The Last Eagle

THE LAST EAGLE

A NOVEL

BY RICHARD TURNER

~~~

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Richard Turner

Editing and Formatting By B&R Publishing

All Rights Reserved

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 1

BEGINNINGS

SOUTHERN RUSSIA, AUGUST 1919

Thick black clouds of smoke crept ever skyward, like a dark, malevolent genie escaping from a bottle, blocking out the golden afternoon sun. Beneath the pall, a city was dying. The thunderous sound of guns pounding the city to rubble filled the air. An all-consuming madness gripped the country. Ideology and visceral hatred blinded the once proud nation. Already exhausted from three years of war, brothers now fought brothers for their beliefs…for how they wanted Russia to be.

On a smoke-covered hill overlooking the doomed city, a dust-covered figure slowly raised his binoculars and with some satisfaction, surveyed the carnage below. Captain Sokolov, a worn and gaunt-looking man, tried to focus his binoculars upon his target, the train station located in the center of the growing conflagration. Cursing aloud, he tried to will away the billowing impenetrable wall of smoke. Behind him, his powerful and deadly 76mm Putilov breech-loading artillery battery stood silent, waiting like a bull desperate to enter the ring, itching to join the fight. Tired and war-weary, Sokolov had first fought the Germans and Austrians, now he was fighting his fellow countrymen in a revolution that would decide the fate of Russia for generations to come. A crooked smile crept across his dirt-stained face as a destructive rain of artillery shells fell mercilessly onto the still defiant Czarist’s position. For too long the Whites had blocked their advance…but not today; today they would punish those who had tried to stop the relentless Bolshevik advance across Southern Russia, sweeping all before it. The fight here would soon be over and the war would move along to another town, to another place still foolishly defying the will of the people. From his observation post, Sokolov could see down into the poorly manned White Russian trenches, zigzagging like a jagged scar dug into the earth all along the front of the town. He mournfully shook his head, knowing that it would be old men and mere boys forced to fight for the Czar. An image flashed in his mind, frightened boys huddling down inside the trenches praying for salvation, but there would be none. A chill ran down his spine. Sokolov knew that no mercy would be shown here today.

A lone horseman, his horse lathered and weary, rode up the ridge. A pimply-faced youth pulled up on the reins, sharply saluted Sokolov, and then hurriedly handed him a note from his Regimental Commander. Sokolov looked up at the boy and tiredly shook his head. It seemed they were running low on soldiers too. Quickly reading over the note, Sokolov nodded his concurrence to the dispatch rider who saluted once more and then as fast as his horse could travel, took off down the ridgeline to deliver the same message to the next gun position.

At last, the end was coming.

Sokolov wearily looked at his watch. In the next five minutes, his division would once again rush forward in another frontal assault on the White trenches defending what was left of the battered town. Sokolov was what the Reds had termed ‘a military specialist’, an ex-Czarist officer who had offered his service to the Reds when the revolution broke out two years earlier. He had gambled that the Czarist Whites, lacking the support of a huge swath of the army, would lose. He had always considered himself pragmatic and had once again been proven right. The war had steadily gone in the Reds’ favor. However, his future was tied to how loyal he was to the revolution and, perhaps more importantly, how well he and his men performed on the battlefield. Years of war had pushed Sokolov’s nerves to the breaking point. Words were whispered around him; unwanted attention from the regiment’s political officers reminded him that he was useful to the cause, but not a truly trusted man. Sokolov was always conscious of the extra attention given to him by his superiors, but so far, he was relieved that he had not been singled out for any special re-education, a euphemism ex-Czarists called ‘the firing squad’.

Throwing a long-dead cigarette that hung limply from his mouth onto the ground and crushing it with his heel, Sokolov called his junior officers and NCOs over to him. Quickly, he passed on his new orders. It was simple: they had to blast out of existence the White trenches stubbornly blocking the Reds’ path into the town. His men didn’t question the order; they never did. To a man, they knew it was never good to question orders; with a silent nod, they ran back to their guns and made ready. Sokolov let out a deep breath and ran his hand over the stubble on his broad chin, stepped away from his tiny command post and then watched with a grin on his face as his sergeants barked out his orders to the men waiting by the guns. In unison, Sokolov’s gun crews smoothly reloaded their pieces and then, with a loud hurrah, they reported they were ready.

Sokolov knew his men would not let him down. They were well-trained by him and were unswervingly loyal to the Bolshevik cause. Bringing his binoculars up, he looked down on the mass of Red soldiers preparing for the coming fight. Sokolov saw red banners being raised everywhere, and then with a loud cheer, the soldiers, most still in their teens, clambered out of the shallow trenches dug hurriedly into the ground the night before. Quickly forming up, the men were forced by their sergeants into long khaki lines as if they were heading out on parade. With their junior officers extolling them to glory for the revolution, and machine gun crews placed in behind for added encouragement; the soldiers set off jogging towards the shattered White lines.

It was time.

Raising his arm, Sokolov turned towards his men. Over the din of battle, he yelled at the top of his lungs, Boys, for the people and the revolution, send the White bastards to hell. Instantly dropping his arm, his battery’s guns, as one, roared to life. The ground shook behind Sokolov as a deadly volley of high-explosive shells tore through the air. With great pride, Sokolov watched the strike of the rounds, observing that nearly all of his shells struck the White’s trench line. He watched as a machine-gun bunker that had been mercilessly mowing down Red infantrymen struggling through the jagged gaps in the barbed wire exploded, launching earth, rock, and splintered wooden debris skyward. A lusty cheer erupted from the gun line.

The open ground quickly turned into a killing field as the Red infantry surged forward like a long narrow khaki wave racing towards the distant shoreline. Through the smoke, bullets tore into the advancing Reds, killing dozens at a time. Lumbering beside the struggling men were five large, but slow-moving, British-made Mark V tanks. Captured in fighting earlier in the spring, they had been turned against their former masters with deadly effect. To Sokolov, they resembled some kind of monstrous mechanical beasts that belched thick clouds of oily smoke as they slowly crawled forward, their guns firing in support of the beleaguered soldiers still pushing forward into the withering fire from the enemy trenches.

It wasn’t a surprise to Sokolov to see that some Whites had managed to survive the lethal rain of shells and were now beginning to fight back with dogged determination. He would never voice it for fear of being branded counter-revolutionary, but he admired the fighting spirit of the Whites, many of whom had been his friends before the revolution.

Soon the pervading smell of cordite filled the air. Sokolov felt his throat go parched. Reaching down, he grabbed his canteen and took a long swig of cool refreshing water. Feeling detached, almost an observer to the war, he looked down. His heart instantly knotted in his chest; he could see that many Red soldiers had fallen during the advance. The ground was littered with their lifeless bodies. Many a wife or mother would learn weeks or months from now that the one they had loved had died for the revolution. Nothing more than hollow words, thought Sokolov. Words alone would never replace the loss that the war had caused throughout Russia. Dead and dying men lay where they were or helplessly crawled along on the ground crying out for help, help that would never come. Sokolov knew the wounded would have to lie where they were. No man was allowed to stop and help a hurt comrade; to do so was a death sentence for both men. The once smartly dressed lines had become jumbled and mixed. New gaps were created with every casualty taken as the soldiers pushed on towards the White lines. Any man who slowed down risked being shot by his own officers, or by the machine-gun crews waiting behind the struggling mass of young and terrified men. Sokolov, a career artillery officer, had never been able to comprehend why anyone would be so foolish as to be in the infantry. They died by the thousands, yet there always seemed to be more and more ill-trained recruits being forced into the uniform of the Bolsheviks every day. The war was an insatiable beast that needed feeding.

The sound of guns pounding the outskirts of the city rumbled along like the distant thunder of a late summer’s storm.

On the porch of an old abandoned farmhouse, a white-haired man wearing a rumpled dirty white tunic covered in medals stood and peered back towards the roaring fires engulfing the doomed town. Major-General Alekseev sadly shook his head in defeat. During his long career, he had loyally fought against the Japanese, the Germans and the Austrians, but Alekseev had never imagined that one day he would be fighting his fellow countrymen. He stood in silence while long files of wounded soldiers, some on foot and some in overloaded carts pulled by starved horses, mingled with those who had simply given up and were abjectly walking away from the frontlines. They slowly filed past him, without ever looking up, and, in true Russian fashion, they did so without making a sound.

The tremors from the Red artillery shells hitting the ground steadily grew stronger and closer to his command post. Alekseev knew it was all over that it was only a matter of minutes before the Bolsheviks arrived. As a loyal patriot, he would never voice it, but he knew that fear, like an unseen infectious disease, was spreading fast. Like a dam struggling to hold back the water, his men would soon break and flee for their lives. It was only a matter of time.

The thick black smoke from the burning wheat fields near his post filled his lungs, making him cough and gasp for air. With a heavy heart, he watched his command fall apart around him. Slowly, he removed his battered and sweat-stained white-peaked cap, ran his handkerchief over his dust-covered face, and then looked longingly up at the hazy, smoke-filled sky. Incredibly, perhaps portentously, he could make out a pair of eagles circling high above him. Alekseev smiled and thought back to the simpler days of his youth when, as a young man, he had once enjoyed a privileged and carefree life in the Crimea riding for hours across his family’s land with his younger brother. That idyllic life had all changed horribly for the worse when the Bolsheviks had ruthlessly seized power for themselves from a fragile and weak provisional government. To him, it seemed that a brutal insanity had gripped Mother Russia and that she was engaged in an orgy of reckless hate and self-destruction.

Alekseev’s bloodshot eyes had seen enough. He turned his back on the war, and with his head hung low, he shuffled back inside, silently walking past the multitude of wounded and dying soldiers spread out along the deck of the farmhouse, as if they weren’t there. Precious few officers and soldiers dutifully remained at their posts, and those that did pretended not see him or, like the soldiers outside, they just lowered their heads and pretended that he was no longer there.

Defeat and death seemed to permeate the very air they all breathed. General Alekseev wearily made his way to his office. His once bright green eyes were now sunken and bloodshot. His skin had turned shallow and pale. He couldn’t remember when he had last washed or even shaved. His once immaculate uniform was a mess. With a deep sigh, Alekseev sat down in his Spartan accommodations, a sad, tired, and broken man. Without looking down, Alekseev drew his German made Mauser M1896 pistol from its leather holster. It felt heavy and deathly cold in his weak hands. Carefully, he placed it on the table in front of him; he knew there was only one thing left to do before he ended it all and took his life in disgrace. Alekseev slowly reached down and took out a small, slender brown leather folder from inside his desk, opened it up and then removed several sealed letters along with a couple of well-worn photographs. Delicately picking up one of the pictures, with a sense of detached love and loss, Alekseev felt his heart strain as he stared at the image of a beautiful young woman lovingly holding a child in her arms.

With a tear in his eye, he stood and then walked over to the still burning fireplace, the contents of the briefcase clutched tightly in his shaking hands. Taking a deep breath for courage, Alekseev stared longingly once more at the photographs, before throwing them into the burning fire. Quickly catching fire, the once prized photographs curled up, turning black and grotesque as the flames consumed them. Looking down, Alekseev saw that both his hands trembled uncontrollably as he threw all but one of the sealed letters into the fireplace, erasing them for all eternity as he had the photographs. Slowly turning about, he stumbled, as if in a daze, as he returned to his dirty and cluttered desk. Alekseev sat down, took out his fountain pen, quickly wrote a short letter, and then carefully placed it inside a dark-green envelope. Reaching over to a lit candle on the corner of his desk, Alekseev heated up a small piece of deep red wax. Slowly, almost delicately, he poured the wax onto the back of an envelope. Letting it cool for a couple of seconds before firmly imprinting it with his family ring, a two-headed eagle surrounded by stars.

A young, dark-haired man with piercing blue eyes entered the room, sharply came to attention, saluted his superior officer and then remained silent, waiting to be spoken to. Like that of his commanding general, the youthful officer’s once immaculate uniform was now filthy and threadbare.

Constantine, I want you to take my personal bodyguard, Sergeant Tarasov, and a squad of trustworthy men and leave here immediately, said Alekseev, looking deep into the sharp eyes of the young officer.

The captain started to speak but was quickly cut off by a raised hand.

I need you to do something…something very important for me, said Alekseev. You are the only officer remaining on my staff that I still trust. I want you to escort my wife and our granddaughter away from here and deliver them into the safekeeping of Admiral Kolchak. His forces are advancing from the east and should be only about a hundred miles or so from here by now. There is a train waiting for me at the station, I will remain here, and you will go in my place.

Sir—, Bagration said, about to protest, but was again cut off by Alekseev.

Constantine, you are a good and honorable man. I want your word that you will do as I ask and defend them with your life.

General, I give you my word that no harm will come to them as long as I live, replied Bagration firmly.

Alekseev slowly rose to his feet and placed a weary hand on the young officer’s shoulder. Also, once you have seen to the safety of my family, I want you to take this letter to my brother in England and remain with him until he sees fit to dispense with your services, Alekseev explained as he handed him the leather briefcase. Constantine, I have never in my life asked so much from one man. Do you understand what is being asked of you?

Bagration looked the tired general in the eyes. Yes sir, I do, earnestly answered the young officer. But what about yourself? Surely you will be coming. The Bolsheviks will be here shortly. You cannot remain…to do so would be suicide.

I must remain with what is left of my command, replied Alekseev, sadness and defeat filling his voice.

Sir, they will hang you as a traitor.

I know my dear Constantine, but no matter what you say, I will not be leaving here. I have failed Russia and unlike you, I do not deserve a second chance. Please understand that you take with you valuable information that will help our nation proudly rise once more from the ashes when this terrible war is over.

Suddenly, out of the sky, an artillery round landed close to the farm with a thunderous explosion, ripping apart some of the straggling soldiers on the road. The farm shook violently; several windows shattered inwards, showering the unfortunate wounded soldiers lying on the floor with shards of glass.

Alekseev pretended to be unfazed by the death and destruction around him. Go…go now Constantine, you cannot waste any more time with me. Reaching into his desk, Alekseev pulled out a small purse full of gold coins and tossed it over to Bagration. This isn’t much, but it will help you. Now please go, you do not have much time.

Knowing there was nothing more he could say or do, Captain Bagration gritted his teeth, came to attention, saluted, and with dogged determination in his eyes he turned about and went to find Alekseev’s loyal Cossack bodyguard, Sergeant Tarasov.

General Alekseev ambled over to a shattered window and watched with relief when Bagration, Sergeant Tarasov and a small detachment of trustworthy soldiers finally got into Alekseev’s personal staff car. Without looking back, they took off towards the center of the burning town and the waiting train. Seeing them leave, Alekseev felt as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted from his tired shoulders. He was about to turn away from the window and end it all, when something unexpected caught his eye. Approaching out of the smoke was a small column of dark gray armored cars flying large red banners. They raced down the dirt road straight towards the farm.

Their hated enemy was coming.

The defeated and broken White soldiers trudging along either side of the road knew that the vehicles weren’t theirs. They didn’t even try to stop them, as they no longer gave a damn about fighting. They were beaten, and to a man, they all knew it.

Alekseev let out a resigned sigh, returned to his desk, took a seat, fixed his tunic to look more presentable, and then fixed his tired gaze upon his pistol. As he contemplated the unthinkable, his hands suddenly stopped trembling and a serene calmness enveloped him as he slowly reached for his pistol. The sound of machine guns tearing through the air seemed far…somehow distant to Alekseev, though deep inside he knew it was the Reds’ armored cars sowing death and fear among the fleeing Whites, forcing them to stampede out of their way.

Alekseev was detached; it felt as though he were in a dream…no, it must surely be some kind of horrible nightmare. He willed himself to wake up somewhere else, some place safe. However, deep down, in his soul he knew he was going to die, no matter what happened next. He slowly grew to welcome it.

Suddenly, there was a sharp bang, and Alekseev felt an intense burning pain. Instantly snapping out of his dreamlike trance, Alekseev, to his dismay, realized that he had been shot straight through his right hand. Blood had splattered all over his desk and his stained white tunic. Recoiling in pain, he instinctively grabbed his wounded hand with his good one and looked up in horror to see a tall, imposing man dressed fully in black leather standing in the doorway, a smoking pistol in his hand. Menacingly, the man entered the room, walked over beside Alekseev, towering above him. The man had broad shoulders, short jet-black hair, and intense ice-blue eyes, with a deep scar down the right cheek of his once handsome face.

Who the hell are you? defiantly demanded Alekseev, clutching his wounded hand in pain.

Major-General Alekseev? the man asked calmly.

Yes, he replied.

General, I am so glad to finally make your acquaintance, said the man in black. I am so sorry general, where are my manners? Please let me introduce myself. I am Comrade Colonel Dimitri Grusian, and you sir are now a prisoner of the Cheka. The man spoke as though introducing himself at a formal dinner.

The what? stammered Alekseev, looking into Grusian’s cold blue eyes.

Grusian’s face instantly turned menacing. In one sharp move, he knocked Alekseev’s pistol off the desk and then struck Alekseev hard across the face, sending the hapless officer tumbling from his chair and onto the hardwood floor.

Alekseev moaned in pain as his head hit the dusty floorboards.

Grusian stepped over the wounded general and snarled, The Cheka, my dear general, are the people’s All-Russian Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counter-Revolution and Sabotage, and as such I have the power, the right and the authority to conduct field tribunals on bourgeois counter-revolutionaries and criminals, like yourself.

Alekseev’s blood instantly turned cold. As if in a dream, he found himself being hauled up off the floor by two young Cheka soldiers dressed from head to toe, like their superior, in black leather. Without uttering a word, both men held him tightly in their grip.

You can’t treat me this way. I’m a Russian General. God damn it, and you will treat me with respect, stammered Alekseev, trying to gain his composure.

Grusian stepped forward, looked deep into Alekseev’s bloodshot eyes for a moment, then as hard as he could, he struck him in the stomach, causing Alekseev to double over, painfully gasping for air. The two soldiers holding him smiled at each other, and then hauled Alekseev back onto his feet so their sadistic superior could continue his interrogation.

Now, general, I have been told by some very reliable people…well spies actually that you have some information that I, and the Russian people would find quite interesting. For you see, my dear General Alekseev, I have been watching you for months, said Grusian matter-of-factly. I long ago infiltrated your staff and many other White formations with true Bolshevik patriots. They have been steadily supplying me with valuable information about you and your activities. The main mission charged to me by the people is the discovery and elimination of enemies of the state, namely Czarist monarchists and their sycophantic supporters…like yourself, Grusian said threateningly, as he moved to within an inch of Alekseev’s face. His cold eyes seemed to be staring straight through him. So general, please be so kind as to tell me where you keep your private correspondence, or any documents detailing the whereabouts of any counter-revolutionaries and their activities may be found, and after that, I promise you that I will finish you off quickly.

Alekseev could not believe what he was hearing. Was it true, were members of his personal staff really Red Agents? The thought that his family could be in mortal danger flooded his mind, paralyzing him with doubt and fear.

Come, come, general, all I want is some information, and then this…agony of yours will all be over, said Grusian, as he picked up and then examined Alekseev’s discolored white peaked cap.

Alekseev knew he could say nothing; to do so would doom his family. He resolved to die on his feet, like a man. Taking a couple of deep breaths to calm himself, he looked into Grusian’s eyes, the soulless eyes of a remorseless killer. Colonel, if you are telling the truth about my headquarters being infested with Red vermin, then you should already know that I no longer possess any of my correspondence. I knew all was lost, so I sent it all away, into the safekeeping of Admiral Kolchak, several days ago.

A crooked smile formed on Grusian’s face. I do believe you, General, when you say that your papers are no longer here. However, I do not believe you as to where they have gone. In the long run, it matters not, for I will find them, and they will lead me to more traitors.

Grusian placed the cap down on the table and turned to walk away, stopping at the entrance to the room. He then turned on his heels, swiftly drew his pistol, and then fired one shot into Alekseev’s forehead, snapping it back. The sound of the pistol firing inside the tiny room was deafening. Blood, brains, and bone splattered onto the wall behind the men holding Alekseev’s dead body. Grusian did not notice the mess or even care—Alekseev was just another dead enemy of the state, and his death truly meant nothing to him.

The blood covered Cheka soldiers let go of Alekseev’s body. Stepping over his corpse, they obediently followed Grusian outside. Without saying another word, they all climbed back inside the nearest armored car and then headed straight into the blazing inferno that had once been a town, destroying anything or anyone who dared stand in their way.

Captain Bagration was relieved to see the train station appear through the smoky haze, like a welcoming port in a storm. Unable to proceed any further through the sea of people pushing and jostling to escape, Bagration jumped down from the staff car. He drew his sidearm and joined by Sergeant Tarasov and his men as they pushed their way through the throng of people towards the train station platform.

Panic and fear gripped the inhabitants. They all knew that the train was their last hope for salvation. No one wanted to be left behind.

Bagration pushed on. His heart ached when he saw scores of pitifully wounded soldiers and civilians vainly crawling towards the train, leaving trails of blood in their wake, while others too injured to move, lay in the dirt, begging to be carried onto the waiting train. Terrified women pleaded with the soldiers for their children to be spared while those with money and no scruples tried bribing their way to safety and freedom.

Barely twenty White soldiers positioned along the platform formed a slender cordon. Desperately, they fought to control the worsening situation. Officers, their pistols drawn, fired into the air, trying to keep the mass of panicked people back. Two men trying