He surveyed me. “A head wound, I see.”
“On October 13, with the 1st Battalion at Tatarka.”
“Are you being treated well?” He nodded at my assent. “Well, get ready to move, Lyudmila Mikhailovna. We’re off to Sevastopol, orders of the supreme command.”
Shock rocked me to the soles of my feet. I’d known the retreat from Odessa was coming, but hearing the order become official was a different thing entirely. “We’re not going to surrender Odessa to the enemy? They’ll raze it to the ground.” My beautiful Odessa of the sparkling sea and blue skies, the striped umbrellas and outdoor cafés. The city I’d helped defend, holding my firing lines, taking my shots. I stared at the commander of the coastal army in stark horror, and I saw a flicker of sympathy in his gaze. It hurt his soul too—he just hid it better.
“It’s the duty of a soldier to carry out orders to the letter.” He gave me a clap on the shoulder, surprisingly gentle. “My orders to you now? Don’t mope, have faith in victory, fight bravely. How many in that tally of yours?”
“One hundred and eighty-seven,” I said dully. The enemy attacked in such dense ranks, I could nearly get two with one bullet. Who knew what my real tally was when the battles and the skirmishes and the unconfirmed shots were added to my official sorties, but officially I was at 187.
Low whistles from the staff behind General Petrov, and his grip on my shoulder tightened approvingly. “That’s champion,” he said. “Sevastopol needs that rifle. We’ll cross the sea and defend the Crimea.” I could see him visibly searching for something stirring to say, something to put fire in the blood, but the general looked as exhausted as I felt. “Everything will be fine,” he said at last. “You’ll see.”
Off he swept with his entourage, going to survey the wounded, evaluate morale—and probably, oversee this evacuation of his military units to Sevastopol—leaving me standing frozen before the useless fragrant borders of flowers.
WE WOULD LEAVE by sea, and that meant retreating through Odessa itself to the port.
I begged to be released so I could travel with my squad, but was refused. Kostia and my men left in advance of me; I departed with the medical battalion, which had been loaded onto road transport, skulking in the falling dark under the camouflage fire of the rear-guard battalions, which would remain in their trenches until the last. “Retreating,” I spat to Lena. “We’re fucking cowards.” I’d never used such a word in my life, but I felt as though I were choking on a throatful of thorns.
“Not so loud,” Lena hissed. “Do you want to be shot for defeatism? They’ve executed more important people for less.” She was called off to rebandage an amputee on a truck, and I knew she’d be too busy with the wounded to listen to me brood. I had nothing to occupy me but putting one foot in front of another as I took what was perhaps my last look at the city I loved.
How changed it was since the day I’d taken a train out of here to the front. The autumn twilight covered the parks and boulevards like a shroud, but the shroud couldn’t hide how many buildings gaped roofless, how many black holes instead of windows looked down like mournful eyes on the retreating defenders. Our column halted at an intersection blocked by artillery wagons, and with a start I saw the two-storied enlistment office where I’d gone to join the Red Army. Only the building wasn’t there anymore, just collapsed beams and soot-blackened walls, the twisted bones of the iron staircase I’d tripped up in my crepe de chine dress, bent on seizing fate by the throat.
“Mila?”
A voice called me from the silently watching onlookers. Turning, I saw a woman hugging herself against the cold night, wrapped in a too-short coat. For a moment I didn’t recognize her, but then I registered the protuberant eyes and endless dancer’s legs. “Vika?” I blinked, and with a word to my lieutenant, stepped out of the column to join her. I hadn’t seen her since the day war broke out, the day she’d pirouetted in red petticoats with the opera ballet.