by Evelyn Weiss
Rufus fires up the engines, and the professor and I each take hold of a blade of one of the propellers. We swing them with all our strength.
There’s a roar. The propeller blade pulls viciously from my grasp, and I step away from it: I can feel the suction of the air into the scything blades. I look across: Axelson’s propeller is turning too.
The professor and I are at the rope ladder; he gestures to me. “Ladies first!” I climb the few rungs and clamber down into the pit-like seat behind Rufus, sliding over to make room beside me for the professor.
Rufus turns his head to us, and grins.
“Here we go.”
As I strap the goggles around my head, I feel the forward movement, and I see the dim light of the night sky. We are slowly lumbering out of the hanger; the plane is crawling, inch by inch, like a snail. The noise is deafening: surely it must wake the guards?
But within seconds, the plane is rumbling along on the lumpy grass of the airfield, and I begin to sense the acceleration in my stomach. I glance over to the office; it’s dark. Our escape is very loud, but so far, it is going unnoticed.
Ahead, the darkened airfield stretches for maybe a mile to a dim line of trees. I can feel the surging power of the engines. We are already pulling away from the ground, angling upwards into the sky. I feel the lift of the wings: we’re airborne.
The wind rushes past us as we climb; ahead, a pale moon shines fitfully behind clouds. Below us, it illuminates a dark cloak of forest spreading in all directions. The thin black line of the Stone Gates canyon, and the smoke rising from the Kamensk foundry chimney, are tiny landmarks in the endless space of Siberia.
The dawn is coming up behind us. We’re flying into a strong headwind that buffets my goggles, but I can see tiny lights on the ground far ahead of us. The rising sun’s rays are being reflected from spots on the vast dark plain; they look like droplets of liquid gold. Axelson shouts.
“Those must be the golden domes of the church in Orenburg! Where’s the airfield?”
Rufus yells back. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it all perfectly under control. Look there!”
We see a long green shape, a cleared grassy area among woodland. In minutes, the field looms ahead of us, and we feel a massive bump.
“We’re down!” Rufus is ecstatic, turning to grin at us. The plane shakes and bounces along the field, but I’m amazed how quickly we slow to a halt, the propellers lazily rotating and stopping. Rufus looks around, then speaks quietly.
“Now for the tricky part.”
Four figures are coming out of an office at the side of the airfield. In the low-angled early morning light, their shadows are like long black fingers on the grass. The light illuminates their uniforms; we can see that their collars and cuffs are crimson. They walk over to the airplane, and look up at us.
“Greetings, Comrades!” Rufus waves down at them, then flings down the ladder, climbs down and shakes their hands as he begins his explanation. “We’re en route to Moscow, but it’s a long way. We need to refuel.”
The men all stare at him, without speaking. Then one of them says “All of you, please. Climb down from the airplane.”
One by one, we descend the rope ladder. It’s only when all three of us are standing on the ground that one of the men begins to talk.
“This airplane is the one that was reported stolen. We’ve had a telegram from the Red Guards in Kamensk, to say that someone took it away in the night.”
Rufus tries a nervous smile at the man. “Yes, this is that plane. But we’ve not stolen it. There must be a misunderstanding. What did the telegram say?”
The professor and I are silent: anything we say could make things worse. Two of the men are now standing behind Rufus. They are not holding him – but they could grab him at any moment.
Rufus asks again. “Could we see the telegram, please?”
A few seconds later, all seven of us are marching towards the office. We enter, and I shudder as the last man to come through the office door turns a key in the lock.
One of the men holds up a piece of paper: we all look at it.
Orenburg Airfield
The captured White Army propaganda aircraft disappeared overnight Stop It may have been stolen by hostile forces Stop
Red Guards 5th division
Kamensk Stone Gates Airfield
Rufus tries a smile. “Well, that’s clear.”
The men look at him; one steps forward. “It’s crystal clear. The plane was stolen: now you’ve turned up with it. So there is only one explanation –”
“No, no.” Rufus continues smiling, almost laughing. “You have it all wrong. I arrived at Kamensk last night, ready to fly this airplane to Moscow, via a refuelling stop in Orenburg. The Red Guards at Kamensk were all asleep –”
“Nonsense. A pilot is going to fly today, in a small plane, from here to Kamensk. He will then fly the big airplane back here.”
“That was the old plan; things have changed. I am covering this mission now. Can we have our fuel, please? We need to get on.”
The men are silent. Rufus speaks again, but this time I hear an edge in his voice. His fear is beginning to show.
“If we were working for the White Army, and we stole that airplane, we’d hardly fly to Orenburg, would we? Everyone knows this is a Bolshevik base.”
Again, the four men don’t answer him. They are looking at the professor and me.
“Who are you?”
Axelson steps forward. His normally serious face is transformed into a charming smile.
“My companion and I are on our way to Moscow, and this gentleman is taking us there. Which is why we need to refuel, urgently.”
The men look even more suspiciously at the three of us. But the professor continues, his voice genial. “You see, we have an urgent appointment with Comrade Lenin.”
There’s a scornful reply. “You know Lenin?”
“Of course I do.” The professor’s voice is silky. “Look at this.” He reaches into his waistcoat pocket, and takes out his letter from Lenin, flashing it briefly before their eyes. The crest of the St Petersburg Soviet, the Bolshevik Party stamp and Lenin’s signature are clearly visible.
They eye him suspiciously. “If that letter is genuine – what does it say? Let us read it.”
“I can’t possibly let you do that! You appear to be Bolsheviks – but you could be anyone, dressed up!”
“We’re not.”
The professor looks at each of the men’s faces in turn. His voice is quiet but firm. “If we are to trust you, then by the same token, you must trust us. Have faith in Comrade Lenin. There is a good reason for the change of plan with the aircraft. Now, our pilot here needs to take us on our onward journey.”
Three of the men nod, but one sticks to his guns. “What about the telegram? The message reported the theft of this airplane. Are the guards at Kamensk joking?”
Axelson’s air is that of a patient man dealing with a mild annoyance. “Our pilot tried to explain to you what happened at Kamensk. We arrived at the Kamensk airfield at dusk yesterday. But we found the guards very much the worse for wear, after too much vodka. They were all in a drunken stupor. Seeing that the aircraft had enough fuel to get to Orenburg, we simply took off. Even if we had roused those men, they would have been in no state to help us prepare for take-off, so we did everything ourselves.”
The professor pauses, then adds, with emphasis “Look at it from the Kamensk guards’ point of view. Left to themselves, they decide to drink instead of guarding the airplane. Then they wake to find it gone. So they panic, and send that telegram.”
This time, we see four nods. One of the men begins a long apology. An hour later, we are climbing into the sky above Orenburg.
26 The Astrakhan Host
“So where do we go now?” I’m shouting over the wind and the engines.
Rufus turns and yells back. “Well obviously not Moscow! But just so you know, Moscow is around seven hundred miles due west from h
ere.”
I hear Axelson’s voice. “Have you got maps of anywhere south of here?”
“Yes.”
“We should aim for Iran, Mr du Pavey. The Persian Empire is officially neutral in the war, but in fact they are friendly to the British. We will be safe there. How far away is it?”
“About a thousand miles. We won’t manage it without refuelling.”
“Are all the airfields marked on your map?”
“Yes. But there are none due south of here… Ah. Here’s one to the south-west. It’s around five hundred miles from here. We should be able to get there – although flying into this headwind will cost us heavily in fuel.” He holds up a portion of the map, gripping it in the furious wind, and points. I see the name “Astrakhan”.
It’s early afternoon: the sun has moved round, and is shining into our eyes. Ahead, the horizon is a hazy blur, but it’s the ground we’re flying over that I’ve noticed. The forests are left far behind; huge featureless steppes sprawl below us, brown and arid in the summer sun. Here and there are strips of yellow. The professor points. “That must be the start of the Ryn Desert.”
I’ve never heard of such a place. But desert it clearly is: lines of long dunes, all running east to west as if aligned by the wind, stretch out below us. But far ahead in the haze is a long green strip. I point at it.
“Where’s that?”
Axelson answers me. “The valley of the Volga, Miss Agnes! And look, that faint blue colour away to our left is the Caspian Sea. So Astrakhan’s not far – maybe twenty miles, across this desert.”
Rufus turns in his seat. Under his goggles, I can’t see the expression on his face. But he shouts, loud and clear.
“We’re not going to make it to Astrakhan. Can you both look down on the ground, for a landing place?
“What?”
“A flat area – preferably not too sandy! Because we won’t get as far as the Astrakhan airfield.”
I see the professor’s alarmed eyes behind his goggles. Rufus yells an explanation.
“It’s this strong headwind: the aircraft is guzzling fuel. The gauge is nearly on zero. I could try to reach Astrakhan… but if I do, we face the risk of running out of fuel, with nowhere to land. Better to look for a place below – the first spot we can safety touch down.”
“And what then?”
“I don’t know. But it will be better than crashing.”
We’re lower now, flying parallel to the rippled ridges. I see the sand, spilling down into deep hollows, then rising again to the crests of the dunes. It’s like flying above huge waves in a yellow ocean. There’s no landing place anywhere.
“What’s that?” The professor is shouting and pointing ahead.
Rufus steers the plane towards a glimpse of white, like a patch of snow in the desert. It gets closer, bigger. The plane swoops low, and our wheels almost graze the crumbling crest of a sandbank. Seconds later, we’re flying through a deep trench between two tall dunes. On both sides, they rise high above our wingtips.
On the floor of the trench, perhaps a mile ahead, is the white area: a blank, pancake-flat patch. In a few seconds, we’re above it; the plane’s shadow is a black shape, coasting along underneath us, getting closer every second…
We hit the ground, juddering and skidding; the airplane slides and skitters uncontrollably across a crust of ice-like whiteness. Then the wheels dig into layers of crystals, turning and gripping. We plow forwards through the white deposits, slowing to an unexpectedly gently halt.
Rufus cuts the engines and turns to us.
“Well spotted, Prof. A salt pan.”
“Yes, we are safe for now. But our situation is rather desperate, I fear.”
I throw down the ladder and climb down it. As I step from the last rung onto the strange white surface, I feel something I’d almost forgotten. Heat.
The sun, reflected from the salt crystals, is like fire. My shoes touch the ground, and I let go of the rope ladder. I turn and try to look around me, my eyes scrunched up in the blazing light. I see the bleached white of the salt pan, surrounded on all sides by livid yellow dunes that tower into a burning sky. Everything is lifeless: there is no water and no vegetation anywhere in sight. But I don’t really notice the scenery much, because I see something I never expected to see.
Three faces.
They are men in late middle age, their faces wrinkled and sunburnt. They wear pale cotton shirts and trousers, but cloaks to keep off the sand and the sun. One of them steps forward, eying our airplane cautiously.
“A fine landing! I must congratulate your pilot. But first, we need to know who you are – and, which side you are on.” He points to the hammer and sickle painted on the side of the fuselage.
I try to think quickly: should I tell the truth? I look up at the professor, who is climbing down the ladder behind me. But his face gives me no clue; we’re at a loss what to tell them. I have to say something: I begin to speak.
“We are foreigners in Russia – American, Swedish and British.”
The man looks warily at me, but there’s a hint of something in his demeanor, as if encouraging me to continue. Without thinking, I ask a question.
“Do you know the Cossacks of Astrakhan?”
His curving mouth shows uneven teeth, gleaming white in his tanned face as he replies to me.
“If you are trying to find the Astrakhan Host, then your choice of landing place was indeed perfect.”
As I try to make sense of the man’s reply, he does the oddest thing. He begins to laugh. I have no idea how to respond. Rufus and the professor are now standing with me; I glance at them, but they look as confused as I am.
The man looks at me with kindly eyes, and explains.
“If you seek Cossacks, then you are looking at them! Me and my brothers are members of the Astrakhan Host; we are Cossacks of the Volga. I am Bogdan Kovalenko; these are my brothers Dmitri and Anatoly. And we’d be happy to help you – unless you are supporters of the cursed Bolsheviks.”
I start to tell our story. “The Red Guards are pursuing us. We stole this airplane from them, and we are trying to escape from Bolshevik-controlled territory. We were told that if we came to Astrakhan, we might get help from the Cossack Host.”
All three Cossacks are now looking at me intently. Bogdan asks me “Who suggested that you come to Astrakhan?”
“Do you know a Captain Sirko?”
Bogdan’s eyes widen. “Of course we do! Yuri is like a son to us. How do you know him?”
I’m about to explain, but all three men extend their arms, shaking our hands and smiling warmly. Very simply, Bogdan says “You are our friends.”
We smile too, but the blazing sun on our heads is physically painful. We all move to the shade of the plane’s wing, and Bogdan looks around us at the hostile landscape.
“You three – you are so lucky, to find this landing place! This salt pan was created long ago, a dried-up lake, and then it was hidden by shifting dunes. The sand moved and exposed it recently; me and my brothers were the first to see it.”
The professor stares at the salt pan. “It’s utterly desolate here. Why are you in the desert?”
“We were on our way through the sands to the salt lake at Inderbor, far out in the lands of the Kazakh people. Then by accident we spotted this pan. So we are digging salt from here; it’s much less far to travel than Inderbor. The salt trade doesn’t pay well – but in these hard times, everyone must make money however they can. And we own camels – so we may as well make use of them. We are taking the salt to Astrakhan to sell it.”
Dmitri adds to Bogdan’s explanation. “Well, we did trade in salt – until now.” He brandishes a piece of paper. “Read this, if you want to find out how the Bolsheviks think they can treat us.”
I take the letter, and hold it where the professor and Rufus can see it too.
“Mssrs Kovalenko
It has come to the notice of Party officials that you are mining and trading in salt. As
you know, private enterprise of any kind is an anti-Communist, bourgeois activity. It is theft from the Russian people.
Unless you desist immediately from entrepreneurial and profiteering activity, forcible measures will be taken against you.
Astrakhan Soviet Committee
Long live the Revolution!”
He looks at me. “Their words are longwinded, but their actions are very direct. The Bolsheviks have already imprisoned several shopkeepers in Astrakhan for refusing to hand over all their stock ‘for the benefit of the people’”.
I re-read the letter, trying to make sense of it. “But if this is true, it will affect every shop and business in Russia…”
“Indeed. Every business, however small, will be taken from its owners and run by the Bolsheviks ‘for the benefit of the people’. And worse, all farms too.” He carries on grimly. “Hundreds of years ago, the Cossacks settled the Volga valley, and defended it for the Tsar, against the attacks of the Turkish Empire. Most Cossacks in this area now own small farms. We’ve heard many stories of lands and farmhouses being taken away from the farmers at gunpoint. So they are all joining the Volunteer Army – part of the White Army, who are right now encamped up-river on the Volga, ready to attack the Red Guards. We hear they are greatly outnumbered by the Reds, but they are all brave fighters.”
Bogdan interrupts. “Let’s not stand about here. Even in the shade of this wing, it is too hot. Now, if your airplane can fly no further, then come with us to Astrakhan.”
Rufus answers eagerly. “That would be marvellous – thank you! We were heading for the airfield at Astrakhan, to refuel. But we ran out of fuel and made a forced landing here.”
“The airfield is full of Red Guards, as is the Kremlin – the fortress of Astrakhan. In the current situation, you may have found your best chance of refuelling your plane by meeting us.”
The professor looks at them, puzzled, but Bogdan goes on. “Despite the Bolsheviks’ edicts, the markets are busy in Astrakhan – including goods stolen from the Bolsheviks, which are to be sent on secretly to the White Army. You are welcome to take any aviation fuel we can find in the city.”