Somewhere Outside Borodino

Somewhere Outside Borodino

Brother Irimavich and Brother Gaiducov were halfway through their shift just outside of Shevardino. It hadn’t been their decision to pitch the tent so close to the front line, so to speak, and it made the job of assigning work duties to the new conscripts that little bit more stressful. Every time a cannon popped, or a supporting wall collapsed under heavy gunfire, the two men cursed the various genitalia of whoever was sending so many projectiles in their general vicinity.

‘May their French cocks shrivel into thin air.’ Said Brother Gaiducov.

‘May every steam they piss be caustic.’ Said Brother Irimavich.

The queue showed no sign of thinning. Anxious farm hands and newly-evicted villagers waited sheepishly for direction. Somewhat disingenuously, the sign above the tent read

команда по набору персонала

an irony not lost on the ten percent of newly-minted Russian conscripts that had rudimentary reading and comprehension skills.

Nearby, a cannonball burst through a tree, splitting the thing explosively in half, the splintering wood tearing a hole in the fabric of reality as it bore fruit of chaos all around. Horses scattered in terror, one of their riders falling in slow motion as his fate was cut off by gigantic branches.

‘May their loins be plagued by scabs.’ Said Brother Gaiducov.

‘May their tricolore find its final resting place up their arse.’ Said Brother Irimavich.

A tanned elderly gentleman resembling something between a raisin and dust creaked towards the recruitment desk, every joint suffering in quiet stoicism. He smiled, revealing as many teeth as he had hands.

‘Name.’

‘Dmitri Sergei Zszcski.’

‘Is that spelled with a cz or a zc.’

‘Zc, I think Sir,’ having never been asked that before.

‘Hometown.’

‘Well, begging your pardon, but it was Raevski, sir.’

‘Ah.’ Brother Irimavich looked to his right at the expanse of smoke, ash and rubble, the latest town the soldiers had liberated from French occupation and turned into earthworks. ‘Well, thanks to your sacrifice we grow closer still to the ranks of the pig Napoleon.’

The old man didn’t know who Napoleon was, but nodded gratefully anyway.

‘Let’s say you’re from Smolensk.’

‘Yes sir.’

‘And what job will you take.’

‘Well, sir, I’m just happy to take part.’ The old man’s stomach interrupted him, grumbling dramatically. ‘A meal in my belly and I’m your loyal servant.’ He grinned, his single tooth poking out with rakish charm.

‘Infantry is it. Boots or rifle?’

‘Beg pardon, sir?’

‘Will you take boots, or a rifle.’

The dishevelled old thing looked down at his feet, wrapped as they were in cloth ribbons and a perfunctory pair of bark shoes. He leaned against his pitchfork and winked.

‘I think I’ll take a sturdy pair of boots, given as I already have my trust rake, thank ye!’

Brother Gaiducov looked back sternly in response, if only in effort to stifle a chuckle. He supposed the old fool stood about as much chance against the present artillery bombardment with a field rake as a rifle.

‘Go and join the boot queue over there. You can take a bread loaf and a canteen of solyanka. Once you’ve eaten report to Brother Platov, under the banner of mother Russia, you see it?’

Dmitri nodded, Gaiducov stared towards the billowing flag. He was quite able to replicate a semblance of seriousness when it suited him.

‘Report to Platov. He will direct you where to go next. Supper is at six.’

The old man’s eyes lit up at the promise of two meals. Brother Irimavich glowered at Brother Gaiducov for his subtly cruel comment, both knowing full well that Infantryman Dmitri Sergei Zszcski would be lying in several bits somewhere outside Borodino before he had a chance to touch supper.

‘Name.’

‘Yuri Pavel Vereshchagin.’

‘Hometown.’

‘Utitsa.’

Brother Irimavich looked doubtfully at Yuri Pavel Vereshchagin. ‘We haven’t taken Utitsa yet.’

Vereshchagin laughed nervously. ‘I was in Raevski visiting my cousin and couldn’t get back before this whole thing started.’

This satisfied Irimavich, who saw the queue wasn’t getting any shorter.

‘What job will you take.’

‘Err. What would you recommend?’

Vereshchagin had an advantage on the one before, given that he wasn’t already half-dead and had the benefit of still owning both arms.

‘Can you ride a horse?’

‘Why, yes sir I can.’

‘Very good.’ Irimavich clapped his hands together generously. ‘We need good cavalrymen.’ Fortuitously for Yuri Pavel Vereshchagin, the life expectancy of a cavalryman was hours better than infantry, given that horses costed a fair chunk of coffers to procure.

‘A cavalryman! How absolutely thrilling!’ Already Yuri Pavel Vereshchagin had epic poems floating through his head; visions of standing in front of a great oak desk, sabre in hand, as a local artist depicted him in oils.

‘Go and see Brother Konstantin. He’ll get you some food and have you on a horse. Be quick and you might get on the next raiding party.’

Cavalryman Yuri Pavel Vereshchagin lit up with excitement, practically jumping on the spot at the thought of his upcoming odyssey. Already the day was looking up!

As the next man stepped forwards a stray rifle bullet struck him through the neck.

‘May their brains be shat out their non-functioning Parisian genitals.’

‘May their nose and penis be swapped in their sleep.’

Wide-eyed, the man clutched his throat and slept quickly without declaration or complaint. The two men immediately behind him tried to shake him awake, then started to drag the man out of the line and towards the infirmary. Disinterested and defeated as a precautionary measure, an orderly waved them away and dragged the body into the sad-looking tent.

A handsome, clean-shaven man stepped gingerly over the still-wet bloodstain on the floor and approached Brothers Irimavich and Gaiducov at their field desk. He wore a fine-looking woollen jacket of dark blue, contrasted with yellow epaulettes.

‘Name.’

‘I am General von Clausewitz. Who is in charge around here?’

‘Hometown.’

The general spluttered, unsure how to respond. ‘Did you hear me, sir? Who is in charge here?’

Brother Irimavich grunted, raking his thick fingers through his even thicker beard. Already this fop had relegated himself to the frontline beside Infantryman Dmitri Sergei Zszcski.

‘Brother General von Clausewitz, I cannot direct you to the correct person and location without first knowing your demographic details. So please,’

‘I really don’t see the relevance, but I am from Magdeburg.’

‘That’s not a French town, is it.’

‘No,’ the general looked despisingly at Brother Irimavich. ‘Prussia.’

‘Well, Brother General von Clausewitz, you’re a long way from Prussia.’

‘Don’t I know it.’

A small stone cottage that had been minding its own business behind the tent suddenly exploded, shattering stone and timber in a wide radius. One of the tent poles collapsed and Brother Gaiducov jumped out of his chair to go and tend to it.

‘May all of their whores be laden with syphilis.’ Said Brother Gaiducov as he tried to bolster the tent pole with a wooden brace, and the help of a few other men.

‘May their whole country be soaked in paraffin and set alight.’

Von Clausewitz placed a gloved hand on the table in front of Brother Irimavich and leant forward, steely in his gaze.

‘You are going to get torn apart by this artillery if you don’t alter your approach.’

Brother Irimavich shrugged off von Clausewitz’s comments. ‘Not my department. That’s General Kutuzov.’

‘Very good, General Kutuzov. Well, where is he?’

‘Sorry, that’s none of my business.’

The general bit his lip. ‘Well, it’s about time you made it your damn business.’

Brother Gaiducov had no luck with the tent pole, so decided to leave it in a semi-collapsed form. He returned to his chair where he began to pack a pipe.

‘Point me in Kutuzov’s general direction this instant.’

Looking at the queue of increasingly cagey conscripts behind Brother General von Clausewitz, Brother Irimavich was himself becoming miffed.

‘Look, I have these questions that I have to ask everyone, and you are making my job very difficult. Just answer the questions and we can both get on with it.’ Irimavich licked his pencil and scanned the ledger page in front of him. ‘So, Brother General von Clausewitz, what job will you take.’

‘First of all, it’s General Carl Philipp Gottfried von Clausewitz!’ the general boomed in frustration. Some of the conscripts behind him in the queue made a face of faint respect. ‘And I already have a job, I’m a bloody General! How can I make that any more plain and simple?’

‘Everything in war is very simple.’ Responded Brother Irimavich gracefully, trying for the moral high ground as he moderated his temper and wrote ‘стратег’ carefully in his ledger. ‘But the simplest thing is difficult.’

‘So it seems.’ General von Clausewitz seethed.

Brother Gaiducov had lit his pipe and leaned back in his chair, surveying how far back the line was snaking. He spoke quietly to his colleague’s ear.

‘Brother, we need to get a move on if we want any chance of getting some supper of our own.’

Irimavich turned and whispered a response. ‘I am just figuring out the quickest way of having this man dispatched to god and I’ll be right with you.’

‘After this one, everyone is from Smolensk and they’re all volunteering for the infantry.’ Grumbled Gaiducov. He leaned over and took the ledger from Irimavic and began to fill the ledger out ahead of the next conscripts.

The general began to slap his gloves impatiently into his open palm.

‘Ok Brother General Carl Philipp Gottfried von Clausewitz, I would suggest you head over to Brother Platov, under the banner of Mother Russia over there.’ Irimavich waved in the general direction of the banner, which at that moment in time was somewhat drooped, given that the gathering of infantrymen around it (including, it seemed, Brother Platov) had moments before succumbed to a volley of rifle fire. Irimavich groaned in quiet despair.

‘May their guns backfire and tear off their faces.’

‘May their gullets be filled with dysenteric excrement.’

‘Why do you keep sending men forwards into that wide open space, knowing they will be torn apart by the French artillery?’ Wondered von Clausewitz aloud.

Brother Irimavich shrugged. ‘I supposed, given the same amount of intelligence, timidity will do a thousand times more damage than audacity.’

‘But, you don’t seem to have any intelligence. No offence intended.’

Irimavich curled a lip. ‘In our line of work brother, a strong stomach is more important than a functioning brain.’

‘Ever more reason that I must speak to General Kutuzov, with haste!’

‘Good luck. He himself is a man of limited intelligence, and is very fond of throwing men with similar intelligence at the problem.’

‘Yes, well, this catastrophe has gone on for long enough. I’ll take my chances, perhaps those cavalrymen will have a better idea?’

Brother Irimavich looked over at Cavalryman Yuri Pavel Vereshchagin, now on the back of what was barely a pony and very pleased with himself for it.

‘Certainly, why not speak to those fine soldiers yonder, I’m sure they might have a better idea.’

The General looked at the two bearded veterans sat under the wilting tent and stormed off in a rage only ever owned by those with the luxury to yield it.

‘Next!’ Pressed Brother Gaiducov to the line, as another boom erupted and great sods of soil, turf, timber and fragments of congealed bodyparts scattered amongst the hungry queue of conscripts. Brothers Irimavich and Gaiducov barely flinched.

‘May their mothers drown in their own untended piss.’ Murmured Brother Gaiducov.

‘May their forefathers have fucked cattle and sired their ancestors as cloven beasts.’ Mumbled Brother Irimavich.

‘Name.’

‘Ivan Georghi Anatolyevich.’

‘Hometown.’

‘Mozhaysk.’

‘Job role.’

‘Sir, do you have any roles for a chef?’

‘Just infantry.’

‘Ah. Infantry it is.’ Infantryman Ivan Georghi Anatolyevich nodded solemnly.

‘Go over to the right and take a rifle. If you want boots you’ll have to go over to that flag there and pull them off someone youreself.’