Derek Robinson - A Splendid Little War

“India to Siberia,” Stattaford said. “Somewhat different climates.”

Johnson had nothing to add to that.

“What were your orders?” James Weatherby asked. “When you left India, that is.”

“To take my battalion to Omsk and to assist the White Russian Army to establish a new eastern front against the Germans. Omsk is about a thousand miles east of Moscow, and so not in any danger from the Germans. But that didn’t matter because it took us two months to get to Omsk, and by then Germany had surrendered.”

“Two months,” Stattaford said. “Less than speedy.”

“Shipping was scarce. We sailed to Ceylon, then to Hong Kong, and to Singapore, and finally to Vladivostok, on the Russian Pacific coast. From there we took the Trans-Siberian Railway. It’s a long way to Omsk, at least two thousand miles, and the train goes slowly. Sometimes not at all.”

“And when you arrived?” Weatherby said. “How did that go?”

“I believe we did our duty,” Johnson said slowly. “I believe we performed as well as any men could.”

“Splendid, splendid,” Fitzroy said. It wasn’t splendid at all; it was rather dull. “How did you get along with Admiral Kolchak? What were your impressions of him?”

“Kolchak.” Johnson gave that question some thought. “A brave man. Energetic. Knew what he wanted. He was the only totally honest man I met in Russia.”

That amused Charles Delahaye, from the Treasury. “Honesty is a rare commodity, is it?”

Johnson took a deep breath, held it for a second, and released it. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am very proud of my Hampshires. But if anything I say here were to appear in the Press, the name and reputation of the regiment might suffer in the eyes of some people. That would be grossly unfair.”

“Nothing said here leaves this room,” Fitzroy told him. Everyone nodded agreement.

“Well then. You ask about honesty. All of the White Russian generals whom I met, and my officers met, were corrupt or incompetent, and most were both. The same went for the regimental officers. They treated their rank as an opportunity to make money at the expense of the ordinary Russian soldier, who is half-starved, abominably clothed, badly armed, and ill-led. Officers regard their men with contempt and steal the money which is meant to feed and clothe them. There is no common purpose, no esprit de corps . The generals conspire against each other. All of them drink too much and some are permanently drunk.”

“Goodness,” Fitzroy said. “Rather a bombshell.”

“But surely,” Stattaford said, “you could train the soldiers. You could take a rabble and turn it into something like the British Army. We did, in the war. Made good troops out of useless civilians.”

“Mmm. A nice idea. But the comparison is not apt, general. We moved the whole battalion five hundred miles from Omsk, by rail, to Ekaterinburg. Not to be confused with Ekaterinodar or Ekaterinoslav, near the Black Sea. Ekaterinburg is in Siberia. We took charge of eight thousand Russian recruits. They were — it gives me no pleasure to tell you this — all filthy, all lousy, thoroughly infested with vermin. Our first task was to strip them and wash them, they could not be relied on to wash themselves. Their rags of clothing were burned and the recruits were disinfected, head to foot. Only then could we equip them with British Army uniform.”

Sir Franklyn Fletcher stirred himself. “How many of your officers spoke Russian?”

“A few had a smattering. Not a problem, because many recruits spoke no Russian either. They came from Mongolia. Moslems, most of them.”

“Ah,” Stattaford said. “French Army had a spot of bother like that. Colonial troops, Moroccans, very keen on prayer.”

“One learned to adjust,” Johnson said. “If half the squad disappears during bayonet practice, so be it.”

“The key question is,” Delahaye said, “did your training pay off? I mean, did you end up with an élite group, keen as mustard to fight the Bolsheviks?”

“It wasn’t as simple as that.” Johnson stood up. “Excuse me, gentlemen.” He limped to and fro. “My legs have taken a bit of a hammering lately. Knees get stiff.” He returned, and stood behind his chair, gripping the top. “What I should explain is that Siberia is a shambles, a state of anarchy. Admiral Kolchak’s men control the railway — well, some of it, some of the time — but there are tens of thousands of square miles on either side that are full of warlords, guerrilla groups, private armies, bandits, leftover German and Austrian prisoners of war, all sorts of odds and sods. They don’t support Kolchak, and they certainly won’t fight for him, because they believe he wants to be the next Tsar of all the Russias.”

Sir Franklyn asked: “And does he?”

“He claims to be the Supreme Power.”

“And you think that is a fiction.”

“His grip is tenuous. Conspiracies against him abound. A plot by his generals to overthrow him would have succeeded if the Hampshires hadn’t been there to quash it.”

“Yet he’s running the show in Siberia,” Weatherby said. “How did that happen?”

“Oh… I can think of three reasons. Firstly, he has more money than anyone else. He has the Imperial Gold Reserve, acquired I don’t know how, and worth a hundred million pounds. Secondly, he has the Czech Brigade. Sixty thousand men, very disciplined, very tough. Thirdly, all the other White Russian leaders are quite hopeless.”

It made them laugh. Johnson shrugged, and did not laugh.

“Well, that certainly clears the air,” Fitzroy said.

“It’s not as simple as it sounds,” Johnson said. “The gold is an enormous hazard. Everyone wants to steal it. The Czechs are tired of fighting. They want to go home, now. And the other White leaders are too stupid to realize how stupid they are. They will overthrow Kolchak even if it kills them. Which the Bolsheviks will gladly do.”

There was a knock on the door. “Coffee,” Weatherby said. “Praise be. We need some stimulus.”

The coffee circulated. Everyone left their seats and enjoyed a little exercise. James Weatherby and Sir Francis strolled around the room, looking at portraits of long-dead statesmen.

“Delicious coffee,” Sir Francis said. “What’s wrong with the Royal College of Embroidery?”

“Out of bounds. Influenza struck down the staff. You probably recognie this chap. Lord Palmerston. Diplomacy was a lot easier in his day. Any problem, send a gunboat.”

“Not a formula that would apply to Siberia. It’s rather a long way up the Volga.”

They moved on. “What do you make of our guest?” Weatherby asked quietly.

“Well, I happen to know he was President of the Union when he was at Oxford. He’s nobody’s fool.”

“Too clever for the Army?”

“Perhaps. I say: who was this handsome fellow?”

“Um… Spencer Perceval. The only Prime Minister to be assassinated. His murderer ran up a lot of debts in Russia, blamed them on the government, and when it refused to pay, he shot poor Perceval.”

“Dear me.”

“Gunned down in the lobby of the House of Commons. 1812.”

“A very Russian solution. We have elections, they have assassinations.”

“Doesn’t make them any happier, does it?”

Sir Francis shrugged. “I don’t think Russians expect to be happy. But they do like to register their disapproval.”

General Stattaford was talking to Delahaye. “Did I see a little glint in your eye at the mention of a hundred million in gold, Charles?”

“It would make a dent in their debt, certainly.”

“Russia’s flat broke. They’ll never pay.”

“No, probably not. Our friend makes Kolchak’s crowd sound like a grisly lot. And why must they keep slaughtering the Jews?”