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By Steve Pribish

"When elephants fight, the mice get trampled."
An assassination in Serbia sets off a series of events that draws the world into an ever-expanding vortex of madness. As mighty armies clash, entire populations must either flee their ancestral homes or be ground into dust. Akulina Boriskova and her two young sons are caught in the center of the madness and with the other villagers of Hutawa, Byelorussia must choose between death as warriors or Siberia.
BANNERS is the saga of people caught in the horrors of the Great War and the Russian Revolution. From the first heady days of victory, through humiliating defeats and the empty promises of revolution, their experiences mirror those of millions upon whose mighty shoulders future generations would rest. BANNERS begins where the first novel in the series, IKONS, ends.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Pribish
• Release date: Jan 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301929948

Steve Pribish

Steve Pribish was born in Joliet, Illinois of Russian immigrants and learned stories of "years ago" first hand from his father and grandfather. After college, Steve spent thirty-three years working for the United States government monitoring the Soviet Union. He was deeply involved in Russian culture and made prolonged trips into European Russia. Steve's novels are the result of several generations of experience. He is the author of over two hundred government reports and has written for "Home and Away" and "Videomaker" magazines, and several Midwestern newspapers. His short story, "There Will Be Crosses" won first place in the Dayton Daily News Short Story Contest in 1997, and "The MiG and I" won first place for personal stories in the Sinclair College short story contest.

Book preview

Chapter 1: We Love Our Motherland

Gravrilo Princip had never formally met Archduke Francis Ferdinand, never shook his hand, or engaged him in conversation. If Gravrilo had, he probably would have found Francis Ferdinand to be a hotheaded, bigoted, and greedy oaf, not at all the kind of man who inspired Princip’s sense of honor and idealism. As it was, Gravrilo Princip knew all he had to know about Francis Ferdinand without meeting him. He knew that Francis Ferdinand was an Austrian of the House of Hapsburg and heir to the throne behind the aging Emperor Frans Joseph.

On the afternoon of June 28, 1914, that alone was sufficient reason for Gravrilo Princip, a Bosnian Serb, to stalk the Archduke through the streets of Sarajevo and fire two pistol bullets into the Archduke’s body. The Great War had begun.

* * *

Summers in Hutawa, Byelorussia are as hot as the winters are cold. By mid-July, the unrelenting sun had turned the once soft earth to a hardened brick and yesterday’s cooling breeze into a stifling mass of suffocating oppression. The air was thick and heavy and sucked the energy out of a person through their pores. Only the moohi, those detestable black flies that appeared in the millions, thrived in the summer air. But in spite of the heat, life continued.

The cool weather crops had already been harvested. Cabbage and radishes had grown quickly during the long summer days and were now soaking in large vats of preserving brine and vinegar. Next the cucumbers would be ready for pickling, then the peppers. But on this stifling July day, it was time to harvest the onions.

Several weeks ago the green tops of the onions had stood strong and tall, ready to bolt into seed. Now they lay in uneven rows, withered and bleached white by the sun. The women had walked through the onions with sticks, flattening the stems. Since then, the onions had lain beneath the blazing sun, their outer skins turning paper-dry waiting harvest.

The earth of the Pripet, as with most things in Russia, does not yield its bounty easily. The soil held the onion roots with a death grip and forced each bulb to be dug out by callused and bloodied fingers. Down the rows the women went, digging the onions, shaking off the dried earth, and tossing the bulbs into a crumbled pile off to the side. The number of onions strewn along a woman’s row could measure progress. One row fell short of the others. In one row the trail of crumbled onions lead to the crumbled body of Akulina Boriskova Pribish.

Get some water, Maria shouted when she reached her daughter’s side. Quickly! Bring the water.

I-knew-something was-wrong-with-her, came Kataya’s staccato. I-could-tell. She-was-going-very slow. I-could-tell. I should-have said-something. I should-have―

Quiet, Kataya, Maria screamed. Stand back and give your sister some air. Just get back. Maria felt Akulina’s brow. It was soaked with sweat. She placed her wet finger on the tip of her tongue and tasted salt. Carefully, she rolled Akulina over on her back, loosened her kerchief and propped up her daughter’s legs on a small basket.

When the water arrived, Maria wet the kerchief and whirled it above her head to cool it and placed it on Akulina’s head. She then gave her daughter a sharp slap on the face, then another.

Akulina opened her eyes wide and stared wildly at the onions still held tightly in her hand. Cherepei, she cried out in a hoarse voice, Cherepei. Her head rolled back and for the second time she passed out.

If Boris had been an artist he might have appreciated the sunset. He could have captured the sky from a palette of vermilion and pink. He would have painted the sun with splashes of searing gold and yellow and placed it above a russet horizon. But Boris raised horses and farmed, so he looked at the sky with a practical eye. To him, the only thought a sunset like this brought was the promise that tomorrow would be another unrelenting hot day.

Boris walked toward the sunset, straight to Akulina. He held up his hand to shield his eyes against the sun’s rays, still harsh in spite of the hour. Akulina stood silhouetted against the setting sun, her kerchief off and her hair unbraided. She stood still, looking west directly into the sun, brushing the ends of her hair. Boris’ steps came down hard, raising small puffs of dust and crinkling the dried plants. He moved with purpose and did not attempt to conceal his approach.

What happened this afternoon? Boris said when he reached his daughter’s side. He had already heard of the incident from Maria, but he wanted to hear of it from Akulina. Something puzzled him.

I passed out from the heat. It happens, she said, still looking at the sun.

Boris remained silent for a moment. Your mother believes something else happened. Boris turned his back to her and kicked the earth with the toe of his boot. Why did you cry out about skulls? When no immediate reply came’ he continued. Truth is good for the soul, or so they say.

They also say the truth has sharp thorns, Akulina said.

Boris looked into his daughter’s eyes. Just tell me what happened.

I saw skulls when I pulled the onions, Akulina finally said. Instead of an onion bulb, it was a skull. And I knew the face of each skull. Akulina turned her head away just as the sun caught the tears that slid down her cheeks. The last skull I saw, she said, was mine.

* * *

Austria made demands of Serbia to atone for the death of Archduke Ferdinand. Serbia refused to consider the demands and Russia stood by Serbia against Austria. Germany had an agreement with Austria to aid her against Russia. France and Great Britain were allies of Russia, and Italy was honor-bound with Germany, Austria, and Turkey. Treaties signed by old men in high top hats, colorful sashes and coats with tails now meant something. The handshaking and posing for photographers and newsreel cameramen were to have guaranteed peace, but instead the treaties wove a web that snared the signers and held them in an inescapable trap. The nations of Europe, strung together by forgotten treaties and misbegotten agreements, were going to war.

Across the Russian Empire small red cards appeared in the windows of railway stations, post offices and tacked to the doors of public building. Like the echoes of a thunderclap, the red cards reverberated through steppe, forest, and tundra. The Empire was mobilizing for war. Immediately, Russian reservists put aside their peacetime lives and responded to the call of the red cards. So too did the Latts and the Estonians, the Finns and the Ukrainians. Byelorussia heard the call to arms at the same time as the men of Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan. In the Far East the Uzbeks, Turkmen, Tajiks, and Kazahks faced west toward Europe and acknowledged their duty to their empire. Within days of the declaration of war, two hundred thousand people crowded Palace Square in Saint Petersburg behind their banners, holy ikon and pictures of the Tsar. They had left their homes early in the white night to follow the same route taken ten years previously by the marchers of Bloody Sunday. This time, however, the masses were not met with rifles and saber. This time they were welcomed by their government. The marchers cheered at the sight of their Tsar and with all their heart embraced the coming war.

In Moscow, Warsaw, Helsinki, Riga, Kiev, Odessa, and dozens of other large cities, men shouldered their kits, accepted the blessings of white robed priests, fell in behind the military bands and went off in orderly ranks to join their units. In the rural areas soldiers trudged to distant railway stations along dusty lanes, alone or in small groups. From villages of Barney, Ivanets, Pererub, and Yaloch, they came. Dukora, Perezhir, Stepangorod, and Stankova sent their sons and husbands. The men from Sokal and Bereza joined with those of Ulyanova and Zhlobin. They came in trickles from the farms and torrents from the cities. Individuals joined into squads and squads into companies. The companies formed into the regiments whose names echoed their birthplace. The Pinski, Donski, and Kanzanski regiments from the west joined the Uralski, Siberski, and Ulakski from the east. Regiments became divisions, and divisions spawned armies. The men of the Russian Empire were going to war and were going by the millions.

Hutawa couldn’t afford to see her sons off with a real band. The best she could do for her eight was Telepnev’s old concertina. The sweetest sound to ever come of Tula, he would say with a toothless smile. Telepnev struggled to keep his music lively as he led the procession through the village square. What his rendition of Sing Little Nightingale lacked in quality was made up for with enthusiasm. He squeezed the last refrain with all his might and was rewarded when the villagers shouted rather than sang:

"Sing, little nightingale!

Grow strong, little birch tree!

We love our motherland

And defend it at all times."

The mobilization was an occasion to rival Pussy Willow Sunday. Everyone turned out to see the men off on their great adventure. The humiliating defeat at the hands of Japan had been shoved away in a small corner of the national memory and was not to be disturbed. This war would be different. This time the Imperial Russian Army would prevail and uphold the national honor. The villagers were convinced no country in Europe could match the manpower that the Russian Empire could muster.

True, the men would be sorely missed. No village the size of Hutawa could afford to lose eight able-bodied men at anytime, let alone during the harvest. But, if the war went well, they would be back before winter. In early August 1914, everyone believed the war would be short.

The Hutawa detachment did not look at all like soldiers leaving for war. Starshiyi Soldat Ivan Ribba Kunatz was the only one to wear a complete uniform and his warrior image was diminished by the bouquet of flowers he waved happily above his head. The other seven men were dressed in various array of military and civilian attire. Only two things were common throughout the group. First, each man was barefoot or shod in homemade shoes and carried his military boots slung over his shoulder for the day he would really need them. The other was a small gold cross that dangled from a chain around his neck. It was called The Mother’s Cross and with it went the prayers of Hutawa’s women.

Major Sergei M. Pribish, Imperial Russian Army Retired, stood at rigid attention and saluted when the men passed. Next to him Stepha held tightly to his grandfather with one hand and waved his white, blue, and red tricolor embossed with a handmade, double-headed eagle. His waving picked up in intensity when Ribba Kunatz came into view. Stepha giggled when Ribba bent low and offered him a snappy salute. Fedora Gerous’ two oldest sons also saluted. Stepha held his flag high, a smile covering his little round face.

Akulina dressed in her white with blue print dress, cradled little Vanya under her right arm and slowly waved good-bye with her left. She watched the eight march past take the road east, and eventually disappear from sight. Beside her, Nora Kunatz and Elyana Shimansky waved the hands of their children and bravely held back tears. They continued to bid farewell long after their husbands disappeared from view. A short time later the last sweet strains of Wait for Your Soldier played by an old man on an equally old concertina also drifted from the village and faded into the distance. The festive mood and brave smiles faded with them.

Chapter 2: Give the Command to Fire

Russia was victorious on all fronts. The opening days of the war saw her western armies march triumphantly into Northern Prussia behind brass bands. In the south, the Austrian army fell back, unable to stem the tide of Russian might. During the early days of August 1914, Germany and Austria were preoccupied with what they believed to be the real threats, Serbia and France. Russia could wait.

The Third Russian Army under General Ruzsky pushed easily through Galicia toward the strategic city of Przemysl. The poverty and neglect it witnessed in passing convinced the Third Army that it was indeed on a holy mission to liberate its fellow Slavs. As the columns pushed deeper into enemy territory the landscape gradually changed. The ground became more fertile and the mud huts of the Slovaks were replaced by the whitewash and red-tiled homes of Austrians, the enemy.

Mladshi-serzhant Ignot Semenov may have been the lowest ranking non-commissioned officer in the Third Army, but to his squad, he was the supreme authority. Only a few scattered rifle shots had interrupted his spearhead drive against the Austrians. To Semenov, the invasion of Austria-Hungary had all the drama of a leisurely mushroom hunt in the late summer’s woods. Since the formal declaration of war, Semenov’s rifle squad had pushed steadily into Galicia, liberating the land from the heavy hand of the Austrians. For Semenov the war almost marked the culmination of his twenty-year military career. All he really needed was the one thing that had eluded his dream. Never in twenty years had Semenov fired a shot at the enemy.

Ten years had passed since Semenov’s last chance to see battle. For three weeks he and his division rode in cramped, cold transports across the Trans-Siberian railroad. They were to have been part of a massive offensive to drive the Japanese off the Asian mainland. They would have done it, Semenov believed, had not those spineless swine at Port Arthur surrendered before he was given the chance. With Port Arthur gone, the Russian government caved in to the peace demands. Mladshi-serzhant Semenov was put on hold till another war.

The Austrians facing Semenov’s squad fell back in an orderly fashion. There was no rout or panic. They would bide their time until they were ready to fight. Along the line of advance, rear guards were poised to slow down the Russians. But so far, the Russians had shown no inclination for speed. They took their time looting, pillaging, and taking pleasure from the unfortunate woman not nimble enough to escape. Discipline became lax as formations were stretched thin. The Austrian rear guard stayed just ahead of the leisurely invaders and waited.

As the Russians entered each Galatian town they would put up large Cyrillic signs declaring, THIS TOWN NOW BELONGS TO RUSSIA. Semenov and his men had been erecting the signs as a welcome to the main body of troops and as an insult to the town’s inhabitants.

The next undefended town along Semenov’s route was Gobonitz―a large town in the fertile flatlands just north of the Carpathian highlands and the Austrian army. The inevitable clash between the two armies would come in those highlands, but for now the town was the main objective. White flags fluttering from the windows told of the residents’ surrender. Nothing needed to be done to secure the town but replace the name sign. This time the honor of the symbolic conquest would be taken by Mladshi-serzhant Semenov himself.

A tall telegraph pole on the road just outside Gobonitz displayed a large ornate sign printed in Austrian. Semenov did not know what the sign said, but he did know it must come down. With the help of two privates, Semenov shinnied up the post to tear off the offending sign and began to replace it with one in Cyrillic.

* * *

From his vantage point on a far hill, an Austrian cavalry captain watched through a powerful spyglass as the drama around the telegraph post unfolded. His smart, blue Hussar uniform was wrinkled and dusty from two weeks of constant wear. Both the uniform and its wearer were in need of a good cleaning. The captain’s orders, however, denied him such luxury. He was not to let the enemy from his sight and at every possible moment to harass them. Harass, he was told, but not engage. Till today the Russians had been allowed to advance through his country unmolested.

The captain commanded a troop of Magyar horseman and a single, light, three-inch field gun. The gun had been unlimbered, hidden in a small wooded knoll and trained on the signpost five kilometers distant. The leisurely pace and predictability of the Russians had given the Austrian gunners ample time to calculate the range and adjust for wind. Now, all they needed was permission to fire.

Not yet, Sergeant. The Russians are in no hurry and neither should we be. Let them gather closer together.

The sergeant stood at ready next to the heliograph. He had only to flash the command to the gunners. Captain Erich Schoenauer again placed the spyglass to his eye and watched a Russian soldier climb the pole and secure himself with a sturdy leather strap. Then the arrogant bastard grabbed the sign with both hands and began to wrench it free from its position. The men below rushed forward to grab the sign and tear it to pieces. Captain Schoenauer folded his glass and carefully returned it to its case.

Give the command to fire, Sergeant.

Shell, someone yelled upon seeing the brilliant flash from the Austrian gun. In well-rehearsed fashion, troops quickly left the road and flung themselves into the ditches that lined either side. All the troops, that is, except Semenov. He still clung to the pole, exposed and helpless. The precious few seconds it took him to unfasten his strap were all it took for the shell to cover the distance. The round screamed over his head and burst less than fifty yards from his perch, spewing out slivers of white-hot shrapnel. One jagged piece, no bigger than the tip of a man’s finger, covered the distance in an instant. It tore into Semenov’s right calf just above the ankle and ground to a halt below the knee. Semenov felt neither the pain of the splinter nor the impact of his body with the ground.

Mladshi-serzhant Semenov awoke in a field hospital behind his unit. Within a day a team of Russian doctors surrounded him, intently studying his wound. The only doctor who had ever seen the effect of a shell splinter on the human body used Semenov as a model to demonstrate proper treatment. With deft skill the doctor probed the wound, found the shell fragment, and removed it. The patient, the doctor would explain later, was a textbook case; the leg did not have to be removed. However, the calf muscles were permanently damaged and gave the patient a lifelong limp and a classification of invalid.

During the final days of August 1914, thousands of men would suffer much less severe wounds than Semenov’s only to die where they fell or, if they did live to reach the dressing station, have their limbs removed by overworked and ill-trained surgeons. In late August, the Austrian defense would stiffen and a death-dealing maelstrom of steel and fire would buffet Russia’s summer stroll through the countryside.

Semenov faced the wall next to his bed and tried not to think, but he could not drive the words of the sistra from his head. Semenov was to be sent to the rear to help in the war effort. Sistra told him he was lucky; that he would get only easy work and would not be required to walk. For him, sistra said with a smile, the war was over. All he could think of was that he still had not fired a shot and now never would. Perhaps, by facing the wall, he could hide his tears.

Chapter 3: Deliver Them from Evil

A hundred unpolished, but strong voices sent the defiant words of the Russian anthem ringing through the flat countryside:

"God, save the Tsar. Strong, mighty.

Reign for our glory.

Reign to instill fright in enemies.

Oh thou Orthodox Tsar.

God, save the Tsar."

The male singers formed the lead element of a procession that stretched nearly half a mile. At its lead a dozen acolytes fought an endless battle to hold their crosses and flapping banners steady against the stiff, hot August breeze. Again and again, the wind tried to wrestle the staffs from their sweaty young grasps, only to be continuously repulsed. A large likeness of Tsar Nicholas performed a clumsy dance to the rhythm of his anthem. He swung to and fro, often slamming into the banner bearing the image of his son, the Tsarevich Alexis. Behind the Russian ruler marched the banners of King Peter the First of Serbia and his son, Prince Alexander. King Karl of Montenegro was represented further down the line and behind him trailed hosts of minor royalty known only to their bearers.

Leading the procession was a banner much too large for a mere boy. It was conveyed by a man―a very strong man. Marko Kazlowski’s eyes were focused straight ahead toward the golden-domed spires and his hands maintained an iron grip on his image of Christ. Marko held his head high and the staff steady, never faltering once along the entire route. Only the growing sweat stain on the back of Marko’s suit coat showed the effect of his titanic battle.

The image Marko held aloft was not the soft-eyed, benevolent Christ of Love and Mercy. No, his was the Christ of the Fiery Eyes―an angry Christ, dressed in flaming red robes with a knotted chord in one hand and a whip in the other. This was the Christ who drove the moneychangers from His temple and hurtled the demons back into the black pits of hell. Today, His people would pray to this Christ. They would pray to Him to unleash His mighty wrath and drive the enemy armies from the land of the Slavs.

The procession that marched down the dusty road to the onion-domed church could have been any of hundreds that were occurring daily in Russia or Serbia. But this procession was much different. The marchers were several thousand miles away from such lands and their church sat amid the unending cornfields of Streator, Illinois. Massey Pribish marched and sang with the two score members of the Russian Orthodox Catholic Mutual Aid Society, Lodges 113 and 81. Just five hours