CHAPTER ONE

With the sun already above the horizon, Irina Petrovna proceeded along a narrow, wooded lane that favored concealment. At the waterfront, the warehouses that served the shipyards were being looted, and the market district would be next. Should this behavior encourage other good citizens, Irina knew that her wagon and gelding, Bleki, offered a more efficient alternative than stumbling about with arms full of plunder.
A surgical nurse, formerly in the service of the Czar’s Imperial Army, this was not the first time she had seen a city about to change hands. Most often a hard-fought engagement, other times, a quick surrender or general retreat had made for easier transitions. But until some form of governance could replace what had just collapsed – always an invitation for mischief.
Irina could draw some comfort that the city of Archangel, tucked away at Russia’s northern reaches, hadn’t suffered too horribly from wartime deprivations. She believed those citizens currently helping themselves to easy pickings, were motivated by opportunistic greed, not desperation. If she were to encounter anyone with designs on her mode of transport, she planned to shame them with a few curt words. And when wishful thinking failed? Well, best not to let it come to that.
To avoid the city proper, she would keep to the wooded lane, which had come into service for the transit of building materials. Although that endeavor had concluded years ago, the tread from families seeking mulberries and wild mushrooms, still provided enough use so that Bleki didn’t seem to be having any trouble drawing the wagon. A good sign, for they would soon make their way to the top of a ridge where some of the timber barons and wealthier merchants had constructed impressive homes. Irina was confident these properties would pose little interest to pilfering hands, as their grand furnishings were already the property of the people, courtesy of the provincial commissar.
Last night, that man’s swift departure had stirred much speculation amongst the Central Hospital’s staff, as to whether the gunfire within the city had been more celebratory in nature. Asked for her opinion, Irina had put forth that the revolution hadn’t even marked its first year. Political divisions still ran deep. Anyone with cause for celebration, could just as easily have cause for settling scores. After saying her goodbyes and wishing everyone well, she had looked into the teary eyes of her young nurses and made them swear that they would remain behind the hospital’s thick walls, until the invasion fleet put troops ashore and civic order was restored.
In the meantime, with Bleki, wagon, and belongings intact, Irina was determined to reach the forests to the south. Unfortunately, her long sleepless night at the hospital had started to catch up with her. The birds were beginning to wake, but their helpful distraction of chatter and song was countered by the swaying of the wagon on its iron suspension, which beckoned not rebuffed sleep. And then – the weather! With Archangel situated so near the Artic circle, the summer sun barely set. It hadn’t even struck 6am and already Irina stood the press of humidity.
This potent concoction of heat and fatigue was enough to contend with, without having to add to the mix. But the lane had begun to rise, and Irina saw that the steeper rockier terrain offered little purchase to the pine and oak. Between their stunted trunks, seasonal shrubs billowed into the lane, obscuring the view up ahead.
Just as she was thinking it would diminish any forewarning, and the ability to react, she failed to recognize Bleki’s helpful hints. The ears that suddenly pricked forward, the toss of the head, and the high-pitched snort, didn’t completely register until the pony had already come to a stop. At which point, the thick foliage up ahead shook to the sound of pummeling hooves, and a horse and rider charged into sight.
Irina braced for the collision. Nothing to do, but watch as the rider threw his weight to the back of the saddle and yanked on his horse’s reins with a violent restraint that lifted the animal’s front legs, while the back legs half-scrambled, half-skidded through earth. When the horse’s front legs came back to ground, it was such an abrupt stop, if the rider hadn’t grabbed a fistful of mane, Irina was certain the forward momentum would have launched him from the saddle.
Spared an almost certain calamity, Irina fought for a deep breath, but her pounding chest wouldn’t permit it. Bleki, bless his temperament, hadn’t even flinched. Practically muzzle to muzzle with a strange animal, and the pony just snorted as though affronted by the intrusion. Not so the horse. Eyes wide, nostrils flared, ribcage heaving, it sucked at the humid air, desperately trying to fill its lungs.
As for the horseman. Beneath the bandoleers across his chest, the linen shirt was soaked to his torso. Below the red star on his khaki cap, the brim was saturated dark brown. Having regained his balance, he met Irina’s gaze. And it was only now that Irina became cognizant of having taken Bleki’s reins into her left hand. This had allowed her right hand to slip into the satchel at her side and grasp the grip of a cavalry revolver. A maneuver that had not gone unnoticed.
After plucking away a leaf, which had adhered itself to his mustache, the rider gestured to the satchel. “I had hoped you’d be happy to see me.”
Irina stiffened. In the preceding moments, she had been staggered by a rush of emotions. Barely able to process her alarm, her fear, before finally being confronted by the shock of relief.
“Yes Misha,” she began in an unsteady voice that quickly gained traction. “You might have gotten yourself shot!” She withdrew her hand from the satchel, saw it was trembling, and buried it in her lap.
From Misha Melochofski a soft smile. “You’d have stitched me up quick enough.”
“I’ve had my share of that!” Irina fired back. This was not a situation to make light of. And her tone had been intentionally harsh, as her features, the arched eyebrows that lent her a look of wonderment, and the play of her mouth, how it turned slightly upward at the corners, tended to make the conveyance of anger a challenge. But on this occasion, it appeared she had succeeded, for Misha Melochofski’s face indicated he had been sufficiently chastised.
She watched as he removed his cap and slowly brushed the back of his arm across his forehead to smear away the sweat. Taking his time, Irina knew, as he summoned the will to meet her look. Then, the sheepish smile, the glint in his eyes – a return to form.
“It’s good to see your pretty face, Irina,” he said.
The thumping in Irina’s chest had ebbed and she drew a deep breath. The man’s compliment would have to do for an apology. Then it occurred to her: prior to leaving the Central Hospital, she’d only had the opportunity to splash cold water on her face, before changing from the surgical smock and into her gabardine dress. Normally a loose fit for working in the garden, the humidity had adhered the dress to her like a second skin.
“I must look a sight,” she said.
“Nonsense!” Melochofski countered. He then cocked his head, as though scrutinizing her. “If I’m not mistaken, I’d say you’ve managed to put on some weight?”
Irina stared at him. Normally, a comment like that would warrant a strong rebuke - and Melochofski knew it. During her years of Imperial Army service, Irina had lost considerable weight. “Yes, Misha. I’ve put on a few pounds. You see, no longer so skinny. Now, if we don’t want to find ourselves guests of the British Navy, I suggest we be on our way. You can tie your horse off at the rear of the wagon.”
Melochofski returned the cap to his head. “No, hurry,” he said, as he swung his broad frame from the saddle and dropped stiffly to his feet. He loosened the saddle’s girth, making it easier for his horse to breathe. “The commissar ordered three barges to be sunk in the channel. It will take their fleet engineers at least a day or two to clear.”
This was news to Irina. From the open sea to the city’s harbor, lay a shipping channel of nearly twenty miles. “How did you come by this?” she asked.
“On the river road, I ran into a couple of men from the main garrison.”
Irina gave an emphatic raise of her brow. “At least our brave commissar did something useful before vanishing into the night.” As Melochofski sidestepped the comment with a grin, she added, “I might have had time for a bath after all.”
“What?” Melochofski said. “I should ride all the way to Archangel to find you soaking in a tub?”
“You could have scrubbed my back.”
Melochofski’s moustache stretched above his smile and his teeth seemed even whiter set against skin browned by the sun. “You are a madwoman,” he roared.
Irina smiled. It was good to hear his laughter. And, she supposed she was a madwoman. Every victory in her life seemed to be offset by a larger defeat. Who else but a madwoman would continue to believe the results might eventually shift in her favor. But then, on second thought, perhaps they had.
She had known Melochofski for nearly nine months, and they were well acquainted as man and woman. Even so, it was always a bit awkward as they re-acclimated to one another, so to speak, following their brief absences apart. But it was also these moments that reminded Irina of how much he meant to her. She watched as Melochofski stifled his laughter with a deep breath, the smile still clinging to his face. He then looked into Irina’s eyes with a gaze, so sincere, it put her on the verge of blush.
“A long night?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” Irina said, glad for the question. “We treated about a dozen men from the shore batteries. A couple of broken legs, some concussions… most of the wounds were superficial.”
Melochofski raised his brow in near disbelief. “That’s it?”
“After the gunners put a hole through the funnel of a British cruiser, they decided to call it a day.”
Melochofski mulled it over. “Most of those men are weary veterans or raw recruits,” he said, as he loosened a bridle strap that released the iron bit from the horse’s mouth. “Don’t get me wrong, they’ve had adequate training. Still, hardly a match for naval gunnery.”
“Yes,” Irina agreed. “Just as well they had the good sense to scramble.”
“And what of the city?” he asked.
“Some gunfire throughout the night. A fair bit of looting. But for what it was, I’ve seen far worse,” Irina said, her voice trailing off. She had taken the more pragmatic approach to the question, whereas Melochofski was probably more interested in gauging the public’s reaction to this latest setback suffered by the Bolsheviks.
Ten months earlier, after seizing power in their October Revolution, the Bolsheviks had then made a separate peace with Germany. This had effectively taken the Russian Imperial Army out of the war. Russia’s former Allies, Great Britain, France, and America, were now the revolution’s enemies. As for the citizens of Archangel? From what Irina could surmise, they were almost equally divided between those who favored the Bolsheviks new form of government, and those who detested it.
Melochofski led his horse by the reins, and the animal lurched forward, still wheezing. Irina now saw that the dappled gray of the horse’s coat was streaked with sweat that had streamed down the legs and mixed with the road, so it appeared as though the animal had been galloping through mud.
“Going to scold me for riding my mount so hard?” Melochofski asked.
“No,” Irina replied. Not exactly lying, for she had, at this very instant, given him a reprieve.
Three hundred nautical miles to the east, the Russian port of Murmansk had already been occupied by an Allied fleet. Concerned that Archangel might be next, she and Melochofski had mapped out a contingency route where they would have rendezvoused at Kholmogori, a town that sat thirty miles south on the Dvina River. Although Irina wasn’t one to normally succumb to such vanity, she was flattered, even honored, that instead he had come all this way to fetch her.
“Misha,” she said, pausing until he was looking directly at her. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course,” he smiled.
As Melochofski led his horse to the back of the wagon, Irina turned in her seat and kept her eyes on him.
Melochofski’s duties – recruitment for the Bolshevik’s fledgling Red Army – generally left him to his own devices. The man usually travelled between the outlying townships and villages, and it had been nearly three weeks since Irina had last seen him. Other than his shaggy, black hair needing a trim, his moustache was a good deal longer. When he had started to grow it, she had remarked that it reminded her of an old newspaper photo she had seen of Pancho Villa. He had taken the observation to heart, so that it now hung down the sides of his mouth.
He had also taken to wearing his bandoleers, crisscrossing his chest, as though trying to form a bond with a fellow revolutionary a world away. Irina wouldn’t be surprised if one day her “Big Pancho,” a name she sometimes teased him with, took to wearing a sombrero.
Melochofski tethered his horse to a small rail below the rear gate, then glanced into the wagon. “What did you do?” he asked. “Empty the house.”
Irina gave him a look. It had been during that brief cover of darkness, when the sun barely dipped below the horizon, that she had rushed from the hospital to the little house her aunt had deeded to her. She had then promptly loaded the wagon and harnessed Bleki. It would be nice to be commended for those efforts.
“We don’t know where we’re going Misha, or for how long,” she began evenly. “No reason to deny ourselves a few essentials.”
Melochofski’s eyes met hers. “Of course.” He removed his cap and the bandoleers from his chest. As he lifted a blanket to stash them, he looked up. “The samovar?”
“You enjoy a cup of tea, almost as much as your vodka. Do you not?”
Melochofski laughed. Then, with a display of mock seriousness, he raised an eyebrow.
Irina sighed. “Yes, Misha. I packed a few bottles of the good stuff.”
He gave her a wink, then turned towards his saddle. “I should know better,” he said, as he started to unbuckle the leather scabbard that held his carbine. “After all, you’re an old hand at this.”
Irina raised her brow. An old hand at this? Was that meant to be a compliment? She couldn’t count the number of times when the field hospital, in which she’d served, had suddenly received orders. Setting in motion, the dismantling of surgical stations, the securing of wounded for transport, the dropping and rolling of tents, then loading it all onto horse-drawn wagons; no one entirely sure as to whether it was an advance, or a retreat, until they began to move in a particular direction.
“Yes Misha, I suppose I am an old hand at this,” Irina began. “Thankfully, I only had household items to pack. And it doesn’t appear as though we’ll have to contend with an artillery barrage.”
About to place his carbine in the back of the wagon, Melochofski stopped short. With another somewhat chastised expression, he met Irina’s gaze. He then placed his carbine under a blanket and placed a sack of apples on top. “How’s Leva keeping?”
Irina drew a heavy breath. Leva, her housekeeper, had been with the house even before her aunt’s time. The poor woman had been inconsolable. And Irina’s expression must have indicated as much.
“You’ll be home before long,” Melochofski said.
Irina didn’t bother to respond. It was an empty remark designed to make her feel better. It was, however, almost insulting – the man couldn’t possibly be that naïve, or worse, think she was.
Irina was twenty-seven years of age to Melochofski’s thirty-four. It wasn’t a vast age difference, but one that Melochofski, nonetheless, had tried to exploit at the start of their relationship. Apparently, his views held more sway, simply by having spent more years walking the earth. But Irina’s credentials, three years of duty on the Eastern Front, certainly countered his. If particularly perturbed, she didn’t hesitate to assert herself.
“And your nurses?” Melochofski asked.
About to answer, Irina paused. This time, the man hadn’t bothered to look up, and it seemed as though he was trying a bit too hard to sound nonchalant. She didn’t want to let the lack of sleep cloud her judgment. But knowing Melochofski, she couldn’t help but feel as if he were now questioning her resolve. Hadn’t she packed the wagon and been heading out of the city on her own accord?
“My nurses ask about you all the time, Misha,” she finally said, placing a smile on her face.
Melochofski stared at her. “That’s not what I meant, Irina.”
Of course, she knew that wasn’t what he meant. But, up until now, she thought she had been doing a decent job of maintaining her composure.
Nine months ago, following the collapse of the Eastern Front, she had made her way north through a devastated land, rife with mutinous soldiers, rampaging peasants, and frantic aristocrats. On the verge of starvation, she had managed to reach Archangel just before the autumn rains began. Since then, daily life had slowly begun to resemble the world she had known before the war. To see it all betrayed in the space of a few hours, by Russia’s former Allies no less, was a bitter pill to swallow. And the recollection of all those times when the field hospital had had to pack up and move, had now stirred up those same bleak feelings of despair, and the frustrating anxiety of not knowing what the next minute might hold.
“Misha,” she said in a gentle tone that drew him forward, so his forearm now rested on the edge of the sitting board.
She was about to admonish him, that she would be damned to remain in a city occupied by countries determined to drag Russia back into the war. But as she stared into his eyes, Irina was reminded that Melochofski was no stranger to personal hardship.
The man had spent an entire year at the hands of the Czar’s secret police, before being banished to Solovetsky Island, a cold miserable rock in the middle of the White Sea. An additional three years of incarceration had robbed him of his freedom, but as Irina came to learn, his spirit and kindness had remained intact. Perhaps his line of questioning had just been a considerate attempt to address her feelings.
She reached out and gave the hair touching his collar a little tug. “You’re lucky I have my sewing kit.”
Melocohofski brightened. “Planning to knit me a winter cap?”
“I was thinking of putting my scissors to good use.”

The sun glared down on the river road. A well-maintained, well-traveled road, bracketed by stands of birch and cedar to one side, and the meandering of the Dvina River’s broad waters to the other. After Bleki’s effort of drawing the wagon up and over the ridge, Melochofski kept a light touch on the reins. The pony had settled into a comfortable walk, while at the rear, Melochofksi’s horse, on its longer legs, loped easily along.
In the bed of the wagon, nestled among the provisions, face shielded by a sunbonnet, Irina slept. She dreamed of Yerlan. After enjoying a summer picnic beneath the midnight sun, she and Yerlan had taken a rowboat onto the water. With her head resting on a pillow in the crook of the aft, Irina smiled at Yerlan as he rowed, the gentle swells of the river luring her to sleep. It wasn’t long, however, before the soothing motion of the water was suddenly replaced by a restless calm. Before Irina could determine if the rowboat had put to shore, or perhaps hit a sandbar, she awoke.
She removed the sunbonnet from her face. As her eyes adjusted to the stabbing sun, she raised up into a sitting position. Woozy with slumber, it took a moment to recognize her surroundings. On a normal day, this stretch of the river road would have been busy with traffic to and from the canneries, the lumberyards, and the small shops that provided goods to the bargemen. Today it was deserted. She turned towards Melochofski. Before she could inquire as to why he had brought Bleki to a stop, she received an answer.
In front of the wagon, at a distance of about sixty feet, two men stood in the center of the road. Dark blue uniforms, white spats over shiny black boots, white cartridge belts around waists, circular white caps on heads – each man holding a carbine.
Irina moved forward until she was behind Melochofski’s shoulder. “British?” she asked.
Melochofski shook his head, then nodded towards the river. “American, I believe.”
Irina looked towards a beach that was reserved for public bathing. Every other craft that could be used on water had headed south with the Bolsheviks, but there they sat. Two long boats drawn up onto the sand. Apparently, the commissar’s sunken barges had presented no obstacle to these smaller craft. Each boat was painted a brilliant white. Stenciled across the bows was the name of the mother ship – USS OLYMPIA. To the side of the outboard motors, flags hung limp in the wet air. Among the folds, a patch of blue, and what looked like red and white stripes.
Melochofski shifted his weight on the sitting board. Irina turned to him, concerned he might do something foolish. But he just sat there casually, reins hanging loosely in his hands.
“Why did they bypass the city?” she asked.
“A reconnaissance patrol would be my best guess.”
Irina frowned. She needed to shake off the sleep and gather her wits. The possibility that the two sailors in the road had each piloted their own longboat, was highly unlikely. “What should we do?”
Melochofski shrugged. “Wait for them to approach, and hope we can smile our way forward.” He looked in her eyes and did his best to put a grin on his face. “I may have to forfeit my vodka.”
Irina gave him a brave smile. Alcohol was a universal language that all men, especially men in uniform, understood. She turned towards the supplies, but before she could begin to make the bottles more easily accessible, she was struck by a horrible recollection from her first year of military service.
It had been during the Galician Campaign. A young Russian medical orderly had been caught administering antibiotics to the children of a small village which had been stricken with dysentery. It was a strictly forbidden practice, and the orderly had been sentenced to death. Irina, along with practically everyone else on the field hospital’s staff, had lodged a formal protest up the chain of command. For their efforts, they had been ordered to witness the orderly’s execution.
In time of conflict, medical supplies were a treasured commodity. The wagon now held a fair amount of glass vials and jars, filled with morphine, chloroform, sulfate powder, along with other medical necessities.
Irina turned towards Melochofski. “Misha, when they search the wagon, they will find medical supplies.”
“That’s fine, Irina,” Melochofski said. “You’re a nurse after all.”
She stared at him. To all those who opposed the revolution – Melochofski was the enemy – considered a traitor. She leaned towards him, as though afraid of being overheard. “And when they find your carbine and cap with its red star?”
Melochofski did not have a quick response for that. But Irina saw that his overt confidence had diminished. Out of a sense of professional duty, the Americans would deliver the two of them into the custody of whatever civilian or military authority came to fill the void in Archangel. Prison, however, might be the least of their problems. A Bolshevik administrator had given Irina the medical supplies.
Her throat went dry. “I did not sign a manifest, Misha,” she managed. “Who’s to say the supplies aren’t stolen?”
Melochofski remained silent, but nodded that he understood. Irina did not believe, she was overreacting. When a city changed hands, those who had been oppressed, now rose to positions of power. Quite often, there followed a period of frenzied, spiteful retribution. Before cooler heads could prevail, it was quite conceivable that Melochofski’s noble act of coming to retrieve her, might very well end in his execution. And, if she was thought to be a thief, hoarding medical supplies?
“One step at a time, Irina,” Melochofski finally spoke. “Let me handle this…”
Irina knew Melochofski’s mind was fast at work, but now was not the time to fabricate some cover story, and hope to bluff one’s way forward. There was more than enough room in the road to quickly turn the wagon, along with Melochofski’s horse. To distance themselves from the Americans, Irina was prepared to beat Bleki for all he was worth. She scrambled to her feet, grabbed the whip from its scabbard, and snatched the reins from Melochofski’s hands. But just as she was about to yank Bleki around, she stopped.
Yes. The two sailors in front of the wagon had been waiting for their comrades. Not who had ventured farther up the road, but who were now coming up the road directly behind the wagon. Irina counted about twenty of them. Two columns of navy blue: white caps bobbing, black boots kicking up puffs of yellow dust, the oiled barrels of carbines glistening in the sharp sun. Because Melochofski had not seen them when the wagon had initially passed by, the sailors might have been concealed on one of the small trails that led inland, or behind one of the warehouses that belonged to the canneries.
“Irina, please,” Melochofski said, taking the reins and whip from her hands.
Irina slumped back down to her knees. The sun, the lack of sleep, the hunger – she couldn’t remember when she had last eaten – had all conspired against her. And it was more than that, it was as if the very world itself meant to crush her. Her head swirled. Her mouth tasted salty. For a moment, she thought she might retch.
How easy to just bury her face in her hands and submit. But during her years of service, no matter how desperate the circumstances, that had never been, nor was it now, an option. Principles had been ingrained – and to them, she held fast. Irina would not give these Americans, this new enemy, the satisfaction. She squeezed her eyes shut and breathed long and deep. She listened as the shuffling sound of their marching footsteps grew louder. When there was silence, she opened her eyes.
For an instant, Irina was stunned. Might she still be asleep, and had merely left one dream, and entered another? She looked to her left, then to her right. Staring at her from all sides of the wagon, were the likes of men she had never seen or, more accurately, hadn’t seen in an awfully long time. Beneath their circular caps, the men were so healthy and well fed, a few could even be called plump. With sunburned cheeks and full round faces, they reminded her of the cherubs that floated in the top corners of paintings by the renaissance masters. If she asked them to remove their crisp blue tunics, she wouldn’t be surprised if each possessed their own pair of wings.
Her eyes played across their open, harmless expressions – hardly the faces of killers. These were faces that could just as easily belong to her fellow countrymen. Maybe some were the offspring of Russian parents who had immigrated to America. Had they been taught the native tongue? But before Irina could choose her first words, all heads turned.
The two sailors, who had been standing in front of the wagon, now approached. Between them, a third man, obviously an officer. From the billed cap on his head to the leather shoes on his feet, the officer was dressed completely in white. He seemed to flare in the sun, and one almost had to squint to look at him.
What Irina had felt gazing at the young sailors, something akin to relief, vanished in an instant. Not only had these Americans the audacity to set foot on Russian soil, but the advancing officer now saw fit, not so much as to walk, but strut with such an air of superiority, it practically turned Irina’s stomach. She wondered? Had this young officer displayed the same brash arrogance, when he had convinced his superiors to launch a couple of longboats with the hope of snagging a few Bolsheviks.
Irina’s mounting anger boosted her strength. The sun, the fatigue, the light-headedness, which had all seemed so insurmountable, had given way to a sharpening of the senses.
These strangers before her, these interlopers who had come to her country to continue the war, deserved nothing but her contempt. Had they and their prosperous young nation entered the conflict in a timely fashion, the Hun might have been defeated years ago.
As the American officer drew near, Irina took note that he was rather slender of build and fairly young. It wasn’t hard for her to imagine that a few years earlier, he might have been under the watchful eye of a nanny, sailing toy ships in the fountain of some city park. What had been a game to him then, still a game to him now? The same way it had been a game to all of Russia’s youth who, in the summer of 1914’, had boldly marched off on a grand adventure. Perhaps a good spanking would have set them all straight, or, if too old for that, a crisp slap across the face to knock some sense into them?
The two sailors stopped, and the young officer continued forward. He gave Bleki a friendly stroke on the neck that made Irina wince. He acknowledged Melochofski with a nod, and then his sailors parted to allow him a position at the side of the wagon.
Irina stared into the mischievous eyes of the handsome, boyish face. An admiral’s son perhaps? Another coddled member of that wealthy, privileged class. What a satisfying smack a hand would make against the smooth cheek of this angel-faced executioner.
The officer spoke. Something Irina couldn’t understand, yet recognized as the English language. His face then turned a friendly smile, with a display of teeth as white as his uniform.
Irina’s eyes narrowed. Was that perfectly dimpled smile meant to mock her? It might make the young ladies at the officer’s ball swoon, but it only made her all the more determined to remove it from his face. But before she could process emotions into action, she was stopped short. The young officer had just removed his cap, followed by a polite bow of his head.
Irina’s face twitched - a smile suppressed? Before any thought could be given to this unexpected turn of events, she was surrounded by a flurry of movement. On all sides of the wagon, every sailor had followed their superiors lead, and were now removing their caps.

CHAPTER

The cramped conditions aboard the troopship, and now the river barge, continued to play hell with American Lieutenant, John Banion. As he made his way across the thick, wood planks that comprised the roof of the barge, he did so with his hands on his hips. Not because he was posturing from any sense of self-importance, but because the placement of his hands allowed his thumbs to aggressively knead the knots from his lower back.
Lieutenant Banion was taller than most men, but not all that broad in the shoulders, nor that narrow in the hips. When standing still, he gave the impression of a sturdy column supporting an imaginary portico. But despite this upright, rigid stature, his long legs had always possessed an easy gait. And, given the sorry state of his muscles, he was glad he didn’t have to adjust his stride for his new sergeant, now walking beside him.
Banion towered over the man. But what prevented the sergeant, a career soldier named Lynch, from being considered small, was an unusually wide chest and long rangy arms that looked as if they’d been stuck to the man’s body as an afterthought. Yesterday afternoon when the regiment had marched through Archangel, Sergeant Lynch had called out the cadence while his quick, cat-like movements had carried him up and down the ranks.
They reached the edge of the barge’s roof, and Banion gazed out. It was just past 7am and the heavy cloud cover cast the view in a dull, grey light. Not that there was all that much to see to begin with. Due to its immense width, the brown waters of the Dvina River stretched across the horizon and bore more resemblance to a lake. The three barges, that were transporting the first battalion, had departed Archangel in a tight, single file, and were now scattered over the vast expanse.
Banion realized that some of this was due to the individual river pilots, and their particular knowledge of sand bars and other hidden obstacles. But mostly, it was nearly impossible to maintain a uniform speed against a strong current. Especially when being towed by old, wood-burning tugs that not even the Bolsheviks had bothered to commandeer.
“At this rate, it’ll take us a week,” Banion remarked.
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Lynch answered.
Banion glanced at the man. The sergeant’s clipped response seemed more out of habit, rather than giving any real thought to what had been said. In the two days since Banion had taken command of the platoon, that was how most of their exchanges had been: brief, one-sided affairs, that left Banion feeling as though he were just thinking out loud.
Sergeant Lynch was among a dozen, or so, regular army non-coms that the regiment had received to help fill out the ranks. Back at Michigan’s Camp Custer, Banion had been briefly acquainted with the sergeant, when he had helped the man set up a will and survivor benefits. If need be, everything due the sergeant’s Filipino wife, and litter of daughters, would be distributed through the U.S. embassy in Manila.
Maybe that had something to do with the sergeant’s attitude, Banion mused. The career soldier still thought of his new lieutenant as a judge advocate officer; keeping his distance until Banion could prove himself. But Banion’s assignment to the regiment’s understaffed judge advocate had only been a temporary posting, due to his civilian law degree. Banion had volunteered for and been trained an infantry officer.
An audible change in the engine pitch of the tug that was towing the barge, grabbed Banion’s attention. The stack, which had been dispensing a heavy, grey billow, now coughed puffs of oily, black smoke. Crewmen scrambled about the deck. At the stern, a hatch was flung open, and a man disappeared below.
The thick rope between tug and barge had grown slack, and the strong current now forced the lighter tug back towards the barge. Before Banion could calculate the moment of impact, the tug’s stack erupted with a hiss of orange sparks. The normal chug-chug sound of the engine returned, followed by the signature grey smoke. The propeller chopped the water, the towline stretched itself out.
“At least we’re maintaining our standards,” Banion remarked.
Sergeant Lynch crinkled a brow that years of the Philippine sun had turned the texture of brown leather. “Sir?”
“Our inefficiency,” Banion replied. “Been with us from the start.”
He waited for the sergeant to offer some sort of response. But the man had turned his gaze back to the river. Banion thought he might have seen a slight nod of affirmation. But he couldn’t tell if it was because Sergeant Lynch had simply been acknowledging what had been said, or, if he had actually been in agreement, but didn’t want to appear openly critical of the United States Army. Either way, Banion had only made a harmless observation, yet it provided him with some satisfaction at being able to vocally vent his frustration.
Ten weeks ago, he, and the five thousand other American soldiers of the 339th infantry regiment, had arrived in England, expecting to be deployed to France. But after being issued cold weather gear, skis and snowshoes, and trading in their reliable Lee Enfields for rifles that had been hastily manufactured for the Russian Imperial Army – it didn’t take a genius to know something was afoot.
Nine days ago, the regiment had set sail from Newcastle, aboard four dirty, old tramp steamers. The ship’s shallow drafts, ideal for the coastal waters of Africa or India, had been no match for the heavy waves of the Barents Sea. If the seasickness hadn’t been bad enough, on the fourth day out influenza struck.
A quick accounting of the ship’s stores had revealed that the medications for handling such a conflagration had been left off the manifest. Ample room, however, had been allocated for what was estimated at close to forty thousand cases of scotch. With effective quarantine impossible, the doctors had eventually decided that the best available remedy, one with which Banion had actually concurred, was the tried-and-true staple of fresh air. Hundreds of hacking, retching men, had completed the journey sprawled across the rolling, open decks.
On Banion’s ship, seven men had perished. Still attached to the judge advocate at the time, he had been kept extremely busy: co-signing death certificates, processing the necessary paperwork for next of kin, and witnessing the inventory of personal items. His worst moment had come in the ship’s makeshift morgue, watching the orderlies twist and pry at the stiff fingers of three, blue-grey corpses that had refused to give up their wedding rings. When the regiment had finally put to shore in Archangel, Banion had hoped things would have improved.
From the case that hung around his neck, he removed his field glasses, and brought them to his eyes. He adjusted the focus ring; along the far western bank of the river, a thick hedge of pine trees snapped into detail. To the land beyond, there was little undulation, no hills or ranges to help judge distance. It struck Banion that anyone breaching these trees could either walk forever, or, after a few steps, simply drop from the face of the earth.
He glanced at Sergeant Lynch. One eye squeezed shut, the sergeant was peering through a small pocket telescope as if it were a keyhole.
Banion lowered his field glasses. His ramrod straight physique had been inherited from his father, and was somewhat at odds with the softer features of his face, courtesy of his mother. But Banion’s eyes, or more specifically eyelids, well, those were all his own. Their heavy, drooping nature tended to give the impression that he was forever on the verge of dozing off. A law professor had once joked that it gave Banion the unusual advantage of lulling an adversary into complacency. Or, if he were to employ a sideways glance, as he was now doing with Sergeant Lynch, of being in possession of some sly agenda.
“How much of the men’s training schedule has been devoted to map reading and the proper use of a compass?” Banion asked.
Sergeant Lynch met Banion’s gaze and bunched his brow. “Scant, sir. Sorry to say.”
Banion nodded. He’d figured as much. Even during his own officer training, he had thought it an area of expertise being overlooked. “That’s something you and I will have to remedy.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sergeant Lynch had responded with a lifting of the guarded attitude, encouraging Banion to share his thoughts. “In France, I suppose they think it’s relatively easy to find one’s way. To the left, the trenches run north, to the right, south.”
For a brief moment, it looked as if a grin had started to work its way across the sergeant’s face, before being snatched away. Nevertheless, Banion took note of the small triumph.
At the far edge of the horizon, the clouds had darkened and it looked like rain. Banion glanced down at the roof. When he and Sergeant Lynch had first made their way across, it had seemed relatively flat. But on closer inspection, there seemed to be just enough of a pitch, so drainage wouldn’t be a problem.
Banion stamped his foot on the thick planks. “Should be able to accommodate a great deal of weight.”
Sergeant Lynch nodded in agreement. “You can see where they drove in the eyelets for lashing down cargo.”

The lower deck of the barge was nothing more than a narrow lip above the waterline. Last night, two soldiers, desperate for fresh air, had fallen in. If not for the long poles of some fast-thinking bargemen, the swift current would have carried them away.
That incident was very much on Banion’s mind, as he and Sergeant Lynch picked their way to the barge’s barn-like doors, where a sentry halted the soldiers who were tossing buckets of water back into the river. Banion took a gulp of fresh air and braced himself. He and Sergeant Lynch made their way down a ramp and into the cavernous gloom of the barge, where the scraping of buckets against wood, seemed to keep time with the coughing and wheezing.
Previously used to transport livestock, Banion considered the barges to be nothing more than floating barns. Even with all the portals opened, the air was quickly consumed by the years of urine and dung that had permeated the rotting wood of the leaking floors. To combat the stench, men who normally refrained from the habit, were smoking the cigarettes the war department had added to the rations. The smoke had settled beneath the beams of the low roof, lending a thick, chalky substance to the dark, dank air.
Banion weaved his way through the sullen clumps of olive-brown uniforms. The slapping sound his and Sergeant Lynch’s boots made against the standing water, fed his frustration. He had made the suggestion of sending the men out along the riverbank to gather dry brush and reeds, which they could have then used as a protective barrier against the wet floor. But he had been abruptly rebuked. Not enough time he’d been told: absurd, given the progress they were making.
Over four hundred men now sat on the sodden little islands of their field-packs, or, having abandoned that effort, were sprawled on soggy blankets to ponder how much worse their lives could become. Banion stopped where he thought he recognized the dark shapes of the remaining fifty-two soldiers of his platoon. Eight of his men were still in Archangel. They were among the hundreds that the British insisted remain onboard the troopships until appropriate medical facilities could be found.
Banion turned to Sergeant Lynch. “Let’s start sending the men topside.”
“Sir,” the sergeant quickly responded. “You might have a word with the captain first.”
Banion frowned. Captain Boyd was among those still recovering from the flu. Although he respected the captain, Banion wasn’t sure if the man could yet be counted on to make logical decisions. That would leave the other company commander on board, holding sway.
That captain, an excitable little Italian, would be inclined to ask permission to douse his own pants if they were on fire. He’d insist they run, transferring the men to the roof, by the battalion commander who was on another barge. Banion wasn’t sure how contact would be made over open water, other than it was sure to be a time-consuming endeavor.
“I was hoping we might get started,” Banion said. “The cooks could assemble the company stoves, offer up something hot for breakfast.”
Sergeant Lynch remained silent, the leathery skin taut across his jaw.
Banion took a breath. It was so obvious they needed to get the soldiers out of these conditions, that having to ask for permission seemed counter-intuitive. During his officer training they had stressed initiative. “We boarded these barges to head up river,” Banion continued. “Inside or out, we’re still headed up river.”
Sergeant Lynch stepped forward and gestured to the insignia on Banion’s collar. “Those are the crossed rifles of the infantry, lieutenant.”
Banion didn’t need to be reminded he was an infantry officer. He started to formulate a rebuke, but then took a step back. During his tenure in the judge advocate, he had been free from traditional military restraint and left mostly to his own devices. Maybe, he needed to shake off a bad habit or two. The chain of command dictated Banion should first consult Captain Boyd, regardless of the man’s physical condition. He was about to do just that, when it occurred to him there might be another factor at play.
Given Sergeant Lynch’s distant behavior, maybe the man had referenced the insignia, because he didn’t think his new lieutenant was worthy to wear the crossed rifles. Banion felt the sweat pinprick along the back of his neck. He didn’t think the situation called for putting the sergeant in his place – especially while in front of the men – that would be bad form. But he could certainly get in the parting shot.
“Sergeant Lynch,” Banion began. “I can’t speak for your previous working relationships. But in the future, it won’t be necessary to point out the obvious.”
The sergeant’s face darkened with what could reasonably be determined as rage. Banion wanted to kick himself. Sergeant Lynch’s previous working relationship had been with Lieutenant Casey. The poor guy had succumbed to the flu, two days before reaching Archangel.