The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  If only he knew when. Perhaps it would even be tomorrow!

  But no matter when the time came for freedom or coronations or whatever it was, he had to be ready! He would be ready. He had to rid himself of the awful cloud the drugs had drawn over him. He had to force himself to remember all he could . . . to remember everything. He had to remember!

  But the momentous event of the message did not occur the next day . . . or the next.

  And the waiting gave him time enough, with his determined effort, to clear away most of the remaining cobwebs and replace the muddled, unfocused fog with the clarity of his true insanity.

  Memories returned. Hatred swept in to kindle his passions anew. When the keepers of drug cabinets were not looking, his teeth clenched and ground silently, while behind his back his fists tightened. When he lay in his bed, his nostrils stinging with the foul smells around him and his hearing dominated by the babbling of voices that had once included his own, the hatred at last found a name upon which to hang itself—Remizov. And the violence also knew its purpose afresh—Fedorcenko.

  Basil Anickin once again had a reason to live.

  16

  Faint though it was, the cool breeze lifting off the southeastern shore of the Caspian Sea was welcome enough. But it was hardly sufficient to dispel the memory of the searing desert heat they had survived over the previous two weeks.

  Sergei Fedorcenko lay back on his camp bed, head and shoulders propped against the flimsy wall of the tent, notebook in lap, pen in hand, and tried to make some sense of the whole scorching experience.

  The skirmishes with unruly Turkish tribes of the last several days represented only a portion of Sergei’s present mental disarray, and he began to write his thoughts:

  I am now back at Krasnovodsk, our fort on the south shore of the Caspian. I never thought I would feel thus about this wretched place, but when I saw its battlements glittering in the desert sun yesterday afternoon as we returned, I found myself actually glad to see it. Anything—anything!—is preferable to the desert. Even a place where for the last months I have known my greatest distress.

  Certainly I never expected to be happy here, or even close to it. I suppose I did expect to find some modicum of what I have always enjoyed from my peers—respect, camaraderie, acceptance. Perhaps I would not make close friendships here. I saw no reason, however, not to think there would exist between those who shared this duty a certain mutual regard, if not courtesy.

  That was not to be the case. I suppose the yunker class of officers likes nothing better than to see their betters debased. Their failure to make it all the way through military or cadet school makes them bitter, whatever their own personal flaws. They blame it on others, especially those whom they view as privileged, and do not seem to change this attitude even when they work their way up through the ranks. If there is a stigma to their yunker past, it is as much internal as external; and they seem bent on taking out their hostility, especially on one such as myself.

  Of course, I see myself as better than no man on a purely class basis. But it will take more convincing rhetoric than my own to impress that upon my present comrades. From the first days of my assignment here, I was the aristocratic prince who had fallen from grace. They seemed to enjoy my plight.

  I think what rankles them the most is knowing that at any moment I could be reinstated to my former so-called glory, while they have little hope of rising above their present positions. Actually, I cannot say as I blame them. I hate the system as well that looks to a man’s blood above his competence. Many of these men here are good soldiers and deserve more than dusty obscurity in this blasted desert outpost. Unfortunately, like everything else in Russia, the military remains locked in the Dark Ages. General Milutin’s recent reforms have taken the army many leagues forward. But there is still so much further to go.

  But I digress. I was recounting how miserable I am, and I am loathe to be deterred from that cheery topic!

  As gloomy as it may be, I must write down my experiences of the past days. Our assignment was to subdue marauding Turkmen who had lately been preying upon our caravan routes. After General Lomakin’s defeat last fall—the worst ever by Russia in Central Asia—the natives had become rebellious and self-assured once more. Lomakin had only himself to blame for his failure, though. He had the defenders of the Geok-Tepe Fortress squeezed in and in a hopeless plight. A few more days of bombardment would have seen a certain surrender of the Turks.

  But the general wanted more than mere victory. He sought glory, and the medals and promotions that accompany it. In his lust for more than victory, he ended up with nothing! When the civilians tried to flee the fortress, Lomakin drove them back inside. Accolades from superiors come only when a commander imposes total defeat upon his enemies, crushing innocents and army alike. Lomakin took the attempted flight as his opportunity. He would not wait for surrender. He would take the fortress by storm!

  He called off the bombardment and gave the order to charge en masse. Nothing could have more perfectly played into the defenders’ hands. For though the Turks had little to speak of in the way of weaponry and munitions, they still had men. Their superior numbers gave them the advantage in the hand-to-hand combat that followed. Suddenly the tables of fate were turned. The Turks forced our army into retreat, inflicting heavy casualties. Geok-Tepe remained firmly in Turkish hands, and Lomakin was disgraced.

  I had not yet arrived in this torturous hellhole at the time, but the men were still feeling the sting of the defeat months later. I was shocked at the incident, but even more so at the sympathy of the men toward Lomakin in spite of the obvious foolhardiness of his decision. He was summarily relieved of his command. I have the distinct feeling that if he had been successful in his blunder, no matter how many lives it cost, he would have received the Order of St. Andrew instead. But such are the twisted fortunes and obtuse ironies of fate when one’s lot is cast with the military of the Motherland!

  General Skobelev is now in command, he whom I so admired at Plevna! And still he cannot help but stir my admiration, cynic though I have become. In that white uniform that blazes even more magnificently in the desert sun, he sits upon his gray mount, prancing regally among the troops. I believe the men see him as something of a Zeus.

  Curious as it is, since he replaced an already popular leader, he is yet thought of even more highly than was Lomakin. In fact, Skobelev—I do not think I understate it—is nothing less than idolized here, and to criticize the man is at the very least a cardinal sin.

  But who can criticize him? Certainly not I! If I had but half his courage, I’d not be in my present predicament. He sits atop his horse the very epitome of daring and charisma. His eyes gleam like the sun in battle. Though of course the Turks have a slightly different impression of the man. They call him Göz Kanli, or “bloody eyes.” Perhaps they are right. Could it be that what I have always taken as the glow of courage is nothing more than a thirst after blood?

  It will not be long before whatever it is that motivates the great general will be satiated. Another offensive is being planned against Akhal-Tekke, that rebellious oasis where Geok-Tepe is situated. It simply would not do for Russian prestige to be undermined here in Central Asia. Last fall’s defeat must be vindicated.

  Recent events, however, cause me to dread the upcoming battle even more than I might have otherwise. . . .

  Sergei paused in his writing.

  The pain, confusion, and humiliation of what had transpired over the last few days was still too raw for him to easily transfer the memories onto paper. He realized his ramblings about Lomakin and Skobelev were an all-too-transparent attempt to avoid dredging up the painful incident.

  He should have expected what had happened out in the desert. But somehow the expectation did not dull the shock of reality. He had heard stories of Russian exploits here in this outland far from the probing eye of civilization. From his own father, Sergei had learned about the campaign against the town of Khiva in the early 18
70s when the order was given and executed: Give over the Yomud Turkmen settlements, and their families, to complete destruction. Sergei had believed only half of what he heard. Russian soldiers, like military men everywhere, were given to boasting. What kind of men, he wondered, would boast about atrocities against women and children?

  Sergei’s unit, commanded by Captain Rustaveli, had come surreptitiously upon the nomad village late in the afternoon. They had been scouring the desert for the slippery devils, and to come upon them with their guard down as they had was a delightful surprise after the long march. It was obvious these were the thieving rascals who had been terrorizing caravans, for much of the loot was in plain sight. Reconnaissance revealed no more than a dozen rifles in the entire camp, and the Russians outnumbered the nomads in excess of two to one. The fact that women and children numbered among these was of little import. The orders were, upon encounter, to subdue—by any means possible—the marauders and all likely accomplices.

  What followed was a grisly nightmare.

  The Russian force swooped down upon the unsuspecting Turks, swords glinting in the hot afternoon sun, rifles spitting out a lethal spray of lead. The tough nomads gave heroic defense, but they were no match for the far superior force. The slaughter lasted less than an hour, and at last the order was given to stand back and survey the carnage.

  Sergei struck down no women or children in battle—he was innocent of that, at least. But when the dust of the butchery settled, he saw the bodies of the innocents sprawled lifeless over the sandy ground, splattered with their own blood. Sergei was sickened by the sight, so violently that his stomach continued to cramp and heave long after it had emptied itself of its contents.

  Captain Rustaveli, a yunker who had twenty years of service and had risen into leadership from the ranks, witnessed the pathetic scene with laughter.

  “You call yourself a soldier, Fedorcenko!” he chided as the pale prince stood on wobbly legs. From the first day Sergei had arrived, Rustaveli had held him in disdain, and had taken every opportunity to rail at the pampered aristocrat who had the great misfortune to suddenly find himself under the command of a lowly yunker.

  “Pull yourself together, Lieutenant,” Rustaveli ordered with a smirk. “We’re by no means through yet.”

  “What do you mean by that?” replied Sergei, his tone defiant despite his quaking insides and trembling hands.

  “Look at these murdering scum that are left! They hardly appear subdued to me!” Rustaveli jerked his head toward the remnant of the nomads standing at the mercy of the Russian soldiers surrounding them.

  The captain was accurate in his assessment. The Turks scowled hatefully at their captors, shouting crude obscenities and spitting on any who chanced to come within range. Even in defeat, they were a savage people and gave every impression that at first chance, they would slit any Russian throat they could get their oily hands on. Even the women were no less contemptuous, although their vulgarities came from veiled faces.

  “Lieutenant Fedorcenko, I command you to finish carrying out our orders!” The captain gloated with an evil smirk toward Sergei.

  “Well?” Rustaveli barked after a moment as Sergei only gaped dumbly in response.

  Another moment of disobedient silence passed. Then the commander burst out laughing. “I thought as much! You don’t have the stomach for it! But I will put you on report for your insubordination!”

  Rustaveli himself gave the order. His silent subordinates immediately fell upon the surviving nomads and put them to the sword—all save for a few children who had somehow avoided being slaughtered in the mayhem of battle.

  Sergei wanted to turn away, to be sick again. But he did not. He watched the bloody execution dutifully. And he made no protest.

  He argued with himself later that all the protest and heroics in the world would not have saved a single Turkish life. Had Sergei raised a hand in defense of the helpless victims, Rustaveli would no doubt have personally taken great pleasure in cutting him down with them. But such an excuse hardly justified his silence. Perhaps he should have died trying to save the poor creatures.

  On every step of the hot dusty ride back to Krasnovodsk, the horrible scene played itself over and over in his brain. It had haunted his dreams every night since. Most horrifying of all was seeing himself standing there consenting by his impotent silence.

  Whenever Anna chanced to flit her way into his mind, which was often, his anguish of soul deepened and became unbearable. Dear, sweet Anna! What would she think of this man she loved if she knew what a true coward he was? What would she think if she knew the horrible truth about him—that he had watched mothers and their helpless babies slaughtered? And he had raised no hand against it! How could he ever face Anna again, knowing what kind of man he was?

  During one of these moments, when the face of his beloved Anna filled the eye of his mind, he made his resolve. He would never allow such a thing to happen again, even if he had to stand up to Skobelev himself to stop it. He would die before he would again witness the cruel slaughter of innocents without raising a hand of objection!

  It all seemed so clear now, sitting on his bunk in the relative security of a quiet Russian fort. But he was a seasoned veteran of war, despite his lack of stomach for it. He knew how muddled the lines of reason became under the stress and confusion of battle. Even good men were driven to unspeakable acts, especially in the midst of watching their own comrades being cut down by vicious enemies. He supposed most of all he feared that such a moment would come to him, when he lost his reason altogether. What if circumstances he could not predict, things beyond his control—

  His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the clamor of voices and footsteps entering the barracks. He groaned silently.

  “Well, well . . . there’s our little prince!” bellowed Rustaveli. “We missed you at dinner, Lieutenant—oh, but I forgot, you haven’t had much of an appetite these past few days!” He laughed derisively, joined by two or three of his yunker companions.

  “I am off duty, Captain,” Sergei replied evenly. “If you don’t mind, I would like to be left alone.”

  “Would you now?” As he spoke the words, drawing them out with a knowing grin, the captain drew closer. He lifted a dirty boot onto Sergei’s bunk. “And what does a high and mighty prince do with his free time?” He cocked his head toward the notebook in Sergei’s hand. “Writing more of the seditious garbage that landed you here in the first place?”

  Sergei swallowed stiffly, but said nothing.

  “You know what I think,” the captain went on, encouraged by the laughter of his comrades. “I think this stuff should be included in my report of your disobedience.”

  He snatched the notebook from Sergei’s hands. “Hey, Caplja!” he called to one of his cohorts, tossing the notebook to him as he spoke. “Let’s hear what the mighty Prince Fedorcenko has to say about our glorious exploits.”

  “Why don’t you read them yourself, Rustaveli?” said Sergei. “Or are you as illiterate as you are ill-mannered?”

  Rustaveli only laughed in reply. Even if he was in fact illiterate, he knew he held all the cards. “Go on, Caplja, read.”

  Lieutenant Caplja began to scan the words that had only just come from Sergei’s hand, his eyes coming to rest on the final paragraph. “‘It will not be long,’” he read, “‘before whatever it is that motivates the great general will be satiated. Another offensive is being planned against Akhal-Tekke, that rebellious oasis where Geok-Tepe is situated. It simply would not do for Russian prestige to be undermined here in Central Asia. Last fall’s defeat must be vindicated. Recent events, however, cause me to dread—’”

  Sergei could stand no more.

  “Stop, you lout!” he shouted, jumping from his bed with the intention of retrieving his book.

  Rustaveli restrained him. “No, no, Caplja, don’t stop—this is very interesting. What is it that our princely lieutenant dreads—the sweat of battle, I’ll warrant! The sniveling littl
e coward—”

  But his words were ill chosen. Sergei wrested free, spun around, and took a wide swing in the direction of his captain’s jaw. But Rustaveli had expected the attack as much as he had invited it, and was too quick for Sergei. He lunged aside and caught Sergei’s wrist forcefully in his strong grip.

  “What?” railed the captain. “Must we add to your offenses physical attack upon a superior officer?” he said, spitting out the word with relish.

  Sergei bit down his fury with effort. “What will they do to me, Captain, demote me?”

  “Ha, ha! Believe it or not, Prince, there is still lower for you to fall.”

  “Perhaps the fall would be worth it.”

  “Do I consider that a threat?”

  “I defied the tsar himself. Do you think I would be daunted by some murderous scum of a yunker?”

  “Why you—!” Rustaveli reared back with lethal rage and might have seriously wounded Sergei had not one of the captain’s men intervened.

  “He’s right, Captain,” said the man. “I wouldn’t test him. He’s probably half insane.”

  “You’re not worth it, at any rate!” spat the captain, calming slightly. “But it won’t take much, Fedorcenko—not much at all! Consider yourself lucky . . . this time.”

  “I want no trouble, Captain,” replied Sergei. “But whatever you may think of me, I am not afraid to hand it out if provoked. And that would not take much either!”

  Sergei shoved past the captain and exited the barracks, taking his notebook from the hand of his fellow lieutenant as he departed.

  What Sergei had said about not fearing demotion was not exactly true. The only thing that gave him any hope in life these days was the thought of returning to Anna. Somehow, though all seemed against him, he had to survive this heinous place so that he could return to her. Nothing else mattered. But he wondered mordantly if his only chance for promotion hinged on killing women and children, could he do it?