Maid of Baikal: A Novel of the Russian Civil War

Musical Theme: Valse-Fantasie in B Minor, by Mikhail Glinka

FLASHBACK: EARLY AUGUST, 1918, WASHINGTON, DC

Ned had been to the State, War, and Navy Building before, but never on business of his own. He vaguely remembered being taken there as a boy to see his father decorated for his service in the Philippine Islands during the Spanish-American War. The massive cast-iron building, faced with stone, had been built in the 1880s in the Second French Empire style and stood just west of the White House on Pennsylvania Avenue. Ned recognized the massive skylights above the main stairwells that had impressed him during his first visit, and the elaborate decorative trim, including doorknobs with cast insignia representing the government department to which the door belonged.

He mounted the staircase and took the stairs two at a time until he reached the War Department’s offices on the third floor, where he was scheduled to meet with Colonel Charles Holt, an old friend of his father’s who had once been the latter’s fellow instructor at West Point. Ned found the office without difficulty and entered an anteroom. An orderly found Ned’s appointment in the calendar and led him to the colonel’s office, a spacious room brightly lit by morning sunshine streaming in through outsized south-facing windows.

Holt, a tall, broad-shouldered man nearing fifty with a neatly trimmed mustache and short-cropped graying hair, came out from behind his desk to greet Ned at the door. His face had the chiseled and weathered look of a man of action, yet his pale blue eyes held a pensive look.

“The last time we met, you were in knee britches,” the colonel began with an approving smile. “And now you’re a captain who’s led men into battle in Mindanao and Mexico. Where does the time go…?”

“Father sends his best,” Ned answered, taking the colonel’s extended hand. “And we both thank you for agreeing to see me on short notice. You see, my home leave is almost at an end and I was hoping to…”

“Yes, I’ve read your file,” the colonel broke in, taking a seat in one of the twin leather armchairs opposite his desk and bidding Ned to take the other. “I see you want to ship out to Europe to fight the Hun. Well, with America joining the war in Europe, one can hardly blame a young man for wanting to follow the action.”

“And serve under General Pershing again,” Ned added.

“Ah, yes, I do recall you served under Black Jack in Mexico, against Pancho Villa. Duly noted. And now you’re ready to put the Philippines behind you?” Holt pressed.

“Well, yes, sir. The natives have been peaceful of late and it all seems rather a waste…”

In truth, Ned had a visceral dread of returning to Mindanao, but was not ready to give up on the Army entirely. Perhaps a change from counter-insurgency warfare to a big conventional war might do the trick. He still had a taste for adventure, just not amid the snakes and swamps and skulking bandits of Mindanao. And the war in France clearly offered the fastest possible route to promotion for a young infantry officer.

“I understand,” Holt interrupted. “Having been an ambitious young man once myself, I can appreciate your attitude. The European War may be the seminal event of your generation, Ned. Whether America’s participation lasts months or years, many of your peers will distinguish themselves and earn rapid promotion there. Is that your concern?” the colonel asked, crossing his legs and leaning back in the armchair.

“Not exactly,” Ned dodged. “It’s that I’m not really needed on Mindanao any more. I believe I could contribute more against the Germans.”

“And what if the Great War is over by Christmas, as some predict?” the colonel probed. “What if you move heaven and earth to get to France, only to find yourself shipped home a month or two later, along with thousands of other young officers no longer needed on the Western Front?”

Ned hesitated.

“I’ll accept that risk, sir,” he answered at last.

Colonel Holt rose without speaking and approached the window.

“A few days ago I received a visit from Ed Buckner,” he began. “He and your Cousin Pierre appear to have taken a strong interest in your career.”

“I realize that my family disapproves of me seeking a reassignment to the Western Front,” Ned bristled, “but they have no right to interfere with…”

“No one has interfered, and no attempt would make a whit of difference,” Holt replied, turning around to face the young officer. “But Buckner did mention something that I found rather interesting. He said that you speak Russian like a native. Is that true?”

“I had a Russian nanny as a child. We spoke Russian almost as much as English until I entered grammar school.”

“And have you kept up the practice?”

“I still speak it with some Russian friends. There are more Russians in Washington than one might expect, especially since the revolution.”