WITH THE RED SOLDIERS
I asked to be taken to the commanding officer and two soldiers were
detailed to escort me. One of the “comrades” laid down his rifle and
picking up my suitcase led the way down the trenches; the other
shouldered his rifle and followed close behind me. I kept my eye on the
suitcase and trudged along.
They were both very friendly, and with a great show of their English
began talking to me at once.
“Do you know,” said one of them, “that the dock workers are on strike in
New York?” And while I was still wondering to myself how Russia, shut
off from all the rest of the world, could have heard this piece of news,
the other “comrade” burst out:
“Who is going to win the pennant in the National League?”
“Where do you learn these things?” I asked.
“From the bulletins,” he replied briefly. I learned later that the
wireless at Moscow works twenty-four hours a day, and that it grabs from
the air practically all the news that is wirelessed from America to
European countries. Each morning in Moscow bulletins carrying this
information are printed and distributed in the industries, in the
peasant villages and among soldiers.
For three versts we walked along the railroad track, and at last reached
the headquarters at Levenhoff. I was taken to the commanding officer,
who spoke English fairly well.
“What do you want here?” he asked looking me over keenly.
I had expected that question and had my answer ready. I knew I would
have to give an explanation, but what I did not know was that I would
have to give that explanation over and over again all the way from
Levenhoff to Moscow.
“I came to look you over,” I said. “In the world outside there are many
conflicting stories about Soviet Russia and I want to see for myself
what is going on here. I am not a spy. I should like to be allowed to go
to Petrograd and Moscow and to travel through the country and then
return to America and tell what I have seen.”
[Illustration:
RED ARMY’S INFANTRY DIVISION
Parading on the Famous Hodinskoe Polie in Moscow.
]
The Red officer took a long look at me and turned to a telephone. I knew
just enough Russian at that time to get the drift of his conversation.
He called up the Brigade headquarters and reported that an “Amerikanski”
journalist had come across the lines and wanted to proceed into the
country. There was much conversation while I stood waiting nervously.
Presently he hung up the receiver and turning to me said, “You will have
to report to the Brigade Command at Praele.”
“And is there a train?” I asked when I learned that I had twenty-two
more versts to go to Praele. There was not; I must drive there in a
droshky. It would be ready for me in a few minutes. And the officer gave
some orders. Presently the droshky arrived and a great powerful Red
Guard with a rifle slung over his shoulder motioned to me to get in. He
climbed in after me and we drove off.
It was early evening by now. Vast stretches of country swept away from
us on either side of the road. I tried to talk to my burly guard, but
his English was as meager as my Russian. Our conversation resolved
itself into wild gestures and signs. The night was clear, brightly
moonlit, and about nine o’clock it grew very cold. The chill crept into
every crevice of my clothing and penetrated to my very bones, and I lost
all interest in the country around us.
For hours we seemed to drive through the chill and dampness. I was
fairly frozen when I realized that the guard suddenly took off his coat
and silently offered it to me. I refused to take it, of course, thanking
him—“Spasiba, Tovarishch!” I said. He chuckled at my Russian and
repeated Tovarishch, the Russian word for comrade.
We reached Praele at midnight. My guard took a receipt for me from the
commanding officer as though I were a bundle of clothes or a package of
groceries, and returned to Levenhoff....
“What do you want here?”
I delivered my speech of explanation. The next question was welcome.
“Would you like something to eat before you sleep?” I was very hungry.
The officer called a soldier who went out and returned with some black
bread and tea, with apple sauce. When I had finished eating, my guard
took me to a large barrack room where about thirty soldiers were
sleeping in their uniforms on wooden bunks built in around the walls.
Several of them woke when we came in and looked me over with interest.
They passed cigarettes and apples. We smoked and munched for awhile
together, and presently every one settled down to sleep.
I awoke about nine the next morning. The soldiers were all up and gone.
A guard came in and led me to a building across the street where three
officers and two privates were breakfasting together. A pleasant-faced
Russian woman presided over the stove. A place was made for me at the
table and I was served with a very unsavory coffee-colored liquid, one
egg, a small piece of butter, and plenty of black bread. While we ate a
young Russian boy about thirteen years old played the violin,—the
_Internationale_, the _Marseillaise_, and some charming folk-songs.
We returned to the barracks after breakfast and a little later the
Commissar attached to brigade headquarters came in to see me. He could
not speak English, so we carried on our conversation through the
Commandant. First of all he asked what I wanted in Soviet Russia. I went
through my patter and they left me. For half an hour I sat wondering
what would happen next. Then the Commandant returned.
“We believe you are telling the truth,” he said. “We are glad to have
people come in from the outside to learn what we are doing and what we
hope to do under Soviet rule. But some whom we have allowed to come in
have gone out and told outrageous lies about our country and our people;
others have come across our lines and have gone away and revealed our
military positions to the enemy. We are defending ourselves and must be
careful. You must pass on to the Division Command at Rejistza, thence to
Army Headquarters, and finally to the High Command for investigation.
After that you will be allowed to remain in Soviet Russia—or you will be
deported.”
That evening I was taken under guard across country to a small railway
station where we caught a train which brought us to Rejistza at four
o’clock in the morning. A bed was found for me in the station master’s
house. At eight o’clock my guard woke me and dragged me off to the
Commissar and the military Commandant at Division Headquarters, turned
me over to them and took a receipt for me delivered in good order.
After breakfast of black bread and tea came the question, “What do you
want here?” I was told that I would have to wait till the following day
for a decision on my case. Meanwhile I could walk about and see the
town. The Commandant filled out a slip of paper which he told me I was
to show to any one who offered to interfere with my stroll.
I found Rejistza a fair-sized town. The people were going about their
business in normal fashion. They appeared to be in good health and they
were all well clothed. Many of the shops were closed for lack of wares;
others were open, though none seemed to have much stock. There was,
however, an abundance of fruit in the stalls, and some vegetables. The
streets were dirty. Carpenters were at work on some of the houses, many
of which were badly out of repair.
I began looking for some one who could speak English, and soon
discovered a young Russian boy who was eager to talk about his town.
“But why are your streets so dirty?” I asked him.
“Oh, Rejistza always was a dirty town, but we are cleaning it up now as
fast as possible,” he added with civic pride that was obviously newly
acquired.
The streets were full of sturdy, well-clad soldiers moving through to
the Dvinsk front where the Reds were bringing up reinforcements to stop
the Polish offensive. Bands were playing and the soldiers marched by in
good order, with heads erect, singing the _Internationale_.
I walked down towards the river Dvina. The sun was shining, the air
crisply cold. A crowd of children came bounding out of a school-house
and scampered towards a large park to enjoy their recess hour. They ran
about playing games much as children in this country do. One group
quickly marked out a space on the sidewalk with chalk and began skipping
and hopping in and put among the chalked squares. Others played tag and
still others played hiding games. They were all busy. The teachers had
come out into the park with the children, and for an hour children and
teachers alike played and talked together in the sunlight. Here or there
sat a teacher on a park bench surrounded by a crowd of alert children
who hung upon every word as she related Russian fairy tales.
And when the hour was over every one trooped back into the school-room
with as much ardor as when they came out into the park. I wandered over
to the river, but soon returned to the school-house. I wanted to find
out what a Russian school-room was like.
I slipped in through the door and took a seat near by. No one took
notice of me. The teacher continued her talking and the children
listened with as much interest as they had outside when she was telling
them of the wonderful deeds of the heroes of folk-lore. For an hour I
sat and listened and then walked away still unnoticed. I returned
through the town to the Commissar’s house quite unmolested.
That day I dined with the Commissar and four or five of his staff. I had
looked forward to the meal all day, and was grateful when at last we sat
down to table. Cabbage soup and a small piece of fish were served to
each of us. The others talked a great deal; I waited for more food, but
none came, and I went to bed that night with a great gnawing inside of
me.
I was awakened at four o’clock in the morning by a new guard who led me
off to a train. The decision had been made, as the Commandant had
promised it would be. The train was bound for Velikie Luki. The new
guard and I had breakfast on board—black bread and two apples.
It was four in the afternoon when we reached our destination. A droshky
carried us five versts to the headquarters of the 15th Army, where I was
again delivered into the hands of a Commissar.
Wearily I repeated my lines, thinking much more about the possibility of
getting a meal from this Commissar than I did about getting a pass into
Moscow. I must have looked as hungry and tired as I felt, for the
Commissar instead of granting the pass took me to his home, which was
only a short way down the street.
His house seemed to me to be the most comfortable place I had ever seen.
I was introduced to his wife, who came to meet us at the door. Two
children soon appeared and then the Commissar’s mother, and at once we
began talking like old friends. I was taken to a cheerful room where I
dusted and washed myself, and when I returned to the others the evening
meal was set forth on the table. It seemed almost bountiful to me after
the meager portions of cabbage soup and black bread I had been eating
for the past few days. Actually it was only cabbage soup again, one fish
ball for each, some kasha, black bread and tea. I ate ravenously, and I
am afraid I gave my host and hostess the impression that I was a
glutton.
I went to bed early that night feeling well fed for the first time in
days. In the morning I set forth early for headquarters with the
Commissar and there was turned over to a guard, who took me out to show
me Velikie Luki.
The town was crowded with soldiers strolling idly along the streets,
soldiers marching briskly to the railroad station, soldiers falling in
and out of barracks, soldiers everywhere,—and singing, always singing,
with bands and without, ceaselessly singing their beloved
_Internationale_. The troops were moving out to the Dvinsk and Denikin
fronts. The thoroughfares were crowded with civilians watching the
regiments pass by—men, women, and children, shouting, waving caps and
handkerchiefs, and joining in the chorus of the soldiers’ song.
[Illustration:
TROTZKY
Commissar of War and Marine
]
I followed the marching lines to the railway station. Trains were
pulling out and empty cars moving in as fast as they could be loaded.
And how they were loaded! Passenger cars, box cars, flat cars, jammed
with shouting, laughing soldiers, waving good-bye, joking and singing.
Every inch of space carried a soldier. Platforms, steps, roofs, and even
the engines were covered with scrambling, good-natured Reds. A train
already filled drew in and emptied a load of men back from the front for
a rest. The wounded were carried off carefully. From the end of the
train a detachment of about two hundred disarmed soldiers marched up the
platform under guard. These were the first prisoners I had encountered,
and I was anxious to see what would be done with them. They marched away
from the station and I asked my guard if we might follow them. He made
no objection. The townspeople paid no attention to the prisoners.
Evidently they were an accustomed sight.
They went about a mile down a long side street, parallel to the
railroad, and then turned abruptly across lots and entered a large
barrack. A sentry was posted outside, but after a little explanation my
guard obtained permission for us to go in. The prisoners were seated on
the floor, with their backs to the wall. Two soldiers brought in
steaming samovars through a side door and others carried in great loaves
of bread. Tea was made and handed around to the prisoners and the bread
was cut in large chunks and given to them. The captives ate hungrily,
their guards chatting and laughing with them. While they were still
eating, two more Red soldiers entered, with bundles of printed
pamphlets, which they distributed among the prisoners, who ate, drank,
and read.
If there was a German soldier there, he received German literature; if a
Lithuanian, he received Lithuanian literature; if he happened to be
French—well, they had it in all languages. All the while they were
holding the prisoners they fed them three times a day, sometimes bread
and tea and sometimes cabbage soup, _and they kept them reading all the
time_; when they were not reading some of the Commissars were in there
talking with them, telling them about the world, and what the war was
about and why they were sent there. They had the organization of it
perfected to such an extent that prisoners were not there five minutes
before they were eating, and they were not eating five minutes before
they were reading.
Bolshevist warfare does not end with the taking of prisoners. The
propaganda follows. The Soviet leaders think more of it than they do of
bullets. They say it is more effective. Three times on the western front
I witnessed this same scene where prisoners were brought in.
In Russia they like very much to take prisoners. The only objection is
that they haven’t got much food and they don’t like to starve them. They
told me that they would like to take a million prisoners a day, if they
had plenty of food and paper. After all, the biggest war they were
carrying on in Russia was a war of education. All along the battle-front
you could see streamers telling the other side what the thing was
about—you could read them a hundred yards away. At night they put two
posts in the ground and fastened the streamer between them. In the
morning, when the sun rose, there it was.
During the two days I spent in Velikie Luki, and later at many other
places along the front, I sought every opportunity to study the Red
army. I am not an expert and cannot report upon the technical details of
military equipment. There seemed no lack of small arms or cannon. In
general the soldiers were warmly clad and strongly shod. Certainly they
were in good spirits. The relations between officers and men were
interesting. There was no lack of discipline. Off duty all ranks mingled
as comrades, men and officers joking, laughing, singing, or talking
seriously together. Under orders the men obeyed promptly. I found it the
same at the front, in the barracks, and at headquarters with the
Commissars and highest officers. When there was no serious work to be
done they associated without distinction.
Wherever I met the Red soldiers I was struck with this combination of
comradeship and discipline. On more than one occasion I have gone into a
commandant’s office along the front, at some high command, and found him
playing cards or checkers with his men. Privates and under-officers
would crowd in unceremoniously and engage in voluble chatter without the
slightest indication of superiority or deference to rank. Then,
suddenly, perhaps a ring on the telephone, and the commander would
receive a report of some development along the front. A brisk order
would bring the room to attentive silence; cards and checkerboards and
fiddles would be shoved aside. The men would file out to their posts.
They seemed to have an instant appreciation of the distinction between
comradeship in the barracks and discipline on duty.
THE RED ARMY
The ordinary Red soldier gets 400 rubles a month, with rations and
clothes. Soviet officials told me that there were 2,000,000 thoroughly
trained and equipped men in the fighting forces, with another million in
reserve and under training. About 50,000 young officers, they said,
chosen from the most capable peasants and workers, had already graduated
from the officers’ training schools under the Soviet Government.
Thousands of others had been developed from the ranks.
It is easy for the casual observer to misjudge that subtle and
all-important element known as “morale.” I think that I am perhaps more
than ordinarily skeptical of manifestations of patriotic fervor, knowing
something of the means by which every general staff keeps up the
fighting spirit of the ranks. But I retain from my contact with the Red
soldiers a sense of peculiar zeal and dogged grit. Certainly they do not
want to fight. They want to go home and settle down in peace. But this
frankly confessed distaste for slaughter seems only to emphasize their
determination to see the struggle through to the end. For all their war
weariness they did not act like men driven unwillingly into battle. I
tried to imagine myself enduring what many of them have endured for over
five years, betrayed by their first leaders, overwhelmingly defeated by
their first enemy, and still struggling on against new assaults from
those they had been taught to believe were their friends and allies.
I tried to imagine what vast process of propaganda could have stimulated
this unyielding endurance. Propaganda there undoubtedly was. Just as the
Allied armies had their attendant organizations of welfare workers and
entertainers to keep up the morale, so the Red Army was accompanied by a
carefully organized system of revolutionary propaganda. I suppose the
American soldier would not have fought so well had he not been
constantly reminded that he was fighting to make the world safe for
Democracy. The Red soldier is persuaded that he fights to keep Russia
safe for the Revolution. This ideal is deeply personal. He feels it is
his revolution; he feels that he accomplished it regardless of his
leaders, certainly in spite of some of them; and now it is his to defend
against attacks from without and within. In judging this thing I find
myself turning away from generalizations and disregarding what I was
told by those enthusiasts who have the Red Army in their keeping. I come
back again and again to the men themselves. Before I left Russia I had
seen a great many soldiers. I had lived with them, traveled with them,
slept in their barracks, eaten in their mess. To the American of course,
the conditions under which the European masses manage to maintain
existence, even in normal times, is always a matter of surprise and
wonder. The Soviet Government does everything possible for the Red Army.
It is their constant thought and care. But the utmost that can be
provided, even of bare subsistence, seems painfully inadequate to the
westerner.
The preferential treatment of the soldiers, of which I had heard so much
before I saw it and shared it, consists principally in maintaining an
uninterrupted supply of black bread and tea. It may be propaganda, it
may be a peculiar quality in the spiritual and physical composition of
the Russian peasant. Whatever it is, I do not believe that any other
European army would endure so long on a ration of black bread and tea.
An occasional apple or cigarette were luxuries, all too quickly consumed
and forgotten. The black bread and tea, constant and unvaried, will ever
remain for me the symbol both of the efficiency of the Soviet Commissary
and of the zeal of the Red soldier. Black bread and tea and song. Their
love for song is amazing,—all songs, but principally the
_Internationale_. They march off to the front singing, they limp back
from battle singing, they sing on the trains, and in the barracks, and
at mess; they sing while they are playing checkers and they sing while
they are sweeping stables. They wake up at night and sing. I have heard
them do it.
I was told that about seventy-five percent of the Czar’s officers were
in the Soviet Army. This was no sign that they were converted to
communism. Their spirit remained essentially patriotic. They supported
the Soviet Government, not because it was a Socialist government, but
because it was _the_ government. They fought to defend Russia.
It was Trotzky who insisted on allowing these old officers to come into
the army. Many of the Communists thought they would betray the soldiers
on the front and turn them over to the enemy. But Trotzky said it was a
question of permitting the experienced officers to train the men and
teach them military tactics or the Red Army would be destroyed. Trotzky
had his way. At every army post, whether it was a company, a brigade, a
regiment or a division, wherever there was an old army officer there was
a trusted Commissar who worked in the office, and every move the old
army officer made was known to the Commissar.
The following manifesto, drawn up and signed by 137 officers of the old
régime, appealing to their former messmates to quit the
counter-revolution and stop making war upon the Soviet Government, which
the people had established and would defend against all attacks, was
sent through the Denikin lines:
"Officers—Comrades:
"We address this letter to you with the intention of avoiding useless
and aimless shedding of blood. We know quite well that the army of
General Denikin will be crushed, as was that of Kolchak and of many
others who have tried to put at their mercy a working people of many
millions of men. We know equally well that truth and justice are on the
side of the Red Army, and that you only remain in the ranks of the White
Army through ignorance regarding the Soviet Republic and the Red Army,
or because you fear for your fate in case of the latter’s victory. We
think it our duty above all to write you the truth about the position
made for us in the Red Army. First we guarantee to you that no officers
of the White Army passing over into our camp are shot. That is the order
of the Supreme Revolutionary Council of War.
[Illustration: LENIN AND MRS. LENIN, MOSCOW, 1919]
"If you come with the simple desire to lessen the sufferings of the
working population, to lessen the shedding of blood, nobody will touch
you. As to officers who express the desire to serve loyally in the Red
Army they are received with respect and extreme courtesy. We have not to
submit to any kind of outrage or humiliation. Everywhere our needs are
attentively supplied. Full respect for the work of specialists of every
kind is the fundamental motive of the policy of the present government
and of its authorized representatives in the Red Army. Quite unlike the
practice in the old army, you are not asked, ‘Who are your parents?’ but
only one thing—‘Are you loyal?’ A loyal officer who is educated and who
works advances rapidly on the ladder of military administration, is
received everywhere with respect, attention, and kindness. Among the
troops an exemplary discipline has been introduced.
“From the material point of view we could not be better treated. As for
the Commissars, in the vast majority of cases we work hand in hand with
them, and in case of disagreement the most highly authorized
representatives of the power of the Soviets take rapidly decisive
measures for getting rid of the differences. In a word, the longer we
serve in the Red Army, the more we are convinced that service is not a
burden to us. Many of us began to serve with a little sinking of the
heart, solely to earn a living, but the longer our service has lasted
the more we are convinced of the possibility of loyal and conscientious
service in this army. That is why, officer comrades, we allow ourselves
to call you such although we know that the word ‘comrade’ is considered
insulting among you, because among us it indicates relations of simple
cordiality and mutual respect. Without proposing that you should make
any decision, we beg you to examine the question, and in your future
conduct to take account of our evidence. We wish to say one thing
more,—we congratulate ourselves that in fulfilling obligations loyally
we are not the servants of any foreign government. We are glad to serve
neither German imperialism, nor the imperialism which is
Anglo-Franco-American. We do what our conscience dictates to us in the
interest of millions and millions of workers, to which number the vast
majority of the company of the officers belong.”
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