Knox watched a regiment of veterans drawn up on parade. Near the front, “The General … thanked them in the name of the Emperor and the country for their gallant service…. It was touching to see how the men were moved by his simple words of praise…. The latter leaned over and chucked men here and there under the chin as he rode along. ‘Poor fellows,’ he said as we drove away, ‘they are ready to give their lives for a smile.’”
The difference that faith could make was demonstrated on every battlefront. At Easter in 1916, a German attack was launched near the Baltic. At five a.m., German artillery began pounding the Russian trenches cut into the marshy ground. At the same time, the Germans released gas into the Russian lines. The Russians, lacking both gas masks and steel helmets, endured. After each hour of bombardment, the German artillery paused to learn the effect on the Russian trenches. Always, there was a resumption of rifle fire from the Russians, followed by a new German bombardment. After five hours of this devastation, Russian battalions of 500 men were reduced to 90 or 100. Yet when the German infantry finally advanced, it was met by a Russian bayonet charge. In all that day, the Russians gave up only a mile and half of front. That night, from within the Russian lines the Germans heard the sound of hundreds of men singing the Easter hymn, “Christ is risen from the dead, conquering death by death.”
Despite the huge losses of the previous autumn, the coming of spring 1915 found the Russian army again ready for battle. Its strength, down to 2,000,000 men in December 1914, had swollen to 4,200,000 as new drafts of recruits arrived at the front. In March, the Russians attacked, hurling themselves again on the Austrians in Galicia. They had immediate, brilliant success. Przemysl, the strongest fortress in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, fell on March 19 with 120,000 prisoners and 900 guns. “Nikolasha [Grand Duke Nicholas] came running into my carriage out of breath and with tears in his eyes and told me,” wrote Nicholas. A Te Deum in the church “was packed with officers and my splendid Cossacks. What beaming faces!” In his joy, the Tsar presented the Grand Duke with an ornamental golden sword of victory, its hilt and scabbard studded with diamonds. Early in April, the Tsar himself entered the conquered province, driving along hot roads covered with white dust. In Przemysl, he admired the fortress—“colossal works, terribly fortified, not an inch of ground remained undefended.” In Lemberg, he spent the night in the house of the Austrian governor-general, occupying a bed hitherto reserved exclusively for the Emperor Franz Joseph.
Once again, waves of Russian infantry and horsemen rolled exultantly up to the Carpathians. The peaks, craggy and thickly forested, were desperately defended by crack Hungarian regiments. Because of their pitiful lack of heavy artillery and ammunition, the Russians were unable to bombard the heights before their attacks. Instead, each hill, each ridge, each crest had to be stormed by bayonet. Advancing with what Ludendorff described as “supreme contempt for death,” the Russian infantry swept upward, leaving the hillsides soaked with blood. By mid-April, the Carpathian passes were in Russian hands and General Brusilov’s Eighth Army was descending onto the Danubian plain. Again Vienna trembled; again there was talk of a separate peace. On April 26, 1915, convinced that the Hapsburg empire was collapsing, Italy declared war on Austria-Hungary.
It was at this moment that Hindenburg and Ludendorff let fall on Russia the monster blow which for months they had been preparing. Having failed to destroy France in 1914, the German General Staff had selected 1915 as the year to drive Russia out of the war. Through March and April, while the Russians devastated the Austrians in Galicia and the Carpathians, the German generals calmly and efficiently massed men and artillery in southern Poland. On May 2, 1,500 German guns opened fire on a single sector of the Russian line. Within a four-hour period, 700,000 shells fell into the Russian trenches.
“From a neighboring height one could see an uninterrupted line of enemy fire for five miles to each side,” wrote Sir Bernard Pares, who witnessed the bombardment. “The Russian artillery was practically silent. The elementary Russian trenches were completely wiped out and so, to all intents and purposes, was human life in that area. The Russian division stationed at this point was reduced from a normal 16,000 to 500.”
In this maelstrom, the Russian line disintegrated. Reinforcements were brought by train directly to the battlefield and detrained under fire. The Third Caucasian Corps, rushed into the breach, was quickly reduced from 40,000 men to 6,000; even this remnant, attacking at night with bayonets, took 7,000 prisoners. The Russian Third Army, which took the brunt of the German blow, had—said its commander—“lost all its blood.” On June 2, the fortress of Przemysl was lost. Lemberg fell on June 22. “Poor Nikolasha,” wrote the Tsar, “while telling me this, wept in my private room and even asked whether I thought of replacing him by a more capable man…. He kept thanking me for staying here, because my presence here supported him personally.”
In the retreat, men lost their rifles or flung them away. The shortage quickly became desperate; one officer suggested arming some battalions with long-handled axes. “In recent battles, a third of the men had no rifles,” reported General Belaiev from Stavka. “These poor devils had to wait patiently until their comrades fell before their eyes and they could pick up weapons. The army is drowning in its own blood.” Unarmed men, waiting in support trenches until casualties on the firing line made weapons available, were “churned into gruel” by exploding shells and bursting shrapnel. The men understood what was happening. “You know, sir, we have no weapons except the soldier’s breast,” an infantry private said to Pares. “This is not war, sir, this is slaughter.”
Nothing could stem the German columns advancing through the deep summer dust of Poland. Ahead of them came the long, slow-moving lines of refugees, trudging eastward. So intense was their suffering that a Russian general who had always been friendly suddenly turned on Knox and demanded to know what the British were doing in the war. “We are playing the game,” said the Russian, distracted with anguish. “We are giving everything. Do you think it is easy for us to look at those long columns of refugees flying before the German advance? We know that all those children crowded on those carts will die before the winter is out.” Knox, overcome by the tragedy, bowed his head and did not speak.
On August 5, 1915, Warsaw fell. For Grand Duke Nicholas, Russian strategy had become a question not of saving Warsaw or even Poland, but of preserving the army. Like Kutuzov in 1812, he retreated, giving up villages, towns, even provinces, intent only on keeping the army intact. Through it all, the Russian soldiers never lost their fighting spirit. On the day Warsaw fell, Knox visited officers of the Preobrajensky Guard. He found them still joking. “We will retire to the Urals,” they explained, “and when we get there the enemy’s pursuing army will have dwindled to a single German and a single Austrian. The Austrian will, according to custom, give himself up as a prisoner, and we will kill the German.”
The ordeal of the Russian army in the spring and summer of 1915 seared all who survived. Half of the army was destroyed: 1,400,000 men were killed or wounded, 976,000 became prisoners. “The spring of 1915 I shall remember all my life,” wrote General Deniken. “The retreat from Galicia was one vast tragedy for the Russian army…. The German heavy artillery swept away whole lines of trenches, and their defenders with them. We hardly replied—there was nothing with which we could reply. Our regiments, although completely exhausted, were beating off one attack after another by bayonet…. Blood flowed unendingly, the ranks became thinner and thinner. The number of graves constantly multiplied….”*
It was impossible to hide from the country what was happening at the front. The gaudy optimism which had placed the Russian Guards on the Unter den Linden in less than six months was replaced by pessimism and gloom. There were no great balls that winter in the gray, snow-covered cities of Russia; the young men who had danced so gaily two winters before lay dead in the forests of East Prussia or on the slopes of the Carpathians. On the Nevsky Prospect, there were no flags, no bands
playing the national anthem, no cheering crowds, only silent groups standing in the cold reading the casualty lists posted in shopwindows. In hospital wards across the land lay the wounded soldiers, patient, gentle, grateful as children. “Nitchevo—it is nothing, little sister,” they responded to sympathy. Only rarely did the nurses hear a low-voiced “I suffer, little sister.”
The thrilling sense of national unity which had so profoundly moved the Tsar in the Winter Palace and the Kremlin had evaporated, and in its place surged all the old suspicions, quarrels and hatreds. Worst was the hatred of everything German. In Petrograd, Bach, Brahms and Beethoven were banned from orchestra programs. The windows of German bakeries were broken, and exclusive German schools were threatened with arson. At Christmas in 1914, the Holy Synod had foolishly banned Christmas trees as being a German custom. “I am going to make a row,” wrote the Empress to the Tsar when she heard about it. “Why take away the pleasure from the wounded and children because it originally comes from Germany? The narrow mindedness is too colossal.”
Anti-German feeling was strongest in Moscow. French-speaking people riding Moscow streetcars found themselves hissed as “Nemtsy” [Germans] by Russians who understood no foreign tongue. Bitter stories were told about the German-born Empress. The most popular of these tales concerned a general, walking along a corridor of the Winter Palace, who came upon the Tsarevich, weeping. Patting the boy on the head, the general asked, “What is wrong, my little man?” Half smiling, half crying, the Tsarevich replied, “When the Russians are beaten, Papa cries. When the Germans are beaten, Mama cries. When am I to cry?”
With the defeat of the supposedly invincible Russian army, the people of Moscow rushed into the streets to take vengeance. For three days beginning June 10, 1915, shops, factories and private houses belonging to people with German names were sacked and burned. “The country house of Knop, the great Russo-German millionaire who more than any man helped to build up the Russian cotton industry … was burned to the ground,” wrote the British Consul, R. H. Bruce Lockhart. “The police could or would do nothing…. I stood and watched while hooligans sacked the leading piano store of Moscow. Bechsteins, Blüthners, grand pianos, baby grands, and uprights, were hurled one by one from the various stories to the ground.”
In Red Square, a mob shouted open insults to the Imperial family, demanding that the Empress be shut up in a convent, the Tsar deposed, Rasputin hanged and Grand Duke Nicholas crowned as Nicholas III. From Red Square, the crowd surged to the Convent of Mary and Martha, where the Empress’s sister Grand Duchess Elisabeth met them at the gate. There were wild, accusing shouts that she was giving sanctuary to a German spy and that she was hiding her brother Grand Duke Ernest of Hesse. The Grand Duchess, standing alone in white-and-gray robes, calmly invited the leaders to search the house to see for themselves that her brother was not there. As she answered, a stone landed at her feet. “Away with the German woman!” shouted the crowd, just as a company of soldiers arrived to drive them off.
Within the government, military defeat and the nation’s anger brought swift political repercussions. General Sukhomlinov, at last at a loss to explain away the desperate lack of guns and munitions with another amusing story, was swept away on June 20. On June 27, the Tsar, calling on “all faithful sons of the Fatherland without distinction of class or opinion, to work together with one heart and mind to supply the needs of the army,” announced that the Duma would be summoned “in order to hear the voice of the land of Russia.” A new Special Defense Council, including both ministers of the government and leaders of the Duma, was formed. These were hopeful signs, but they were appearing late. General Polivanov, Sukhomlinov’s successor as Minister of War, a vigorous, brusque, efficient man, spoke frankly to his fellow ministers at a meeting of the ministerial council on July 16. “I consider it my duty to declare to the Council of Ministers that the country is in danger,” he declared. “Where our retreat will end, only God knows.”
With his soldiers retreating, the Tsar’s intense feelings about being with the army were revived. On July 16, walking restlessly in the park at Tsarskoe Selo with the Tsarevich and Gilliard, he said to the tutor, “You have no idea how depressing it is to be away from the front. It seems as if everything here saps energy and enfeebles resolution…. Out at the front men fight and die for their country. At the front there is only one thought—the determination to conquer.”
Nicholas’s strong feelings about the army were constantly stimulated from another, less noble source: the personal animosity of the Empress against Grand Duke Nicholas. Alexandra had never liked the fiery, impetuous soldier who towered over her less colorful husband. She had never forgotten that it was his melodramatic threat to blow out his brains in the presence of the Tsar and Witte which had forced the signing of the 1905 Manifesto, creating the Duma. At the front, she knew that “Nikolasha’s” heroic size gave him the aura of the warrior grand duke, the real strong man of the Imperial family. There were rumors that among his intimates the Grand Duke did nothing to correct the stories that he would one day be crowned as Nicholas III. Worst, she knew that Nicholas Nicolaievich had sworn implacable hatred against Rasputin. Once Rasputin, hoping to regain favor with the man who had been his most prominent patron and had first introduced him at the Imperial palace, telegraphed the Grand Duke offering to come to Headquarters to bless an icon. “Yes, do come,” replied Grand Duke Nicholas. “I’ll hang you.”
Against this powerful, dangerous enemy Rasputin fought back skillfully. He quickly discovered the arguments to which the Empress was most susceptible, and whenever he was in her presence, he used them with poisonous effect against the Commander-in-Chief: The Grand Duke is deliberately currying favor in the army and overshadowing the Tsar so that one day he can claim the throne. The Grand Duke cannot possibly succeed on the battlefield because God will not bless him. How can God bless a man who has turned his back on me, the Man of God? In all probability, if the Grand Duke is allowed to keep his power, he will kill me, and then what will happen to the Tsarevich, the Tsar and Russia?
As long as the Russian army continued to advance, Grand Duke Nicholas’s command remained secure. But once his soldiers began to retreat, his position became increasingly vulnerable. Through the summer, Alexandra’s letters to the Tsar maintained a steady drumfire of criticism against the Grand Duke, echoing and re-echoing Rasputin’s arguments:
June 11 (O.S.): “Please my angel, make N. [Nikolasha, the Grand Duke] see with your eyes…. I hope my letter did not displease but I am haunted by our Friend’s [Rasputin’s] wish and know it will be fatal for us and the country if not fulfilled. He means what he says when He speaks so seriously.”
June 12: “Would to God N. were another man and not turned against a Man of God’s.”
June 16: “I have absolutely no faith in N.—know him to be far from clever and having gone against a Man of God, his work can’t be blessed or his advice good…. Russia will not be blessed if her sovereign lets a Man of God sent to help him be persecuted, I am sure. … You know N.’s hatred for Gregory is intense.”
June 17: “N’s fault and Witte’s that the Duma exists, and it has caused you more worry than joy. Oh, I do not like N. having anything to do with these big sittings which concern interior questions, he understands our country so little and imposes upon the ministers with his loud voice and gesticulations. I can go wild sometimes at his false position…. Nobody knows who is the Emperor now…. It is as though N. settles all, makes the choices and changes. It makes me utterly wretched.”
June 25: “I loathe your being at Headquarters … listening to N.’s advice which is not good and cannot be—he has no right to act as he does, mixing in your concerns. All are shocked that the ministers go with reports to him, as though he were now the sovereign. Ah, my Nicky, things are not as they ought to be and therefore N. keeps you near to have a hold over you with his ideas and bad counsels.”
The Tsar did not share his wife’s strong views of Grand Duke N
icholas. He respected the Grand Duke and had full—and thoroughly justified—confidence in his loyalty. Paléologue, visiting Stavka, once attempted to discuss the Tsar’s views with the Commander-in-Chief. Drawing himself up, the Grand Duke replied coldly, “I never discuss an opinion of His Majesty’s except when he does me the honor of asking my advice.” To suppress talk in some ranks of the army that Russia could not go on fighting, the Grand Duke issued an Order of the Day: “All faithful subjects know that in Russia, everyone from the Commander-in-Chief to the private soldier, obeys and obeys only the sacred and august will of the Anointed of God, our deeply revered Emperor, who alone has the power to begin and end a war.”
Wherever possible the Tsar tried to buffer relations between the Empress and Grand Duke Nicholas. In April 1915, when Nicholas was to visit Lemberg and Przemysl, Alexandra wanted the Grand Duke to remain behind so that her husband alone could receive the cheers of the troops. Calmly, Nicholas dissuaded her: “Darling mine, I do not agree with you that N. ought to remain here during my visit to Galicia. On the contrary, precisely because I am going in wartime to a conquered province, the commander-in-chief ought to be accompanying me. It is he who accompanies me, not I who am in his suite.”
Nevertheless, as the retreat continued, the Tsar’s determination to take personal command of the army intensified. With the army and the nation in danger, he was convinced that it was his duty to unify civil and military authority and take on his own person the full weight of responsibility for Russia’s destiny. In the Council of Ministers, where bitter attacks had been made on Grand Duke Nicholas’s handling of military operations, Prime Minister Goremykin warned his colleagues, “I consider it my duty to repeat to the members of the Council my emphatic advice to be extremely careful in what they are going to say to the Emperor about … those questions that relate to General Headquarters and the Grand Duke. Irritation against the Grand Duke at Tsarskoe Selo has become of a character which threatens serious consequences. I fear that your representations may serve as a pretext to bring about grave complications.”
Nicholas and Alexandra: The Tragic, Compelling Story of the Last Tsar and his Family Page 40