When the peasant drove by at night, he was followed by a whole group of people. His feisty wife sat on the cart. On foot there were food smugglers, a family of the “bourgeoisie,” and three German prisoners-of-war. It was an irony of fate that we, Russian officers, trusted our recent enemies, the Germans, most. They were obviously fleeing from the Bolsheviks. And we spoke some German. We walked along behind the wagon for a long time. It was a moonlit night.
“This village has the first Bolshevik checkpoint.”
We made a large semi-circle around the village and marched for an hour. There was another checkpoint. We went around it as well. “This village has the third and last checkpoint. It’s the worst, because they send out patrols.”
The whole night the peasant’s wife was angry at him. She was to give up her place to the father of the family and a small child who could not walk anymore. Her husband had not bought her the promised new items of clothing. She began to carp at him in a high, angry voice. In the still of the night her voice carried far, and she could be heard by the Bolsheviks. “Shut up, you witch! You’ll get us into trouble,” said the father of the family.
“You’re the devil yourself,” screeched the peasant woman
“I’ll cut your throat if you don’t shut up.” He pulled out a penknife.
“Oh, yeah. I’ll show you. Help! Help! Murder!”
“What can I do with this crazy woman?” said the frightened peasant. “Run, quick. The Reds will come any minute. Down this road to the right, left at the gully, the second road on the right and then the border is not far.”
The Germans and the two of us began to run. Down the road to the right, to the gully, but there the road turned right and not to the left. “Let’s not get lost. Better wait.”
We went off a hundred strides from the road and lay down in the grass. Soon our peasant drove by. We waited to be sure that he wasn’t followed and started after him at some distance.
Then I made a mistake.
I stopped to relieve myself. The Germans and my brother went ahead. I was going after them at a run, when out of the wheat on both sides of the road soldiers appeared and put their bayonets against my chest.
“Stop!”
146
Chapter Fifteen
A thought flashed through my mind: “Should I run? But my brother . . .” I stayed. Had we been together, we would have escaped. The Germans ran off. My brother stayed because of me.
The soldiers took us to the place where our whole group was being held, except for the Germans. I stood apart from my brother. There was a Bolshevik commissar, about forty soldiers and five mounted men.
“Where are you going and what is your business?”
We all said that we were going to the Ukraine for flour since there was famine in Moscow. The commissar then announced that we all could go except “you and you,” pointing to my brother and myself.
“Why are you holding us, comrade commissar, we’re all part of the same crew.”
“Is that right?” he asked the others. To our relief, they all answered “yes.”
“Nevertheless, you stay.”
The others joyfully left.
“So why are you holding us?”
“You want to know? I’ll tell you. Your mugs are White.”
Things were getting bad. He had guessed our identities. We, of course, denied everything.
“I’ll take you to headquarters. They’ll decide what to do with you.”
We had no desire to go to headquarters where we would have been shot on the spot. We weren’t searched and proceeded as a group, talking to one another. Seizing a moment my brother whispered: “The letters. Do as I do.”
We had been given letters of introduction to all sorts of White generals. What stupid carelessness. Each one of those letters was a death sentence. We had divided the letters. I had some and my brother had some.
My brother began to scratch himself which in these times was not unusual. All the trains were louse-infested. He shoved his hand into an inside pocket and I heard the sound of crumpling paper. I began to chatter away in order to deflect attention. My brother crushed the letters in his fist, put them in his mouth and began to chew, while ripping off small pieces which could be thrown away unnoticed. A large piece couldn’t be thrown away because of the brightness of the moon. It would have been noticed. He looked like a person pensively chewing a blade of grass. I kept chattering away. Finally my brother spoke—he had gotten rid of the letters.
It was my turn. I remembered that they were in my billfold. I had to open the billfold within my pocket and pull out the letters. It was high-quality paper and when I crushed the letters it seemed that the whole world could hear the crackle. At a moment when my brother had the attention of the guards I shoved the letters into my mouth. But I couldn’t chew them; there wasn’t enough saliva. Tears ran from my eyes, and I became nauseous. Through an
Sergei Mamontov, Civil War: A White Army Journal
147
act of will I forced myself to chew slowly. Everything came out well. Rid of the damming evidence, we offered to be searched by the commissar. But he declined.
We kept trudging toward headquarters. My brother looked at one of the soldiers. “I know you, but I can’t remember where we met. Where are you from?”
“Vladimir Province.”
“Which village?”
“Nikitovka.”
“Nikitovka! I know it well. I was on leave there two years ago.”
I became cautious. My brother was up to something, but he didn’t know Vladimir Province or Nikitovka.
“You know Nikitovka?” The soldier was surprised.
“Do I? Of course, that’s where I saw you, you must know old . . . what’s her name . . . auntie Anna, the bent-over one with the hunchback?”
“Not Anna, you must mean Mariia?”
“Of course, Mariia. Stupid me, Anna is in a totally different place. So how is old, dear aunt Mariia, grouchy as ever. You know her?”
“How could I not know her, she’s my aunt.”
“You’re kidding. That makes us kinfolk. Strange running into each other like this.”
My brother inquired in detail of news from Nikitovka, about Petr’s family, our new relative, and of aunt Mariia. Petr was happy to find a kinsman and talked with relish. Then my brother repeated the same back to him with some variations. We had acquired a friend and even a relative amidst our convoy. In a similar fashion it turned out that a soldier named Pavel had been in the same regiment as my brother. Or, rather, my brother had been in his regiment. They reminisced of battles (all battles resemble each other) and the deeply moved soldier gave my brother a cigarette. My brother didn’t smoke, but he had that one with obvious pleasure. The other soldiers listened sympathetically. My brother had created a good-natured mood among our guards.
Then my brother suggested that our case be put to a vote (such voting was popular at that time) and without waiting for a decision took the matter into his own hands. “Well, Petr,” he said to our relative, “what do you say, shall we go or not?”
Petr was confused, but finally he said, “I don’t know . . . I’ll go along with the others.” The formula was found.
“One vote to let us go,” said my brother. “And what about you, Pavel?”
Pavel repeated the previous response. Soon everyone had agreed except the commissar who was asked last.
“My decision is to take you to headquarters,” he declared.
148
Chapter Fifteen
“What is this comrades?” exclaimed my brother. “Forty-two votes to let us go, only one against but he wants to do it his way, disregarding your will. This is an overstepping of authority. Where is equality and justice I ask you? He thinks that he is an officer with golden epaulets and he can do whatever he wants. No, comrades, those days are over. Nowadays everyone is equal under the law. The will of the people and the opinion of the majority should be respected. Comrades, will you put up with s
uch an attitude towards yourselves? He’s behaving like one of the bourgeoisie with contempt for the will of the people. Am I right, comrades?”
Such an unexpected turn had its success. The soldiers in the back became concerned. Voices could be heard: “Of course, he’s right. And you commissar, are you better than us?” “You’ll catch a beating if you keep this up.” Apparently there was no love lost for the commissar. He was taken aback but soon regained his self-control.
“Comrades, these are clever counter-revolutionaries, they’re deceiving you.”
The crowd grew silent. Things were getting bad again. But the commissar wasn’t sure of his men. He decided to get rid of us.
“All right,” he said to us, “you go straight down that road. We’ll catch up to you in a minute.” We did not want to move because that is how people get shot in the back of the head.
“We don’t know the way, give us two guides,” and my brother pulled the hands of our new friends. We moved away a bit. The commissar gathered his men in a circle and began to talk quietly.
“Petr, friend,” said my brother, “you ought to arrange something. I don’t want to go to headquarters at all.”
“You’re dead right. They will shoot you there, no questions asked.”
“You see. Go talk with the commissar in a friendly way. Ask him what he wants? I’m ready to give him a bottle of vodka.”
“Hey, that’ll do it. Wait here, I’ll go talk.” He came back very quickly. “The commissar agrees.”
“Luck’s with us. How much does a bottle cost?”
“A hundred rubles.”
“A hundred. You can get one in Moscow for forty. But OK. A hundred it is.” My brother counted out a hundred rubles in coin. It was foolhardy to appear to be rich. Nothing prevented our friends from robbing us.
“Here’s a hundred rubles and three for a drink for you.”
The arrangement was made, but it was shaky. Would the commissar keep the bargain? He probably made it against his wishes. Will he have us shot at the last moment? The difficult part now was to leave our new friends. We went back to the group. The commissar was again talking quietly and stopped as we approached. My brother shook his hand with feeling.
Sergei Mamontov, Civil War: A White Army Journal
149
“We lost our heads before and said things we shouldn’t have. We didn’t mean to offend. Peace is always better than a quarrel.”
My brother kept close to the commissar not giving him the chance to conspire with his henchmen and finish us off. We settled down in a circle and cigarettes were passed all around. My brother and I did not smoke, but we lit up and began relating the news from Moscow.
My brother glanced at the moon. My nerves were so taut that I understood him without words. A large cloud was about to cover the moon. It would be dark in a few minutes. We would have to use this darkness to escape. It would shield us from bullets and pursuit. As the cloud covered the moon, we stood up.
“It’s been nice talking to you, but we have to catch up to our companions. Otherwise we’ll lose our flour money” (we made this up to facilitate our escape).
“Don’t hold us up on our way back, and most of all, don’t confiscate our flour. Goodbye, Petr. A low bow from me to Aunt Mariia. Goodbye, Pavel. Nice to see you again. You and I lived through things which are hard to forget. Goodbye, friends. Here’s hoping we’ll see each other again in this life. Thank you for your kind, humane treatment.”
We shook everyone’s hand. The commissar tried to detain us. “Wait a bit,” he said.
“No, no. We can’t. We’ve stayed too long as it is. We’ll never catch our crew.”
It was dark now. We turned and walked away at a rapid rate. The commissar began to talk with his cronies. We were almost beyond their field of vision.
“Run, on your toes” (to muffle our footfalls), whispered my brother. We sprinted for all we were worth in order to put as much distance between them and us as possible.
“To the right, into the wheat, zig-zag and then hit the ground.” We ran into the high wheat and zig-zagged not to leave a clear trail, hit the ground, covered our faces with our sleeves and froze. (A moonlit face is very visible.)
Right away horsemen galloped down the road. Searching for us. They galloped past us, returned, and swept into the wheat fields. We heard muffled voices and horses rustling through the wheat. Then it grew quiet. We did not move. They might have set and ambush. An endlessly long time went by. Can one measure such moments? I heard a faint rustling in the stalks, looked up carefully—it was a hare. “If it’s a hare,” I thought, “then chances are there are no men.” I took off my cap, raised myself no higher than the wheat, looked about with one eye, listening intensely. Silence. Then I whistled softly as we did when hunting. My brother answered. We found each other.
150
Chapter Fifteen
“Only not the road. We’ll cut through the wheat.” After an hour we saw several huts. One of them had a feeble light. An old woman was baking bread. She gave us milk and indicated the border: a small river.
We caught two horses from a herd and crossed the river on them. We were in the Ukraine. Then we collapsed beneath some bushes and fell asleep. That night we had walked more than sixty versts. Our feet were chafed raw.
In the evening we came to Iampol, where we met our three Germans. They got us a pass from the German commandant.
A bottle of vodka for two lives, not a bad deal. Since that time vodka became something akin to the water of life for me. I owe my very being to it. I also fondly remember my brother’s cool-headed resourcefulness. He got us out of a deathtrap.
IN JEOPARDY [SEVERAL MONTHS LATER]
We had been on the march. Before us lay the large industrial city of Iuzovka (later Stalino). The sluggish river Kal’mius flowed here. This was a historical river, once called Kalka. On its shores in 1223 the Russians first encountered the Tatars and Mongols and were crushed by them.
Just at that time Red headquarters decided to stage a huge two-pronged assault. One prong was directed at Novocherkassk from the east and the other at Mospino, right where we were. The two prongs were to meet and envelop the Don and the Volunteer armies in a pincers.
In total ignorance of the responsibility which had fallen on our meager force we crossed the river and positioned our two field pieces some fifty strides to the left of the bridge. The rolling hills in front of us were occupied by infantry of the Markovets Regiment. The weather was wonderful, no gunfire was heard and we spread ourselves on the grass. I let my horse Dura graze, Kolzakov and Shapilovskii were on a hill in front of the battery. They were connected to us by a chain of scouts who would pass orders.
Everything seemed peaceful and quiet but suddenly artillery shells began to burst near the battery. The Reds could not see us but they suspected the battery’s location. Whenever a shell burst we would throw a lump of dirt at a sleeping comrade. He’d leap up in fright, thinking that he was wounded.
But the Reds’ shells came with increased frequency and we weren’t laughing anymore. They had to be firing at a great distance, because we could not hear the reports.
Then suddenly four armored cars appeared. Our infantry collapsed into the tall grass and let them by. They headed for us. We began firing directly at them. They sprayed us with machine-gun fire. This lasted for the longest ten
Sergei Mamontov, Civil War: A White Army Journal
151
minutes, maybe longer. But despite the close distance we could not knock out an armored car nor could they inflict any losses. When you are nervous, your aim is off.
One of the armored cars chased our commanders, Kolzakov and Shapilovskii, round and round a hillock. In firing at the armored car we almost obliterated our commanders. The armored cars left, having failed to dislodge us. An intermission followed. Then dark chains of Reds appeared, one after another marching elbow to elbow. Evidently they were miners because they were in black and not in olive drab. We could
see three chains but the infantry said there were nine. We were surprised at the use of such a huge force against our two artillery pieces and some fifty to sixty infantrymen. We opened up and fired fiercely in all directions because the Reds tried to turn our flanks and press the field pieces against the uncrossable, swampy river. We kept a special eye on the bridge, lest the Reds take it and cut off our only means of retreat.
Word came from our commanders that the shrapnel rounds were improperly set. I looked at the soldier setting the timing mechanism. He was wide-eyed with terror and stared at the advancing Reds while mindlessly turning the head of a round with a wrench. I pushed him aside and began setting the necessary distance myself. It was precise and attentive work, hard to do under fire because your hand shook. At that moment the artillery piece was turned ninety degrees and fired right above my head. I received a powerful, deafening shock to my ear. Blood began to flow from it. But there was no time to attend to such trifles. I worked feverishly.
Our thin chain of Markovets infantry did not flinch. Their machine gun was doing a wonderful job. Our shrapnel tore out clusters of men from the Red ranks. The first two chains faltered, but a third came up and the advance continued. They began approaching the bridge. We had to fall back. The infantry crossed on a fallen log and the battery headed for the bridge. One piece would fire point blank while the other galloped low along the river coming up within 150 strides to open fire in turn. Then the other piece would move toward the bridge, stop, and fire. Thus alternating, the battery crossed the river.
So much for the battery. My circumstances were totally different. I had let Dura loose to go graze and paid no attention to her because of the battle. When the battery took off, I ran for Dura. But she wasn’t used to me yet, and ran off toward the Reds. Afraid of losing her, I ran after her in despair. Luckily, the retreating infantry turned Dura, and I caught her through dumb luck. All this took place under heavy fire from the Reds. The battery was firing back by the bridge. The infantry was crossing via the fallen tree. I was at a loss. The river was uncrossable; Dura would founder in the muck. The bridge? Was it too late? Had to try it. “Go, Dura, give it all. Go!” And she
The Russian Century Page 22