“I’ll bet it’s Ushakov’s men.” Filip didn’t know for sure, but that was where the cross-lake assault had been planned. He just hoped it was a Bolshevik possession that had been destroyed and not a ferry full of legionnaires or their Cossack allies.
Filip’s regiment advanced the rest of the way to Tankhoy Station. In the distance, the flash of sunlight off bayonet told him the group of legionnaires who had marched over the mountain was also in position.
“Hit them hard, and drive them from Tankhoy!” Kral ordered.
The legion attacked, and the Bolsheviks fought back with fury. Filip led his squad from one point to another, trying to shield his men from a withering hail of rifle fire and advance at the same time. Tankhoy was small, but the Bolsheviks had found or created formidable positions. He kept his men in the trees when he could, but huge stretches of ground were open, leaving them exposed.
The smell of cordite hung in the air, and the crack of small arms was constant. Bolshevik artillery dueled with the legion’s armored train, and the train had to retreat.
“What’s the point of clearing a three-hundred-twenty-meter-long tunnel so we can have an armored train if it retreats and leaves us to fight alone?” Dalek shoved another clip of cartridges into his rifle.
“It’ll be back.” Filip hoped he spoke the truth. “They have to switch their position as soon as enemy artillery zeroes in on them.”
Kral approached, probably to coordinate the attack. His body jerked, and he slammed into a tree. Anton grabbed him and pulled him into a ditch. Filip crawled over to see how bad the damage was.
“Keep up the pressure.” Even wounded, Kral was calm, though his voice lacked its normal volume. Blood flowed from his arm, and Anton set to work bandaging it.
They moved closer to the enemy, crawling through grass and hiding behind trees. The sun had reached its zenith when Dalek let out a whistle.
“What?” Filip asked.
“They’re retreating.”
A few Bolsheviks were running, but Filip didn’t think that signaled victory. “Probably just switching positions to hold off the flanking attack. Maybe they’re making progress.” The frontal assault certainly hadn’t been effective enough to drive the Bolsheviks back, but the Bolsheviks were fighting on two fronts, facing two threats.
A few minutes later, though, Bolshevik intentions were clear. “Why are they withdrawing? We aren’t winning.”
“Who cares why, as long as they leave.” Dalek shot at one of the retreating men.
“Keep them running!” Kral’s arm was bandaged now, and he was back on his feet, still giving orders.
Filip led his men forward, into the Bolshevik trenches, then into Tankhoy Station. They were a few miles closer to Vladivostok, but they’d taken considerable losses that day. So had the Bolsheviks. Their dead lay strewn about the railroad tracks.
Most of the enemy wounded had gone, but the Reds hadn’t evacuated all their casualties. Filip found a man pierced with shrapnel in his legs and chest. He was on his way to death but taking the slow road. Filip gave him a drink from his canteen, then found the man’s cigarettes and lit one for him.
“Why did you retreat?”
“You had us surrounded. From the front, from the mountains, and from behind.”
That explained it. Lake on one side, legionnaires to the south and east, with more advancing from the north. They’d wanted to pull out before they were trapped.
The next day, Filip and the rest of his regiment reached Mysovaya.
Emil shook his head as they marched through the aftermath of the battle. “Looks like they should have retreated earlier.”
“Yes. But quite generous of them to leave us so much equipment, don’t you think?” Dalek walked beside Filip and picked up an extra rifle. “We might be able to arm all our men after this. Maybe the women too. Do you suppose your wife would be any good with a rifle?”
Filip chuckled. “I have a feeling Nadia can do anything she sets her mind to.” He just hoped that didn’t include an annulment.
They left Lake Baikal behind and chased the Bolsheviks to Verkhne-Udinsk after that. Filip and his squad survived the series of skirmishes. Colonel Ushakov, the Russian officer who had sailed across Lake Baikal to Posolska, destroyed most of the Bolshevik fleet, and scattered the Reds at Mysovaya, did not. Filip mourned him and his fallen brothers from the legion. They would never see the country they had died for.
Kral called for Filip when they’d been in Verkhne-Udinsk for two days. He wore his injured arm in a sling. “We’ve got most of the rail line now, but a lot of the Bolsheviks escaped. If they organize, they can wreak havoc on our rear. Ambush us. Cut off our communications. Slow us down or stop us completely. We have to follow them.”
“Yes, Brother Lieutenant.”
“Tomorrow, you’ll take my place. I’d go, but . . .” Kral gestured to his arm.
“I understand.” Survival depended on pursuing the enemy until they were no longer a threat.