Illustrated by Lee Kuruganti © 2008
The Kornilov Offensive; or, The Stern Days of '31
© by Ben Meir
War is hell, I've read somewhere, but I don't believe it. I always loved the smell of saddle leather, the thunder of my lancers galloping into battle around me, the easy campfire camaraderie in the field. Then again, I'm here to talk about it. Lucky, I suppose…any number of bullets could have found me, in any number of places – Poland, Germany, Persia, Manchuria…Now that I've put my horse out to pasture, and am close to pensioning out myself, I think about the old days more and more.
I'll tell you from the outset, I'm no politician nor some Court poodle. I'm a cavalryman, an officer in His Imperial Majesty's Hussars, and if you want to know about 'the stern days of '31,' as they call it now, I'll tell you what I saw and not a word more. If you want something fancier than that, then the Devil take you. But I was there, and I saw what I saw.
That summer, my boys and I were stationed up by Petrograd, at one of the Imperial residences. I had finally made full colonel the year before, and gotten my old regiment to command. It had been a wonderful summer; the ball season was underway, champagne and caviar, music under the stars, stolen kisses from ladies-in-waiting. Life was good for a cavalry officer. And then the Poles had to go ruin everything.
The Poles had risen again. It was always the Poles, the Devil take them. As if we hadn't hit them enough licks on their Polish snouts already. They didn't have it so bad, just had to learn a bit of Russian in school and take their hats off to our Governor-General in Warsaw and sing "God Save The Tsar" now and then. They couldn't stand that, apparently. Some people are like that.
Our infantry never got anywhere fast, and our armored units were few and far between. Whom else could they send but the cavalry? Whom do they always send?
It really started when I was with my boys somewhere between Warsaw and Brest-Litovsk, trying to make our way west. Our regiment had been called up the previous week when the trouble began, and down from the capital we came. The trains stopped being reliable at Brest, so we were coming by horse, like our fathers and grandfathers before us.
It was the end of a miserable, rainy, and cold August. Good cavalry weather, I told my boys, imagine having to hoof it through all this mud. My denschik Georgiy had his hands full, keeping my horse clean each night after a hard day's ride through the Polish muck.
We weren't having much luck getting news or instructions. The heliograph stations had stopped working right away, of course, and our wireless operators muttered glumly about anomalous weather conditions and range restrictions whenever I would ask. Reminded me of the Great War. We might as well have been fighting Napoleon. Really, it was absurd, in this day and age.
I finally ordered one of my junior officers to take a company of lancers to the nearest village and get through to our HQ by phone. They came back at the end of the day with several wounded and my man dead, tied to his saddle. Ambushed in the village by local irregulars. No hope of getting to a telephone, assuming the miserable place even had one. Those damned Poles, I swore, moved by the sight of our first casualty.
Finally, on the morning of the third day of our trek, we ran into some other fellows, a column of infantry and armored cars following a paved road west alongside a wheat field. Their commanding officer drove up in a three-wheeled side-car motorcycle. My horse nearly reared, the damn thing was so loud.
"Kirponos, Mikhail Petrovich, Lt.-Colonel, Second Regiment, First Motorized Armored Division of His Imperial Highness The Tsarevich Georgiy Mikhailovich." Crisp salute, good posture, intelligent eyes. I liked the man right away.
"Colonel Litovsky, First Horse Regiment of the Shumsky Hussars, Second Cavalry Division of His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Mikhail Mikhailovich." We shook hands. Our men relaxed and began to mingle. Since I was the senior officer, I naturally did not offer my name and patronymic. Let him prove himself first.
"Your Excellency, my orders are to take my men to Warsaw and assist in the restoration of proper rule. May I inquire as to your mission?"
I dismounted and lit up. Kirponos politely declined my cigarette case. It felt good to stretch my legs. The morning sun was breaking through the clouds. The day might still turn out well, I thought.
"Yes, we're going to Warsaw to whip the Poles into shape. Let's go together, the more, the merrier, eh?" I laughed.
Kirponos smiled briefly. "Have you met any insurgents yet?"
"I haven't," I told him honestly. "A few of my men got shot up in a village a few versts east of here…Lost a chap. Irregular trash. Those Poles hate a stand-up fight, it's always sniping from the bushes and windows for them." I spat on the ground.
"The best I can tell," he spoke slowly, unfolding a military map on his idling motorcycle, "we have a bit of riding and walking to do before we get to Warsaw, even on this road. Allow me to suggest, Your Excellency, that my infantry and armored cars take the road, and your men ride covering patrols on either side, since they are more mobile. This should allow us to escape any more ambushes. The closer to Warsaw, the more likely we are to see the insurgents."
I waved my hand. This Kirponos looked like a fine officer, to be sure, but he spoke with a soft Ukrainian accent and knew nothing of cavalry horses, clearly. Not a gentleman, then.
"Esteemed Mikhail Petrovich, please don't quote regulations at me, I cannot allow my horses to be in such proximity to those armored monstrosities. The diesel fumes and the roar of the engines will spook the poor beasts. We cavalrymen have to take care of our animals, they're not made of iron, like your steeds." Well put, I thought privately, Litovsky, you're a regular poet.
Kirponos tried to argue but I cut him off quickly. We would take lead, to isolate our horses from the armored column's noise and stink, and Kirponos would bring up his mix of foot soldiers and armor behind us. I did consent to detach a few men for mounted patrols ahead and to the side of the main road, which seemed sensible, considering where we were going.
Since now it was nearly noon, I suggested to Mikhail Petrovich that we take a meal together, and our men as well. His preference was to keep moving, but he accepted my suggestion with good grace. Although not a gentleman, he was clever enough to know his place, unlike some younger officers I'd seen.
My denschik laid out a nice picnic lunch for us right there by the side of the road. I lay on my side contentedly, enjoying a good wine and some cold chicken. Kirponos sat with his back straight up, always looking around, eating quickly. "Relax, Mikhail Petrovich," I said to him kindly, "we have, what, two full regiments here, surely you don't think the rebels will dare to show themselves." He shook his head, but did not relax.
"Georgiy, offer my colleague some of this white," I told my denschik. Kirponos relented and accepted a glass of wine. "Good sweet grape from the Crimea, I have an estate there," I said to him, "drink up." He thanked me and sipped, nodding in appreciation of the vintage.
"Tomorrow's Salvation Day." I relaxed on the grass, hands behind head. "I was there with Kornilov, you know, back in '17. Hard to believe it's been so many years already. What a glorious business it was! We were hanging the Reds from lampposts like grapes…taking Smolny by storm, shooting that Jew bastard Trotsky…those were the days, Mikhail Petrovich. Mustn't grumble about a few rotten Poles, after all that." Kirponos grunted politely, but I could tell he wasn't interested in my war stories.
"Your Excellency will be taking a nap?" Georgiy asked me as he cleared away our lunch. He knew me very well, did old Georgiy. He'd looked after me for nearly a decade now. The man served faithfully, even though he knew he could never rise higher than the NCO he was.
"Well, Georgiy, to speak the truth, I would, but Mikhail Petrovich here would think I'd be setting a poor example, being senior officer and such." Kirponos smiled thinly as I got up and stretched, yawning and brushing off crumbs. In truth, the Crimean white and the afternoon sun had made me sleepy, but I felt duty-bound to lead our march to Warsaw. The Poles did need a good lesson, after all.
"Allow me to suggest, Mikhail Petrovich – " I was not allowed to finish my sentence. Several loud explosions sounded all around us, followed immediately by the crackle of rifle fire. Georgiy pulled me to the ground by my great-coat. Men all around me dove into the wheat field as bullets whizzed by. The damned Poles had ruined our lunch.
The louts had sneaked up and encircled us while we were taking our rest, and now were pouring rifle fire and throwing grenades at us like there was no tomorrow. Our men were starting to return fire, feebly and fitfully. I didn't like the look of things.
"Right," I shouted to Georgiy, who was practically lying on top of me, doing his best to be a human shield, "get off and let's go get these sons of bitches!"
Struggling to my feet, I unsheathed my sword and began shouting at my men. "Hussars, Hussars, ho! To horse, to horse!" And there was Georgiy leading our two horses to us. As I mounted, I wondered for a second where Kirponos had gone off to, I couldn't see him at all. Then my boys and I were on horseback and ready for battle, bullets flying all around us.
"Lancers, forward! For the Tsar, for the Motherland!" I was proud to say that I led the charge, sword in hand, yelling like a madman, faithful Georgiy at my side. My Hussars were right behind me, lances down, pennants flying. Damn it, we were a brave sight, even though a few men got knocked off their saddles by rifle fire.
We rode at the Poles and then through their skirmish line, spearing them as we went, then wheeled around and went at them again, now with sword, rifle, and pistol. The beggars broke and ran, throwing down their rifles. In the heat of battle, I'm afraid we didn't take many prisoners. No one likes being ambushed, least of all me after a perfectly good picnic lunch with the sun shining down.
Suddenly, it was over. Dead insurgents sprawled around us, in the midst of a trampled and bloody wheat field that smoldered in places. Our medics saw to our wounded. It looked like a few more of my chaps had been shot down. I looked around, shielding my eyes from the sun.
More rifle fire came from the direction of the road. Then I heard other noises, an unfamiliar rumble, a screech of metal on metal, booming explosions. Whatever it was, it was trouble.
"Looks like Mikhail Petrovich could use a hand, eh, Georgiy!" I shouted with a grin. Georgiy nodded, and whistled loudly. My men still on horseback circled around me.
"Right, those piano tuners still haven't given up, give 'em the lance!" With shouts of hurrah, we rode towards the battle. Breaking through the last of the wheat, we came out onto the road.
I nearly fell off my horse as it reared in fright. Kirponos and his men were fighting tanks, roaring, screeching, clanging metal tanks, like ones I had seen in the Great War, but different somehow, bigger, with more guns, and flying the Polish eagle. The Poles had tanks? Absurd. But they did, and they were driving through our infantry and smashing our Russo-Balt armored cars like tin cans. Mikhail Petrovich was in a bad way, his troops were retreating, machine gun fire from the few armored cars I saw was bouncing off the tanks' armor. The situation was starting to smell like a rout.
"Lancers, forward!" I led the charge again. We had to stop the tanks to give our comrades a chance to regroup. Even as we galloped towards the enemy, I could not believe my eyes. We were charging Polish tanks. Where in the name of God had they gotten tanks?
I'm afraid our charge did little good. The tanks' cannons and machine guns swiveled at us as we came on, and opened fire. Men were cut down all around me, and we never got close. Georgiy pulled me from my saddle just before a huge explosion smashed down my horse and knocked me unconscious.
Eventually, I came to. My head was pounding dreadfully. It was dark, I must have been out all day. The Devil take it, my head hurt. I guessed we had lost the engagement.
"Thanks be to God, he's alive," I heard a familiar voice as I stirred. A pair of strong hands helped me sit up. My head swayed, then my eyes cleared. Georgiy was staring anxiously at me. We were sitting next to a campfire, with some others. Other campfires burned nearby, and quite a lot of men were around, walking, sitting, or lying down. The ones walking had rifles…right, they were the guards.
"Your Excellency, how's your head?" Georgiy asked. I reached up and found the top and sides of my head were bandaged, and sticky with dried blood. "Still there, it seems," I answered gruffly. First wounded, now captured – this fighting was a reprise of the Great War, all right. For shame, hussar, I thought to myself and hung my head.
"Don't fret, Excellency," Georgiy knew my moods. "Those Polish devils had tanks, who knew? You were brave to charge them, and, to tell the truth, perhaps a few of our fellows on foot got away, thanks to you."
"Fool," I said to him, grimacing as my head pounded, "we're disgraced, disgraced, d'you understand? Captured by the rebels, my horse dead, our regimental standards trampled into the dirt…If we ever get home, I'll probably be court-martialled. No more invitations from Court, you can be sure. Who the Devil cares if a few peasants escaped? As if they could explain, even if they do get back to our lines."
Georgiy's face darkened. I must have upset him, I thought. Then I remembered.
"Georgiy, dear, forgive me. It's this damned head of mine, you know it hasn't worked well since the concussion." He nodded wordlessly and turned away to fuss with the campfire.
That had been inconsiderate of me. Georgiy was the wrong chap to moan to about being cut from Court. He'd been living in disgrace for over a decade now, a perpetual sergeant, never to be promoted.
I began speaking with the other men around our little fire. It was a mixed bag, one of my Hussars, an Armored chap, two Infantry boots. All were wounded to some degree. We had gotten well and truly slammed by the rebels.
"You can't tell me those bastards, those piano tuners, the Devil take them, made those tanks!" The Hussar swore loudly as we discussed our defeat. I had to agree. Poles were brave enough, but not known for military science, not like –
"Why do you call them that, 'piano tuners'?" An officer in an unfamiliar uniform stood in front of our campfire, several rebel riflemen flanking him. He had cut through our chatter in crisp German.
"What's that damned Prussak doing here?" the Hussar muttered. I realized I was probably the only one who spoke German. Struggling to my feet with Georgiy's help, I saluted.
"Colonel Litovsky, Shumsky Hussars of His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Mikhail Mikhailovich." My German was rusty but serviceable. I had grown up bilingual, after all, like most other Baltic Germans I knew.
The Prussian officer returned my salute. "What a shame that a fellow speaker is fighting against his own people."
The damned arrogant Prussian! I told him, "Forgive me, but my people have served the Tsar-Emperor for the last two hundred years. These soldiers – " I pointed around at my fellow prisoners – "these men are my people. We are your prisoners."
The Prussian nodded quickly, dismissing his gambit. "So, I repeat, why do you call the Poles 'piano tuners'?"
I laughed, despite the instant headache. "Well, you know who leads them, the chief troublemaker. What else can we call them?"
The German smiled briefly. "Yes, of course, I should have figured it out. Paderewski was a famous pianist before taking the Nationalist mantle from that troublemaker you shot, Pilsudski. That's quite droll, actually. The famous Russian sense of humor." His face relaxed a bit. "You may call me Heinz."
"I'd rather address you by your rank and family name, as per regulations," I answered. Hate to be stiff, but I was the man's prisoner, after all, and the rules have to be followed in war.
"Very well, I'm Major Guderian, attached to the Liberation Forces of the Republic of Poland. I'd like to ask you a few questions," he gestured to follow him.
"You can ask all you want, but I won't tell you anything," I told him. "If you insist on taking me somewhere, I ask that my man-at-arms here come with me, since I'm wounded. You may search him. His name is Zhukov, Georgiy Konstantinovich, if you care."
'Liberation Forces of the Republic of Poland,' indeed, I thought to myself, what utter rot. My God, those Poles were trouble, always have been.
Heinz hesitated, then gestured to his attendants. They were a bit rough with Georgiy, but found nothing on him. He swore at them under his breath as he supported me on his arm while we followed Heinz away from the fire. As we left, I muttered an encouragement to my fellow prisoners, who looked quite downcast at my departure. "They're probably taking him to be shot, the foreign devils," I heard one whisper.
We walked through the make-shift prisoner of war camp and finally got to a field full of tents. Those tanks, the Devil take them, were all around, stinking of diesel. Lots of Poles milled about, wearing uniforms, now that I had a good look at them.
Then it hit me. Tanks, uniforms, Prussians – the Germans were behind this uprising. It made perfect sense. The Prussians have been under our boot ever since the Great War ended. We should have known they were involved. What better way to make trouble for the Empire than to stir up the damned Poles? These Polish piano tuners could not have gotten this far on their own, it was absurd even to think about it.
Heinz led us into a tent larger than most, and lit by kerosene lamps. He offered me a seat around a small card table, then took another chair. Georgiy remained standing behind me. Two other men joined us, and then coffee was served and cigarettes offered. Thank God for that, at least.
"Colonel Litovsky of the Shumsky Hussars," Heinz introduced me to the others in German. They looked like Poles to me, and wore uniforms suggesting some higher rank.
Before they could speak, I interrupted. "Gentlemen, may we speak Russian? As I am your prisoner, I would ask this indulgence of you."
With ill grace, they consented. "Michal Tuchaczewski, Konstanty Rokossowski," they introduced themselves in heavily accented Russian. I'd never heard of them. Officers of the Liberation Forces of the Polish republic, apparently.
"Did my colleague, Lt.-Colonel Kirponos, survive the fighting? He was leading our armored column," I asked.
The Poles looked to Guderian, who shook his head. "I regret to inform you that your comrade did not survive our tank attack."
"'Our tank attack?'" I couldn't keep silent. "Then you admit that you're fighting with these louts against Russia!" Georgiy had to put his hands on my shoulders to keep me from rising. This was intolerable provocation.
Major Guderian laughed dryly. "Forgive me, I misspoke. I am only here as an agricultural advisor, assisting our new Polish allies with the new tractors they've ordered from us. They're doing all the fighting, and doing it quite well, as far as I can see." The Poles fairly glowed at that, the fools. Did they really think the Germans would let them go, even if they did win free of the Empire, God forbid?
"You understand," I said to him coldly, temper back in control, "that your participation in this unfortunate rebellion against His Imperial Majesty the Tsar-Emperor, may God bless him, is tantamount to an act of war and will have the most serious consequences for Prussia herself? Do you really wish to unleash another Great War, to see our troops again in Berlin and Dresden? This is what your 'tractors' will accomplish!"
Guderian leaned forward, angry now but still in control of himself. "We Germans haven't forgotten dirty Russian boots on our streets. This time around, we'll do better. While your General Staff is reliving the Napoleonic Wars and mucking about with horses and armored cars – pathetic! - we're developing the future of warfare. Fast, modern tanks, real armor that can cut through anything the Empire can field."
"These men here – " he pointed to the two Poles – "and we in Prussia understand this, even if you don't. With our valiant Polish comrades, we will kick the Russian bear out of Germany and Poland both, and perhaps even further than that, eh!" His face was flushed.
I said nothing to him. What could one say to such utter nonsense? Typical Prussian arrogance. These new tanks were trouble, to be sure, but no tanks, and no Germans or Poles, for that matter, could stand up to the fighting spirit of the Imperial armed forces, our cavalry, our faith in our Tsar, our God, and our land. We'd seen tanks in the Great War, there were ways to handle them. Let them come, I thought to myself.
Guderian leaned back in his chair, silent at last. The Poles began to question me about the usual matters, our forces, strategy, intentions. I could tell from their Russian that they had spent some time in the Imperial military a while back. As a prisoner of war, I had the right to refuse to answer, and so I informed them.
"Tell me instead, boys," I said to them using my best collegial tone, "what are old Imperial soldiers like you doing hanging around with damned Prussaks?" I didn't know if Guderian understood us, but took a chance that he did not.
"You have no right to speak to us so," one of them answered. "We might be your comrades even today if your fellows hadn't cashiered us back during the Troubles. Did you expect us to go away and die in some gutter quietly? We are Poles, we came back to our motherland and began to fight for her freedom."
I sat back, my head pounding from the coffee and cigarette smoke. So these fellows were let go from the Army after the Restoration? Just like old Georgiy, I thought, except he got off easy, they let him stay on as an NCO. When Kornilov took Petrograd and sorted out Kerensky and the Bolsheviks, many heads rolled, some all the way to Siberia or the gallows.
Well, I had to say something. "You know, boys, a lot of good men got caught up with the damned Reds back then. After Kornilov sent the damned Soviets packing, they repented, took their punishment, and stayed true to their oath. You could have stayed and served, if you wanted to."
"You could have, perhaps, since you are Russian," they answered hotly. "We're Poles, and we'll always be Poles, and that's what they said to us. We had no choice but to leave, since we weren't trusted." Their voices were bitter. I understood them, actually. Having to abandon your oath to the Tsar-Emperor and your fellow soldiers after fighting shoulder to shoulder in the Great War would have broken my heart. Even thinking about it made my blood run cold.
"Enough of that old nonsense," Guderian came back into the conversation, speaking passable Russian. "We're asking the questions here." So the Prussian fox did speak Russian…must be an intelligence officer. My mistake, then.
"You are a fool, trying to convince these Polish patriots to trust Russia yet again," the Prussian launched into it, "Russia betrayed them before and will do so again. And what is Russia today? Your military is a broken reed, your precious Minister of War is a tired old man whose glory days are long gone, and your tsar is a dunce! The Romanov Court is like a pack of wolves, the Great Dukes are at each others' throats, the Mihailovichi against the Vladimirovichi, the Pavlovichi against the Constantinovichi, everybody knows none of them cares a fig for the Empire – "
"Look," I had to cut him off before Georgiy got upset, "I'm certainly not going to give you any military information, no matter how much coffee you pour into me or how many cigarettes you give me or how much nonsense you spout. Please let me go back to my men and try to look after them. Better yet, let us go and end all this, before you regret it." Georgiy gave me a quiet little slap on the back for support.
Well, they didn't let us go and they didn't end their nonsense. Georgiy and I were taken back to our campfire, a few cigarettes from Guderian as a memento of our talk.
Naturally, I shared them with the men. It was quite late and we lay down to sleep the best we could on the wet grass, our coats rolled up into field pillows. Poor Kirponos, I thought just before sleep claimed me, he seemed like a good chap. What rotten luck.
We were woken early next morning by the roars of trucks and tank engines nearby. It was impossible to sleep through such a racket.
"What in blazes are those damned Poles doing?" The other Hussar by our campfire swore. I stood up – carefully – and looked around. Men and machines milled around chaotically in the morning light. There was a strong smell of diesel fuel.
"They're fueling their damn tractors!" I slapped my head. "They're preparing to move out!"
"What tractors? Is he out of his mind?" I heard one infantry man ask another. But I was right. Soon after, the tanks gunned their engines and began to leave, making a terrible noise, like a junkyard on the move, and filling the air with the stench of their fuel.
I'm afraid after that it got rather boring. I never saw Major Guderian again, although he was in my thoughts plenty enough. The Poles moved us from camp to camp, sometimes in a field, other times in a school or a barn hastily converted to a jail. We were fed, but poorly and infrequently. Everyone lost weight.
August turned into September, then into October. It got cold and we huddled around our campfires. Winter was on its way, and we were still prisoners. Where was our Army?
I was interrogated a few more times, but the Poles didn't seem to have their heart in it, and I told them nothing. They did let loose a few scraps of precious information during our back and forth. It seemed that the Germans had made it as far as Lublin and Bialostok with their 'tractors,' but then…it was unclear. No more prisoners joined us, which I took for a good sign.
And then in November came the sweetest sound to our ears from the heavens. We were in some city with railroads running through it, being held in an emptied old prison in the heart of the old town. It was early in the morning, and our cells were very cold. We could see our breath. And then we heard our bombers.
There must have been several squadrons by the sound of them, big, modern jobs, probably the Dmitry Donskoi models. They bombed that city for an hour, at least that's what I remember. We all cheered our heads off from our cells, even with our jailers yelling and swearing at us. They didn't feed us that day, but we didn't care. The smell of smoke and fire drifting into our cells through the tiny barred windows and the tumult outside told us enough. Our chaps were fighting back.
We were moved a few more times, and we started to hear bombing and artillery fire in the distance. One day in mid-November, we were huddling in the middle of some God-forsaken field. It was snowing by then, we couldn't get a fire started, and our guards looked almost as miserable as we felt.
A few of our men had died over the past few nights from exposure. I must admit, it was a low point even for me. The artillery fire we heard faintly seemed as far away as Siberia.
There we were, huddling for warmth in the snow, the wind blowing straight through us. I was kneeling by a pile of wet wood, cursing at it for not lighting as the wind blew out my precious matches one by one, even with Georgiy's rough hands shielding them.
Then we heard explosions and rifle fire. The riflemen guarding us rushed around, started shooting, then, amazingly, ran off. Soldiers on horseback rode up and, dismounting, made short work of the few guards who tried to fight it out. They wore the beautiful, familiar colors of Imperial Russian dragoons. We were rescued.
Well, you probably know the rest. The War Minister himself, lovely old Lavr Georgiyevich Kornilov, left his stuffy Petrograd office, came to the front, and led the offensive that broke the Poles and smashed their German 'tractors' outside Brest-Litovsk. Kornilov and the old Finnish fox back at the Imperial General Staff, Baron Mannerheim, had planned it beautifully, a classic double-pincer attack, like a modern-day Cannae.
I was told our cavalry first had cut off the Germans from their Polish fuel trucks, turning their precious tanks into so much useless metal. Without the Germans' wonder-working 'tractors,' their piano tuner allies lost their nerve and began to desert. Then our infantry and mobile armor regiments struck hard from the north and the south out of the Belarussian woods and swamps, and the 'Liberation Forces of the Republic of Poland' shattered at the first heavy blow.
The infamy of August was avenged in the snows of December. We Russians have our ups and downs in the summer, but we always fight well in winter. Precious few Germans came home from that battlefield.
We went on to recover Warsaw and the rest of Imperial Poland in the first few months of 1932. Various traitors were hung, including the chief piano tuner himself, Paderewsky, pleas for clemency from assorted humanists and music lovers in Western Europe and North America notwithstanding. A few rebels managed to escape over the border into the German states, but were promptly repatriated and even more promptly shot.
I have no idea what happened to the Polish chaps back in the tent with Major Guderian, but I suspect they came to no good. Even after the end of the fighting, there was no shortage of bitter-enders, bandits and brigands who had to be cleaned out from marsh and forest over the course of the new year. I'm proud to say my Shumsky Hussars did their share. Perhaps Tuchaczewski and Rokossowski died by a Hussar lance. I'd like to think so, anyway. They were bound to come to a bad end, judging by the company they kept.
As for me, after a stint in a hospital to recover my strength, I was sent back to Petrograd to help testify to a few Imperial commissions about what happened and what it all meant. It was a God-sent opportunity to tell some useful chaps about my conversations with Major Guderian and his enthusiasm for 'tractors.'
Eventually, I even got an audience with His Excellency the Minister of War Generalissimus Kornilov himself. Meeting the old hero was the highlight of my life. I left the audience with a brace of medals, but all I could remember was his strong, half-Kazakh face, worn and weathered, like the old soldier he was.
Soon afterwards, large new 'tractor works' started going up outside Petrograd and Nizhniy Novgorod, Moscow and Tsaritsyn with the help of a national State Defense loan advertised by Kornilov himself, and with some quiet grants on the side from our British and French friends. As the decade wore on, more and more lectures were offered on armored warfare at our military academies, and our brightest young officers began volunteering for the Armored Corps. Even I was asked to speak several times on my experiences in '31, and took great pleasure in remembering Major Guderian and his mad dreams to my cadet audience.
Only he wasn't mad at all, it turned out. Some years later, the damned Prussians renounced the Post-War Treaties, united the other German states under their rule, and came for us again. Guderian – by now a general - led the charge of their 'tractors.'
They were a little late. We had our own by then, and met them on the broad fields of Poland, that eternal battleground between Teuton and Slav. And Oh! How our tractors did plow the Polish earth, and watered it with blood. There was precious little left for the piano tuners to cry over by the time we were through.
I did my bit of gardening in that scrap as well. But that, my friends, is a whole other story.
