THE RUSSIAN LEFT
GERMANIKOWKA, GALICIA,
_July 3, 1915_.
The army of the Bukovina, or the extreme Russian left, is probably the
most romantic organization operating in one of the most picturesque
countries in the whole theatre of this gigantic war. In the first place
the left is composed very largely of the type of cavalry which I think
no other country in the world can duplicate, that is the irregular
horsemen brought from all parts of the East. Tribes from the Caucasus,
Tartars, Mongols, and I know not what others, are here welded together
into brigades and divisions, and make, all told, nearly two complete
army corps with only a sprinkling of infantry and regular cavalry.
It was this army that gained such headway in its advance toward the
Hungarian plain, and it is this very army that is credited with so
alarming the Hungarians that they threatened independent peace unless
something was done for them. That something we know now was Austria’s
wail to Germany and the resulting Galician campaign.
During all the first part of the great German drive, this army with
its hordes of wild cavalry was proceeding confidently “hacking its way
through” all resistance, and capturing thousands upon thousands of
Austrians or Hungarians that came in its way. For nearly a month after
things were going badly in the West, it was moving victoriously forward
until it became evident that unless it stopped it would find itself an
independent expedition headed for Buda-Pest and completely out of touch
with the rest of the Russian line which was withdrawing rapidly. Then
came a pause, and as the flanking armies continued to retreat, the army
was very unwillingly obliged to retire also to keep in touch with its
neighbour. My own impression as to the spirits of this army, especially
of the cavalry corps, is similar to the impression one forms when one
sees a bulldog being let loose from another hound whom he has down,
and is chewing luxuriously when his master comes along, and drags him
away on a leash. So these troops have retired snarling and barking over
their shoulders, hoping that the enemy would follow close enough to let
them have another brush with them.
[Illustration: G. H. Mewes.]
There has been fighting of more or less acuteness, especially where
German troops have been engaged, but taken on the whole this portion
of the Russian front cannot be considered a serious one and their
withdrawal has been forced by the greater strategy. I found many of
the younger officers of the opinion that they could advance at any
time if they only had the permission from the powers that be. As for
the soldiers--a single look into those set swarthy faces was enough to
satisfy one that they would willingly advance in any event regardless
of policy or orders either. I have never seen such fierce looking men
in my life. Many of them do not speak Russian, and to them the war
is a real joy. Heretofore they have had to be content to fight among
themselves for nothing in particular; now that they have a chance
to fight for something really great they are in their element. I
question how valuable troops of this character would be under different
conditions, but here in this rough Bukovina country they are nearly
ideal for their work, as is manifest from the manner in which they have
swept the enemy before them.
On leaving Tarnopol we came directly to the head-quarters of one of
these corps, where we spent three extremely interesting days. The
position which this army was holding is, in a rough way, from the
junction of the Zota Lipa and the Dniester, down that river to a point
perhaps 20 versts west of Chocin, and thence in an irregular line
40 or 50 versts through Bukovina in the direction of the Roumanian
frontier. The Dniester itself is a deep-flowing river lying between
great bluffs which for miles skirt the river bank on both sides. These
bluffs are for the most part crested with heavy timber. In a general
way the Russians are holding one bank, and the Austrians the other,
though here and there patches of Russians have clung to the South side,
while in one or two spots Austrians backed by Germans have gained a
foothold on the north bank. The first afternoon I arrived, I went out
to a 356 metre hill from where I could look over the whole country.
I discerned easily the lines of the Austrian and Russian positions
between which was the valley through which flowed the Dniester. There
are any number of young Petrograd swells here who have left their
crack cavalry corps, many of which are dismounted and fighting in the
trenches in Poland and on other fronts, to put on the uniform of the
Cossack and lead these rough riders of the East in their romantic
sweeps towards the Hungarian plains. I have been in some armies where I
found hardly any one who spoke English, but in this one corps I found
nearly a score who spoke it, many as well as I did, which indicates
pretty clearly the type of young men that Russia has here, and is
one reason, no doubt, why the army has done so well.
[Illustration: Stanley Washburn, Prince Oblensky, Count Tolstoy, Count
Keller.]
Here I met Count Tolstoi, son of the novelist; Count Keller, whose
father was killed by Japanese shrapnel on the Motienling Pass in
Manchuria, and many other men whose names are well known in Russia.
Count Keller was the ranking Captain in a squadron (_sotnia_, I believe
they call it) of cavalry from the Caucasus, and carried us off to his
lair in a valley not far from the Dniester. Here we met a courteous old
Persian who commanded the regiment, and dined in a quaint old castle
where they had their head-quarters. Deep in its little valley, the
castle was not seen by the Austrians, but had long since been spotted
by the aeroplanes of the enemy. The result was that every afternoon
a few shells were sent over the southern ridge of hills, just to let
the regimental staff know that they were not forgotten. The day before
we arrived twelve horses were killed in the garden, and while we were
cleaning up for dinner, a shrapnel shell whined through the yard
bursting somewhere off in the brush.
After dinner the dancers of the regiment came up and in the half-light
performed their weird evolutions. In long flowing coats, with their
oriental faces, emitting uncanny sounds from their mouths, they formed
a picture that I shall long remember. Count Keller told me that in
spite of all their wildness they were fine troops to command, for, as
he said, “They have very high ideals of their profession. I may be
killed or wounded, but I am always sure that my men will never leave
me. They cannot speak my tongue, but there is not a man in my command
who would not feel himself permanently disgraced if he left the body of
his officer on the field of battle. They are absolutely fearless and
will go anywhere, caring nothing whatever for death, wounds, hardship
or anything else that war brings forth. I am very fond of them indeed.”
The positions at this point were about three versts distant from our
little isolated valley, and as they were out on the crest of the bluff
it was impossible to visit them until after dark. So on the great
veranda of the castle we sat late after our dinner, until darkness fell
and a great full moon rose slowly above the neighbouring hills flooding
the valley with its silver rays, bringing out the old white castle as
clearly in the darkness as a picture emerges from a photographic plate
when the developer is poured upon it. It was just after midnight when
Count Keller and I, well mounted on Cossack ponies, rode down into the
valley and turned our horses on to the winding road that runs beside
the little stream that leaps and gurgles over the rocks on the way
to the Dniester. For a mile or more we followed the river, and then
turning sharply to the right, took a bridle path and climbed slowly
up the sharp side of the bluff. For fifteen or twenty minutes we rode
through the woods, now in the shadow and now out in an opening where
the shadows of the branches swaying softly in the moonlight made
patterns on the road. Suddenly we came out upon a broad white road
where the Count paused.
“We are advised to leave the horses here,” he remarked casually, “Shall
we go on? Are you afraid?” Not knowing anything about the position I
had no ideas on the subject, so we continued down the moonlit road,
and while I was wondering where we were, we came out abruptly on the
bluff just above the river, where the great white road ran along
the crest for a mile or more. I paused for a moment to admire the
view. Deep down below us, like a ribbon of silver in the shimmering
moonlight, lay the great river. Just across on the other bank was the
Austrian line with here and there spots of flickering light where the
Austrians had fires in their trenches. There was not a sound to mar
the silence of the perfect night save the gentle rustle of the wind in
the trees. “The Austrians can see us plainly from here,” remarked the
Count indifferently. “Gallop!” The advice seemed sound to me, but not
knowing the country I was obliged to reply, “Which way?” “Right,” he
replied laconically.
It is sufficient to say that I put spurs to my horse, and for the mile
that lay exposed in the moonlight my little animal almost flew while
the Count pounded along a close second just behind me. A mile away we
reached the welcome shadows of a small bunch of trees, and as I rode
into the wood I was sharply challenged by a guttural voice, and as
I pulled my horse up on his haunches a wild-looking Cossack took my
bridle. Before I had time to begin an explanation, the Count came up
and the sharp words of the challenge were softened to polite speeches
of welcome from the officer in command.
We were in the front line trench or rather just behind it, for the road
lay above it while the trench itself was between it and the river where
it could command the crossing with its fire. Here as elsewhere, I found
men who could speak English, the one an officer and the other a man in
charge of a machine gun. This man had been five years in Australia and
had come back to “fight the Germans,” as he said. For an hour we sat up
on the crest of the trench under the shadow of a tree, and watched in
the sky the flare of a burning village to our right, which was behind
the Russian lines, and had been fired just at dark by Austrian shells.
I found that all the Russians spoke well of the Austrians. They said
they were kindly and good-natured, never took an unfair advantage,
lived up to their flags of truce, etc. Their opinion of the Germans
was exactly the opposite. One man said, “Sometimes the Austrians call
across that they won’t shoot during the night. Then we all feel easy
and walk about in the moonlight. One of our soldiers even went down
and had a bathe in the river, while the Austrians called across to him
jokes and remarks, which of course he could not understand. The Germans
say they won’t fire, and just as soon as our men expose themselves they
begin to shoot. They are always that way.”
[Illustration: Cossacks dancing the Tartars’ native dance.]
I have never known a more absolutely quiet and peaceful scene than this
from the trench on the river’s bluff. As I was looking up the streak of
silver below us, thinking thus, there came a deep boom from the east
and then another and another, and then on the quiet night the sharp
crackle of the machine guns and the rip and roar of volley firing. It
was one of those spasms of fighting that ripple up and down a line
every once in a while, but after a few minutes it died away, the last
echoes drifting away over the hills, and silence again reigned over the
Dniester. The fire in the village was burning low, and the first grey
streaks of dawn were tinging the horizon in the east when we left the
trench, and by a safer bridle path returned to the castle and took our
motor-car for head-quarters which we reached just as the sun was rising.
The positions along this whole front are of natural defence and have
received and required little attention. Rough shelter for the men, and
cover for the machine guns is about all that any one seems to care
for here. The fighting is regarded by these wild creatures as a sort
of movable feast, and they fight now in one place and now in another.
Of course they have distinctive lines of trenches, though they cannot
compare with the substantial works that one finds in the Bzura-Rawka
lines and the other really serious fronts in Poland and elsewhere. In
a general way it matters very little whether the army moves forward or
backward just here. The terrain for 100 versts is adapted to defence,
and the army can, if it had to do so, go back so far without yielding
to the enemy anything that would have any important bearing on the
campaign of the Russian Army as a whole. From the first day that I
joined this army, I felt the conviction that it could be relied upon to
take care of itself, and that its retirements or changes of front could
be viewed with something approaching to equanimity.
WITH A RUSSIAN CAVALRY CORPS