David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

There were many people washing up and down the branch line and he mixed in with them as they trudged through the snow, giving soldiers a wide berth by cutting behind the wooden huts that lined the track. When he reached the Legion trains it became obvious they were on alert. Guards were posted at outlying points in front of the trains and men manned the machineguns mounted on flatcars. Digging into his pocket for Masaryk’s letter and opening his coat to show his Czech uniform, he waved the dog-eared paper above his head and approached the guards slowly.

The atmosphere in the commissariat was subdued. The men and officers, messing in together as was the Legion way, hardly spoke. Morale hadn’t been good in recent weeks, but there was something more oppressing the men.

Everyone knew about the coup, perhaps even from the moment Krasilnikov and his men pushed their way into Rogovski’s rooms. News and rumour spread through the Legion with the rapidity of a virus. The staff captain Paul had spoken to knew the names of the arrested ministers and that command of all Russian forces had been offered to Admiral Kolchak. The admiral had been offered it, in fact, even before the coup had taken place, although Kolchak had apparently declined the post suggesting Boldyrev was a better candidate. Whether the refusal on Kolchak’s part was a genuine reluctance or merely a ritual of manners in the expectation of the offer being made again, no one seemed sure. The Legion officers were divided on the issue. Their opinion was unanimous, however, in believing Boldyrev would not be a suitable candidate in the eyes of the plotters — too left-wing was the consensus. But if not Kolchak, then who ? Viktor Pepelayev, the brother of the general at the front and already a minister in the deposed government, was thought a possible substitute. No one mentioned Gajda’s name and Paul found the omission deafening. When he had asked the staff captain — at the behest of Colonel Ward — what stance the Legion was likely to take, Paul was met with evasions on the pretext that the General Council needed to be consulted. Paul pointed out that by the time Syrový in Chelyabinsk got a decision from the General Council and had passed it on to Omsk, the town could well be in the middle of a civil war. Besides the one they were already in the middle of, he had found himself adding. It had done him little good. They were busy, the staff captain said, and had hurried Paul out. Perhaps if he returned later…

In the commissariat, an officer who looked vaguely familiar caught his eye and made room for Paul next to him at the table where he was sitting. Paul carried over his lunch — a rather greasy mutton stew — and sat down.

‘Kazan,’ said the officer, jogging Paul’s memory.

Paul looked at his long, almost funereal face over a spoonful of the stew.

‘The barge,’ said Paul. ‘I remember.’

‘Gavenda.’

‘Ross, or Rostov, take your pick.’

‘Liaison to the Allies,’ said Gavenda, managing not to imbue the comment with too much irony. Paul found himself smiling anyway.

‘Been in Omsk long?’

‘A month,’ Gavenda shrugged. ‘At the front until now.’

‘Me too,’ said Paul.

‘What’s it like in town?’

‘Quiet when I left. There are troops on the streets. Bodies, too.’

‘What’s new?’

‘Will the Legion come out for the SRs?’

Gavenda mournfully inspected his plate. ‘They ignored us the last time.’

Paul supposed Gavenda was referring to how, just before the Directory had taken office, the right-wing de facto head of the West Siberian Government — an ambitious politician named Mikhailovsky who was unhappy at the prospect of sharing power — had objected to the appointment of an SR minister. Mikhailovsky had had his security police murder the SR as soon as the man arrived in Omsk. The Legion had sent the Directory a report showing Mikhailovsky’s complicity in the death but it had been diplomatically shelved.

‘Besides,’ said Gavenda, ‘after Gajda’s threat it was decided we should stay out of it.’

‘Threat?’

‘Apparently Gajda has given those who planned the coup a guarantee that the Legion will not intervene. There was talk of his marching on Omsk if we did.’

‘What? Not with Legion men, surely.’

Gavenda’s lip curled sourly. ‘You would hope not, although he has his supporters. But he has Russian men, too, thanks to his pal the admiral.’

‘And would he have?’

‘Intervened?’ Gavenda shrugged again. ‘Who knows? He’s an ambitious man. After all, what was he in Bohemia, a student of chemistry then a clerk in the army…? Russia has made him. Perhaps he thinks in return he can make Russia.’

‘Is he coming here?’

‘Maybe. They say he’s in Chelyabinsk now, getting a bollocking from Syrový and Diterikhs.’

Paul left Gavenda to his stew and started back for town. The overcast had thickened and snow was falling heavily. With it came a wind that carried the breath of the arctic.

So Gajda had shown his hand. And played his cards too soon? He had been a hero of the Legion just weeks before. Now he was looking like a common adventurer.

The crowds of refugees had thinned. There were fewer soldiers too; sheltering in their barracks, no doubt. Paul put his head into the wind, envying them.

He had just reached Ward’s perimeter in the square when he saw Admiral Kolchak emerging from the Stavka headquarters. Dressed in a British uniform he was walking down the steps beside a British officer who was carrying a bottle of Champagne. A staff car waited at the foot of the steps, belching exhaust smoke like a bonfire into the frozen air. Kolchak and the British officer climbed into the car and drove out of the square. Paul turned towards Ward’s train only to see the colonel on the steps of his carriage watching the departing admiral and his companion. The sight seemed to have etched a deep frown into his forehead.

‘Ross,’ he called, spotting Paul, ‘what have you learned?’

Paul recounted his inconclusive meeting with the Legion staff officer and said he had learned more from his acquaintance in the commissariat.

Ward drummed his fingers on his moustache. ‘Now, did Gajda and the admiral cook that up on the tour of the front?’

‘It looks that way,’ Paul said.

‘There’s rarely smoke without fire, even if there aren’t always signals,’ Ward replied cryptically.

‘As you say, sir,’ Paul agreed.

‘Well, Admiral Kolchak is the Supreme Governor of all Russia now. He informed me that he accepted the post at two-thirty this afternoon.’

‘Was the post Stavka’s to give? What about General Deniken? Has he agreed?’

‘At the moment, that hardly matters.’

‘Well, the SRs do,’ Paul said, ‘and I’ll be surprised if they think much of it. Never mind the Bolsheviks.’

‘Ah, but we have to mind the Bolsheviks, don’t we? With Kolchak as Supreme Governor at least these squabbling factions have the opportunity to unite under one command. The greater good?’

Paul still had his doubts. He had seen enough of Russian politics to know that the only thing a Russian politician would accept as greater than himself was his own ego. There was nothing to be gained in passing his opinion on to Ward, though, so he kept silent. There was already enough cynicism to be found in Omsk without him adding to the pile. Instead he asked:

‘Who was the British officer with the admiral?’

Ward’s frown reappeared.

‘That was Lieutenant-colonel Nielson.’

‘From General Knox’s staff?’

‘Yes. Doesn’t look good, does it, carrying a bottle of champagne as if they had something to celebrate?’