A Final Train to Kherson

Yuri watched the men do it – injure themselves.  It was easy enough.  The crates were heavy.  They needed to be moved carefully.  But tired men with wet, sweat-soaked hands can easily lose their grip.  And if a foot is underneath…  Of the twenty-seven men who had showed up for duty that morning, six had already injured themselves.  Yuri watched them do it and repeated the same oath – three forklifts.  Just give me three forklifts.

With so many injuries, loading the train took far longer than usual.  So long, in fact, that they lost their place in line.  Their train would have to wait before crossing the bridge and pressing on toward Kherson.  The men would have extra hours to finish loading.  Extra hours to injure themselves.  Extra hours to just slink off into the bowels of Sebastopol.

Yuri’s phone buzzed constantly.  He didn’t bother answering.  What was the point?  Some officer at headquarters would yell at him about all the delays.  Some officer in a cool office.  Some officer who would still be alive a week from now.  Yuri knew he wouldn’t be.  Someone in Kherson was alerting the Ukraine artillery.  He didn’t even have to be close to the railroad.  Trains aren’t exactly stealthy.  His would be heard crossing the bridge, and the orders to fire would go out minutes later.  He had missed death two days earlier.  Death would be waiting for him this time.

A staff car raced toward him and his men.  A Volkswagen.  Sure sign it was a senior officer.  No one above the rank of Captain drove a Lada.  Yuri was right.  A major.  A major who carried himself like a colonel.  He wore an immaculate blouse and creased trousers.  Yuri stood in dirty, sweaty BDUs unbuttoned at the throat and rolled unevenly at the sleeves.  He watched the major approach and dared him not to salute a senior officer.  He didn’t.

“We just had an entire howitzer unit shut down.  No ammunition.  Yesterday they were killing Ukrainians, today they are hiding in the shadows of trees, waiting to go back into action.”

“We can leave now with a partial load, or we can finish loading and take our assigned slot at seven.  You look like a major who doesn’t respect military traditions.  You don’t salute a superior officer.  Perhaps you would like to give an order to your superior officer.  Will you be issuing an order for us to leave now?”

“I’m here to find out why you can’t fill freight cars.”

The man still didn’t salute.  He also stood close enough that he risked getting Yuri’s sweat on his clean blouse.  Yuri pointed to the freight car they were currently loading.

“Allow me to show you.”

Yuri signaled the closest noncom to get the men out of the car.  Then he led the way up some makeshift stairs to a pile of crates.  The major was dumb enough to follow Yuri into the back corner.  Yuri beat him unconscious.

Four hours later the last car was loaded.  Seven enlisted men were left.  One of them went to use the latrine and never returned.  Yuri had two noncoms, two officers, and six enlisted men seated in the passenger car when the train left the port.  With just these men could he unload the train?  Yes, eventually.  Could he unload it and move off before the Ukrainian artillery blew the train apart?  No.  He calmed his breathing, looked out the window and enjoyed his last day.

Then the train stopped.  Just a few miles past the rail junction.  Just the start of the final miles to Kherson.  Yuri climbed down from his car and walked forward to the locomotive.

“What’s the problem?”

He climbed up onto the first step and looked through the open door into the control area.  Two engineers banged on one of the pipes.  Yuri had seen such shows before.  Their wrench was light, and their swings were half-hearted.  Their frustration was all pretense.

“Fuel line is clogged.  Must be dirt in the line.”

“Can it be fixed?”

Yuri already knew the answer.

“We don’t have the tools to fix it.  We’ll have to return to the railyard and get a couple mechanics working on it.”

Yuri pulled out his pistol.

“You will get this train to Kherson on schedule, or I will shoot you.”

Four bullets struck Yuri, three from his own men, one from an engineer who had a revolver hidden under a grease-soaked rag.  Yuri dropped to the side of the tracks.  His men quickly pulled him into a stand of trees.  He was still alive. 

“Wolf Hunt, Colonel.” 

One of his officers knelt next to him and offered him some water.

“We voted.  We love you and respect you, but we won’t die for you.  We’re sorry.”

The men boarded the train as it slowly began backing to Sevastopol.  Yuri watched it disappear.  He nodded his head.  They were right to do it.  This was all fucked up.  No reason for them to die.  He felt the skin on his face grow cold.  A sure sign his blood was pouring out of multiple wounds.  But he liked the feeling.  For the first time in days, he was cool.