Hugo, standing at ease behind his mortar, among his company, thought he heard Ironside say this, but he told himself that “execute them” must mean something other than the obvious. But as preparations began, each step leaning in a certain direction, he felt sick.

There were rules to an execution wherever civilization saw the Union Jack. The thirteen doomed men were given paper to write letters to their loved ones while a detachment of men from the newly reconfigured Slavo-British Legion ran as fast as they could to find a priest to take last confessions. Much stalling occurred, however, as the prisoners consulted with each other. And the word “Dostoevsky” was murmured with increasing hope. They asked the few Allied troops who spoke Russian whether they were really going to die or if this was just a bluff. The questions percolated up command until Ironside himself answered that, as he had just explained, had they been listening, in a democracy, there were certain responsibilities to be taken for one’s actions. And to start writing their families quickly. Please.

Ironside then sent for a field generator to power a fleet of high arc lamps that sent a hundred yards of battered snow into shockingly white relief. There weren’t enough handcuffs to go around, so the prisoners were led to the execution with their hands tied behind their backs by short linen straps torn off discarded bedding. Each prisoner was sprinkled with holy water and kissed by the harried and puffing priest, who looked over his shoulder with alarm, worried that he was accidentally standing before the firing squad himself.

The firing squad consisted of twenty men selected by Ironside, five each from America, Britain, France, and Russia itself: a truly multinational force. Hugo, who had been picked, glanced backward at Wodziczko, who hadn’t.

The firing squad formed a flying V of two rows. A British officer provided each man with a single cartridge.

The priest stood with the prisoners, putting cigarettes into their mouths and lighting them. Though some of the men had streaks of tears on their cheeks, overall the mood was Russian: nostalgic, with ill-suppressed laughter at life’s ironies.

Hugo watched the events as if he were being drafted into a game of tackle football, with rules and preparations unfolding before him that he barely understood. He wished he hadn’t said, “I’m with you.” Who says such a thing to a general? He was told to stand in the back. There would be men on one knee ahead of him. There was a countdown, and he remembered well, from training, all the motions from loading a rifle to firing it. He was told to shoulder arms. He did so.