by Tony Roberts
“It’s nothing,” Casca reassured him, trying to keep the pain away from his face. “Graze wound. I’ll survive. What are your orders?” When all else fails, get a soldier to fall back on orders.
“Comrade Commissar, to check on your health, and to ask you to report to Comrade Colonel Kirilov.”
“And then?”
“Comrade Commissar, to rejoin my unit.”
“Then you may do so, Comrade. I shall report to the good Comrade Colonel.”
Comrade this, comrade that, comrade the other. Casca grimaced. All very ridiculous. It never lasted, of course, practicalities and realities soon snuffed that nonsense out, but it was a pain in the ass while it lasted. Like the French Revolution of the 1790s. everything then had been Citoyen this, and Citoyen that. That soon collapsed under the urge to re-create a French empire.
A revitalized Russian empire? Run by Bolsheviks? Hmmm… he wasn’t sure about that. Such a radical politically-orientated group would no doubt earn the enmity of all their neighbors, and cause friction until the argument was settled one way or the other. He just couldn’t see the rest of the world allowing it.
He’d heard that the French were now occupying Odessa, and the British were in Murmansk to the far north and Baku to the south. The Germans were still active in Latvia, helping fight the Reds there. Maybe they would decide the ultimate outcome of the Russian civil war. Maybe.
Wiping his hands in the snow and getting the worst of the blood off, he limped painfully towards the temporary HQ of Kirilov, identifiable by the banners fluttering over a requisitioned house. He pushed past a number of men running to and fro, carrying chairs, tables and papers, and guards trying to stay out of everyone’s way and achieving precisely the opposite.
Kirilov was looking harassed in the back room. Casca was directed to his room by a clerk. “Comrade Colonel,” Casca greeted him, eyeing two straining men carrying a slab of wood away. “Going into the forestry business?”
“Very funny, Comrade Commissar,” Kirilov grunted. “We’re making a temporary base here until the city is cleared. All this will then be transported to the city center for the new administration.” He pointed to a pair of sober-looking men standing to one side. Both had leather coats with sable fur lining and fur hats with the red star of the Bolsheviks prominent. “May I present Comrade Commissar Vyachoslav for the Provisional Workers’ and Peasants’ Government of the Ukraine, and the Chairman of the Committee Comrade Artyom?”
Casca gave the two men a careful look. These two had far more political clout than he and if they said jump, he would have to ask how high or risk being taken outside and shot. Vyachoslav was an ugly brute of a man, clearly something swept up from the gutters of some poor district of either Petrograd or Kursk or somewhere like that, while Artyom was a much more formidable-looking man, having a gleam of intelligence about him and he had a military bearing to him. He had a strong curved nose above a thick mustache which seemed to be the acceptable facial fashion for the Bolsheviks. He had a fanatical glare to his eyes and Casca decided this man was to be carefully treated. “Comrades.”
“Comrade Commissar Kaskarov,” Artyom said, stepping forward, hand outstretched. No salutes, of course, as they were regarded as being so bourgeoise. Casca shook it and stood smartly to attention. “I have heard good things about you. Are you wounded?”
Casca touched his bullet-holed greatcoat, ringed with red. “A minor graze, Comrade Chairman, a mark of honor earned in pursuit of the world revolution.”
Artyom grunted in satisfaction. “There! You hear that, Comrades? This is what the revolution needs! Dedicated and brave men to overthrow the ruling elite around the world! Excellent, Comrade Kaskarov. I regret I cannot remain here as I am needed elsewhere but I will introduce you to your political commander, Comrade Commissar Vyachoslav here, who will organize the setting up of the Soviet here in Belgorod. You will assist him in achieving this. He will take care of civilian matters while you will oversee the military side. Our soldiers are not to violate any of the rules or orders set out by the Soviet, and that includes breaking our own rules of law and order. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, Comrade Chairman.”
Artyom nodded in satisfaction, and left, accompanied by two smart-looking guards who probably never knew what an enemy soldier looked like.
“So, Comrade,” Vyachoslav said, tugging off a pair of leather gloves. “I am told you have seen action in many conflicts, including for the old Tsarist regime?”
“As have thousands of others in our ranks, Comrade Commissar.” Casca was wary, wondering just how rabid and mad this one was. Most of the revolutionaries in the early days were completely extremist and would be utterly unsuitable once a peacetime government was established. His type would either end up in prison or running it.
“Of course,” the commissar showed tobacco-stained gapped teeth, like tombstones in a cemetery. “We will go to the center of the city and requisition the city hall. Comrade General Pyatakov will be arriving shortly to take over the branch. We will both work to him.”
“We’re shortly to push on south towards Kharkov, surely,” Casca frowned.
“Of course, but the army will need resupplying and until then we cannot push on south. We have to make sure the way is clear and not subject to anti-revolutionary sabotage from Belgorod. That means we will have to ensure there is no opposition from the people here, and we must locate and deal with enemies of the Soviet at the same time.”
“That’s more your task, isn’t it? My brief is to make sure the army obeys Soviet commands. You are to ensure the civilians follow the law.”
Vyachoslav grunted, clapping Casca on the shoulder. “Until the Cheka arrives I will need squads of the army to enforce law and order.”
They took a truck to the city center. There was an extra coating of limestone dust on everything. Just to the north-west of the city were the great limestone works, with a huge quarry and the buildings huddled around it, and although work had largely stopped for the time being, the residue of their work had settled on all the buildings and streets of the city.
It was a stark, industrial place. In the center were taller, more solid constructions other than the poor peasants’ abodes further out. Brick and stonework formed the main building material here, and the city hall stood on one of the main thoroughfares, now flying the red flag of the Bolsheviks.
Guards were already here, making sure nobody entered and stole anything. A couple of looters were hanging from wooden telegraph poles outside with crudely-written wooden placards hanging from their necks, stating ‘Здесь висит вор и враг революции’, translated in his head instantly as ‘here hangs a thief and enemy of the revolution’. The reds were certainly cracking down hard on lawlessness.
Inside the last century-era building were wide corridors and spacious rooms with large windows overlooking the streets. Dust coated everything and cobwebs hung from the ceilings and light fittings. Vyachoslav sneezed. “Damned Ukrainians, can’t even clean up their own places! A few good workers in the place and it’ll be cleared up in no time!”
A couple of attendants hovered close to the Soviet member. The commissar barked out orders and the attendants hurried off to arrange the setting up of the new ruling body’s chambers. The rooms began to fill with soldiers, carrying things in or out as the case may be. Casca stood bemused, wondering what the hell he was doing here, but it wasn’t long before Vyachoslav told him.
“Your office is across the corridor here. You will have a staff of three to serve you, soldiers on detached duty from their other functions. Until you are ordered off to Kharkov, you will work here.”
Casca peered through the open door. A desk, covered in dust, a chair and a side table with a broken-looking radio resting on it, the cables trailing across the floor and ending in two forlorn looking wires. Nothing was plugged in. “So what are my duties here, then, Comrade?”
“Mainly to provide muscle for me when I require
it. Also, you are to ensure the army units are disciplined and do not violate any of the laws, so looting is forbidden, theft is forbidden, rape is forbidden. Unless of course, the Soviet authorize it.”
Casca stared at the other man. “The Soviet would authorize rape? Seriously?”
Vyachoslav shrugged. “Our torture methods are crude at present, but the Cheka have more sophisticated means to extract a confession or information from traitors.”
Casca grimaced. This was sounding less attractive as time went on. Give him a healthy war; the administration was not for him.
He soon settled in, getting three volunteered men to do his fetching and carrying, and these men took pride in serving the commissar directly; it was some kind of status symbol. It wasn’t long before a job came his way, as a written order was slapped on his desk the next day, a peremptory summons for Casca and a squad of soldiers to assist with an arrest at an address supplied.
CHAPTER TWELVE
They were ordered to board a couple of trucks outside the building; it was midnight. Casca grunted as he sat in the passenger seat alongside the driver, a soldier under his command. Always use the dark to strike when it’s the most effective. But they weren’t attacking an enemy position, this was a piece of Soviet law enforcement, and Casca wasn’t feeling happy about it. He would see what happened.
They rattled through the streets, the canvas cover over the flat bed at the back containing ten Red Army soldiers, while Casca and the driver were more exposed in the Fiat 20 truck, the cab being open. They had a roof but any wind that blew from the sides cut through them like a knife.
The first truck contained two officers from Vyacheslav’s fledgling Commissariat, the political arm of the new Soviet being set up in Belgorod. Already rumors were about, telling of people being summarily shot for no reason other than not obeying the wishes of the new administration fast enough. If they were true, then Casca might have to rethink sticking with these people.
They came to a halt along a quiet, empty street. The truck in front stopped and the men piled out, rifles at the ready. The two Commissariat men stepped out, greatcoats buttoned up, caps crammed on their heads. Casca joined them. “What’s going on, then?”
“Comrade,” he was admonished. One of the two senior men pointed to a house opposite. “In there are enemies of the revolution. They are to be arrested and brought back for questioning.”
“What have they done?”
“It is sufficient for you to know they are enemies of the revolution and no more. Now you have your orders. Arrest all.”
“And how many are inside?”
“It doesn’t matter. Arrest them all.”
This was starting to sound dumb. “Are they armed? We need to know before going in, for goodness’ sake!” He checked himself for saying ‘God’s sake’ as God was forbidden by the Soviet.
“Arrest. Them. All.” The menace in the man’s voice was evident. “Or we arrest you and promote your subordinate to carry out our commands. Comrade.”
Casca glared at them, before turning away and waving his men to go in. The door stood no chance and was kicked in. They were in a modest house, a reception room, a dining room, a kitchen, and upstairs two bedrooms.
Three people were here, a man, a woman and a young boy. They were all grabbed by the soldiers and dragged out, screaming, pleading for mercy. Casca’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t soldiering. This was something else.
He watched as the three were put into the first truck. Casca went up to his driver and gave him orders to return to the barracks. He would hitch a lift with the first truck. The two Commissariat men looked on with puzzlement as Casca walked towards them. “Comrades,” he said, “I have discovered something of concern in the house. I waited till my men were gone before informing you as I believe it is of such a sensitive nature that only your eyes should see it.”
Their eyes lit up. This was something interesting! Casca led them inside and took them out to the kitchen at the back. “There,” he pointed to the dresser to one side where a drawer had been pulled open and papers could be seen poking out.
As one went to inspect it, Casca took hold of a kitchen knife and clutched it tight. As the first man frowned at the cooking instructions for a number of meals, Casca spun, sending his knife up into the second man’s ribs and up into his heart. The man hit the floorboards, dead.
As the first man dropped the recipes and reached for his Nagant, Casca’s was already aimed straight at his eyes. “Alright, shithead, what was this all about? Those poor bastards weren’t enemy soldiers or subversives, they were ordinary people. What the hell are you doing, arresting them?”
“Orders!” the man explained, as if that was fine.
“From whom?”
“C-Comrade Vyachoslav!”
“On behalf of whom?! Come on, my patience is wearing thin!”
The man spread his hands. “Surely you agree that anyone not representing the Workers and Peasants is an enemy of the state?”
“No. They have done nothing, unless being of a class of people other than yourselves is a crime. Christ, I thought I’d seen enough with the fucking French revolution.” He could have bitten his tongue off after those words.
“What French revolution, Comrade? The Napoleonic one?”
Casca laughed unpleasantly. “No, it wasn’t him to begin with, Comrade. The intelligentsia brought it about in 1789 but couldn’t run a tap, so the real nasty lot took over, Robespierre and his blood-thirsty crowd. He went too far, though, and got his a little later. Then Napoleon came along a few years later and took over. You’re no different to Robespierre, are you? You willingly carry out atrocities against helpless civilians, thinking it makes you tough. Well it doesn’t. It just makes you what you already are; uncivilized sick murderers. As much as I hated the old regime, at least it kept filth like you under control. Now its gone and you lot are in control, God help us all. You won’t be finished until you’re knee-deep in blood, will you?”
“The revolution!”
“Fuck the revolution. If it means murdering helpless woman and children wholesale then the sooner this revolution burns itself out the better. Now we’re going to pay a visit to Comrade Vyachoslav, you and I. You’re going to have my pistol in your ribs all the time so one word, one false move and I blow a hole in you big enough to fit my fist through it.”
“But – we’re supposed to drive these to the prison. The Cheka have taken it over…”
That was all Casca needed to hear. “Oh? Astapenko is there?”
“Comrade Astapenko, yes.”
“He’s no comrade of mine so let’s drop the stupid moronic titles, shall we? In fact,” Casca pushed the muzzle into the Commissariat man’s face, “I’m tired of the whole thing. I hoped that this communist revolution would make things better for the poor bastards here, but I can now see that you lot are even worse than the corrupt Tsarist regime. You communists are evil. Pure and simple. You have no class, no knowledge of how to run a country, so you kill anyone who doesn’t agree with you. Fucking hell, and I thought the Mongols were bad.”
“Th-the Tatars? They oppressed the people of Russia for centuries!”
“And what are you lot doing now? You’re no better. Slaughtering your own people for no better reason than they disagree with you! Shit. I hope the Whites or someone smash you and your damned revolution.”
The Commissariat man said nothing more. Casca waved his pistol at him and led him outside. The first thing he did was to put an arm around the man’s shoulders, although it made his flesh crawl, and laugh as if they were the best of, well, comrades. It served to remind the man that Casca had his Nagant ready to use. The question in the Eternal Mercenary’s mind was, was this man prepared to sacrifice his own life for the glory of the revolution? He hoped not.
The three scared prisoners were released, much to the puzzlement of the four guards in the back of the truck but two superior officers insisting they be released stifled any protest. Then Casca a
llowed the Commissariat man to get into the cab first, squeezed in between the driver and himself, Casca’s pistol dug into the man’s ribs.
The three released would have to deal with the dead Bolshevik themselves. Casca guessed that once Vyachoslav discovered Casca’s treachery, he would send another squad to re-arrest these people. It was up to them to get out of Belgorod and he hoped they had the brains to do it sooner rather than wait for their inevitable recapture.
As for Casca himself, he knew he would have to find a way out of this. The communists, or Reds, or Bolsheviks or whatever they were calling themselves, would be madder than a hornets’ nest being kicked at him now, and he knew they would have him shot. So he had to get out. Somehow.
First, though, a little piece of extermination. Astapenko. If anyone deserved to die, it was him and his sick group.
They were driven to a big stone building on the corner of two streets and they parked outside, the harsh light above the entrance the only illumination. Russian prisons in cities tended to be in buildings like this with an inner courtyard. They were rectangular in design, and of four floors with a steeply-pitched roof, to allow the snow to slide off.
Two guards were on duty and Casca stood with his prisoner outside, giving orders for the truck to go. That meant five men less to bother about which was a relief to Casca. They then went in and Casca kept close to his prey, his pistol pressing into the man’s side.
Down they went, into the basement. Oh yes, this was where the Cheka carried out their dirty work. Once through a stout iron door, which was locked behind them by a serious-looking guard, the sound of screams and beatings came to him. The smell of sweat and blood assailed his senses.
There was an open door to the right with a guard standing to attention outside it. Within was a square room dominated by a blood-stained table, a few chairs and a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. A prisoner was strapped to one of the chairs, his face a bloody pulp, and a shirt-sleeved interrogator, in reality a mindless thug, was stood over him, a wooden cudgel in his hand.