Arkhangelsk Oblast - Russia 1919 by Frank Sonderborg

 

London was still recovering from the Great War. And the threat of a Bolshevik influenced takeover was still very much in the air. The War Office was located on Horse Guards Avenue. It had over a thousand rooms covering its seven floors. Filled with self-important civil service wonks.

After finding the correct office, Jan was ushered into an mid-level wonk. He was given his written orders to embark for Russia. There was a naval warship HMS Cochrane readying for his trip to Archangel. He could read his orders on route to Russia. Then he was dismissed.

The orders turned out to be pretty simple. Get a handle on the situation and report back what he saw, direct to Churchill. He was to meet up with Charlie Ames, who would show him the ropes.

##

The shot snapped in through the broken window, and ricocheted around the top of the schoolhouse floor that Jan and Ames crouched in.

“Fuck,” said Ames, “we have a clever Bolo bastard out there. Can you place him?”

School books littered the floor, full of the history of Rus and Rurik, the ruler of Ancient Rus. Everybody was a Prince in Russia it seemed to Jan. And the serfs done the donkey work. Now the serfs had revolted.

Another shot, but this time striking downstairs, where the Marines were gathering for some idiotic push against the Bolsheviks. A sharp cry of pain told its own story; the sniper had scored again.

Jan sat on the floor with his back to the wall and felt the cold eating away his energy. Ames popped up, and took a few shots at the encroaching Bolsheviks with his .303 Enfield.

The return fire from the enemy’s Maxim machine guns began to chew up their top floor perch. Sending splinters flying around the room.

Ames turned and looked at Jan, “This is fucking madness Mr Painter, we’ve got to get out of here. Or we’re splintered toast.”

They had been ordered to join the Marine detachment on the outskirts of Archangel, to get some Intel for the Generals Staff. The Marines with no support or relief in months, were worn down to the bone.

The Mad Major had been glad to see them when they’d arrived in the middle of a firefight. He totally ignored their orders and issued them with rifles, and sent them upstairs to give covering fire for his Marines.

The Mad Major came bounding up the stairs, and standing in the middle of the room, with crazed eyes, round as black pennies, said, “We have our orders, for King and Country, we stand our ground.” Trying hard to convince the voices in his head.

“Major, listen,” said Jan, if we don't go now, they’ll wipe us out.”

“There’ll be no bloody desertions under my command, Captain,” he said, waving his gun at Jan.

“You’re that bloody Dutch chappie from the war office, what’s your name, Rembrandt or something?”

“It’s Vermeer sir.”

“Do you paint?”

“Yes sir.”

“I used to paint, before, you know, before…. this,” then his voice trailed off and he just stood quite still, gun pointing at Jan.

It looked like he was about to say something, when Ames walked up to him, and shot him in the head with his Webley.

Now it was Ames turn to look like a madman. As he stood, gun still pointing at the fallen Major.

“Fucking hell, said Jan, why the fuck did you do that?”

“What? Just a shot in the dark Mr Painter. Now, old boy, let’s get the fuck out of here.”