. He replayed memories of her over in his head, closing his eyes as the train rocked over the rails and they climbed slowly up into the Urals once more.

Beyond the frost-crazed carriage windows, dawn rose over the forest. Snow clinging to the trees bowed branches low enough to meet the drifts piled in waves beneath them. Smoke from the locomotive’s stack hung in the pale, breathless air like a tainted cloud.

The Kungur front lay more than two-hundred and fifty versts west of Ekaterinburg and they arrived at the headquarters of the general in command, Count Galitzin, around midmorning. In greeting, some desultory shelling broke out to shatter the silence, the unfocused explosions muffled by the deep snow beyond the lines. No one paid it much mind. Paul was informed on being introduced to the general’s Russian officers — all bedecked in gleaming boots and braid — how Galitzin was a member of one of Russia’s oldest aristocratic families and that the count had been an aide to General Kornilov. Then they ignored him as a conference ensued and Galitzin showed Kolchak and his staff a map of the front. The general demonstrated where he was going to break through the Red Army lines and outflank the Bolsheviks.

Paul hung on the periphery with Ward until the meeting broke up, then followed the rest to an eight-wheeled American truck Count Galitzin used as his mess. By the time they had finished eating the shelling had virtually stopped and it was decided that the party might safely venture towards the front line. With the band of the Middlesex in tow they made their way to a deep railway cutting. The musicians were left behind while Paul and the others crept closer to the line where the foremost troops were dug in.

They had just squeezed themselves into a crowded machinegun pit when, from back at the railway cutting, the strident notes of ‘Colonel Bogey’ split the afternoon air. Startled, all heads turned to Ward who grinned at them broadly.

Shelling recommenced almost simultaneously, rapid explosions ripping along the Red Army lines. Shells whined overhead, raining down on their positions. They tried to burrow deeper into the pit, Galitzin and his officers vying with Kolchak and his staff to be the man at the bottom.

Next to them the machinegun opened up. Paul blocked his ears, covering his helmet-less head with his arms and wishing fervently that either the shelling or the band would stop. Beside him, one of the general’s officers, too fat and slow to get to the bottom of the pile, began cursing loudly and decided to take his chances out of the pit. He beat a rapid retreat towards the cutting and, sensing a general movement to the rear, the count followed. The admiral and assorted staff officers scurried along at his their heels.

‘Don’t s’pose they’ve heard the like before, eh?’ Ward roared over the rattle of the machinegun as the last strains of ‘Colonel Bogey’, still echoing through the trees, gave way to ‘Tipperary’.

Paul doubted that they had.

‘Looks like the tour’s over,’ said Ward, standing up. ‘Come on, lad, better stop the band before they provoke the Bolshies into a frontal assault.’

He climbed out of the pit, dusted himself off and pulled Paul after him. They followed the retreating Russians back to the railway cutting.

At Galitzin’s headquarters, another conference was held. The bombardment had abated a little now the music had ceased and, as the few shells falling were not reaching as far as the rear, Paul wandered outside. Stopping to light a cigarette, he saw a Czech officer approaching him, the man’s face creased with ill-humour.

He said something Paul didn’t understand, no doubt taking him for a fellow Czech because of his uniform.

‘I’m English,’ Paul said in Russian.

‘English?’ the Czech snapped back, obviously exasperated. ‘This music, it is yours?’

Paul gestured towards the staff room. ‘A British colonel brought his band.’

‘Are you mad ? Why are you stirring up the Reds? It’s been nice a peaceful here for once. What are you doing here?’

Paul offered the man a cigarette and explained he was accompanying Admiral Kolchak, the new minister for war.

‘Bad news for us Czechs, I think,’ the officer said, expelling a stream of smoke into the frozen air.

His name was Bečvář and he was in that sector with a unit of Czechs. He told Paul how he had deserted from the Austro-Hungarian army to join the Czech Družina but had wound up in a POW camp in Lublin instead. When he finally managed to join the Legion, he said he had found himself fighting Bolsheviks instead of Austro-Hungarians.

They finished their cigarettes and shook hands, Paul returning to the conference in time to hear Ward ask General Galitzin what the chances were of retaking Perm and linking up with General Poole — who apparently had now settled into winter quarters in Archangel.

Galitzin seemed a shade less optimistic about a breakthrough now than he had before lunch and declared it doubtful. Paul trooped back to the train, wondering if it had been the shelling or the news that Poole had quartered for the winter that had taken the edge off the count’s bellicosity.

They returned to Ekaterinburg, immediately heading after the briefest of stops to the sector of front under General Pepelayev. Here they found a host of dejected vagabonds who had just retreated sixty versts. Most were lacking boots and had swathed their freezing feet in filthy rags to keep out frostbite. Their uniforms hung in tatters. Those that had rifles had had to prise them from the frozen grip of their comrades. They had little ammunition, their general complained. Anatoli Pepelayev looked to be at his wit’s end. Young but haggard, he was as dirty and worn as his men.