by Amber Lough
With a click and a tug, I removed the bolt and firing chamber and laid them on the table. Then I pulled the band off the stock and removed it. The barrel wasn’t as dirty as I’d feared, and there were no signs of rust. The stock fell off easily in my hands. Now that the large pieces were taken apart, I started to dismantle the bolt and firing chamber. It was tricky, because there were tiny pieces, including a spring with a tendency to bounce away. I’d once lost Maxim’s spring in the carpet, and it’d taken me the better part of an hour to find it again.
I was in the middle of wiping the smaller parts with the rag when I felt a weight on my shoulder. It was Sergeant Bochkareva. Most of her bulk loomed over the space between Masha and me.
“When you’ve finished, help your friend.” She stepped back, and Masha smirked.
“Yes, well done, Pavlova.” Masha tugged at the latch on the butt plate. “I’m not so sure being raised by academics will take me far in this war.”
“At least you can read,” Bochkareva said flatly. Then she was moving on, helping the others.
Masha leaned closer. “She can’t read?” she whispered.
I watched Bochkareva show Lomonosova how to pull the bolt back. “I don’t know. I bet half the women here can’t.”
Masha frowned while pulling the cleaning rod out. “I forget sometimes.” She snapped the cleaning rod together as though she’d done it before, and I raised my brows in approval.
“Well, Gubina,” I said, using Masha’s surname like she’d used mine, “it’s time you learn how to properly clean your rifle, because my life might depend on it.”
She rolled her eyes, but for the next half hour, she listened intently to everything I said. When we were done, the room was divided into two groups, one with Bochkareva and the rest leaning over my desk. Each of us taught the others everything they needed to know about the rifle. Other than how to kill with it, of course.
When we were done, the rifles were in marginally better shape. Mine was gleaming, even the chipped parts. I ran my fingers gently along the stock, which was slick from oil. The bolt slid out easily, and when I held the barrel up to the light of the window, it was clear of any dust.
“Let me check,” Bochkareva said. I gave her my rifle, and she peered from where the bolt goes in up the length of the barrel. I watch her mouth, which tightened. With a sniff, she handed the rifle back to me. “Good. You did well teaching the others.”
Masha mouthed “Good job, Pavlova,” and I swallowed back a grin. I ignored everyone’s comments and gave Bochkareva a quick nod before packing up my kit. When we were dismissed a moment later to return to our barracks, Bochkareva stopped me at the door. Masha gestured silently that she’d see me at the barracks, but her eyes were full of curiosity. She’d be waiting impatiently to hear what Bochkareva said to me.
“Sergeant.” I stood at attention.
Her eyes were surprisingly soft. “Pavlova, do you know how many women are still here to train?”
“Five hundred?”
She shook her head. “Three hundred and thirty-four. We started off with two thousand, and we’ll probably lose a few more before we head to the front.” My fingers stung from the cleaning solution, and I squeezed my fists. “You’ve done well, and I have no doubt you’ll be one of them.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“Tonight I’m organizing the battalion into four platoons. I want you to lead one of them.”
I had hoped for this kind of recognition, this kind of chance to stand out among my fellow recruits. And yet, the weight of it settled onto my shoulders like an itchy blanket. Being platoon leader would mean more stress and less peace of mind.
“You’ve grown up in this life and your experience can benefit these women. We only have a few more weeks until we have to be ready to fight. If I don’t get help from those who already know what they’re doing, none of us will make it on that train.”
The image of Maxim through the train window, waving at me just before he slipped out the back compartment, came to the front of my mind.
“I’m not asking you to lead the platoon, Pavlova.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Understood.”
Although she hadn’t given me any choice in the matter, she looked relieved. “When you get your list of women in your platoon, it’ll be your responsibility to help train them. Their lives will depend on you. They’ll be yours.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“I won’t be running this battalion on a committee, like the socialists want us to. Some women will want to discuss our maneuvers like we’re planning a party. But this is war, and my orders will be your life. What I say is the law.”
I knew what she was getting at. “You want me to ensure the women in my platoon obey you, no matter what.”
“We will be an exemplary battalion. One the army has never seen before. We have to be strong. We have to be better than the men.”
I saluted her and stepped outside with my rifle slung over my shoulder.
“Finally, Prince Mal realized he needed to apologize for having Igor killed, so he sent another tribute to Olga, who had returned to Kiev.”
“How did he not die in the massacre?”
“I—he wasn’t there.”
“And he still had enough people to deliver this tribute? What was it?”
“Honey and furs, usually.”
“I want a tribute.”
“I’m about to switch over to Saint Kirill.”
12
June 15, 1917
Bochkareva began the next phase after breakfast. Without any explanation, she began calling out names, firing them off one after the other. After she’d called out about fifty, she said, “You are the First Platoon. Form up over there,” and she pointed to an area off to her right.
Soon everyone would know I’d been assigned as the leader of one of these new platoons. I tried to catch Masha’s eyes, but she was watching Bochkareva with an intent look on her face.
Bochkareva called out another set of names and declared them to be the second platoon. Masha and Alsu had not yet been called, and the odds were growing greater that they’d be together.
I desperately hoped Masha would be in my platoon. I didn’t want her to be in another platoon where I couldn’t keep an eye on her. If we were separated, we wouldn’t be able to talk as much, and I’d be truly alone amongst all these women.
Bochkareva’s voice carried out across the yard, assigning Masha and Alsu to the same platoon. When my name wasn’t called, Masha finally turned to me, frowning, about to ask a question.
Bochkareva’s voice rang out: “Third Platoon, get in formation over by the fence!”
“You’d better go,” I said. I tried to smile, sure that unease was painted across my face.
Bochkareva called out the fourth platoon, sent them over to the only remaining spot, and then turned to the four of us who remained.
“Avilova, you take the first platoon. Liddikova, the second. Pavlova, you get the third and Mussorgskaya, you have the fourth. Get your women in line and then take them to your next training activity. I’ll have the training officers let you know where you’re to go next.”
Masha and Alsu were in my platoon. I tried not to smile too wide as I marched over to the group of women getting themselves into formation. Considering they’d only learned how to march a few weeks ago, they weren’t doing too badly. Fifty-five women, most of them a few years older than me. At least five were closer to thirty. And all of them would want to know why a seventeen-year-old factory worker was chosen to lead them.
I stopped and snapped my heels together.
“Third Platoon!” I said. “I’m Ekaterina Viktorovna Pavlova, your platoon leader.”
Surprise and uncertainty crawled through the silence. One of the women—Muravyeva, who had the shiniest boots in Petrograd and was best at push-ups—pursed her lips in distaste. Either she had expected to be a platoon leader herself, or she simply didn’t like having me in charge.
A moment later, Lieutenant Ornilov came up to us carrying a rifle. I brought the platoon to attention and saluted him. He waved us back at ease.
“Congratulations on your promotion, Pavlova.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I’m here to take you to your next training exercise.” He lifted the rifle up before the platoon. “We’ll be doing some hand-to-hand fighting, but with rifles. Grab your weapons and meet me on the grass in ten minutes.”
I nodded, saluted again, and ordered the platoon to get their weapons.
They were halfway to the barracks before I remembered I hadn’t told them to form up outside. Hoping they’d be smart enough to figure that one out for themselves, I caught up with Masha and Alsu, who’d held back before going inside the building.
“Congratulations, Katya,” Alsu said. Her eyes crinkled as she smiled.
“Thank you.”
“You knew, didn’t you?” Masha said, smacking my shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“I only found out last night, and I didn’t know who would get assigned to my platoon.”
After a giant, dramatic sigh, Masha added, “I suppose now we’ll have to do everything you say.”
“Of course.”
She smacked me again. “Don’t push it, Pavlova. Just because your father is so high up . . .”
“That’s not it,” I blurted, hurt that Masha would even suggest it. “I mean, Sergeant Bochkareva didn’t choose me because of his rank. But because I know some things about the army already.”
“All you knew how to do was march. And we’ve learned that.”
Her tone was like a shard of ice poking into my chest. “Do you not want to be in my platoon?”
“Of course I do. You think I want to be with Avilova and march to suffragette songs?” She gave me a one-armed hug. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
I pulled out of her embrace, trying not to look offended. “Better get your rifles. We’ll form up out here and march to the green,” I said, loud enough for most of the women to hear me.
The blonde Avilova was already gathering her platoon on the other side of the courtyard. I suspected she’d been given a command position due to her influence on a large portion of the battalion who’d joined in the name of women’s rights. Instead of alienating them, Bochkareva had done the smart thing and given them their own platoon. Avilova’s sharp features matched the pitch of her voice, and her soldiers seemed to snap together nicely. Quicker than mine did.
I managed to march my platoon to the green without incident, thankful every step of the way for my childhood training. Lieutenant Ornilov brought us into three lines and showed us how to use the rifle in close quarters. We jabbed in the air with our bayonets, we blocked invisible opponents with the rifle stock, and we smashed in imaginary heads with the butt of the rifle.
After half an hour of this, I could barely lift my rifle higher than my waist without wincing. I had to look competent despite the burning in my arms, so I kept my face as expressionless as I could.
“Now, pair off,” Lieutenant Ornilov said, stepping back.
The women started finding partners. Masha and Alsu paired with each other, and after a moment, everyone stood facing another soldier. All except for Muravyeva, who stood off to the side, rifle on one shoulder and a hand on her other hip.
I looked to Lieutenant Ornilov, and he cocked a brow. Go on, he seemed to say, it’s your platoon.
“You’ll be my partner,” I told her.
Lieutenant Ornilov came over to us. “Try to get your partner to the ground,” he said, speaking to the group at large but looking at me. “Don’t worry about bruises. They’ll fade.”
Muravyeva brought her rifle down to where it crossed over her chest, bayonet pointing and glinting at the sun.
“Normally, we have the men take the bayonets off for this first exercise,” Lieutenant Ornilov said. “But you have a shorter training schedule. Can I trust you not to impale one another?”
There were a few chuckles. Muravyeva looked directly into my eyes, unblinking.
“Don’t worry,” she said. She flashed her teeth. “I won’t stab you.”
I smiled back. “I’m not worried. Have you ever done this before?”
“No, but I grew up with six older brothers who knew how to use sticks. Sharp ones.”
Lieutenant Ornilov looked me up and down, eyes criticizing my stance and my grip, then gestured at Muravyeva. “Why don’t you show your platoon what to do, Pavlova?”
“Yes, sir.” I took a step back from Muravyeva and held the rifle in front of me, opposite hers. She stood a few inches shorter than me, but her stance showed confidence.
I cocked my chin at her. “All right then. Let’s do this.”
The other women shifted their stances to get a clearer look at us. I knew many of them would judge me based on how well I fought.
Muravyeva charged without warning, without wrinkling her brow, and slammed her rifle into mine. The rifles clapped together, and her rifle butt smashed my fingers. I almost let go, shocked at the pulsing sting coming from my fingers. Grimacing, I pushed my weight into her, trying to get a grip on the slippery grass.
When she slid a bit, I took a step back and let her fall forward, then jammed my rifle butt into her shoulder. She cried out but didn’t fall. Her face flushed red and her eyes became fierce coals. She kicked out, slicing the toe of her boot at my knee. I grunted at the pain, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t fall.
I pulled back, bringing the rifle with me, then with a sharp twist, smashed the entire rifle into her chest, crushing her fingers and knocking her to the ground. Before she could scramble back up, I turned the rifle on her, pointing the bayonet at her throat.
With a grunt, she swept her boot up and around and kicked my rifle. It flew, strap flapping, and clattered to the ground. I leapt for it, but I wasn’t fast enough to avoid the stock of her rifle. She slammed it into the side of my head and I toppled over. My face hit the dirt and my cheek crackled in pain. The world erupted in red and black bursts, and behind me I heard a whoop of victory.
She had won.
I took a moment to catch my breath and settle my head before sliding up onto my knees.
Muravyeva wiped at the sweat on her forehead, leaving a streak of grime over one eye like a second eyebrow. Then she pulled me off the ground and clutched my wrist. The scorn she’d worn earlier had been replaced by shadows.
“How many brothers went to fight?” I asked.
“All of them.”
The air between us blew cold, wrapping around my ankles. “And . . .” I trailed off, not actually wanting to know.
She hoisted her rifle over her shoulder. “All but one are dead.” Then she stalked over to the rest of the platoon and fell into a position at the end of the line.
“Well done, both of you,” Lieutenant Ornilov said. “Let’s get the rest of the platoon fighting like you two.”
Between us, Muravyeva and I managed to get the platoon comfortable with the idea of smashing one another with rifles, and we only had to send three women to the infirmary for injuries. The rest of us wiped ourselves off.
Though Muravyeva had bested me, I felt I’d acquitted myself well in front of my platoon. I could do this. I could lead these women. As long as I didn’t freeze up when we were being shot at.
—
June 16, 1917
We were marching through a thin blanket of fog to the Field of Mars, where the grass had given way to mud. When the army had brought in truckloads of sand to level and dry it out, the soldiers had begun calling it the Sahara. Today, where men had trained for generations, we marched in lines and columns until every single woman knew her leader’s command almost before it was spoken. Exhilaration rushed through me. The platoon was beginning to feel like it was mine.
Once we’d satisfied the trainers and it was time to return to the barracks, Masha ran up to me and slapped me on the back. “That was good! We’re gettin
g good at this!” she said giddily.
I grinned at her. “We’re going to be terrifying on the battlefield, Masha. The Germans will run screaming back to the Rhine.”
As Masha turned to talk to Alsu, Avilova marched her platoon past mine and gave me a mocking salute. She paused next to me, letting her soldiers walk on.
“You need to be careful about favoritism, Pavlova.” She looked pointedly at Masha.
“I’m not—”
She raised her hand up to shush me, then turned to walk backwards with the last of her platoon. “You need to lead them. Don’t be stupid.”
Then she turned back around and said something to the last woman in her platoon, who laughed. I knew it couldn’t have been about me, but I still felt like they were laughing at me.
I got my women back in line and into a march, but my mind was on Avilova. Masha was my best friend and I spoke with her more than with anyone else, but I didn’t make her life any easier. I expected the same from her that I expected from the others. And she knew it, surely.
My soldiers kept in step the whole way back to the barracks, not breaking formation until they’d been told to fall out and go inside to wash up. Masha and Alsu waited for me, both of them gripping the rifle slings that hung over their shoulders.
“What’d Avilova say to you?” asked Alsu.
“That I need to step up as a leader.” It wasn’t a lie.
—
Later that day, we were taken out of the city for target practice at the seashore. The winds racing off the Baltic smelled of salt and saltpeter.
Our targets were fifty meters away. I lay on my stomach in the sand, propped my elbows up, pulled the bolt back, and opened the receiver. One bullet. We each had three, and we had to hit the target with at least one of them. I inserted the first bullet, felt it catch, and slid the bolt closed. It clicked.
I took aim, running my eyes down the stock and leveling the rifle so the target appeared directly in the little valley of the metal piece at the end. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and then squeezed the trigger.