November 1916

by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

  He awoke feeling strong and energetic, and, full as he was of Olda, his first thought was of Gurko. He must, somehow, see the general and talk to him, but could not afford to wait much longer.

  Had he not been so eager he might not have recognized immediately the stocky figure crossing the courtyard to the officers’ mess: the once familiar back, the firm, purposeful step, the somewhat exaggerated swing of the arms. Yes, it was Gurko! Busy as ever, preoccupied with serious matters, incapable of weakening, or wasting time.

  Having failed to catch his eye, Vorotyntsev went on into the mess hall.

  It seemed to be just as Svechin had said. But could it be …?

  The officers’ mess was abuzz with a fresh item of sensational news, received this time not by telephone but from someone just back from Petrograd: the day before yesterday, in the Duma, Milyukov had proved with the documents in his hand that the Empress was a traitress! And Milyukov was obviously the last man to say such a thing without proof. As a scholar, a historian, he knew the importance of evidence as well as anybody!

  Newspapers were passed around. There was nothing in them, of course, but the gaps in the printed columns, at once sinister and unavailing, were like so many gunshot wounds in the sides of the regime.

  The mess buzzed. The loyal and the uncommitted alike were shaken: if the Empress makes a habit of passing on the Supreme Command’s secrets to the Germans, how can we be expected to fight on?

  Some maliciously gloated. The Empress was unloved.

  Some remembered Nikolai Nikolaevich saying long ago, “Put her in a nunnery!”

  Vorotyntsev remembered the somber talk among ordinary soldiers, based on insidious rumors and distorted by unschooled imaginations. What sort of commotion could be expected now, when it reached the soldiers’ ears that the Empress had been called a traitress in the Duma, and their officers had to admit that it was so? Officers could assemble at headquarters, discuss what to do next, reach for their swords, but an ordinary soldier could not put his head out over the parapet of his trench, he had nowhere to go. How would he take it? He would surely throw down his rifle. Why should he go walking into machine-gun fire now?

  People were talking freely, mutinously even. Did the Emperor know? they asked. What would he do now? There must obviously be a change of government. Milyukov must be very sure of his position to have spoken so bluntly. The palace would have to back down! Then there would be changes!

  But what could they themselves do about it? Nobody knew which way to turn, nobody had any practical proposal, it was just talk, talk, talk …

  Vorotyntsev raised his voice so that he could be heard at several neighboring tables.

  “But where is this treason? What does it amount to? Has anyone of us, gentlemen, witnessed any actual instance of treason? If so, when?”

  No one chose to answer. They had heard what he had to say—and the hum of conversation resumed, every man talking to himself.

  If the idea of a coup had never previously occurred to Vorotyntsev he might have been more worked up than any of them. But he had been thinking it over for some weeks now, had pondered the arguments for and against and was still undecided, indeed was perhaps much further from a decision than when he had left Romania.

  The intractable engineer colonel had heard all he needed. “Milyukov should be indicted for making a speech like that, the scoundrel! People can get away with anything in this country. They’re a lot of scandalmongering old women, not representative of the nation.”

  A lieutenant colonel said, with the air of one in the know, that the Duma was in fact to be dissolved in a few days’ time. Stürmer, he said, was already on his way to GHQ to get the Emperor’s signature.

  Again, no one inquired how he knew. Things were like that now. Everyone had heard something. And most of them repeated accurately what they had heard.

  Vorotyntsev had a secret source of his own. Immediately after lunch he went to see Svechin.

  “So good old Gurko’s arrived! I’ve seen him myself!”

  “Yes, late last night. He sat up with the old man.” Svechin shook his bumpy boulder of a head. “The old man’s in a bad way. He has a high temperature. But there’s even worse news. The Living Corpse has also arrived. Yesterday.”

  Vorotyntsev felt sick. It was as if he had swallowed something slimy.

  “Where’s he sprung from? He’s supposed to be in France!”

  “Must have been in Petrograd. With some cock-and-bull report. About how he’d pinned medals on the mademoiselles.”

  “After Alekseev’s job? Thinks there’s a vacancy?” Vorotyntsev roared.

  “Indubitably. These carrion crows can smell things a long way off.”

  “The insolence of the man! The shamelessness of it!” He strode around the little office. “Zhilinsky! At a time like this! In command of the whole army! That really would be the end! Life wouldn’t be worth living! We couldn’t put up with that a single minute! And you sit there talking! We’ve got to do something about it ourselves! If we don’t he’s sure to be appointed!”

  All his hopes were dashed. Knocked on the head.

  “Don’t get too excited. Zhilinsky’s reputation is pretty shaky anyway. With Stürmer and Rasputin up there already they won’t want him as well. We’re getting more of a nose for reputations. Anyway, I don’t think Mikhail Vasilich will permit it at any price, he’ll outmaneuver them. He’d sooner forgo his sick leave and stay here and die at his desk.”

  They went into another building, to the orderly room, looking for Gurko.

  They found him in one of the less important offices. Just as they remembered him: the spiky mustache, the sharp eyes, the quick movements of that restless head.

  He was sitting at what could hardly be called a desk, and was certainly not his, blocking the aisle, looking like someone who had dropped in for a chat. He was wearing two George Crosses, one on his chest, one on his collar, and no other marks of distinction, such as Academy aiguillettes—superfluous clutter, in his view, although he had been on the General Staff for a quarter of a century. A few other senior officers, unconnected with that room, had gathered, out of friendship, not on business. There were no files, no stapled orders, no maps even, none of the usual paraphernalia of staff work—just a casual heap of clean sheets of paper, for anyone who felt like it to write, do calculations, or make drawings. Gurko—with the first sprinkling of silver in his mane of stiff, dark hair—looked around, half rose from his chair, greeted Svechin and Vorotyntsev with a quick handshake, showing no surprise, asking no questions, and in a clear but subdued voice—hardly the voice you would expect from someone with the general’s build, or in that room: elsewhere it could blare like Joshua’s trumpet before Jericho—continued his animated discussion with the officers, the tone of which the newcomers quickly grasped and adopted. Careful not to inquire why these matters were being discussed there, on that day, and with General Gurko, they were examining, with figures, the general’s idea, accepted in principle before Svechin and Vorotyntsev arrived, that it would be possible during the few short months of the winter lull to reorganize the Russian army. How should they proceed, and what reserves would they call on to convert the whole army, from the Baltic to the Black Sea, into three-battalion instead of four-battalion regiments, without letting the enemy feel any relaxation of Russian pressure? The advantages of the concept were obvious. The Germans had fielded three-battalion regiments from the start, thus avoiding overcrowding of the trenches with inactive manpower vulnerable to enemy fire. In this way the Russian army could gain forty-eight extra divisions, or release from the front line alone more than a million men.

  Vorotyntsev’s own favorite notion! To reduce the size of the army! He’s caught on! Put his mind to it!

  The advantages were obvious. But only a daredevil general, one not anxious for a quiet life, unconcerned with promotion, not susceptible to wilting under the burden of office, and so able to demand a free hand, to assert his independence of the Emperor, an
d of all those swarming like importunate midges around him—only such a man could act like this in the third winter of a war between huge and unwieldy forces.

  The fifty-two-year-old younger son of the famous Iosif Gurko, field marshal in the last Russo-Turkish war, who had taken mountains by storm, was just such a one. What marked Vasili Gurko out as a genuine commander was the fact that he never limited himself to carrying out orders, never confined himself within the bounds of his responsibilities, and never failed to draw general conclusions from every engagement, from the experience of his unit, and to pass them on to everyone else. Thus, his training manual based on the waging of position warfare on the Russian front was already in its seventh edition, and was eagerly snapped up. And now, though he was not yet the Supreme Commander’s Chief of Staff and might not be for some weeks yet, he saw no point in his rapid elevation unless he could proceed full speed to reorganize the army from top to bottom! At once, without delay, to reduce losses today, win the war tomorrow, without waiting for civil servants and committees for postwar this and postwar that to shake off their blissful lethargy.

  Such a scheme was sure to captivate! Svechin had to leave after a while, but it had taken Vorotyntsev only five minutes to find himself a stool, move it up to the table, and sit with the others, writing, calculating, drawing diagrams on the same sheets of paper, arguing with them as if he had been invited expressly for that purpose. They smoked, talked, reasoned with each other, without regard to rank, as if all the others were the equals of the full general and his aide-decamp. Gurko’s earnest gaze quickly weighed up possibilities, his clear, clipped voice summed up the alternatives and expressed his preferences in measured tones. Vorotyntsev felt hot—he was glowing with happiness. It was so long since he had taken a hand in staff work worthy of the name!

  What a joy it was to work with a man of talent!

  Gurko was remarkable for his grasp of essentials, his readiness to be persuaded instead of obstinately clinging to his own ideas, and his refusal to interfere in details once he had accepted a clear and definite decision in principle.

  The problem expanded rapidly, there was no easy way of limiting it. Having reorganized regiments, should a division be left with four regiments? Or should every formation comprise three units? Should infantry brigades be abolished as superfluous? What about the artillery? The number of pieces to a battery should long ago have been reduced from six to four: as it was, cannon were underused and shells wasted. But could the reorganization of both services be managed simultaneously? You couldn’t leave an infantry division with an artillery brigade reduced to twenty-four guns. Double the number of brigades perhaps? They would have to ask the Allies for more guns—and wouldn’t get them. What about field glasses, stereotelescopes, compasses, telephones? …

  All his life Vorotyntsev had been drawn to decisive people and repelled by ditherers. Anyone more decisive than Gurko it was impossible to imagine. The concentration in his lean, expressive face, and his laconic judgments, told you all you needed to know. He was not taken aback, not awed, not flustered by the abrupt enlargement of his responsibilities—far from it. He was growing quite naturally into his new post, even before he was appointed, as a plant grows simply and silently, because it cannot help growing. Just as long as Zhilinsky’s intrigues did not succeed, just as long as the disloyal and easily swayed Emperor did not change his mind! Here at last was a man of the twentieth century, assuming the position he was born to fill! If he could only go on acting as speedily and boldly for one year! The possibilities open to a commander were much reduced, but the country’s need of him was not. If this general lasted a year at GHQ the Russian army would bring the World War to a victorious conclusion. It was beginning to look as if Svechin was right! We have lost nothing yet!

  Why, after all, had he been so ready to give up? Vorotyntsev asked himself. He was made of the same stuff as Gurko, but looking at him across the cracked varnish of what had once been the table—not meant to serve as a desk—of the District Court, he could size the general up with no feeling of rivalry, merely with the desire to attach himself to the powerful tail of this comet.

  On his way here Vorotyntsev had clung to his secret scheme, and had even devised his opening move. He would say that he had met Guchkov in Petrograd, they had reviewed all the obvious names, and Guchkov had questioned him about Gurko with particular interest and enthusiasm. (It would be no lie, but a justifiable inference, that they had been talking about candidates for Alekseev’s post, and if Svechin had felt able to mention Gurko on that occasion, would Guchkov have been any less excited? Would he have paced his office any less excitedly? Would he not have thought of Gurko in that same context? Have wanted to meet him, with the same thoughts in mind? This supposition was something he owed to Guchkov, an undischarged obligation.) Ought he, perhaps, to tell Gurko about it, with due emphasis, and look for signs of a similar inclination on his part?

  And, immediately, he asked himself whether there was any point to it. He was so gripped by the technical problems of reorganizing the divisions that Guchkovian memories, which had been fading gradually since Petrograd, now finally flickered out. The real work to be done lay before him on the table. It restored him instantly to his normal alertness and readiness for action. Gurko, of course, must feel the same—ten times over. Even to hint at the other matter would be embarrassing, shameful, impossible. Do your duty, bear the burden, and don’t get underfoot!

  The determined set of the general’s mouth, his natural austerity, sternly forbade any hint that an oath once given could be broken.

  Svechin’s departure was followed by that of a second officer and a third, then another officer came into the room. Vorotyntsev stayed on. He was free all day and could have wished for no better way of spending it.

  By now they had thought through all the details of the reorganization. Several sheets of paper were covered with particulars of the tasks to be carried out, the names of those responsible for each of them, the numbers of personnel affected, and the composition of each unit. They could have gone on in greater detail, but they were already beginning to count in millions—and who said that Russia’s manpower was inexhaustible? What had become of her millions? The Quartermaster General was feeding six million at the front—yet there were only two million fighting men in all. In other words, four million were noncombatants, supply troops? How could they be siphoned off? Or look at it this way: The home front believed that it had given the forces fourteen million men. Losses in all categories amounted to six million. There should then be eight million left. There were in fact six million. Where were the missing two million? Then—with a cavalry general presiding!—they discussed the future of the cavalry. It was less and less needed in warfare, it gobbled up grain when there was a shortage, and there were millions of horses which would be more useful on the home front. They also discussed the provisioning of the army—there were still enough groats, sugar, and meat, but the supply of flour was inadequate.

  Finally, they turned to Romania. Gurko, it turned out, was anything but indifferent to events there, in fact they weighed on his mind. His own Army Group (known as the Guards Army—otherwise it would have been the 13th!) was after all stationed on the Southwestern Front. He understood the Romanian problem only too well. How could the front be held by Russian units interspersed with unreliable Romanian units? How much longer could they hold out? Gurko was acutely conscious that Russia’s alliance with “gallant Romania” was a disaster and a curse.

  The Tsar’s lunchtime was drawing near. Gurko, for some reason, had not been invited. Vorotyntsev was alarmed. Was this the result of Zhilinsky’s intrigues? Could he have squeezed Gurko out already?

  Vorotyntsev refused to believe it. It surely meant only that someone had not been told, and had not made the arrangements.

  But think of the trouble the Emperor would be having with him! He could not be swayed, could not be bent, could not be sweetened by an invitation to the table of the Highest, and the Emperor
would always hear the unvarnished truth. Every day of his temporary tenure this refractory character would behave as if he had been appointed for life. The Emperor would be deafened by the sound of his voice. Please, please, appoint him, and appoint him quickly!

  Meanwhile, the cavalry officer aide-de-camp had obtained two plates of something dry and the four of them chewed away as they worked. This was when Gurko first mentioned directly the appointment they had been taking for granted. He deplored the fact that he was always having to work with new people. That year he had been forcibly dragged from one command to another—from his corps to the 5th Army, to the Northern Front, to the Guards Army, and everywhere he had found and attracted invaluable officers, many of whom had asked to be taken with him each time he was transferred, and there were many he would have gladly brought to GHQ, such as General Miller from the 5th Army, whom he had mentioned before, but it couldn’t be done, it would be improper, it was too much trouble.

  Vorotyntsev realized at once that he would not be summoned to GHQ, that this one happy day of total absorption was all he could expect.

  Looked at another way, this was only reasonable, and indeed necessary: now that he knew the rationale and procedure of the reorganization Vorotyntsev was indeed best back where he came from, on the periphery, to work on this program—but at the headquarters of the 9th Army, which would shortly be reinforced by several corps, because the Romanians were so ineffectual. Gurko would give the order as soon as he took over.

  If he ever did.

  Anyway, as part of the general reorganization the spotlight would fall on the distant Romanian corner too.

  This was a man who would not squander Russian blood.

  Vorotyntsev had, in any case, not really been looking for a post at GHQ—Svechin had thrown him off course by trying to talk him into it.