October 1907
Private Andrei Sidorov stood among the enlisted men gathered behind the rope barriers, his eyes fixed on the firing grounds ahead. The final round for the officers' category was about to begin, and not a man present seemed willing to miss it. Rows of wooden targets had been set at the far end of the range, their white centers bright beneath the midday sun. Around them stood officers in polished boots and pressed uniforms, nobles in tailored coats, and soldiers from every corner of the Empire who had come to witness the conclusion of the Tsarevich's grand competition.
Andrei shifted his weight and rolled his shoulders to loosen the stiffness there. His own final for the enlisted category would begin after this one. He should have been conserving his strength and steadying his nerves, yet instead he found himself unable to look away from the spectacle before him.
This was the first time he had ever seen so many officers gathered in one place without shouting orders or pretending not to notice common men like him existed. Some of them were even content to stand on the grounds alongside enlisted men such as himself, as the stands were already filled with high ranking officers, nobles, and aristocrats. That alone was rare. He had long grown used to seeing them behave as though it were beneath their dignity to share the same space, or even the same meals, with enlisted soldiers. It seemed the shooting competition had put them in their place for the moment, especially with the Tsar, Tsarina, and their children seated in the grand stand, watching the final that was about to begin.
His gaze drifted toward the grand stand that had been raised overlooking the firing grounds, impossible to miss with its banners, guards, and polished railings. Even from where he stood, one could feel that it was the center of attention. Seated there beneath the canopy were the Imperial family themselves, surrounded by aides, officers, and carefully selected nobles.
The Tsar sat upright in uniform, broad-shouldered and composed, carrying the sort of presence that made men instinctively straighten their backs. Beside him sat the Tsarina, regal and distant, dressed elegantly enough that even from afar she seemed set apart from everyone else around her. Near them were the Grand Duchesses, their bright dresses and graceful bearing drawing no less attention from the crowd.
Andrei noticed that even the officers and nobles nearest the grounds could not help glancing toward the grand stand from time to time, just as he did. Some tried to appear casual about it, but their eyes betrayed them. Others openly stared whenever they thought no one important was looking.
He could not blame them. How often did a common soldier, low ranking officers and even high ranking officers stand close enough to see the rulers of all Russia with his own eyes? For Andrei, the Tsar had always been a face on coins, an image in churches and offices, or a distant name spoken by their commanding officers when they wanted obedience. Yet here the man sat in flesh and blood, watching the same range Andrei would soon step onto himself.
The thought made his throat dry. If he performed well enough later, and perhaps even won the championship, he might be noticed by the tsar himself and might even be promoted to officer, aside from the large sum of prize money that awaited the victor.
It had always been his dream to become a general in the army since he was a child, and perhaps this was his chance, a chance to climb high on the military ladder. Andrei clenched his fist and looked down at it. He had always been a gifted marksman. He first came to realize his talent after joining the military, and ever since then, his officers and comrades had often sought him out whenever they wanted to witness his shooting skills or place wagers against men from other units. But there was one thing he had learned after every display of his talent. No reward ever came with it. All it had brought him were praises and empty promises.
When he learned of the shooting competition from the logistics men in his unit in Central Asia and confirmed that everything he had heard was true, the rewards and all the rest, he had not hesitated to seek a recommendation from his commanding officer. Fortunately, the man had given it without delay. Even so, Andrei had been forced to spend his own money and borrow from his comrades just to afford the journey to the capital. He knew it was a gamble. But he wanted to see for himself whether those who won the competition would truly receive the promised rewards, and perhaps even gain more than what had been publicly announced.
He unclenched his fist, lifted his gaze, and looked around the range. The competition had not been easy. Among the hundreds of competitors were many gifted marksmen, yet he had outshot most of them, and now only five remained to compete later for the championship. He exhaled slowly and promised himself that he would give everything he had to win. Aside from moving one step closer to his dream, the large prize for taking the championship would change the lives of both him and his family. And, of course, it would allow him to repay the debts he had borrowed from his comrades.
Beside him, one soldier could not help but complain. "When will the finals start? I've been standing here for hours already."
Another soldier immediately rebuked him. "What are you talking about? This is nothing compared to the times my commanding officer made me stand at attention for hours."
"Aye."
The soldiers around them quickly voiced their agreement with the man who had scolded the complainer, and the grumbling soldier promptly fell silent after hearing the others' side against him.
A moment later, another soldier spoke up, craning his neck toward the range. "Forget the waiting. I just want to see the Tsarevich shoot again. It was something else watching him fire round after round so quickly and still strike the bullseye." He shook his head before continuing. "That was downright unbelievable."
That earned several nods at once.
"Aye, it truly was. I was there when the Tsarevich first fired the rifle. He shot so casually, and so quickly, that I thought he had misfired or something. But then I heard the crier shout, 'Ten out of ten!' I even thought the Tsarevich might be cheating in his own tournament, but the rounds that followed showed us just how good his aim truly is."
"It would be something to tell the men back in my unit."
"Thankfully, the Tsarevich didn't enter the enlisted men's category. If he had, that would have been disheartening."
Andrei smiled faintly at the remark. Tilting his head slightly, he saw that it was one of his fellow finalists, the very men he would soon compete against, who had made the comment.
He could not help but agree with him. Just watching the Tsarevich strike the bullseye again and again without seeming to exert himself had made Andrei realize how meager his own talent was compared to the Tsarevich's. He had once believed his marksmanship to be among the finest of those who had attended, yet beside the Tsarevich's skill, it seemed little. Still, it did nothing to lessen his desire to watch the officers' final. If anything, it only sharpened it. He wanted to witness the Tsarevich shoot again, and, if fortune allowed, perhaps catch a glimpse of some technique he could learn from him.
"Look! It's starting!"
"Aye! Looks like it!"
"Finally!"
Andrei turned to where everyone was looking and saw the crier and the scorers entering the range. Not long after, the crowd stirred again as the finalists of the officers' category finally stepped onto the field. The spectators craned their necks, including Andrei, who was eager to catch a glimpse of the Tsarevich, and at last he did.
When he had first seen the Tsarevich, he had truly believed him to be an adult. When he later learned his age, he had been surprised, for the Tsarevich was remarkably tall for his years. He had gotten over that surprise soon enough, but not the disappointment he felt in himself when he thought of a twelve-year-old surpassing him in the marksmanship skill he had once considered his greatest strength.
The murmurs around the range gradually faded as the crier stepped forward and announced the beginning of the officers' final. Five men stood at the firing line, rifles prepared, their faces set with concentration. Even from where Andrei stood, he could feel the tension hanging over the grounds.
The first finalist was called forward. A captain, judging by his uniform, though Andrei had forgotten his name. Broad-shouldered and stiff-backed, he stepped into position and took careful aim. He fired with measured patience, pausing for a long moment between each shot to steady himself. Each bang rang across the range one after another.
When the scorers finished checking the targets, the crier raised his voice. "Ten! Eight! Nine! Ten! Nine!"
A respectable result, in Andrei's opinion, but nowhere near enough compared to the Tsarevich's near-perfect scores in every round so far. He shook his head slightly as he noticed the look of disappointment on the captain's face. The man then left the firing line and took his place in the stand reserved for the finalists, where he would wait for the others' results.
Then the next finalist stepped forward and took his position. A major this time. But like the first man, he took nearly a full minute to fire at each target. That alone was a poor choice in Andrei's opinion. Hold a rifle at the ready for too long, and the arms would begin to tremble.
Andrei was proven right soon enough. The result was poor by a wide margin, not even close to the first finalist's score.
The crier announced the major's result. "Eight! Seven! Eight! Nine! Nine!"
"What a disappointment. A score like that shouldn't be in the finals!"
"What do you know? That major was probably so nervous he couldn't concentrate on his targets. I saw his earlier results, they were decent. Maybe the finals just have a different atmosphere and make a man truly nervous."
"Right! Especially with the Tsar and Tsarina in the stands watching!"
Andrei listened to the chatter around him but kept his eyes on the range. He exhaled and inhaled slowly, trying to steady his nerves. He could only hope that when his own turn to shoot came later, he would not be overcome by the same nervousness these finalists felt when they were aiming.
The third finalist was called forward soon after. A lieutenant colonel stepped into position, his face stern and unreadable. Unlike the men before him, he did not linger too long between shots, yet neither did he show any confidence in his movements. He fired at a steady pace, careful, deliberate, and cautious.
When the scorers finished their work, the crier announced the result. "Nine! Eight! Nine! Nine! Eight!"
Murmurs spread throughout the crowd. The results are not getting better than the first finalists and the crowd are quite disappointed, including him.
The officer gave a stiff nod and stepped away, his jaw clenched as he returned to the contestants' stand.
Then came the fourth finalist. This one was a younger captain, sharp-faced, eager, and proud, the sort who looked as though he believed strongly in his own fortune and ability. He raised the rifle quickly, perhaps too quickly, and fired with more haste than composure.
The crier's voice rang out moments later. "Nine! Nine! Ten! Ten! Nine!"
At last, someone had surpassed the first finalist, and the crowd seemed pleased with the result. Perhaps they had found their champion, if the Tsarevich would fail to surpass the captain's score.
Though, in Andrei's opinion, he did not care much for the captain. The man appeared too haughty and reckless for his liking.
And he found himself hoping the Tsarevich would once again display those near-perfect results. Still, Andrei clapped along with the rest of the crowd, giving due respect to the man's talent in marksmanship.
Then the crier called the final name. The Tsarevich.
At once, the crowd stirred. Some even began clapping as the Tsarevich walked to the center even though he had not yet fired a single shot. And Andrei found himself shifting for a better view of the Tsarevich's position at the firing line.
The Tsarevich stood at the center with perfect calm and even casually waved toward the grand stand, where the Tsar and Tsarina were seated. That was the kind of composure Andrei wished to possess when his own turn came later.
Then he watched the Tsarevich settle himself into position. His movements were unhurried, almost casual, as though he were preparing for practice rather than the final round before the eyes of everyone on the grounds.
Andrei narrowed his gaze, studying every detail. He wanted to see if he could learn something from the Tsarevich. No matter how humiliating it might seem to learn from a boy younger than himself for more than a decade, skill was skill, and there was no shame in learning from someone better.
Yet there was nothing remarkable about the Tsarevich's stance, or at least nothing Andrei could discern. If there was some hidden technique, he could not see it. He shook his head in disappointment. Still, he did not take his eyes off the Tsarevich, hoping he might yet catch something.
Then the crier raised his voice. "Begin!"
The Tsarevich moved at once. The rifle was barely lifted to his shoulder for a second before the first shot cracked across the grounds.
Andrei blinked. There had been no long pause, no careful breath held for half a minute, no visible struggle to steady the barrel. The shot came almost the instant the weapon was raised.
Then came the second. The third. The fourth. And the fifth.
Each shot followed the last with startling speed, yet none seemed rushed. The Tsarevich's motions were smooth, practiced, and certain, as though the rifle were merely an extension of his own body.
Silence fell over the range. Even the crowd, so eager to cheer only moments earlier, seemed stunned into stillness. It was the first time the Tsarevich had done this in the entire tournament, and in the final, no less. Before, he had at least held the rifle steady for a few brief moments before each shot. But now, he had not done even that. He fired almost the instant he raised the rifle, then repeated the feat with every remaining target.
Andrei realized he had been holding his breath the entire time the five shots were fired. That was how quickly the Tsarevich had taken them. Had it lasted any longer, Andrei thought wryly, he might have suffocated himself where he stood.
The scorers hurried forward to inspect the targets. They made a point of showing the crowd that they had not touched the boards or tampered with anything. A tense murmur spread through the spectators as each mark was examined one by one.
Once every score had been confirmed, the crier paused and swept his gaze over the crowd. Then he straightened himself and shouted for all to hear. "Ten! Ten! Ten! Ten! Ten!"
The murmuring ceased at once, and for a brief moment the entire grounds seemed frozen in disbelief. Then cheers burst forth from the grand stand where the Tsarevich's family was seated. Andrei turned and saw that it was the Tsarevich's sisters, openly celebrating his victory. A heartbeat later, the rest of the crowd seemed to awaken from its stupor. Applause thundered across the range as soldiers, officers, and nobles alike cheered for the Tsarevich.
Even Andrei found himself clapping unconsciously, though he had not yet fully processed what he had just witnessed. He remained where he stood, staring at the Tsarevich as the young heir waved calmly to the crowd. A part of him wanted to deny it, yet his own eyes had seen everything. No trick. No favor. No mistake. The Tsarevich had simply outclassed them all. And Andrei had no idea how.
—-------
Alexei sat in his seat at the grand stand, the officers' trophy now resting nearby, and let out a quiet breath as the enlisted men's category began below. Around him, the noise of the grounds had not lessened in the slightest. If anything, the crowd seemed even livelier now that ordinary soldiers were taking the range. Cheers rose when the first man scored well, and Alexei joined his sisters and the crowd in applause.
Beside him, his sister Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna leaned toward him and said, "Who do you think will win in this category, brother?"
He shook his head slightly, then looked at her intently before replying, "I don't know. Why? Is there someone among them you're rooting for, sister?"
"What? I'm not!" Olga denied at once, glaring at her brother before continuing. "I only wanted to know if you could predict who would win. A great deal was happening here while you were on the range. I heard some people were even betting rubles on whether you would win or not."
"Really?" Alexei raised an eyebrow before glancing around the stands. He was not particularly surprised that some people would place private wagers of their own. It was only natural to seek a little more excitement or suspense while watching a competition. Heck, he himself had even arranged for his gambling dens to set up betting boards on who would win the tournament. From what he had heard, the wagers had been doing quite well, and he had not forgotten to offer generous odds to those betting against him. He found himself wondering how much they had won from that bet alone. But he quickly shook that thought off.
"It would be better if we do not speak of betting here," he added quietly. "Mother and Father would be displeased. You know how they feel about it, especially with gambling being illegal and condemned by the Church."
Hearing that, Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna considered it for a moment before nodding her head.
But it seemed his sister had no desire to end the conversation just yet, for she asked another question not long after falling silent.
"Why are there only men joining the competition, brother?"
Alexei found himself scratching his head at that. He thought for a moment before answering, "I don't know. I never made any rule saying only men could join the shooting competition, but it seems only men are interested in this sort of contest."
Olga looked at him intently before asking another question. "So you mean it would be fine if some women joined the competition next year? You said this competition would be held every year from now on."
The crowd cheered again as the second finalist finished his rounds and earned a better score than the first. Alexei clapped along with them before answering his sister.
"I suppose so. As long as they know how to shoot, they may join the competition. In fact, if enough women wish to enter next year, I could arrange a separate category for them, one reserved only for women."
Olga smiled at him, satisfied with the answer, and leaned back in her chair once more.
Alexei could only wonder what his sister was planning. He could only hope it was not about joining the competition herself next year, or he was certain their mother would give him an earful for encouraging something she would consider unladylike.
The competition below continued, and not long after, the tenth and final finalist of the enlisted men's category stepped into the center. Alexei had arranged for there to be ten finalists so that more enlisted men could receive awards and spread word of how generous the rewards from the Imperial family were. It was this sort of small, ordinary detail that seemed insignificant at first glance, yet once carried through the ranks by common soldiers, it could have a far greater impact in time, especially if repeated every year.
Alexei watched casually, waiting for the final result so the competition could conclude and the prizes be awarded. Yet he found himself pleasantly surprised when the crier shouted the score.
"Ten! Nine! Nine! Ten! Ten!"
The crowd erupted, especially the section where the enlisted men had gathered. They cheered loudly, clearly proud that one of their own had outscored every officer present, aside from their Tsarevich, of course.
Alexei rose to his feet at once and began applauding. He wanted the crowd to see that he was pleased by the man's near-perfect score. After all, this was an investment he had carefully arranged, and he intended to reap its rewards in the future.
Seeing that, his father, Nicholas II, had little choice but to stand up and applaud as well. Not long after, his mother, Alexandra Feodorovna, rose too, followed by his sisters.
Alexei was genuinely pleased. It seemed he had found his first recruit. The competition not only serves to spread goodwill among the common soldiers; it also serves as a quiet recruitment drive for the snipers he was planning in forming for the future wars to come.
He gestured for Nagorny to come closer, and when the man did, he asked, "What is that man's name?"
Nagorny knew at once whom the Tsarevich meant and answered readily. "That is Andrei Sidorov, Your Highness."
Alexei committed the name to memory before adding, "Why not recruit that man to join my guards? It would be useful to have a skilled marksman among your ranks."
After all, he could not recruit the man directly without first seeking permission from his father or mother. It would be simpler to have Nagorny do it for him and keep the man close.
Nagorny considered it for a moment before nodding. "I would need to examine his background first before I could recruit him. But if I find the man to be clean, I can have him brought in."
Alexei had no objection to that. He nodded towards Nagorny and dismissed him, as the awards ceremony for the winners of the enlisted men's category was about to begin.
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