Twin columns of brown-uniformed soldiers trudged across the snow-covered plain into a conifer forest. Deprived of the day’s sunlight by the long shadows of the pines, the temperature in the forest dropped precipitously, affecting even Russian troops known for their indifference to the chill. The winds whistled through the pines and cut through their coats. The slush of snow and mud pulled at their boots with every step. Marching between the two columns, Sergei Chekov, his plain features and black eyes hard and glaring, removed his brimmed cap and ran a hand through his dirty blond hair as he passed into the forest. He let loose a sharp exhalation that turned instantly to smoking vapor, then inhaled deeply, letting the cold sting his nostrils, throat and lungs.

Chekov replaced his cap, stopped under the cover of the trees and counted off the remains of his platoon as they passed into the concealment of the white-clad pines. He did so every few kilometers to ensure none had gotten lost or mixed up with another unit in the retreat.

. . . sixteen, seventeen, eighteen—all accounted for. We marched into Galicia almost two years ago with thirty-six men. Now this is all that’s left, and most of these new men; soft city boys conscripted, or else taken in by the Marxists’ propaganda.

That Chekov himself was from the relatively cosmopolitan city of Yaroslavl failed to soften his disdain for his fellow urbanites filling up the ranks of the new Red Army. Many of them were motivated, but their training was utter shit, and their frequently genuine devotion to ideology annoyed him to no end. Maybe they were right, maybe the communists would usher in a new era of peace and plenty for Russia. But out here, all that mattered was survival, not the fantasies of intellectuals.

As the last man of his platoon entered the woods, Chekov picked up his pace again, closing to the front of the formation. On his way to the front he heard two voices, one the booming baritone of his first squad leader and oldest friend, Anton Dostovalov, the other a younger, higher pitched tenor—one of the new men. What was his name?

“Is it true Feldfebel Chekov earned the St. George Cross?” said the new man, a reedy kid, medium height like Chekov himself; so a dwarf next to Dostovalov. Dostovalov, tall, heavily muscled with frost-dusted thick black hair and mustache, was as handsome as Chekov was plain. He looked over his shoulder to answer the boy, but Chekov interrupted.

“Tsarist trinkets don’t stop German shells, boy,” Chekov said. “Just keep your rifle clean, your head down and do what Comrade Dostovalov tells you. Maybe you’ll live.”

“Yes, Comrade Chekov,” the boy said, voice subdued.

“The platoon commander is quite correct Yevgeny Grigorivich,” Dostovalov said. “And besides, we’re the Red Army now, don’t want to agitate the commissar by asking too much about the Imperial Army days or using the old Tsarist ranks. Gotta survive him and the Germans, then, like Comrade Chekov said, you might live.”

Chekov continued on to the head of the platoon, ignoring Dostovalov’s good-natured admonishment to the younger man. It was true, the boy might live. They might all still live. The war was almost over, all the veterans could feel it. Just survive a little longer and you might make it home.

Even though negotiations had broken down, both rumor and Commissar Golubstov, their only source for “official” news, agreed that Lenin still wanted Russia out of the war. The Bolsheviks had been suing for peace ever since they took power. The Germans were only pushing now for more territory with which to bargain. Personally, as long as Rodina was left intact, Chekov didn’t give a shit. They were so goddamn close to peace, what was the point of it anymore?

I’ve never seen Poland or the Ukraine before, and fuck if I ever want to again. Lenin needs to pull his head out of his ass and sign a goddamn peace treaty.

The mechanical roar of an aircraft engine drew Chekov’s eyes upward. An Anatra D biplane soared over the boughs of the pines, easily visible against the cold blue sky. Chekov didn’t have to squint to make out the concentric red-blue-white roundel of the Imperial Russian Air Service on the side of the plane. The Bolsheviks hadn’t gotten around to replacing the symbols on this particular aircraft with hammers and sickles or whatever communist iconography they were going to use.

The plane rocked its wings side to side in a friendly gesture on its way over the Russian column. Glad it wasn’t some Fritz crate coming to strafe them, Chekov relaxed and kept marching, turning around in his tracks every so often, keeping his eyes on what remained of his men. Some miles ahead of them, to the East, the biplane circled and then slowly descended, disappearing from view below the treetops.

No airport near here, must have landed in a field.

They marched for another hour before Commissar Golubstov came marching back between the columns to meet Chekov. Golubstov was in his early twenties, roughly the same age as Chekov, but was much newer to the Army. The commissars had been dispatched by the Communist Party to ensure the men were exposed to proper communist doctrine and to keep an eye on the Army’s officers because a fraction were retreads from the Imperial Army—many of them minor nobility. Golubstov was tall and thin with a brown bristle mustache and pale blue eyes. He swaggered up to Chekov, no rifle in his hand, just one of those American Colt semi-automatic pistols in a holster at his hip.

“Comrade Chekov, have your men set up security here,” Golubstov said, his voice nasal and grating. “Then follow me. The commander wants to see you.”

“Yes, Comrade Commissar,” Chekov said, his tone flat. He turned to his squad leaders.

“Dostovalov, Bessonov,” he said. “Long halt here.”

Chekov stood stock still for a solid minute as Dostovalov and Bessonov positioned the men among the trees, not because he had any doubt of his fellow noncommissioned officers’ ability to array the platoon but because he could feel Golubstov twitching and glaring behind him. Chekov took some small joy in that. For a man supposed to embody the wonders of their new classless society, Golubstov was as imperious and haughty as any of the inbred, aristocratic twits that littered the Imperial Officer Corps.

Pompous Bolshevik bastard.

Once his eighteen men were all on their bellies amidst the trees, staring down their rifles, Chekov turned and strode toward the tall Marxist fanatic, his expression carefully devoid of the smugness he felt at making the man wait.

“After you, Comrade Commissar,” said Chekov.

Chekov lengthened his stride to keep up with the rangy commissar’s gait as they marched through the woods, past the company’s other two rifle platoons and the regimental machine gun company. The riflemen and machine gunners’ heads hung low, apparently devoid of emotion or thought save to put one foot in front of another. Unlike his platoon, the rest of the regiment wasn’t stopping but continuing their march East.

That can’t be a good sign.

As they passed through the ranks of yet another retreating rifle company, the woods opened up into a clearing long since transformed from snowy blanket to brown-gray patchwork with boot prints and wheel ruts. The Anatra D biplane was parked in the center of the field, its engine quiet, its swept wings seeming to droop at being earthbound. The pilot, apparent by his thick leather coat, and the goggles hanging around his neck, stood with several officers from the regiment gathered around the lower right wing of the craft.

Golubstov led him toward the plane. As they closed the distance, Chekov recognized Colonel Pozharsky, his regimental commander. Pozharsky was bullnecked and florid faced, as tall as the scarecrow commissar but easily twice his mass. He was flanked by his battalion commanders and, Chekov saw, Chekov’s own company commander, Captain Delov.

Delov’s mouth was a flat line, his eyes clouded as Chekov approached.

Not a good sign at all.

Turning his eyes to Pozharsky, the senior officer present, Chekov slung his rifle and saluted sharply. Pozharsky’s lip twitched at the uncharacteristic display of punctilious military courtesy—courtesy out of favor, even illegal in the new Red Army. The Old Man’s eyes flicked to the commissar, seeming to realize for whose benefit Chekov saluted, then returned the salute as crisply.

I advise the new men not to antagonize the zampolit, then do everything I can to provoke the man myself. Do I have some sort of death wish?

Catching a glimpse of Golubstov’s thin face scrunched in anger, Chekov couldn’t regret his action. The war had been bad enough fighting under the incompetent command of the Tsar, may his reign long be consigned to the chamber pot of history. Now, though, the communists had supplemented the aristocratic officer corps, who ranged from terrible to passable, with half-baked commissars and soviets; committees of troops who could vote on their leaders and battle plans. Because the dumbest private in the back rank should always get a vote on how to assault a trench.

What made it all the worse was that the Bolsheviks gutted the discipline of Russia’s military thus before they secured peace with the Germans. With a chain of command that could evaporate at the whim of a zampolit or in a fit of pique from the enlisted men, they were expected to defend the, “cradle of the Revolution,” from the Kaiser’s seasoned, disciplined and well-led troops.

Unlike the war in the West, the Eastern Front had never metastasized into miles-long systems of static trenches. Even with millions of men at war in the East, the geography over which Russia fought against Germany and Austria was simply too immense to fortify and man. The lines shifted back and forth, miles and miles of ground lost and taken with every year.

Now the dying continues, but we only give ground, never take it. It’s a minor miracle this regiment is even retreating in good order.

“Comrade Chekov, good,” Pozharsky said, his voice gruff. “I’ll cut straight to it; you drew the short straw again.”

Motherfucker.

“I see,” Chekov said. “And I wasn’t even there for it.”

“Sorry, Sergei Arkadyevich,” Delov said, using Chekov’s patronymic. “But none of the other platoon commanders have your experience.”

“Of course they don’t,” Chekov said with a snort. “How could they when my boys have been getting all the choice assignments since 1915?”

“I volunteered to command the mission mys—” Delov started, but Golubstov cut him off.

“Comrade Delov, the bulk of your company will be elsewhere,” Golubstov said. “It would be inappropriate for you to leave them unattended. Do not worry. I will accompany Comrade Chekov and his platoon.”

Chekov’s gut clenched. Whatever shit mission they had in mind for him, the last thing he needed was this communist fuck along for the ride.

“Comrade Commissar, that’s hardly necessary,” Pozharsky said. “If Delov should be with his company, so you belong with the main body of the Regiment, that we may all benefit from the guidance of the Party.”

It was mark of the Old Man’s discipline that Pozharsky got the words out without a hint of irony. Either unaware that he was being mocked, or unwilling to admit it, Golubstov responded in earnest.

“Normally you would be right, of course,” he said with a sniff. “But this will be the regiment’s most important mission for the time being and requires personal attention. I understand that Comrade Chekov is an experienced soldier, but I’ve found that he and his men lack the proper revolutionary zeal. Without someone to stiffen their spines they may too easily give ground. Since the Regiment’s officers are required to lead their men, I shall fill in the gap.”

Stiffen my spine? I’ll stiffen yours by turning you into a corpse.

Knowing that words might see Golubstov’s pistol in his face, Chekov contented himself with a cold glare, a glare he knew unnerved better men than the commissar. Golubstov met his eyes for only a moment before his haughty expression slipped. Pozharsky spoke again, giving Golubstov an excuse to look away.

“This isn’t a suicide mission, Golubstov,” Pozharsky said. “Chekov need only buy us some time to get across the river.”

“Comrades, if I may, what is the mission?” Chekov said.

Pozharsky turned to the pilot, who stood with a carefully neutral expression fixed to his face.

“Tell him what you told me, Comrade Kharzov.”

“Of course,” the pilot said. “Chekov is it? Come here to the map and let me show you what I saw on my recon flight.”

Chekov shouldered past the assembled officers to stand next to the pilot. The man spread out a map of the Ukraine. Chekov immediately pulled his own from where it had been folded safely in a pocket. The scales were off, but the symbol keys were similar enough. On both maps irregularly concentric rust-colored curves depicted changes in elevation, blue lines depicted rivers and streams, black lines for roads and towns and green for heavy vegetation.

“I spotted a German column, at least a thousand men, marching hard here,” The pilot stabbed his finger at a spot several kilometers south and west of their current position. “They had an advance guard of about one hundred men forward, moving so fast they were practically running.”

“Bold of them,” Chekov said.

“They can afford to be bold,” Pozharsky said. “The front is collapsing. Their commander probably wants to earn a little distinction by capturing a few Russians before the whole show is over.”

Golubstov, exhaled sharply, earning a glare from Pozharsky.

“Comrade Commissar, it is not defeatist to face reality,” Pozharsky said. “The front is in general retreat.”

“Perhaps we would not be if the troops understood the importance of our Revolution not just to Mother Russia, but all mankind,” Golubstov said, fanatic zeal giving his high-pitched voice a disconcerting tenor.

All mankind can go hang. I just want to go back to Yaroslavl.

“What is it you need me to do, Colonel?” Chekov said.

“At their current rate of march, the Germans will catch up to us before we have found a viable defensive position for the regiment,” Pozharsky said. “I need you to engage their advance guard. Force them to slow down and deploy for contact.”

“Fantastic,” Chekov said, running his knuckles across the stubble on his chin. “I don’t suppose we have any artillery support, or maybe some bombs?”

Chekov turned his eyes to Kharzov the pilot, who shook his head in the negative.

“No artillery, Chekov,” Pozharsky said. “And I don’t want you to get into a pitched fight. I’m attaching Yerokhin and his machine guns to you for the duration. Pick a few off, keep them under fire until they start getting close, then fall back to the next position.”

“How long do you expect us to keep this up?”

“Long enough for us to get across the river,” Pozharsky said. “If we can’t hold the line on the waterfront we’re all fucked anyway. If you can keep them occupied until nightfall, they’re unlikely to launch a major attack in the dark across a body of water, not at this point in the game. In the morning we will be across the river and ready to defend.”

“That’s a long time for a platoon to dance with a regiment, Colonel,” Chekov said.

“I knew Chekov was the wrong man,” Golubstov said. “Is there not a real communist among this regiment who can—”

“Comrade Golubstov,” Pozharsky said, fixing the commissar with a cold glare. “I’m certain the glories of Marxist-Leninism will be apparent to us all in the days ahead, but just for this moment tactical judgment is more important than revolutionary zeal. Comrade Chekov is correct, this is a difficult mission, if he were too stupid to see that then he wouldn’t be the right man for the job.”

Golubstov snapped his teeth down on the rest of his sentence. His nostrils flared on either side of his thin nose, but he remained quiet.

Pozharsky may pay for that remark later. All the old school officers are on thin ice with the Party.

“I know I’m fucking you over,” Pozharsky said, turning back to Chekov. “But of all the platoon commanders I have left, you’re the only one with a chance in hell of pulling this off and bringing your men back alive. If you don’t do this, we’re all going to die, or end up in a prison camp. Even if the peace were signed today, there’s no way we’d get word before the Germans catch up with us.”

Propaganda aside, maybe German prison camps aren’t that bad?

Instead of voicing the thought, Chekov merely exhaled and nodded.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “We’ll get it done.”

*****

Chekov took a deep drag off his meager cigarette and savored the warmth and dregs of nicotine he siphoned off the pathetic fag. Though they were in the shadows of late afternoon, he didn’t worry about the cherry or the smoke giving away their position. For one, the snow was falling thick and silent through the air again, and secondly, they were supposed to be spotted by the Germans.

The problem with a baited ambush is that it needs bait. Chekov shivered, and not just against the chill.

With insufficient time and resources to plan anything elaborate, Chekov positioned Yerokhin and most of his gunners in a draw to the southeast of a lightly forested area. A clearing would’ve been a superior engagement area, but also would’ve presented an obvious ambush site—he couldn’t assume the German commander was a complete idiot.

Since the American Lewis Guns of the machine gun platoon were the lion’s share of his firepower, he placed Dostovalov and his squad with Yerokhin to ensure they stayed concealed and, once the shooting started, didn’t retreat until so ordered. Bessonov’s squad and the remaining two Lewis Guns he arrayed perpendicular to Dostovalov’s position in the woods, forming an L-shaped engagement area.

“Remember lads, the first thing running back at you will be us,” Chekov had told each group before departing. “So don’t shoot until I give one long blast on the whistle, then shoot everything in front of you that moves. After that, when you hear three short blasts, you know it’s time to fall back to the ridge.”

Golubstov he left with Bessonov; Chekov had considered offering the commissar a spot with his team, but he was afraid the man’s fanaticism would force him to accept to prove his commitment to the Revolution or some such bullshit. Chekov ensured every man in the platoon was lying in the prone, concealed under blanket, brush, and re-piled snow to the point of near invisibility. Then he’d taken his three steadiest junior men with him to play the part of a scouting team “discovered” by the Germans.

A year ago, he would’ve assigned this job to a good corporal and stayed with the main body of his troops. Now, aside from Dostovalov and maybe Bessonov, all his noncommissioned officers were either too stupid or too smart to do the job properly. The zealots lacked the training and common sense, the veterans were exhausted and just trying to survive, not win medals.

Which is what I should be trying to do, but Dostovalov and Bessonov have fought as long as I have, taken the same risks. I’d feel dirty foisting a shit detail off on them now when we’re so close to the end.

Chekov took one more long drag on the cigarette, then extinguished it on a nearby tree with a shaking hand. He and his three troopers, Privates Rusnak, Dyomin and Igoshin, were on their bellies in the snow, but nowhere near as well camouflaged as the platoon’s main battle line behind them. They peered through the snowy twilight for long silent minutes. The air had warmed a bit when the snowstorm broke, but that respite in temperature was offset by slush that was slowly soaking its way through his uniform.

“Feldfebel,” Dyomin said softly. “Two o’clock, three hundred meters. See them?”

Chekov squinted, peering through the fat, falling snowflakes. Shadows in gray detached themselves from the trees and grew larger in his vision as they approached. The Germans were marching hard, just as Kharzov told them, intent on capturing or killing a few more Russians before the war was over.

Surprise, Fritz.

“All right, lads,” Chekov said, his voice low. “On my shot, get as many as you can. Once they figure it out and start returning fire, we bound back. Rusnak and Igoshin first, then Dyomin and I.”

The men accepted his orders with silent nods. Chekov pulled the buttstock of his M1891 rifle firmly into his shoulder and pressed his cheek to the wood. Breathing deeply, he placed the front sight post of the rifle on the lead German’s chest, then aligned it with the vee notch in his rear sight, and waited, tracking the man’s movement for several more seconds. Chekov slowly squeezed the trigger as he exhaled.

CRACK-FOW-THWIT.

The rifle recoiled into his shoulder and the German went down; dead, wounded, or merely frightened, Chekov couldn’t say. He worked the bolt on his rifle rapidly, ejecting the empty brass case into the snow and chambering another round with a click-clack-clack-click. The reports of the other men’s rifle shots rang through the crisp winter air but Chekov couldn’t see if they hit their marks, he was busy scanning for his next target.

The Germans reacted like veterans, the ghostly gray figures were either on their bellies in the snow or scrambling for cover behind rocks and trees. Chekov led one of the slower shadows and fired again. He was able to fire one more time before a tree five meters in front of him burst into splinters under a hail of machine gun fire and the frigid air around him came alive with the angry-beehive noise of rounds passing entirely too close by.

“All right boys, that’s enough of that,” Chekov shouted, fighting down the sudden surge up his gullet. “Rusnak, go!”

Chekov rolled left several feet to settle behind another tree, soaking his back in slush and mud to match his chest and belly. Looking back down his sights, he fired several more times, fighting to steady his breathing as adrenaline coursed through his body. Chekov’s fear no longer assaulted him as a debilitating emotion as it had in his first few battles. Now the fear was simply as an anatomical condition to account for and bypass so that he could continue his trade—killing Germans.

“SET! COME ON BACK!” Rusnak shouted over the din, his words punctuated by two rifle shots.

“All right, Dyomin, let’s move!” Chekov shouted, slapping the soldier on the shoulder as he sprang to his feet.

Chekov stayed in a crouch as he ran, weaving through the woods. After a handful of ragged breaths, he dropped to elbows and knees, rifle held carefully out of the slush, and crawled rapidly to a tree, then sprang up and sprinted forward, again in a crouch as the German rounds cracked closer and closer, sending up puffs of snow and mud, skinning the bark off of the trees.

As he passed Rusnak and Igoshin, Chekov counted another five seconds, then fell to his belly, turned around, and fired as rapidly as he could at the approaching Germans, less interested in hitting them than trying to keep them honest. They were running between the trees now, close enough he could make out the pink of their hands and faces.

As aggressive as we expected.

Chekov and his men repeated their alternating retreat, two men firing, two running and crawling through the snow away from the Germans. Two more bounds brought them within sight of the platoon’s main line. Just as they crossed friendly lines, Dyomin arched his back, a black jet of blood flying from his abdomen to mingle with the snow and muck. The soldier collapsed, twitched a few times and then was still.

Heart hammering in his chest, body shaking from exertion, Chekov forced his legs to carry him to a large rock. He fell to his back behind the stone, allowing his rifle to lie against his chest, and his eyes to rise to the dark gray sky even as the German fire intensified. No sun was visible. As if God himself had withdrawn the heavens from the atrocity men committed upon one another. Chekov shook that thought away violently.

God is a lie, just do your fucking job and go home.

Chekov drew a deep, searingly cold breath, trying to gather enough wind to shout orders over the constant gunfire and his own exhaustion. As per the plan, now that they were back with the platoon, the rest of the bait team kept running to help sell the notion that they were an isolated scout force.

“Keep running boys!” Chekov shouted, then for the benefit of any enemy who might speak Russian, he added. “I’ll hold them off!”

Popping up just over the rock he began to fire once again. The Germans, whether they’d understood him or not, pressed on harder. A German fell to a well-placed shot, close enough for Chekov to make out his surprised expression. Soon, he was forced down behind the rock by a hail of rounds that whined and ricocheted off his cover. Flying stone shards left thin lines of blood running down his neck.

Thus far his men’s discipline had held, and it appeared the Germans hadn’t discovered them. Chekov risked a peek to appraise the enemy’s position within his engagement area, but nearly got his head blown off for his trouble.

Close enough.

Chekov gave a long, deafening blast on his whistle.

And the forest erupted with machine gun fire.

Chekov thumbed five more rounds into his rifle’s internal magazine then raised his eyes just above the rock. Already, more than a dozen gray-clad enemy bodies lay among the tree, spilling their lifeblood into the snow and mud. The enemy survivors were trying to get organized. A German man with officer’s shoulder boards was gesturing and shouting, inaudible to Chekov over the cacophony of the firefight. The German’s men were responding, finding cover and searching the trees for Russians, until the officer fell to a single rifle shot, and rattling bursts from the Lewis guns perforated three of the soldiers obeying him.

Brave or not, well-trained or not, any unit may break amidst an unexpected killing field. The Germans retreated, in a semblance of good order, of course, but retreat they did. Chekov lined up his sights on a gray clad back, squeezed the trigger of his rifle and claimed another Hun life. Five more Germans joined Chekov’s victim in quick succession as Russian gunners and riflemen scythed through the retreating Germans.

The gray shades retreated West into the forest and the fire died down, leaving only ringing and the sound of his own heartbeat thudding in Chekov’s ears. He rose to a knee and took stock of the situation. His men were out from underneath their blankets and camouflage now, changing the top-mounted circular drums on their smoking machine guns, fingering rounds into their rifles’ magazines. At least sixty gray-uniformed bodies lay broken and bleeding among the trees before them—the better part of a German company dead by ambush, and from what he could see, at the cost of no casualties of their own.

Almost no casualties, he corrected himself, rising to his feet and walking toward the spot where he’d seen Dyomin fall.

The young man’s body lay entirely still, the snow around him stained dark red. Chekov slung his rifle, reached down and felt at the boy’s neck for a pulse—nothing but cold, still flesh greeted his fingers. He exhaled heavily and turned the body over. Their unit hadn’t been issued wooden phials or stamped metal tags for the identification of those killed in action, so Chekov just stripped Dyomin of his ammunition and canteen.

Dostovalov caught up with Chekov as he stood up from Dyomin’s corpse.

“Here, distribute this among the men,” Chekov said, handing the cartridge box and canteen over. “What’s our status?”

“Machine guns are at about sixty percent ammunition, rifles at eighty,” Dostovalov said. “No killed or wounded, besides Dyomin.”

“Okay, cross level ammunition and get them ready to move,” Chekov said. “When the Germans come back, they’ll come back careful and pissed. We need to be somewhere else.”

“On it, Sergei,” Dostovalov said, turning back to the men.

Chekov fished out another cigarette from his pocket along with one of his last matches. The match flared and hissed when stuck, struggling against the cold wind. Chekov cupped a hand around it protectively, set it to the end of his cigarette and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes to savor the life-easing nicotine. When he opened his eyes again, Golubstov’s thin face was a few feet from his, regarding him with an odd look.

“I was wrong about you, Comrade Chekov,” Golubstov said.

“How so, Comrade Commissar?” Chekov said in a carefully guarded tone.

“You are a good communist soldier,” the commissar said. “This was a great victory.”

This was a blindside they weren’t expecting because the vaunted Red Army has been running before them like whipped dogs for weeks. It’s not going down in the history books. And it won’t work twice.

“Thank you, Comrade Commissar,” Chekov said. “We’ll be moving to our alternate position soon.”

Golubstov frowned, but when he spoke, his grating, nasal voice held little of its previous scorn.

“Is that necessary?” Golubstov said. “We seem to have defeated them handily.”

Chekov nodded, puffing furiously on the cheap cigarette as he did so.

“Yes, but the terrain here favors ambush, not a dedicated defense,” Chekov said, lips working around the butt of his cigarette. “This worked well because they weren’t expecting us. Now that they’re expecting resistance, we need better engagement areas and more cover, we’ll get that back at the ridge line. I figure we can fend off their first probes and give the Regiment another hour, maybe two before we risk being overrun.”

Golubstov frowned.

“If you think it necessary,” he said. “Now that I’ve seen your courage in defense of the Revolution, I feel I can trust your judgment.”

You feel you can trust my judgment?

Suppressing his rage, Chekov merely nodded and turned back to the supervising the retreat of his platoon. Dostovalov and Bessonov needed little guidance of course, in moments they were on the march in platoon wedge formation. Dostovalov approached Chekov with a smirk.

“Looks like our beloved Commissar is warming to you,” he said with warm humor. “Don’t forget the little people when they admit you into the Vanguard of the Revolution.”

“Fuck your mother, Anton Yevgennyevich,” Chekov said, using Dostovalov’s first name and patronymic in a deadpan voice. “Just keep your head down and let’s try not to martyr ourselves for the Revolution, eh?”

“Your lips to God’s ears, Comrade Chekov,” Dostovalov said.

“If there was a God, and if he listened to us,” Chekov said, “there’s no way the world would be so fucked up.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dostovalov said, unfazed by Chekov’s attack on his religion. “And what if God listened to Comrade Golubstov?”

“Then he wouldn’t be a god, just the devil,” Chekov muttered, picking up the pace. “Or a cosmic idiot.”

“Then what does that make us?” Dostovalov said.

“Alive, for the moment,” Chekov said. “Let’s try to keep it that way.”

*****

The sun was almost entirely below the horizon now and its last purple rays glinted off the falling snow, casting the hillside and the clearing that stretched from its base to the woods in fey half-light. Like steppe marmots, Chekov and his men burrowed into the ground as quickly and deeply as they could, trying to create protection against their predators. Hacking away at the cold soil with their entrenching tools, most had only completed pathetically shallow fighting positions when Igoshin called out a visual contact.

“Three men in the trees,” he said. “two o’clock, four hundred meters.”

Chekov ceased digging and dropped to his belly, rifle pointed West. He wished the Germans hadn’t retired their pickelhaube helmets, as the spike on top made them easier to pick out against the terrain. As it was, the gray domes of their new steel helmets presented much lower silhouettes as he tallied the shadows spreading through the trees opposite them.

More than two hundred, easily. We won’t hold long.

Keeping his face to the ground, Chekov dragged his body through the snow over to where Yerhokin lay next to one of his gunners.

“It’s going to start soon,” Chekov said. “Set?”

“Yes, Comrade,” Yerhokin said, regarding Chekov with a level gray-eyed stare.

“Remember, only guns three and four should fire before they reach the middle of the clearing,” Chekov said. “Then really dig into them. We’re not going to hold off more than one assault, so once the first wave is defeated, we’re retreating.”

Yerhokin actually smiled. The machine gun platoon commander, though not as close a comrade as Bessonov or Dostovalov, was also one of the men who’d been around since before the October Revolution. He wasn’t one of Golubstov’s zealots or a hapless boy soldier.

“Yes, Comrade Chekov,” he said. “I remember the engagement criteria and the retrograde plan. Don’t worry about us.”

Chekov snorted.

“I worry about all of us Yerhokin,” Chekov said. “Stay alive.”

“You, too.”

Yerhokin’s last word was punctuated by a rifle shot, then another, then several dozen more as the treeline across from them erupted in orange muzzle flashes.

“Remember boys, conserve your ammo!” Chekov shouted. “Acquire a goddamn target before you shoot!”

Chekov spent the next several minutes crawling back and forth across his line. The German machine guns stayed quiet, and so did his. A boy in Bessonov’s squad caught a bullet across his ass cheeks, and one of Dostovalov’s men lost his life and half his skull to a good, or lucky shot, but that was it. Still, the German’s machine guns stayed silent. The last rays of sun faded, though a nearly full moon provided enough illumination to continue the firefight, the volley-counter-volley of rifle fire grew even less effective.

So thoroughly soaked by melted snow and caked in mud that physical misery no longer registered on him, Chekov crawled over to Dostovalov’s hole—keeping his ass low to the ground as he did so. Dostovalov gave him another wide grin when he arrived, white teeth flashing under his big black mustache.

“You still enjoy this shit, don’t you, you sick sonofabitch?” Chekov said over the percussive rattler of musketry all about them.

“Sure, other than a good roll with a round woman, what could be more exciting?” Dostovalov said.

Snorting at his friend’s apparent insanity, Chekov turned his mind to the matter at hand.

“What do you think?” Chekov said. “They’re not pressing the attack or trying to envelop us.”

“Maybe they don’t realize they’re only up against a couple platoons,” Dostovalov said, eyes shifting from the enemy’s position to their own lines. “We bloodied the hell out of their lead company, after all. Fritz over there may want to keep the other two thirds of his battalion more than he wants a medal.”

“That doesn’t sound very much like the Fritz we know,” Chekov said. “Still, if you’re right, what’s the next thing they’ll—”

A distant BOOM cut off Chekov’s words and rattled his guts, followed by five more explosions and a chorus of pop-hiiissss as five stars burst to life in the night sky above them, casting the world around them in hideous orange light.

“Oh, shit,” Chekov and Dostovalov said in unison at the sight of the star shells bursting; the big man turned to Chekov.

“Did that pilot say anything about the German artillery train?” He said, eyes wide.

“Not a thing,” Chekov said. “Time we were leaving. Tell Bessonov, I’ll tell Yerhokin to cut loose with the guns to cover our retreat.”

“And Golubstov?”

“Better figure it out,” Chekov snapped over his shoulder as he crawled away.

Seconds later, the battlefield still cast in eerie orange light from the descending star shells, all eight of Yerhokin’s Lewis Guns opened up on the opposing wood line, tearing great divots out of the snow, mud, the trees and a few of the Germans. It was an impressive display of firepower—until a barrage of high explosive artillery shells landed in the field between the Germans and Chekov’s platoon. Though at least two hundred meters distant, the impacts popped his ear drums, and the concussion shook him to his very bowels.

I fucking hate artillery—especially theirs!

Chekov waited until the last of his riflemen and all but two of the machine gunners had displaced before he sprinted up the hill, thighs burning with the effort of propelling his body up the steep, snowy grade.

“Comrade Chekov!” Golubstov’s nasal screaming was still painfully audible over the ringing in his ears. “Why are we pulling back? The enemy hasn’t even begun their attack!”

Golubstov ran toward him, limbs akimbo like some gangling, fey forest monster. As the commissar spoke, Yerhokin’s last two machine gunners picked their Lewis guns up, folded their bipods and made tracks up the hill.

“Comrade Commissar, we cannot withstand an artillery barrage without proper defensive positions,” Chekov said, gesturing to the slowly setting black debris clouds in no-man’s land. “Staying here is suicide.”

Another star shell popped into life overhead, sharply rendering Golubstov’s thin face and the fanatical zeal in his eyes.

“There fire is inaccurate,” Golubstov said, drawing his pistol. “We cannot so easily give ground before the Imperialists!”

“WE CANNOT STAY HERE!” Chekov screamed over another volley of German artillery. This set of shells shrieked over their position, detonating not quite a kilometer to their East.

“They lob handfuls of shells blindly and you want to run?” Golubstov screamed. “I thought you were a man, not a coward!”

“It’s called bracketing, you fucking moron,” Chekov shouted. “Two more volleys and those shells will be landing on this hill. If we are here when that happens, we won’t be doing much for the Revolution because we’ll all be pulped!”

Golubstov leveled the American semi-automatic pistol at Chekov’s face.

“Get your men back on the line, Chekov,” he said, his voice deadly earnest, almost trembling with excitement. “We will show these imperialists what they’re up against.”

Why, oh fucking why did I get a zampolit with a death wish?

“Comrade Commissar, I suggest you put that pistol away,” Dostovalov said, his rifle barrel appearing from behind one of the fir trees behind Golubstov.

“This is treason against the Party!” The muzzle of Golubstov’s pistol shifted away from Chekov toward Dostovalov, but he never got the weapon trained onto the big man. As more German artillery rounds screamed overhead, Chekov drew his long bayonet with a practiced motion and screamed, “GET DOWN,” as he charged Golubstov.

The scarecrow-built political officer collapsed under the impact of Chekov’s compact but well-muscled body. Thanks to a hundred night-raids, Chekov knew just the spot on the lower back, the spot to thrust the bayonet to make sure he hit the kidney. He felt Golubstov stiffen, and the breath leave the commissar’s body as the bayonet’s point punctured his flesh and the blade slid through tissue and organ all the way to the hilt until the point scraped the ground beneath Golubstov’s stomach. Chekov withdrew the long blade with a mighty heave, then, staying low to the ground with all his weight over the commissar’s chest, he pulled Golubstov’s head back by the hair and slit his throat for good measure, letting his blood fly across the snow.

Then a massive weight pressed down on his body just before the thunder of God Himself assaulted his ear drums and lifted his body, along with the great weight atop it, at least a foot into the air before slamming him into the ground. Dirt and debris clattered about him for several moments. Strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him unsteadily to his feet.

Only the fact that he’d survived bombardment before allowed Chekov to keep his wits about him. Dostovalov was in front of him now, his lips moving, but his voice distant and faint, as if he were speaking from the other end of a long metal tube. Chekov pointed to his ear and shook his head, Dostovalov nodded his head, then pointed East.

Chekov took ragged breaths and held up one finger, trying to regain his bearings.

The air was filled with smoke, the trees around them shattered to splinters and the snow arrayed with blood and viscera. Golubstov lay dead at their feet—Chekov, unable to see his rifle, scooped up the commissar’s pistol, engaged the safety on it and secured it in a coat pocket. As he scanned the battlefield for his men, a scream managed to surpass the ringing in his ears.

Lying by the shattered stump of a pine a few feet away one of the new men clutched at blood welling from a fragmentation wound in his side. Rusnak and Igoshin were sprinting down the hill toward him. Chekov frantically waved at them then pointed at the wounded man, then pointed East.

They ran to the bleeding boy. Rusnak lifted him up, Igoshin put a shoulder under one armpit, Dostovalov grabbed his legs and they stumbled for the river, Chekov picked up the boy’s rifle. They left a trail of blood behind them. Step, by ungainly step they trudged through snow, lungs burning, bodies shaking from exhaustion and the terrors of battle.

Mercifully, the next round of artillery landed on the West side of the hill. Chekov and his men didn’t fall to the ground but continued to hobble toward the river.

“Keep going, boys,” Chekov said between gritted teeth. “We have to make the bridge . . . before the Germans lift the barrage and . . . take . . . the hill . . .”

Only grunts and huffing breath answered him. Finally, brown shadows detached themselves from the bridge, sprinting to meet them. Faint light from enemy star shells revealed Yerhokin and four of his gunners. The men took the wounded new man from Dostovalov, Igoshin, and Rusnak.

“Did anyone else make it out?” Yerhokin said.

Chekov merely shook his head.

“Golubstov?” Yerhokin said.

“Died gloriously for the Revolution,” Dostovalov deadpanned.

Yerhokin looked at Dostovalov, then Chekov for a long moment. He nodded.

“Of course,” Yerhokin said. “I remember clearly Golubstov entreating Chekov with his dying breath to save these heroic men so that they could continue to serve the Revolution.”

Dostovalov smiled. Chekov nodded, stone-faced.

“Right,” He said, standing up to check on the wounded boy. “How is . . .”

He trailed off, what the hell is this boy’s name?

Igoshin looked up and shook his head.

“He’s dead.”

Chekov sighed, wiped some of the blood on his hands onto the snow and started walking across the rickety wooden bridge.

“Come on then,” He said. “Let’s see what our comrade did with the time we died for.”

*****

A half-hour of walking the snow-slick pavement and asking directions of random officers got Chekov to the door of a large, yellow house. The guards posted outside just nodded and waved him inside. A half dozen electrical lamps cast the room in warm yellow light as Chekov stepped into the parlor that now served as the Company Command Post. Something was wrong. The people, the maps, the typewriters, all the detritus of a company headquarters was in place, spread out over a large dark wooden table, but no one moved, or spoke, the typewriters didn’t clatter. Only the humming of the tungsten filaments in the lamps was audible.

Even the company commander, Captain Delov, slumped in a wooden chair, elbows on the table, fingers pressed to his temples.

“Sir?” Chekov said.

Delov looked up at Chekov, his eyes devoid of the searching, analytical quality Chekov had come to expect of his young company commander.

“Chekov, you made it back,” Delov said, his voice held no relief. “How bad?”

“Dostovalov, Igoshin, Rusnak, and I made it,” Chekov said. “Yerhokin and six of his gunners. That’s it.”

Delov didn’t evince shock or ask Chekov to confirm. He merely nodded and ran his index finger from the bridge of his nose to his hairline, then let his forehead rest in his hand.

“Sir, what is going on?” Chekov asked.

“Another division surrendered to the Germans this morning,” Delov said, without looking up. “We got word two hours ago. Apparently, the Germans are calling this the Railway Offensive. They’ve been accepting surrender from Red Army units at each train stop along the line. Hell, Sergei Arkadyevich, for all I know you and your men just put up the only fight on the whole fucking front.”

Delov stood suddenly and turned to face the wall, his head bowed, shoulders shuddering with a deep breath.

Poor bastard. So much easier for the officers who don’t give a shit about wasting men.

“I’m sorry, Feldfebel Chekov,” Delov said, neck stiffening as he turned back to face Chekov. “That was inappropriate. Assuming we are not encircled by tomorrow, we are retreating to Pskov in the morning. Get cleaned up and get some sleep. There’s a room with a bed and a couch upstairs. You and Dostovalov can have them. If Yerhokin needs help finding the Machine Gun Company, they’re set up a couple streets down. The guard can show you.”

Delov turned back to his maps, but his eyes did not focus, nor did his grave expression change. Chekov accepted the dismissal.

Dostovalov and Yerhokin were waiting for him as he stepped out of the house.

“Machine Gun Company is set up two streets down,” Chekov said. “Best to get moving, apparently the regiment is moving again first thing in the morning. Another division surrendered to the Germans today, if we don’t get back to Pskov soon, we’re going to be encircled.”

“Shit,” Yerhokin said.

“Yes. Good luck, Yerhokin,” Chekov said, then he nodded to the rest of the gunners. “Good luck to all of you.”

The machine gunners acknowledged with nods and muttered thanks, then made their way down the street to their unit.

Chekov and Dostovalov took to their temporary quarters in the command post. There was a faucet and a tub in the washroom next door of which both men made liberal use in turn, leaving the washroom floor with a coating of black grime as they removed weeks of campaign from their frost-numbed skin. Dostovalov won the coin toss for the bed, but Chekov had no complaints as he settled into the soft cushions of the sofa.

They did not exchange many words. Chekov was too tired to chat and in moments he could hear Dostovalov snoring. Thus, for a few dreadful minutes, Chekov was left alone with his thoughts, as the loss of the boys he’d tried to shepherd home settled upon him like a cast-iron mantle. Perhaps the warm washing water had revived deadened emotions as well as frozen nerve-endings because the pain was acute.

Damn Golubstov to hell. My platoon is dead. It’s just me and Dostovalov now . . .

To the veteran noncommissioned officer’s relief, the pain of the thought proved no match for the fatigue of battle. Sleep overtook Chekov, and blessedly, he did not dream.

#

“Chekov, Dostovalov,” a brusque voice penetrated the warm haze of sleep. “Wake up.”

Harsh winter sunlight refracted through the window and dazzled Chekov’s bleary vision when he cracked an eye open. He sat up stiffly, neck cracking as he looked about the room. A short, hazy brown silhouette filled the doorframe. As Chekov’s vision came into focus, the ruddy-peach colored patch atop the brown shadow resolved into the blunt, black-stubbled face of Vanzin, Captain Delov’s orderly.

“Ah, Vanzin, you shit,” Dostovalov groaned from the bed. “What do you want?”

“I want nothing, ape,” the little man snapped. “But Captain Delov wants you dressed, with your kit packed, downstairs now.”

“All right, Vanzin, you’ve delivered the message,” Chekov said, levering his legs off the couch, feet landing to the floor with dual thuds. “Now begone unless you want to watch me taking a shit.”

The headquarters man spun on his heel and stumped down the stairs.

“We should hurry, though,” Chekov said once he was certain the orderly was out of earshot. He stood, arched his back and retrieved his uniform blouse from the back of the couch.

“Right,” Dostovalov said. Swinging his bulk out of the bed, he looked back longingly at the mussed blankets. “God knows how long until we see beds again—good-bye, my lovely!”

About five minutes later Delov was moving about the parlor-cum-command post when Chekov stepped off the last stair into the room. If not chipper, he at least looked more alert and energetic than he had last night. He stopped when he saw Chekov and Dostovalov enter the command post and walked around the large wooden table that dominated the space to greet them.

“Ah, there you are,” Delov said, he reached down and grabbed a small stack of papers. “Sorry, lads, no time for tea. Your ride is waiting.”

“Our, ride, sir?” Dostovalov rumbled.

“Yes, your ride,” Delov said, he held out the sheaf to Chekov. “We received an order to provide combat experienced veterans to help form the cadre of new Red Army regiments. These are your orders to that effect, along with the report of your heroic defense last night; endorsed by Comrade Golubstov this morning shortly before he died of his wounds. Very tragic.”

Chekov and Dostovalov exchanged a glance.

“Ah, it was very kind of Comrade Golubstov to put forth the effort,” Chekov said, licking his lips. “And . . . his body?”

“Already interred in the field cemetery. Sadly, although he was able to speak, his face was burned beyond recognition,” Delov said, his voice matter of fact. “Hopefully, the tale, with a zampolit’s blessing, will be enough to put you in line for a good assignment, the Red Army doesn’t have medals yet otherwise we’d write you up for one of those, too. At the very least there should be food, beds, baths wherever you’re going. The truck outside is headed back to Pskov. Report to the Army command there, and they’ll send you on back to Petrograd or Moscow.”

Chekov found himself speechless for a long moment.

“Captain,” he said, then paused, and shut his mouth. When he opened it again, all he could think to say was, “Thank you.”

“You’ve earned it,” Delov said. “Word of advice, keep the extra copies of your orders hidden, and tell every sonofabitch who wants a copy it’s your last, only give out a copy when you really have to in order to keep moving East.”

Dostovalov actually chuckled and even Chekov smiled.

“Sir, respectfully, teach your grandmother to suck eggs.”

“Heh,” Delov gave a faint smile. “Yes, well—"

Seeming at a loss, Delov held his hand out to Chekov, who grasped it firmly. The captain’s blue eyes, so dead last night, seemed to regain light at being able to do something for his men. Delov shook Dostovalov’s hand as well.

“Good luck, fellows,” he said. “Hope the war’s done with you.”

“Good luck to you too, sir,” Chekov said.

“You know,” Dostovalov said in a philosophical tone as they left the building into the freezing night. “Not all officers are completely worthless.”

Copyright © 2024 by Justin Watson

Justin Watson grew up an Army brat, living in Germany, Alabama, Texas, Korea, Colorado and Alaska, and fed on a steady diet of X-Men, Star Trek, Robert Heinlein, DragonLance, and Babylon 5. While attending West Point, he met his future wife, Michele, on an airplane, and soon began writing in earnest with her encouragement. In 2005 he graduated from West Point and served as a field artillery officer, completing combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, and earning the Bronze Star, Purple Heart, and Combat Action Badge

Medically retired from the Army in 2015, Justin settled in Houston with Michele, their four children, and an excessively friendly Old English Sheepdog.