could not surprise us, and they lost a great many men, trying to wade
through waist deep snow, across barbed wire, with machine guns working
from behind blockhouses two hundred yards apart. It took courage to run
up against such obstacles and still keep going on. When we opened fire
there was always a great deal of yelling from the Bolos—commands from
the officers to go forward, so our interpreters said, protests from the
devils, even as they protested, many were hit; but it is to be noted
that the officers stayed in the background of the picture. There was no
Soviet leader who said “follow me” through the floundering snow against
those death scattering machine guns—it did not take a great deal of
intelligence to see what the chances were.
So weeks passed and we held on, wondering what the end would be. We did
not fear that we should lose Toulgas. With barbed wire and our
surrounding blockhouses we were confident that we could withstand a
regiment trying to advance over that long field of snow; but the danger
lay along our tenuous line of communication.
The plight of the Yankee soldier in North Russia fighting the
Bolsheviki in the winter of 1918-19 was often made the subject of
newspaper cartoon. Below is reproduced one of Thomas’ cartoons from
_The Detroit News_, which shows the doughboy sitting in a Toulgas
trench—or a Kodish, or Shred Makrenga, or Pinega, or Chekuevo, or
Railroad trench. Of course this dire position was at one of those
places and at one of those times before the resourceful Yanks had had
time to consolidate their gains or fortify their newly accepted
position in rear of their former position. In a few hours—or few days
at most, the American soldier would have dug in securely and made
himself rudely comfortable. That rude comfort would last till some
British officer decided to “put on a bit of a show,” or till the Reds
in overwhelming numbers or with tremendous artillery pounding or both
combined, compelled the Yanks to fight themselves into a new position
and go through the Arctic rigors of trench work again in zero weather
for a few days. The cartoonist knows the unconquerable spirit of humor
with which the American meets his desperate situations; for he puts
into the soldier’s mouth words that show that although he may have more
of a job than he bargained for, he can joke with his buddie about it.
As reserve officers of that remarkable North Russian expeditionary
force the writers take off their hats in respect to the citizen
soldiers who campaigned with us under conditions that were, truth to
say, usually better but sometimes much worse than the trench situation
pictured by the cartoon below. With grit and gumption and good humor
those citizen soldiers “endured hardness as good soldiers.”
[Illustration: Well, Bill, we certainly got a job after the war.
“Peace Conference News: After War Labor Problem.”]
XIV
GREAT WHITE REACHES
Lines Of Communication Guarded Well—Fast Travelling Pony Sleighs—Major
Williams Describes Sled Trip—A Long Winter March—Visiting Three Hundred
Year Old Monastery—Snowshoe Rabbit Story—Driving Through
Fairyland—Lonely, Thoughtful Rides Under White North Star—Wonderful
Aurora Borealis.
We left “F” Company in the winter, swirling snows guarding the many
points of danger on the long lines of communication. They were in
December scattered all the way from Archangel to Morjegorskaya. For a
few weeks in January, Lieut. Sheridan with his platoon sat on the Bolo
lidtilters in Leunova in the lower Pinega Valley and then was hurried
down the Dvina to another threatened area. The Red success in pushing
our forces out of Shenkursk and down the Vaga made the upper Dvina and
Vaga roads constantly subject to raiding parties of the Bolsheviki.
Early in February “K” Company came up from Archangel and took station
at Yemetskoe, one platoon being left at Kholmogori. “F” Company had
been needed further to the front to support the first battalion
companies hard pressed by the enemy. Nervous and suspected villages
alike were vigilantly visited by strong patrols. On February 12th
Captain Ramsay hurried up with two platoons to reinforce Shred
Mekhrenga, traveling a distance of forty versts in one day. But the
enemy retired mysteriously as he had oft before just when it seemed
that he would overpower the British-Russian force that had been calling
for help. So the Americans were free to go back to the more ticklish
Vaga-Dvina area.
From here on the story of “F” Company on the lines of communication
merges into the story of the stern rear guard actions and the final
holding up of the advance of the Reds, and their gallant part will be
read in the narrative related elsewhere.
Mention has already been made of the work of “G” and “M” Company
platoons on the isolated Pinega Valley lines and of “H” Company
guarding the very important Onega-Obozerskaya road, over which passed
the mails and reinforcements from the outside world. The cluster of
villages called Bolsheozerki was on this road. Late in March it was
overpowered by a strong force of the Reds and before aid could come the
Bolshevik Northern Army commander had wedged a heavy force in there,
threatening the key-point Obozerskaya. This point on the line of
communication had been guarded by detachments from the Railroad force
at Obozerskaya, Americans alternating with French soldiers, and both
making use of Russian Allied troops. At the time of its capture it was
occupied by a section of French supported by Russian troops. The story
of its recapture is told elsewhere.
The trail junction point Volshenitsa, between Seletskoe and
Obozerskaya, was fitted up with quarters for soldiers and vigilantly
guarded against surprise attacks by the Reds from 443, or Emtsa.
Sometimes it was held by British and Russians from Seletskoe and
sometimes by Americans from Obozerskaya.
It sounds easy to say “Guarding lines of communication.” But any
veteran of the North Russian expedition will tell you that the days and
nights he spent at that duty were often severe tests. When that Russki
thermometer was way below forty and the canteen on the hip was solid
ice within twenty minutes of leaving the house, and the sleigh drivers’
whiskers were a frozen Niagara, and your little party had fifteen
versts to go before seeing another village, you wondered how long you
would be able to handle your rifle if you should be ambushed by a party
of Bolos.
With the settling down of winter the transportation along the great
winter reaches of road became a matter of fast traveling pony sleighs
with frequent exchange of horses. Officers and civil officials found
this travel not unpleasant. The following story, taken from the _Red
Cross Magazine_ and adapted to this volume, will give the doughboy a
pleasing recollection and the casual reader a vivid picture of the
winter travel.
This might be the story of Captain Ramsay driving to Pinega in January
to visit that front. Or it might be old “Three-Hair” Doc Laird sledging
to Soyla to see “Military Pete” Primm’s sturdy platoon. Or it might be
Colonel Stewart on his remarkable trip to the river winter fronts.
However, it is the story of the active American Red Cross Major
Williams, who hit the long trails early and showed the rest the way.
“I have just returned from a trip by sled up the Pinega River, to the
farthest point on that section where American troops are located. The
trip consumed six days and this, with the trip to the Dvina front,
makes a total of twenty days journeying by sled and about eight hundred
miles covered. Horses and not reindeer are used for transport. The
Russian horse, like the peasant, must be a stout breed to stand the
strain and stress of existence. They are never curried, are left
standing in the open for hours, and usually in spots exposed to cruel
winds when there is a semblance of shelter available within a few feet.
The peasants do not believe in ‘mollycoddling’ their animals, nor
themselves.
“On the return trip from Dvina I had a fine animal killed almost
instantly by his breaking his neck. It was about five o’clock in the
afternoon, pitch dark of course, and our Russian driver who, clad in
reindeer skin and hood, resembled for all the world a polar bear on the
front of the sled shouted meaningless and unnecessary words to our two
horses to speed them on their way.
“All sexes and ages look alike in these reindeer _parkis._ We were in a
semi-covered sled with narrow runner, but with safety skids to prevent
it from completely capsizing. At the foot of every Russian hill the
road makes a sharp turn. For a solid week we had been holding on at
these turns, but finally had become accustomed, or perhaps I should say
resigned, to them. Going down a long hill the horse holds back as long
as he can, the driver assisting in retarding the movement of the sled.
But on steep hills, where this is not possible, it is a case of a run
for life.
“Our horse shied sharply at a sleeping bag which had been thrown from
baggage sled ahead. The safety skids could not save us, but made the
angle of our overturn more complete. Kirkpatrick, several pieces of his
luggage, and an abnormal quantity of hay added to my discomfort. His
heavy blanket roll, which he had been using as a back rest, was thrown
twenty feet. The top of the sled acted as an ideal snow scoop and my
head was rubbed in the snow thoroughly before our little driver, who
was hanging on to the reins (b-r-r b-r-r b-r-r) could hold down the
horse. It was not until an hour later, when our driver was bringing in
our baggage, that I discovered that our lives had been in the hands of
a thirteen-year-old girl.
“After a trip of this sort one becomes more and more enthusiastic about
his blanket roll. Sleeping at all times upon the floor, and
occasionally packed in like sardines with members of peasant families
all in the same room, separated only by an improvised curtain, we kept
our health, appetites and humor.
“A small village of probably two hundred houses. The American soldiers
have been in every house. At first the villagers distrusted them. Now
they are the popular men of the community with the elders as well as
children. Their attitude toward the Russian peasant is helpful,
conciliatory, and sympathetic. One of these men told me that on the
previous day he had seen a woman crying on the street, saying that
their rations would not hold out and they would be forced to eat straw.
The woman showed me a piece of bread, hardly a square meal for three
persons, which she produced carefully wrapped as if worth its weight in
gold from a box in the corner. They had been improvident in the use of
their monthly ration of fifteen pounds of flour per person and the end
of the month, with yet three days to go, found them in a serious
dilemma. When the hard tack and sugar were produced they were
speechless with astonishment. And the satisfaction of the American
soldier was great to see.
“Up on the Pinega River, many miles from any place, we passed a
considerable body of American soldiers headed to the front. Every man
was the picture of health, cheeks aglow, head up, and on the job. These
same men were on the railroad front—four hundred miles in another
direction—when I had seen them last. There they were just coming out of
the front line trenches and block houses, wearing on their heads their
steel hats and carrying on their backs everything but the kitchen
stove.
“Now they were rigged more for long marching, in fur caps, khaki coats
of new issue with woollen lining, and many carried Alpine poles, for in
some places the going was hard.
“From our sled supply every man was given a package of Red Cross
cigarettes, and every man was asked if he had received his Christmas
stocking. They all had. I dined, by the way, with General Ironside last
night, and he was very strong in his praise for this particular body of
men who have seen strenuous service and are in for more.”
One of the most memorable events in the history of a company of
Americans in Russia was the march from Archangel to Pinega, one hundred
and fifty miles in dead of winter. The first and fourth platoons made
the forced march December 18th to 27th inclusive, hurrying to the
relief of two platoons of another company with its back to the wall.
Two weeks later the second and third platoons came through the same
march even faster, although it was forty degrees below zero on three
days, for it was told at Archangel that the other half of “M” Company
was in imminent danger of extermination.
The last instructions for the march, given in the old Smolny barracks,
are typical of march orders to American soldiers:
“We march tomorrow on Pinega. Many versts but not all in one day. We
shall quarter at night in villages, some friendly, some hostile. We may
meet enemy troops. We march one platoon ahead, one behind the 60-sleigh
convoy. Alert advance and rear parties to protect the column from
surprise.
“Ours is a two-fold mission: First, to reinforce a half of another
company which is now outnumbered ten to one; second, to raise a
regiment of loyal Russian troops in the great Pinega Valley where half
the people are loyal and half are Bolo sympathizers. We hold the
balance of power. Hold up your chins and push out your chests and bear
your arms proudly when passing among the Russian people. You represent
the nation that was slow to wrath but irresistible in might when its
soldiers hit the Hindenburg Line. Make Russians respect your military
bearing. The loyal will breathe more freely because you have come. The
treacherous Bolo sympathizers will be compelled to wipe off their
scowls and will fear to try any dirty work.
“And further, just as important, remember not only to bear yourselves
as soldiers of a powerful people, but bear yourselves as men of a
courteous, generous, sympathetic, chivalrous people. Treat these simple
people right and you win their devoted friendship. Respect their
oddities. Do not laugh at them as do untactful soldiers of another
nation. Molest no man’s property except of military necessity. You will
discover likable traits in the character of these Russians. Here, as
everywhere in the world, in spite of differences of language and
customs, of dress and work and play and eating and housing, strangers
among foreign people will find that in the essentials of life _folks is
folks._
“You will wear your American field shoes and Arctics in preference to
the clumsy and slippery bottomed Shackleton boot. Overcoats will be
piled loosely on top of sleighs so as to be available when delay is
long. Canteens will be filled each evening at Company “G-I” can. Drink
no water in villager’s home. You may buy milk. Everyone must protect
his health. We have no medical man and only a limited supply of number
nines.
“Tomorrow at noon we march. Prepare carefully and cheerfully.”
The following account of the march is copied from the daily story
written in an officer’s diary:
To OUIMA—FIRST DAY, DECEMBER 18TH
After the usual delay with sleigh drivers, with shoutings and “brrs”
and shoving and pullings, the convoy was off at 11:55 a. m. December
18. The trail was an improved government road. The sun was on our right
hand but very low. The fire station of Smolny at last dropped out of
the rearward view. The road ran crooked, like the Dvina along whose
hilly banks it wound. A treat to our boys to see rolling, cleared
country. Fish towns and lumber towns on the right. Hay stacks and
fields on the left, backed by forests. Here the trail is bareswept by
the wind from across the river. Again it is snow blown and men and
ponies slacken speed in the drifts. Early sets the sun, but the white
snow affords us light enough. The point out of sight in front, the rear
party is lost behind the curve. Tiny specks on the ice below and
distant are interpreted to be sledges bound for some river port. Nets
are exposed to the air and wait now for June suns to move out the
fetters of ice. Decent looking houses and people face the strange
cavalcade as it passes village after village. It is a new aspect of
Russia to the Americans who for many weeks have been in the woods along
the Vologda railroad.
Well, halting is a wonderful performance. The headman—_starosta_—must
be hunted up to quarter officers and men. He is not sure about the
drivers. Perhaps he fears for the great haystacks in his yard. We
cannot wait. In we go and Buffalo Bill’s men never had anything on
these Russki drivers. But it all works out, _Slava Bogga_ for army
sergeants. American soldiers are quick to pull things through anyway.
Without friction we get all in order. Guard is mounted over the
sleighs. Now we find out that Mr. Poole was right in talking about
“friendly Russians.” Our lowly hosts treat us royally. Tea from the
samovar steams us a welcome. It is clean homes, mostly, soldiers find
themselves in,—clean clothing, clean floors, oil lamps, pictures on the
walls.
To LIABLSKAYA—SECOND DAY, DECEMBER 19TH
Crawled out of our sheepskin sleeping bags about 6:00 o’clock well
rested. Breakfasted on bacon and bread and coffee. Gave headman ten
roubles. Every soldier reported very hospitable treatment. Tea for all.
Milk for many. Some delay caused by the sledge drivers who joined us
late at night from Bakaritza with oats. Left at 8:40. Billeting party
given an hour’s start, travelling ahead of the point to get billets and
dinner arranged. Marching hard. Cold sleet from southeast with drifting
snow. The Shackelton boot tricky. Men find it hard to navigate. Road
very hilly. Cross this inlet here. Down the long hill and up a winding
hill to the crest again which overhangs the stream that soon empties
into the big Dvina. To the left on the ice-locked beach are two scows.
It is warmer now for the road winds between the pines on both sides.
The snow ceases gradually but we do not see the least brightness in the
sky to show location of old Sol. We are making four versts an hour in
spite of the hills and the cumbrous boots. The drivers are keeping up
well. Only once is the advance party able to look back to the rear
guard, the caravan being extended more than a verst. Here is another
steep hill. See the crazy Russki driver give his pony his head to dash
down the incline. Disaster hangs in a dizzy balance as he whirls round
and round and the heavily loaded sled pulls horse backwards down the
hill. Now we meet a larger party of dressed-up folks going to church.
It is holy day for Saint Nicholas.
The long hill leading into Liablskaya is a good tester for courage.
Some of the men are playing out—eight versts more will be tough
marching. Here is the billeting officer to tell us that the eight
versts is a mistake—it is nineteen instead. We must halt for the night.
No one is sorry. There is the blazing cook’s fire and dinner will be
ready soon. It is only 12:15, but it seems nearly night. Men are
quickly assigned to quarters by the one-eyed old headman, Kardacnkov,
who marks the building and then goes in to announce to the householder
that so many _Amerikanski soldats_ will sleep there. Twenty-five
minutes later the rear guard is in. Our host comes quickly with samovar
of hot water and a pot of tea. He is a clerical man from Archangel, a
soldier from the Caucasus. With our M. & V. we have fresh milk.
It is dark before 3:00 p.m. We need a lamp. All the men are well
quartered and are trying to dry their shoes. We find the sergeants in a
fine home. A bos’n of a Russian vessel is home on leave. We must sit in
their party and drink a hop-ferment substitute for beer. Their coffee
and cakes are delicious and we hold converse on the political
situation. “American soldiers are here to stop the war and give Russia
peace” is our message. In another home we find a war prisoner from
Germany, back less than a week from Petrograd front. He had to come
around the Bolsheviki lines on the Vologda R. R. He says the B.
government is on its last legs at Petrograd.
To KOSKOGOR—THIRD DAY, DECEMBER 20TH
Oh, you silvery moon, are you interested in that bugle call? It is
telling our men to come to breakfast at once—6:45, for we start for
Koskogor at 8:00 a. m. or before. The start is made at 7:45. Road is
fine—well-beaten yesterday by marketing convoys and by Russians bound
for church to celebrate Saint Nick’s Day. Between the pines our road
winds. Not a breath of air has stirred since the fine snow came in the
night and “ridged each twig inch deep with pearl.” What a sight it
would have been if the sun had come up. Wisconsin, we think of you as
we traverse these bluffs. You tenth verst, you break a beautiful scene
on us with your trail across the valley. You courageous little pony,
you deserve to eat all that hay you are lugging up that hill. Your load
is not any worse than that of the pony behind who hauls a giant log on
two sleds. You deserve better treatment, _Loshad. _When Russia grows up
to an educated nation animal power will be conserved.
Here we see the primitive saw mill. Perched high on a pair of horses is
a great log. Up and down cuts the long-toothed saw. Up pulls the man on
top. Down draws the man on the ground. Something is lacking—it is the
snap-ring that we so remember from boyhood wood-cutting days in
Michigan.
Here we are back to the river again and another picturesque scene with
its formidable hill—Verst 18. But we get on fast for the end is in
sight. The windmill for grinding grain tells us a considerable village
is near. We arrive and stop on the top of the hill in the home of a
merchant-peasant, Lopatkin: a fine home—house plants and a big clock
and a gramophone. It is cold, for the Russian stove has not been fired
since morning—great economy of fuel in a land of wood.
To KHOLMOGORA—FOURTH DAY, DECEMBER 21ST
Harbinger of hope! Oh you red sky line! Shall we see the sun today?
It is 8:00 a. m. and from our hill top the wide red horizon in the
south affords a wonderful scene. In the distance, headlands on the
Dvina cut bold figures into the red. Far, far away stretches the flat
river. Now we are safely down the long, steep hill and assembled on the
river. Sergeant Getzloff narrowly escapes death from a reckless
civilian’s pony and sleigh. We crawl along the east shore for a verst
and then cross squarely to the other side, facing a cold, harsh wind.
What a wonderful subject for a picture. Tall pines—tallest we have yet
seen in Russia, on the island lift their huge trunks against the red,
the broad red band on the skyline. And now, too, the upland joins
itself to the scene.
The going is drifty and sternly cold. Broad areas allow the biting wind
full sweep. Ears are covered and hands are thrashed. That “stolen
horse” pole there may be a verst post. Sure enough, and “5,” it says,
“16 to go.” Look now for the barber poles. We are too late to get a
glimpse of the sun. Red is the horizon yet but the sun has risen behind
a low cloud screen. The advance guard has outwalked the convoy and
while ponies toil up the hill, we seek shelter in the lee of a house to
rest, to smoke. The convoy at last comes up. One animal has a ball of
ice on his foot. We make the drivers rest their ponies and look after
their feet. Ten minutes and then on.
It is a desperate cold. A driver’s ears are tipped with white. The
bugler’s nose is frozen on the windward side. Everyone with yarn
mittens only is busy keeping fingers from freezing. Here it is good
going for the long straight road is flanked by woods that protect road
from drifts and traveller from icy blasts. This road ends in a half
mile of drifts before a town on the bank of a tributary to the Dvina.
We descend to the river.
So there you are, steamboat, till the spring break-up frees you and
then you will steam up and down the river with logs and lumber and hemp
and iron and glass and soldiers perhaps—but no Americans, I hope. What
is this train that has come through our point? Bolshevik? Those
uniforms of the Russki M. P.’s are alarmingly like those we have been
shooting at. Go on with your prisoners. Now it is noon. The sun is only
a hand high in the sky. The day has grown grey and colder. Or is it
lack of food that makes us more susceptible to winter’s blasts? A bit
of hard tack now during this rest while we admire the enduring red of
the sky. We are nearing our objective. For several versts we have
skirted the edge of the river and watched the spires and domes of the
city come nearer to us. We wind into the old river town and pass on for
a verst and a half to an old monastery where we find quarters in a
subsidiary building which once was an orphan’s home. The old women are
very kind and hospitable. The rooms are clean and airy and warm.
AT MONASTERY—FIFTH DAY, DECEMBER 22ND