David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

He had not met Voitzekhovsky before, having been shunted into the now dead Švec’s siding while on his way to meet the colonel. After that successive officers had passed him along the line with the alacrity of men ridding themselves of a dud banknote.

Voitzekhovsky, a Russian, had been with the Czechs since the first Družina had been raised. Most of their other Russian officers had by now departed, either through Czech pressure or because the Russians themselves preferred to join the growing White forces. Voitzekhovsky had remained. Along with General Diterikhs, formally the aide of General Janin — the Frenchman nominally in overall charge of the Legion and now Syrový’s second in command — and perhaps Kappel, Voitzekhovsky was one of the few Russians trusted by the Legion. Unlike many of his fellow officers from the old tsarist army, Voitzekhovsky was not a man who despised the Russian peasant.

The fodder of choice for every tsar who needed to feed his enemies’ cannon, the peasant was the Russian army’s staple crop. The common soldier, brutalised and thought of as little more than a dumb beast of burden by their officers, had in their hundreds of thousands voted for the Revolution with their feet, deserting their regiments on the eastern front. Unlike many of his contemporaries, Voitzekhovsky understood this and recognised the need for reform. But he was trying to turn back a tide; the resurrection of the White officer corps in the People’s Army, along with old methods of conscription and discipline, had become more than just a contributory factor in the wholesale desertions since the summer.

Paul supposed the problem preyed on Voitzekhovsky’s mind since the colonel’s face was etched with lines. He was still a young man although, if any trace of youth remained beneath his sallow skin, it was now masked by overwork and concern. It showed on his high forehead, and in the thinning hair he wore parted in the middle.

‘There’s to be a ceremony in Ekaterinburg,’ Voitzekhovsky began without preamble as soon as Paul had presented himself. ‘I’ve been ordered to attend. You had better come with me.’

‘What sort of ceremony, sir?’

‘You know the Czechs and Slovaks are to be granted statehood?’

‘Czechoslovakia? Yes sir.’

The news of the fact had come through on the day of Šveck’s funeral. Masaryk and the National Council had finally achieved their objective, Austria-Hungary no longer being in any position to argue against the independence of Bohemia, Moravia and the other regions that now made up the new nation of Czechoslovakia. There had been celebrations along the length of the Trans-Siberian, from Ufa to Vladivostok, tempered among the 1st Division, at least, by the fact they were burying Šveck. It was common knowledge that the men who had disobeyed his orders were now volunteering for every hazardous mission proposed. Ironically, most of them would probably not live long enough to enjoy the fruits of statehood.

‘The Legion is to be presented with a standard and regimental colours.’ Voitzekhovsky’s voice was flat, without emotion as if, as a Russian, he regarded himself to be detached from the honours.

‘Wonderful,’ Paul said, sounding just as remote. ‘Who’s to present the colours? General Janin?’ It seemed unlikely as since his arrival, Janin had rarely strayed out of Vladivostok.

‘The Directory’s new minister of war.’ Voitzekhovsky paused meaningfully. ‘An admiral.’

‘Admiral Kolchak? Isn’t he in Omsk?’

‘He’ll be touring the front after the presentation. I believe he is the man you came to Russia to meet.’

Paul became aware that he had begun to slouch. The Czechs’ attitude to army hierarchy had begun to infected him with the egalitarianism he had once professed to embrace. His discipline had slipped along with it and he imagined what the reaction of his old battalion commander back in the East Surreys would have been. He straightened up.

‘Yes, Colonel…’

‘Was there something you wanted to say?’ Voitzekhovsky enquired as if divining a hesitancy in Paul’s response.

‘Sorry, sir. I was going to say that it’s true Admiral Kolchak was the man I was sent here to meet, but events seem to have overtaken me. If you see what I mean…’

‘Events have overtaken us all, Ross,’ Voitzekhovsky said. ‘But I do see what you mean.’

Paul’s English name sounded odd coming from Voitzekhovsky’s mouth. Paul had originally reported to Čeček in Kazan as Captain Ross, on attachment from the East Surreys as liaison officer to the Allies. But, on joining the Legion, he hadn’t known quite what to call himself and, given the men’s attitude towards the Allies, often introduced himself as Rostov. Using both, he’d found himself caught between the two. He answered to either now, although suspected he was more universally known as ‘the Englishman’.

‘However,’ Voitzekhovsky went on, ‘we can’t be held accountable for events beyond our control. The situation may have changed but you still have an obligation to fulfil your commission, do you not? That is why I’m taking you to Ekaterinburg. You can present yourself to the admiral. I am informed he has a British officer, General Knox, accompanying him, so perhaps he will be in a position to issue you with new orders should you require them. Either way you’ll be pleased to be released from any responsibility you may feel towards the Legion.’

Standing in the snow outside Voitzekhovsky’s staff carriage, preparing for the long walk back to his train, Paul wondered if he had ever actually felt any responsibility towards the Legion. What he had usually felt was that he was little more than an appendage while serving with them. How they had felt towards him was another matter. Certainly not a responsibility. A liability , perhaps, judging from their usual attitude. But that was the army for you. No matter what army it was. It was like an order of the day: the wrong man in the wrong place was to be assumed a liability.

But Voitzekhovsky’s parting remark was not what Voitzekhovsky had meant, of course. It was because the colonel was the man he was that he had phrased it so. What he had meant was that Paul had been the Legion’s responsibility, and he was as glad as the rest to be rid of him. That’s why the Legion respected Voitzekhovsky, Paul supposed. He was a man sensible to other men’s sensibilities. Other Russian officers no doubt called a spade a spade, and their peasants worse than that. Trudging back through the snow to retrieve his accoutrements and wishing he’d brought them with him, Paul couldn’t help but wonder into which camp Admiral Kolchak would fall.

The Legion presented arms.

Unexpectedly, the band struck up the British national anthem and, looking surprised, the colonel and his staff began mumbling along. Paul watched Gajda lead the units of the Legion who had been ferried to Ekaterinburg for the ceremony as they marched past the raised platform at the end of the square where Admiral Kolchak stood. It was Paul’s first sight of Gajda and it appeared to him that the man exuded the deceptive appearance of being a big man while being of little more than average height. Perhaps it was the Slovak’s growing reputation that added bulk to his presence. There was an arrogance to the way he marched past the dais, back straight, head erect… although the errant hank of the dark hair he combed across his head threatened repeatedly to ruin the overall impression by falling into his eyes.

The band of the 25th Battalion, Middlesex Regiment — ‘The Navvies’ Battalion’ — had landed in Vladivostok while Paul was still kicking his heels in Helsingfors. That had been in early August. Three months later, most of the 25th were still in the far-eastern port, a ragbag of men graded B1, Paul had heard — unfit for active service. They were only in Siberia, rumour had it, so Britain would not look bad when compared to the commitment made by the Americans.