OUR ALLY RUSSIA
Prepare, prepare the iron helm of war,
Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb;
The Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands,
And casts them out upon the darkened earth,
Prepare, prepare!
Prepare your hearts for Death’s cold hand! Prepare
Your souls for flight, your bodies for the earth!
Prepare your arms for glorious victory!
Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God!
Prepare, prepare!
BLAKE.
I should now like to tell you something of our great ally, Russia, and
of the gallant deeds performed by her soldiers in this war.
Valour does not belong to one nation more than to another, but each
country, and this is rather a curious fact, has its own kind of valour.
The British excel in what I should call the “forlorn hope”—the kind of
valour that stood our soldiers in such fine stead at Mons, and during
Sir John French’s magnificent retreat. The Marquis of Montrose embodied
the spirit of England and this peculiar stoical type of valour when he
wrote:
“He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all.”
The Briton never fears his fate too much to put it to the touch—that is
why he generally gains it all!
Now the Russian has a singularly splendid kind of valour. It is the kind
that faces _certain_ death for love of country, with joy rather than
with resignation. Never in the history of mankind was a finer thing done
than the sailing of the Russian Fleet to certain doom, during the
Russo-Japanese War. Every man, from admiral to stoker, knew of the fate
awaiting him, and every man went cheerfully to the encounter for the
sake of “Holy Russia.”
This courage of the Russians is part of their grand passion for romance,
or what people now call idealism. A great many years ago a writer
quaintly and truly wrote in _Blackwood’s Magazine_: “I have seen the
unromantic drop like sheep under the rot of their calamities, while the
romantic have been buoyant and mastered them.” So never let anyone laugh
us out of being romantic. Too often those who try to do so are in the
sad case of the fox who, having lost his tail, could not endure to see
any other fox with one.
It was this same peculiar strain of magnificent, romantic courage which
made the Governor of Moscow, after having given orders to burn the city,
when Napoleon and his Grand Army were approaching, himself set fire to
his own beloved house. This great deed will live in the long noble
history of human sacrifice and valour as long as the world endures, for
it was the burning of Moscow which turned the tide against the greatest
conqueror Europe had known since Julius Cæsar.
The Russians are as mighty with the pen as with the sword. The finest
story ever written on war was written by a Russian named Count Tolstoi.
It is called “War and Peace.”
And now to the Russians this great war with Germany is a crusade, a holy
war. They are fighting for their fellow-Slavs, who like them belong to
the Greek Church, and who if they became Germans and Austrians would be
most cruelly oppressed by their conquerors. So strong is this feeling in
Russia that it has united everyone—from the Tsar to the poorest
moujik—in one great passion for justice and freedom.
The following moving letter from his mother was found on the breast of a
Russian officer killed in action. It will show you more than anything I
can tell you how Russia feels about this war:
“Your father was killed very far from us, and I send you for the sacred
duty of defending our dear country from the vile and dreadful enemy.
Remember you are the son of a hero. My heart is oppressed, and I weep
when I ask you to be worthy of him. I know all the fateful horror of
these words, what suffering it will be for me and you, but we do not
live for ever in this world. What is our life? A drop in the ocean of
beautiful Russia. We must die, but she will live for ever. I know we
shall be forgotten, and our happy descendants will not remember those
who sleep in ‘brothers’ graves’ (soldiers’ graves).
“With kisses and blessings I parted with you. When you are sent to
perform a great deed, don’t remember my tears but only my blessing. God
save you, my dear, bright, loved child. One word more; it is written
everywhere that the enemy is cruel and savage. Don’t be led by blind
vengeance. Don’t raise your hand at a fallen foe, but be gracious to
those whose fate it is to fall into your hands.”
What a noble and beautiful end is that to this letter, but how one’s
heart aches for the writer now that the dear, bright, beloved son sleeps
in “brothers’ graves.”
Of all the Tsar’s soldiers the most typically Russian is the Cossack.
Now the Cossack has been well described as being a man of war from his
youth upwards. He is always the child of a soldier, and his mother
cradles him with war songs. When he gets a little older and begins
crawling about the floor, his games are mimic battles, and his father
takes him off to the stables for at least an hour every day that he may
regard horses as his friends and playfellows.
At seventeen he becomes a Cossack, and after a very few weeks’ training
he is ready for war. The Cossack’s equipment is most peculiar, and it is
so arranged that he can creep along, even when on horseback, quite
noiselessly. A proverb in Russia runs: “One dragoon makes more noise
than a regiment of Cossacks!” The Cossack’s claim is that what mortal
man can do he will do, and a great deal more besides. As a rule he is a
small man and his horse is a small horse, in fact what we should call a
pony. No cavalryman is on better terms with his mount, and many and many
a time a Cossack has given his life for his horse. But a Cossack never
allows his mount to know what the inside of a comfortable stable is
like; the Cossack’s horse has to learn to be as hardy as his master.
Small wonder therefore that the Cossacks are the most amazingly clever
horsemen in the world. One of their favourite manœuvres, when on active
service, is to swing down beneath their horses’ girths, thus causing the
enemy to believe that they have before them a number of runaway horses.
The story goes that a patrol of ten Cossacks lately came upon a German
squadron who, to avoid a fight at close quarters, opened fire. The
Russian horsemen swung round under their horses; the Germans mounted and
set forth to capture what they believed to be runaway horses. When they
came close up the Cossacks reappeared in the saddle, and attacking them
with awful fury, cut them to pieces!
The Cossacks have retained their old, picturesque uniform—not for them
the sober khaki—and an action in which they engage recalls the verse of
Robert Burns:
“The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are rankêd ready,
The shouts o’ war are heard afar,
The battle closes thick and bloody.”
The Cossack trooper has a great deal of that simple, resourceful cunning
which is so important an asset to all sportsmen and fighting men.
This was shown in the present war by the adventure of one such brave
horseman called Polkovnikoff, who was taken prisoner by the Austrians.
His captors treated Polkovnikoff kindly, and asked him many questions
concerning his famous corps. “How do you manage to unsaddle just in
front of the enemy’s entrenchments, and attack them on foot? Is not your
horse a drag upon you?” they asked.
Polkovnikoff volunteered to show how it was done, so they lent him a
fine horse, belonging to an officer, to enable him to make an exhibition
of his skill. Conscientiously and artistically he went through some
vaulting exercises. Then, in order to put the finishing touch to one of
his feats, he went the furthest possible distance from the assembled
company, and, before they realised what was happening, he had put spurs
to the horse and was galloping madly away!
This delightful little sketch of a Cossack officer will show you how
fortunate these Russian cavalrymen are in their leaders. It was written
by a British war correspondent on his way to the front.
“At Pavlodar a Cossack officer came on board, who will ever stand out in
our memory as a great little man. He was clean-shaven, fat, and
jolly-looking. Within two hours he had the reservists under his thumb to
such an extent that had they been asked to storm, unarmed as they were,
a German position, they would have gone without hesitation! His
treatment was paternal, almost to the extent of the schoolroom. He read
to them, and he told them funny little stories. Then he made them sing
choruses, and wound up by warning them that upon their arrival at the
great concentration camp of Omsk they must remember to treat all
strangers with courtesy.”
A Cossack never “retires” from active service. He goes on being a
fighting man as long as he can ride well and straight. A Cossack whose
leg was amputated clamoured for a quick recovery that he might go back
to the front. The doctor asked him what he could do in the war with only
one leg. He replied proudly, “Have I not still my strong right arm with
which to strike down the enemy?”
All grown-up people hope that among the very best consequences of this
great war will be the restoration of freedom and happiness to heroic
Poland. It is the unhappy fate of this valiant country to be, as it
were, a buffer State. I expect you know that a buffer is something
wedged in between two contending forces. India-rubber, which is at once
hard and yielding, makes an excellent buffer. Poland is between Russia
and Germany, and before the war she had been divided between them.
Neither had treated her well, but for many years past Germany treated
her part of Poland with far more harshness than Russia treated hers. As
a consequence of this, even German Poland now sides with Russia, the
more so that the Tsar, very early in the war, issued a general
proclamation in which he promised the Poles their freedom after victory.
Poland has been the scene of some fierce conflicts, and the Poles have
had the opportunity of performing many gallant deeds. The Polish
villagers have also been very good to the wounded of both sides. In one
village a little girl of seven years old went up to a wounded man and
saw that he was bleeding dreadfully from a wound in his head. She tried
her best to staunch the blood with her pinafore, but as it went on
coming through she put her hand tight down on the place, and sent her
baby brother to fetch an ambulance man.
You will remember how more than one French boy managed to get to the
front. This has also happened in Russia. Indeed, it is said that there
boys as young as eight years have run away from home in the hope of
fighting for Holy Russia.
Touching stories of the kind are being told in Petrograd concerning not
only boys but girls.
Very soon after the war broke out, four little girls made their way to a
police station. Each had a bundle on her back, each wore a Red Cross
armlet. The police inspector was much surprised to see them. “Has
someone sent you with these things?” he asked, pointing to their
bundles. “If so, you must go on to the hospital.” “No, indeed,” said the
boldest of the four; “we have come here on our way to the front. We
intend to nurse the soldiers ourselves.” Proudly they exhibited their
bundles, which contained bits of old linen and cotton wool. The
inspector did not like to make fun of these valiant and patriotic little
girls, so he kept them there while he sent out men to look for their
parents. At last these arrived. The spokeswoman of the party then turned
on the inspector and, with a look of grave reproach, exclaimed, “We
trusted you with our secret, and now you have given us away!”
And here I must stop and tell you that very early in this stupendous
war, where whole nations and their manhood are engaged, Russia did a
very noble thing by her allies. Knowing that Germany had thrown her full
strength into an effort to defeat, once for all, the British and the
French armies, the Russian Commander-in-Chief made up his mind to create
what is called a diversion. Although he was not yet really ready to meet
so powerful and fully prepared a foe, he threw a large force over the
German frontier.
Filled with alarm, the enemy hurried a big army to meet the oncoming
Russians. This successfully relieved the rush on the British and French,
but at a heavy cost to Russia. In a very real sense thousands of
Russians then laid down their lives for their friends. Had they not been
idealists and romantics, they could not have brought themselves to do
it, for it requires a kind of courage differing from every other courage
(and there are ever so many other kinds), deliberately to face defeat.
Very soon the Russian Army, completely ready by now to face their
formidable foe, showed how temporary had been the check her commanders
had knowingly courted and endured.
The Russian peasant is noted for his kindness of heart, and when he
becomes a soldier this beautiful human quality stands him in good stead.
In one instance four classes of the Order of St. George, which is like
our Victoria Cross, were conferred upon a Hussar trooper, the orderly of
a dangerously wounded officer, whom he rescued amid a hail of shot, and
carried four miles. On the way he evaded numerous patrols of the enemy,
and several times he had to swim broad streams, holding up the officer
as best he could while they were both being “potted” from the banks.
We in our country did not know at first of the fine things being done in
Russia. Many people were surprised to learn, for instance, how very good
is the Russian Army Air Corps.
You are of course aware that an airman takes his life in his hand every
time he goes out to observe what is going on in the enemy’s lines.
Putting aside all the ordinary—they ought to be called the
extraordinary—dangers of air service, there are times when a great deal
may depend on a flying scout being willing to give his life for his
beloved country. How true that is was shown by a grand exploit performed
by Captain Nesteroff, the Russian Pegoud, one of the first men in Russia
to loop the loop.
During a fierce battle with the Austrian troops, Captain Nesteroff was
able to convey information of extreme value to the Russian commander. He
was resting after his exertions, when he observed two Austrian
aeroplanes making their way towards the Russian positions. Aware that at
the moment of their appearance a strategic move of the utmost importance
to the safety of the Russian Army was in progress, and that it was
absolutely necessary to prevent information from reaching the enemy, he
took the air and flew towards them.
By skilful manœuvring he succeeded in getting so close to one of the
aeroplanes that he was able to fire his revolver almost point blank at
the pilot. The latter was wounded, and fell with his machine to the
ground, where he was captured. As soon as he had fired, Captain
Nesteroff commenced a spiral upward flight, and he was at once followed
by the second Austrian airman. Realising that it was, above all else,
necessary to prevent the enemy aeroplane from returning to the Austrian
lines with the valuable information that he had gathered, Nesteroff
nerved himself for a supreme effort, and launched his aerial craft full
tilt at his foe. The machines came together with a crash, and descended
to the ground interlocked, both the gallant airmen being killed.
I have told you that the Russian peasant has a very kind heart. Kindness
almost always implies sympathy and understanding. When the first
trainload of wounded Austrians arrived on Russian soil they were treated
at each place the train stopped with wonderful kindness and sympathy,
and one poor woman was seen, while feeding a young Austrian soldier, to
be crying bitterly.
“What is the matter?” asked one of the doctors. “Has he insulted or
annoyed you in any way?”
“No, indeed,” she answered; “I am crying because I cannot help feeling
sorry to see a boy like this all alone in a foreign country, not even
able to say a word in our language. I am mourning over what his mother
must be feeling now. If you will allow me, I will take him home with me
and nurse him back to health!”
And yet this peasant woman, simple as she may have been, must have known
quite well that Austria has always had a peculiar dislike, and even
contempt, for the Slav race to which she belonged, and for the sake of
which Russia is at war.
The following little story illustrates the same beautiful qualities of
mercy and of kindness, but this time the hero of it is a soldier.
An artilleryman’s battery, after hours of hard work, was at last ordered
to retire. As it sullenly retreated, he saw a baby girl toddle from the
doorway of one of the houses of the village right into the path of the
battery. Amid a rain of shell and shrapnel, this brave fellow went to
the baby’s rescue, while his comrades gave him up for lost. As he
reached the child a shrapnel shell burst overhead, and, throwing himself
down, the man shielded the child’s body with his own. One bullet passed
through his back, injuring him so badly that he could not regain his
feet. But two of his comrades immediately went to his assistance, and
carried him, with his little protégée, to the battery, whence they were
removed to hospital.
It has been said that every country has the Jews it deserves. Now Jews
have never been quite fairly treated by the Russian Government. But
during this war they have shown themselves to be true patriots and brave
soldiers, and so we may hope that they will be treated as well as they
deserve to be in future.
Very early in the campaign a Jewish soldier, named Pernikow, won the St.
George’s Cross for valour. He was charged with the delivery of important
secret despatches, and, though very seriously wounded on the way, he
struggled on to his journey’s end, and fulfilled his mission.
We must not forget another of our Allies, the country which Russia
regards as her small sister—I mean Serbia.
This gallant little country was the greatest help to the Allies, and
especially to Russia. She had by no means recovered from the terrible
Balkan wars of 1912 and 1913, when Austria fell upon her. But little
Serbia not only drove away the enemy, but herself invaded Austrian
territory. Thus she engaged and defeated large Austrian forces which
would otherwise have been thrown against Russia.
Here is the story of a young Serbian officer who at one time was well
known in London and in Paris, for his father is a diplomatist.
Lieutenant Voislav Grashanin was not only a keen soldier, beloved and
honoured by his men, but he was also a very clever and many-sided man. A
comrade thus described his gallant death:
“It fell to our detachment to lead the attack on Iverak and Golo Tchuk.
Grashanin was first in the charge, and after a fierce tussle he reached
the height of Golo Tchuk and ranged his men quickly in firing order once
more. I saw him passing among the lines, and heard him say: ‘Now,
brothers, show how straight you can aim! There is glory in store for us
here if we know how to take it. Who cares for life? We’ve all got to die
some day!’ Shortly afterwards the enemy began to fall back, and
Grashanin called: ‘What did I tell you? See! A battery is offered us. A
battery of our own. Forward, and seize their guns!’
“Just then he was shot in the right hand. He bound up the wound where he
stood, and lifted the other hand to give the signal, when that hand,
too, was struck by a bullet. This time the wound was graver, his fingers
being severed. We bound it up for him as well as we could, for he
refused to go to the rear. He had taken off his coat for the hasty
operation, and now the bandages were so clumsy that he could not pass
his arm through the sleeve. We hung it by one button round his neck, and
he went on giving orders as before.
“We advanced steadily, and again the enemy made a backward move. Then
Voislav shouted, ‘Come on for the guns!’ At that moment a bullet lodged
in his chest. He fell, but got up again on his knees to command: ‘The
guns! Take the guns!’
“Our lieutenant was dead when we brought up the guns to where he lay.
Still, I think he must have heard our ‘Hurrah!’ when we took the guns.
Every man of us kissed him before we buried him, and we dug him the
deepest grave I have seen in this campaign. We were very fond of him
because of his kind heart and elegant manner of speech. Some had
nicknamed him ‘the Parisian,’ but he was Serbian to the core.”