When, in 1907, Viscount Haldane shook the British Army by its bootstraps to eliminate the shirkers, buffoons, and muttonheads, he meant to leave only “a sharp point of finely tempered steel,” and yet, with the grip of an eighteen-stone stoat on a rooster’s neck, General Poole survived. A fan of amateur theatrics, the first to volunteer to declaim The Faerie Queene, and ill-poised, as if his body were made of sagging dirigibles, Poole felt the hand of God had blessed him with the gift of harangue.

So there were windy opening remarks about the making of history and aiding of empires, during which Hugo, as if counting his own teeth, remembered those breakfast discussions with his mother, and how disappointing his letters home were going to be. He noticed that there was a rail track between the warehouses and the docks, and on it, a train of a bizarre 0-6-2 wheel pattern, and a black iron cab tower that looked Gothic, as if it should be flanked by gargoyles. Why were the men tending to its hotbox looking at the assembled troops so nervously?

The meat of Poole’s speech made as much sense to the average Russian as any other political speech of the last several years. But this one was special, in that Poole had delivered it in English, without translation. However, the weather was warm, and everyone enjoyed being outside without anyone pointing bayonets at them.

On the other hand, a train full of armed men showing off wrecked teeth, smiles looking unfamiliar on sallow, unshaven faces … Hugo considered this: hadn’t the adjutant aboard the Olympia detailed how to spot the enemy? They were said to wear no single uniform, but instead to have coarse and addled features ringed by mops of unkempt hair, and clothing made of burlap or flour sacking. Further, they would sprint like bunny rabbits at the first shot fired.

The wheels of the train started to groan and turn as if breaking off a decade of rust. The departing fighters seized this final opportunity to blow kisses toward the Allies. A voice cut through the crowd, a British soldier’s, anonymous in the ranks, but a voice with a permanent impact upon the campaign in North Russia: “I say! Those men on the train! They are positive Bolos!”

Poole returned to his notes, setting a precedent against common sense, chugging toward a distant rhetorical triumph, as the Bolsheviks waved dirty handkerchiefs and the train, swaying like a drunken dowager, departed.

When the speech was over, the Royal Scots were cued, and they upended the gunnysacks of cigarettes, which caused actual Russian applause. There was a riot—momentary and polite, by current standards— and the cigarettes were gone.

The troops chattered with excitement at the introduction of “Bolo” into the fighting man’s vocabulary. As they disbanded, told to find lodging, their yells echoed up and down the emptying wharves. Bolos!