The upshot was that Katerina had no one to look after her and her baby except Grigori. He was fiercely determined to keep himself alive, despite the chaotic inefficiency of the Russian army, so that he could one day return home to Katerina and Vladimir.
The commander in the zone was General Brusilov, a professional soldier-unlike so many of the generals who were courtiers. Under Brusilov’s orders the Russians had made gains in June, driving the Austrians back in confusion. Grigori and his men fought hard when the orders made some kind of sense. Otherwise they devoted their energies to staying out of the line of fire. Grigori had become good at that, and in consequence had won the loyalty of his platoon.
In July the Russian advance had slowed, dragged back as always by lack of supplies. But now the Guard Army had arrived as reinforcements. The Guards were an elite group, the tallest and fittest of Russian soldiers. Unlike the rest of the army they had fine uniforms-dark green with gold braid-and new boots. But they had a poor commander, General Bezobrazov, another courtier. Grigori felt that Bezobrazov would not take Kovel, no matter how tall the guards were.
It was Major Azov who brought the orders at dawn. He was a tall, heavy man in a tight uniform, and as usual his eyes were red this early in the morning. With him was Lieutenant Kirillov. The lieutenant summoned the sergeants and Azov told them to ford the river and follow the footpaths through the swamp toward the west. The Austrians were emplaced in the swamp, though not entrenched: the ground was too soggy for trenches.
Grigori could see a disaster in the making. The Austrians would be lying in wait, behind cover, in positions they had been able to choose with care. The Russians would be concentrated on the pathways and would not be able to move quickly on the boggy ground. They would be massacred.
In addition, they were low on bullets.
Grigori said: “Your Highness, we need an issue of ammunition.”
Azov moved fast for a fat man. Without warning he punched Grigori in the mouth. Burning pain flared in Grigori’s lips and he fell back. “That will keep you quiet for a while,” Azov said. “You’ll get ammunition when your officers say you need it.” He turned to the others. “Form up in lines and advance when you hear the signal.”
Grigori got to his feet, tasting blood. Touching his face gingerly, he found he had lost a front tooth. He cursed his carelessness. In an absentminded moment he had stood too close to an officer. He should have known better: they lashed out at the slightest provocation. He was lucky Azov had not been holding a rifle, or it would have been the butt that struck Grigori in the face.
He called his platoon together and got them in a ragged line. He planned to hold back and let others get ahead, but to his disappointment, Azov sent his company off early, and Grigori’s platoon was among the leaders.
He would have to think of something else.
He waded into the river and the thirty-five men of his platoon followed. The water was cold but the weather was sunny and warm, so the men did not much mind getting wet. Grigori moved slowly, and his men did the same, staying behind him, waiting to see what he would do.
The Stokhod was broad and shallow, and they reached the far side without getting wet above their thighs. They had already been overtaken by keener men, Grigori saw with satisfaction.
Once on the narrow path through the swamp Grigori’s platoon had to go at the same pace as everyone else, and he could not carry out his plan of falling behind. He began to worry. He did not want his men to be part of this crowd when the Austrians opened fire.
After they had gone a mile or so the path narrowed again and the pace slowed as the men ahead squeezed into single file. Grigori saw an opportunity. As if impatient with the delay, he moved off the path into the watery mud. The rest of his men quickly followed suit. The platoon behind moved up and closed the gap.
The water was up to Grigori’s chest, and the mud was glutinous. Walking through the bog was very slow, and- as Grigori had anticipated-his platoon fell behind.
Lieutenant Kirillov saw what was happening and shouted angrily: “You men there! Get back on the path!”
Grigori called back: “Yes, Excellency.” But he led his men farther away, as if searching for firmer ground.
The lieutenant cursed and gave up.
Grigori was scanning the terrain ahead as carefully as any of the officers, though for a different purpose. They were looking for the Austrian army; he was looking for a place to hide.
He kept moving forward while letting hundreds of troops overtake him. The Guards are so proud of themselves, he thought; let them do the fighting.
Around midmorning he heard the first shots from up ahead. The vanguard had engaged the enemy. It was time to take refuge.
Grigori came to a slight rise where the ground was drier. The rest of Major Azov’s company was now out of sight far ahead. At the top of the rise Grigori shouted: “Take cover! Enemy emplacement ahead to the left!”
There was no enemy emplacement, and his men knew that, but they got down on the ground, behind bushes and trees, and aimed their rifles across the downside of the slope. Grigori shot one exploratory round into a clump of vegetation five hundred yards away, just in case he had unluckily picked a spot where there really were some Austrians; but no fire was returned.
They were safe, Grigori thought with satisfaction, as long as they stayed here. As the day wore on, one of two things would happen. Most likely, in a few hours’ time Russian soldiers would come stumbling back through the swamp carrying their wounded, chased by the enemy-in which case Grigori’s platoon would join the retreat. Alternatively, toward nightfall Grigori would conclude that the Russians had won the battle, and take his group forward to join the victory celebrations.
Meanwhile the only problem was forcing the men to maintain the pretense of engagement with an Austrian emplacement. It was boring to lie on the ground hour after hour staring ahead as if raking the landscape for enemy troops. The men tended to start eating and drinking, smoking, playing cards, or taking naps, which spoiled the illusion.
But before they had time to get comfortable Lieutenant Kirillov appeared a couple of hundred yards to Grigori’s right on the far side of a pond. Grigori groaned: this could ruin everything. “What are you men doing?” Kirillov shouted.
“Keep down, Excellency!” Grigori shouted back.
Isaak fired his rifle into the air, and Grigori ducked. Kirillov ducked too, then retreated back the way he had come.
Isaak chuckled. “Works every time.”
Grigori was not so sure. Kirillov had looked annoyed, not pleased, as if he knew he was being fooled but could not decide what to do about it.
Grigori listened to the boom and clatter and roar of battle up ahead. He thought it was about a mile away, and not moving in any direction.
The sun rose higher and dried his wet clothing. He began to feel hungry, and gnawed on a piece of hardtack from his ration tin, avoiding the sore place where Azov had knocked out his tooth.
After the mist had burned off he saw German planes flying low about a mile ahead. Judging by the sound, they were machine-gunning the troops on the ground. The Guards, crowded onto narrow paths or wading through mud, must have made dreadfully easy targets. Grigori was doubly glad he had made sure he and his men were not there.
Around the middle of the afternoon the sound of battle seemed to come nearer. The Russians were being pushed back. He got ready to order his men to join the fleeing forces-but not yet. He did not want to be conspicuous. Retreating slowly was almost as important as advancing slowly.
He saw a few scattered men away to his left and right, splashing through the swamp back toward the river, some evidently wounded. The retreat had begun, but the army was not yet in full flight.
From somewhere nearby he heard a neigh. A horse meant an officer. Grigori immediately fired at imaginary Austrians. His men followed suit, and there was a rattle of scattered fire. Then he looked around and saw Major Azov on a big gray hunter splashing through the mud. Azov was shouting at a group of retreating soldiers, telling them to return to the fray. They argued with him until he drew his pistol, a Nagant revolver-just like Lev’s, Grigori thought irrelevantly-and pointed it at them, whereupon they turned around and reluctantly headed back the way they had come.
Azov holstered the gun and trotted up to Grigori’s position. “What are you fools doing here?” he said.
Grigori remained lying on the ground but rolled over and reloaded his rifle, pushing his last five-round clip into
