‘Listen, sergeant, I ain’t no angel like you. It don’t mean a cuss to me what I do when it comes to watchin’ and listenin’. That knowledge is gathered up legitimate. If people don’t want their business passed on, they should keep it locked inside, not spill it out all over. When this war is over I can sell what I know to my other people. There’s those who want to know what’s goin’ on in other armies, how they fight, deploy, go into battle, what their weapons can do, what their weak points is, that sort of thing. I can sell it on, easy. The US might go to war against Britain some time. It ain’t so long since the States and the UK were fighting.’
‘Over forty years,’ said Crossman, ‘and it wasn’t a war that the British or the Americans remember with any clarity.’
‘Not everybody wanted it, that’s true. But it happened.’
‘So, while you’re spying for us, you’re spying against us?’
‘Does it taste sour, sergeant?’
‘No – just makes me realize how naive I am compared to some – to you and Lovelace. He doesn’t do it for money, of course. He just enjoys it for its own sake. But he’s as ruthless as Crassus, just like you.’
Gwilliams realized he was being tested again, and he chuckled. ‘The Roman general, right? Defeated the leader of the slave army, what was his name? Spartacus. That was him. Spartacus who had his hideout on the slopes of the volcano Vesuvius.’
‘No flies on you, Gwilliams.’
‘I hope not, sergeant. I hate flies. Dirty, filthy creatures.’
They left their conversation there, both feeling they were a little closer to the real man behind the fur coat.
The following morning the household was roused at dawn. It was a milder day. Up on the Heights someone had managed to thaw some buckets of water for the gunners and one or two early-morning cannons were barking at the enemy. Crossman gathered his armed and kitted band ready for the march into the hills. Ali, who had slept elsewhere, was waiting on the doorstep. They went on foot, since horses needed fodder in the winter and it was hard to come by in the hinterland. Most gloomy in their thoughts, they trooped along the Kadikoi track between the houses and stalls, towards the grey line of hills to the north. A woman came to one of the windows in her slip, not expecting to see anyone out so early, only to find Wynter gawking up at with a leer on his face. She pulled some ragged curtains closed with a petulant look.
‘Let’s hope we don’t run into any Cossacks, sergeant,’ said Peterson.
‘Bloody Cossacks,’ said Crossman, who had a price on his head amongst the Russian cavalry. ‘They’ll be the death of me.’
At the top end of the village they found Lieutenant Pirce-Smith waiting. He stood like a soldier, rigid as a tent pole, waiting for them to reach him. An attempt had been made to muddy him up a little, make him look less like a parading officer and more like a renegade, but it was surface stuff. Crossman could see the man was uncomfortable, like someone not used to acting wearing greasepaint. When they drew alongside him, Crossman said, ‘If you’d like to join the file sir, behind me.’
‘Behind you?’ It was simply a repetition of his words. The officer did as he was told, going between Crossman and Gwilliams. Ali was leading of course. Although Crossman and Peterson were familiar with the landscape, Ali had spent half a lifetime in and around the Crimean region. Wynter was the other man who should have known where he was going but Wynter was one of those soldiers who simply followed his leader, not taking account of where he was going or where he had been. He was usually aware of his immediate surroundings but where those features stood in the world he had no real idea.
They passed cork oaks, laurels and cypress trees, among others, keeping to depressions. In the summer there would be cattle on the upland plains, as well as sheep, but the landscape was devoid of life on this winter day. Smoke was curling from farmhouse chimneys up on the slopes. The faint booms of the guns behind them seemed to belong to a different world, a world of mud and noise. Here on the level uplands, there was the same kind of peace that Goethe found on his mountaintops.
Suddenly, Ali’s hand went up. The patrol immediately fell to the ground. Pirce-Smith was just a second behind everyone else when he realized what was expected of him. Ali made a sign with his fingers. ‘Cossacks,’ whispered Crossman to Pirce-Smith. The officer could see nothing but he knew better than to lift his head to peek. There came the drumming of cantering horses on the turf and the clinking of harness metal. Then silence again. Ali waited for a time then made a motion for them all to rise.
‘That was close,’ said Pirce-Smith.
‘That was ordin’ry, sir,’ replied Wynter. ‘That weren’t even half a mile off.’
Pirce-Smith did not converse with lance-corporals, except through his senior NCOs. He made no reply. He was, however, a man anxious to learn. While he felt that discipline and correctness were necessary to the army at all times, he was no fool and realized that here was a unit in which the rules had to be relaxed a little. This was like a hunt, not a fox hunt – he felt that was a poor analogy – but a boar hunt. A hunt for a wild animal with a group of loosely connected individuals. But even on a boar hunt there were those who led and those who followed.
Pirce-Smith had been given a hard time by his so-called fellow Guards officers when he had joined the army, simply because he was not from a high born family. Mercifully he did not have ‘the smell of the shop’ about him, his father was not in trade, so he had not undergone the torture that one or two of his colleagues had gone through. One man, Ensign John Morten, son of a cordwainer, had been made to endure such misery at the hands of his fellow officers (backed whole-heartedly by the colonel of the regiment and his aides) he eventually blew out his own brains. However, many clergymen were the younger sons of genteel families, and though Pirce-Smith’s father was not one of those, but simply a man with schooling and ability, the lieutenant had only had to endure such things as soaked beds after coming off duty, and dollops of garden mud squeezed into his boots. In the end he saw the wisdom of transferring to a less elite regiment, a regiment of foot, where such things as one’s father’s status were not quite so important.
With this rite of passage the twenty-four-year-old Pirce-Smith felt he had earned his commission in the army the hard way. He was an officer and he wished to be treated as such, even on unofficial patrols out in the Crimean hinterland, where the law had rougher edges and was not so fine a tool. He did not have to socialize with rank and file, and had no intention of doing so. At the same time he was eager to be a success at the business of spying and sabotage. He greatly admired Major Lovelace, who in turn seemed to think Crossman a worthy soldier. This Sergeant Crossman appeared to know what he was doing and while he was out here Pirce-Smith was determined to absorb what he could, without compromising his status as an officer to any great depth.
Some game birds flew up in front and startled Pirce-Smith out of his thoughts.
‘It’s all right,’ said Crossman. ‘No need to be alarmed, sir.’
In spite of his previous thoughts, Pirce-Smith was nettled.
‘I’m not alarmed. Just surprised, that’s all, sergeant.’
‘I don’t mean you personally, sir. I mean the Russian cavalry. If they were in the vicinity they might have seen those birds and investigated.’
‘Oh.’ Pirce-Smith looked about him. ‘How can you be sure they didn’t?’
‘Ali would have smelled them – the Russians. He has a very sensitive nose.’
The peloton stopped for the night in a ruined turf-and-stone dwelling, which afforded them some cover. Ali made an earth-oven, invisible from a distance, which allowed them to eat hot food. There was not a great deal to be had, but enough to stave off the hunger pangs. Crossman advised Pirce-Smith to sleep with his water skin in the pit of his stomach, to prevent the water inside from freezing to solid ice.
‘If you run out of water,’ he told the officer, ‘we shall have to abandon you.’
‘Why?’ It was a controlled qu
estion, no hint of rancour. ‘Why would you have to leave me, sergeant?’
‘Because each man is carrying just enough for himself, sir. If they were to share with you, there’d be two of you at risk, instead of one. With two men at risk, the whole mission would be in danger of foundering. I hope you see what I mean, sir.’
‘I think I do.’ This time there was an edge to the words, which caused Ali to look up from his task at the oven with narrowed eyes. Later, in the moonlight Pirce-Smith was sitting with Peterson, who seemed a quiet and orderly youth, and not so much the ‘soldier scum’ that Wynter, Gwilliams and Yorwarth appeared to be. He suddenly became aware of a foul smell close by him and turned to find the Bashi-Bazouk irregular breathing into his face. Ali showed his teeth: not so much a grin as a baring of the fangs.
‘Listen, you,’ said the Turk softly, poking Pirce-Smith’s chest with a stubby finger, ‘you no speak bad with the sergeant. The sergeant my friend. You speak bad with him, I kill you. Yes? You go against sergeant, I shoot you goddamn head. I blow brains. Good, you understand.’ His heavy hand came down hard on Pirce-Smith’s shoulder, a friendly gesture which almost broke the officer’s collarbone. ‘I like you, officer. I no want shoot you goddamn brains out.’ With that he left the stunned Pirce-Smith alone with Peterson.
Peterson was cleaning her rifle. She didn’t look up into his face, but she said, ‘Don’t worry too much, sir. He said that to me once. I expect he says it to most people.’
‘So he wasn’t serious?’ Pirce-Smith was relieved.
‘Oh, yes, he was serious all right, sir. You harm his precious sergeant and Ali would cut your throat without a thought. He’s murdered a few men in his time, I’m certain of that. Some people seem to take the law into their own hands and get away with it. Ali’s one of those. I doubt he’ll ever hang, whatever he does. It’s one of life’s mysteries.’
‘Is it indeed?’ Pirce-Smith went to sleep on the cold, hard ground with a bitter mind. He was damned if he was going to be bullied. Yet, at the same time, he had to be a little wise, remain cautious, for out here there was no army, no system, to protect him. He might very well end up with a smile on his throat and no retribution to follow.
That night was a terrible one for Pirce-Smith. He spent it mostly awake and shivering, trying to get comfortable, trying to keep warm, with a cold goatskin at his belly, and failing miserably on all counts. It seemed to him he was ill with something, though he did not know what. Cholera? Dysentery? He had a touch of the latter, but it was not that so much as an overall physical problem. A malady of sorts. However, he was sure he would be left behind if he complained of sickness, so he bore it through the night. What sleep he did get was fitful, and he woke with a bad taste in his mouth. However, after stretching and stumbling around in the grey dawn, he felt a little better. Wynter eyed him as he strode up and down. There was malice in that look, but Pirce-Smith had too much else to concern him at that moment, to take notice of insubordination.
The others woke to a grey and dismal morning, though it had to be said the light out on the steppe was good due to the wide open skies and flat rolling landscape. There was nothing to impede it. At the start of the trek they came to a stream which had cut a deep scar into the soil and rock, thus giving itself some protection from the winter. A little water was trickling through the ice. Three men were down at this beck, taking their fill of the freezing water. Ali smelled them from the other side of the rise. Crossman decided to go and investigate, since they could not continue their journey without being seen. ‘I’ll go down and see who they are,’ he said. ‘The rest of you stay out of sight – all except Peterson. You follow me up and keep your Minié on the nearest one to me at all times. If you have to fire, shoot the man in your sights, no matter where the threat is coming from. I’ll take care of the other two, understand?’
‘Yes, sergeant,’ said Peterson, and the others nodded.
Crossman removed his mittens and took out his revolver. He cocked it with the cocking-trigger. Pirce-Smith said, automatically, ‘That’s not standard issue, sergeant.’ No one took any notice of this statement. Crossman left the group and with Peterson just behind him, he crested the rise and walked straight down to the men below. One of them saw him coming and shouted at the other two. They picked up their weapons which had been lying on the frosty ground. Watching him approach they spoke between themselves. The language was Russian. Crossman believed them to be deserters from the other side. The shorter of the two standing men was carrying a sword in his hand.
‘Good morning!’ he called, in Russian. ‘Where are you heading?’
The man at the front, big, bearded, with a stiff shock of coarse black hair on his bare head standing up at least four inches above his skull, growled, ‘What’s it to you?’ They were dressed in rough clothing, though all wore the Russian Army grey greatcoats. Like Crossman’s band, they were mostly filthy dirty. One had his feet bound in rags. He was still sitting on the ground. There was a makeshift stretcher nearby. Clearly the other two had been carrying their comrade. Something about the man’s accent made Crossman ask, ‘Are you Poles?’
‘I might be,’ said the dark man. ‘But I say again, what’s it to you?’
‘To me? I don’t want trouble, that’s what it is to me. I have a sharpshooter up on that slope. You can see him. He’ll cut down the first man that moves against me. So, I ask again, who are you? In which direction do you go?’
The big man squinted at Peterson, who was lying flat, looking down the barrel of her Minié rifle, some fifty yards away.
‘Perhaps we could shoot you both,’ said the man, ‘before you get us?’
‘Unlikely,’ replied Crossman, calmly. ‘Are you deserters?’
Another man, the one sitting on the ground, his back arched into a hunch, replied to this question.
‘Are you?’
‘No.’ Flat denial. Crossman saw no sense in getting chummy with these men, who might wish to tag along with them. ‘But we’re not interested in taking prisoners. Are you going upstream?’ That direction was away from the Russian lines. What Crossman could not afford was an ambush when he returned by the same route, once the fox hunt was over. These men, most likely deserters, might try to buy their way back into the favour of their commander, if they returned with good information. Having obviously spent one bad night out on the steppe, where all nights were bad, they might be disillusioned with the idea of escape and wish to get back to the warmth of fires and the smell of cooked food.
‘We go where we please,’ said the big man. ‘Who the Hell are you to be asking questions, anyway?’
‘Over that hill,’ said Crossman, ‘I have a company of men. They give me the right.’
The man on the ground said, ‘Don’t pay him any heed. He’s a good man. He carried me all day yesterday. Yes, we’ve deserted from the Russian Army. They treat us like curs. I was beaten so badly my spine cracked. I can’t use my legs. We’re going up into the Ukraine. We won’t be any bother to you.’
‘I’d rather see you on your way.’
‘You go to Hell,’ snapped the third deserter, a small bulky fellow. He seemed to have a brainstorm and suddenly lunged at Crossman’s midriff with his sword, a worried look on his face. The big man was at that moment standing shoulder to shoulder with Crossman. Padded thwunking sounds came from his greatcoat, as a rifle ball went through it, entering the back and coming out through the chest. Then the sound of the shot drifted down from above. Crossman kicked the sword from the bulky soldier’s hand, sending it somersaulting through the air. It landed in the stream, skidding from the fringe ice. The fellow with the injured spine groaned as the big man’s body hit the ground like a felled tree near to where he was sitting.
‘Idiot!’ snapped Crossman, at the sword wielder. ‘What did I tell you? Your comrade’s been shot now.’ Crossman glanced at the giant at his feet and saw that he was indeed dead.
The swordsman stared bleakly down at the supine body. Covering the two remaini
ng deserters with his pistol, Crossman yelled to Peterson, ‘Get the others down here.’
Soon Ali and the rest of the peloton were with him, the two Russian deserters staring hollow-eyed at the group.
‘Christ!’ said Wynter, prodding the dead man. ‘Got a big enough hole in his chest. You do that, Peterson?’
‘Leave the corpse alone, Wynter,’ ordered Crossman.
Gwilliams said, ‘Grisly bastard, ain’t ya? A dead man’s entitled to some respect.’
‘Not bloody deserters,’ replied Wynter. ‘Can we go home now, sergeant? We’ve done the job, ain’t we?’
‘Are you blind, Wynter? These are not our deserters,’ snapped Yorwarth. ‘In any case, the sergeant said we’re looking for upwards of thirty men.’
Pirce-Smith asked, ‘What are we waiting for, sergeant? Why are those men looking so frightened? A mistake occurred. Regrettable, but shouldn’t we be on our way? We do have a mission to complete.’
Ali shook his head. ‘We should do it, sergeant, I think so.’ He was staring at the two deserters. Wynter caught the drift and moved away. So did Yorwarth and Peterson. Gwilliams said, ‘I don’t mind doing it.’
‘Do what?’ cried the lieutenant. ‘What, Peterson?’
‘We can’t leave them here,’ she replied. ‘They know we’re out here now. If they’re caught by their own people . . .’
Some light came through the greyness in Pirce-Smith’s mind. A chill went through him. ‘You’re not suggesting we kill them, sergeant? That would be cold-blooded murder. Is that why they’re looking so scared? Assure them now, Ali, that we’re not going to kill them. It’s unthinkable.’
Wynter said, ‘The sergeant’s in charge. He could make you do it – sir.’
Crossman broke his silence. ‘Enough of that, Wynter. You enjoy these situations too much. Sir, if we leave these men behind they endanger all of us. We might find a company of Cossacks waiting for us, when we come back. I can’t hazard the mission or my men for the sake of two deserters.’
The Winter Soldiers Page 6