- from ‘Harper’s Weekly’ March 4, 1916
- 'A Week with the Russian Army'
- by Samuel N. Harper
An American in Russian Poland
Russian cavalry
If you wish to feel the spirit of the country, you must go to the army, for the real Russia is at the war." This advice, repeated so frequently, finally convinced me. In Petrograd and Moscow I had met many officers, wounded or on leave, who had just come from the army. I had talked with soldiers as I visited hospitals. This, however, would not answer, I was told; all insisted that one had to get into the life itself of the army, to understand. Public workers were constantly returning from or leaving for the front. I heard of the American surgeon, working in the Russian army, who comes back every few months to get a bundle of American papers at the consulate. Each time, it seems, he brings new spirit into the American colony living in the pessimistic atmosphere of Petrograd.
So one November afternoon I started for the headquarters of the General Staff, having finally received the official pass for which I had made application. I also had a letter of introduction to the Chief of Staff, General Alexeyev.
As we journeyed southward, an officer boarded the train and came into my compartment; he had to be helped in by the porter, for he was wounded. Immediately we began to talk, in the simple, friendly way which is the habit in Russia. We did not sleep much that night; he was eager to tell me all about the war as he had experienced it. He was a Cossack officer, from Siberia. He had been wounded four times, and was going to Kiev for an operation. He pointed to the wound in his cheek, and opened his mouth to show a broken tooth: "It happened during the retreat from Warsaw; we were attacking, and shouting as we rushed; the bullet passed through my open mouth, but I kept on shouting."
I arrived at the small, unattractive town, the headquarters of the General Staff, as I might have arrived at any provincial centre; a large proportion of officers among the passengers was the only thing out of the ordinary. I jumped into a sleigh and drove to headquarters. My letter of recommendation, to supplement the official pass, was from a prominent public worker, the president of the War-Industry Committee, Mr. Alexander Guchkov, and it secured immediate and most cordial recognition. General Alexeyev received me, and said that I could go to any or as many sections of the front as I wished. I chose two armies on what the Russians call their western front, because they were more accessible, and I had friends there. It did not much matter where I went. At that moment no active fighting was in progress. I wanted simply to "feel" the army, and any portion of it would do.
Supplied with more passes and a sealed letter, I set out for the headquarters of the front which I had chosen. The journey was slow and halting; we were constantly sidetracked for army trains. I did not fret, however, for I was meeting and talking with men from the army. Finally I reached another small provincial town, some sixty miles from the actual front. Here I felt a different atmosphere. Everything was astir; the streets were full of carts loaded with provisions; military automobiles raced through the mass of traffic. There were officers and soldiers everywhere. I presented my letters—the headquarters were in a large school building—and again was given a most hearty reception. For a whole day I hung around the headquarters, talking now with one group, now with another. I spent a great deal of time trying to explain to them what was happening in America. I was allowed to walk around very freely, even into the rooms filled with telephone and telegraph instruments. The commanding general worked out my trip for me, on his own maps, by which he directed the movement of his armies. I lunched at the officers' mess, went to a moving-picture show with a crowd of officers, visited a hospital, and that same evening started for the fighting line. A young officer was detailed to accompany me, a reserve officer only recently promoted to the rank of lieutenant. He had been in heavy fighting; it was interesting to note his enthusiasm when he learned that he was going down to the line, even though it was only as guide. I felt reassured when I overheard the instructions he received, to be careful. An American correspondent had picked up a bullet only a few days before my arrival.
We worked our way westward gradually, first presenting ourselves to the commander of the army to which we were going. The simplicity of it all impressed me. We arrived at the General's headquarters very late, after a wild ride through a driving snow-storm in a powerful army motor. The General took us into his small room, first served us supper—without vodka or wine—and then we talked into the early morning hours. He was particularly glad to see me, for he wanted me to translate some sentences in the book by Stanley Washburn, of the chapter which described him and his army.
We drove back to our railway coach, which we used as headquarters, and continued the journey westward. Another officer joined us; he also was pleased that I had turned up; it gave him a chance to get down to the line again, for he had been brought back to the staff because of a severe contusion. We visited several regiments in the rear reserve, then left the car at the end of the railway line, only a few miles behind the advanced positions. We could hear the distant artillery, but were in a sheltered place, out of range. We motored north and south, back of the line, going up to the advanced positions where opportunity was offered; at one point we were only a few hundred yards from the trenches of the enemy.
The first day at the front was a bit trying on a novice. I had been watching the map closely; I wanted to know when we got within range. The officers kept reassuring me by casual remarks: "One cannot dodge a shell. One does not hear the bullet that hits one. After all it's simply a question of luck." On this first day at the actual front, we arrived at a picturesquely situated estate about noon. It was the estate of a Polish landlord, abandoned by the owner and now used by the staff of an army corps. We were only a mile or so behind the line, but in a sheltered nook behind a small woods. Here we had lunch.
For a week I played around in the army, visiting various regiments. I stood behind a battery in action. I spent several hours at an observation station from which the artillery fire was being directed. They were constantly "worrying the Germans" as they put it, dropping shells in their trenches, or shooting at a village behind the line where the enemy was doing some construction work. At night it was most impressive, when the rockets or searchlights illumined the space between the trenches, or a fire was started behind the enemy's line. It is at night that one has to be on the alert against attacks. For a week I watched and questioned, talking with soldiers as well as with officers. I always inquired for soldiers from a district where I had just spent ten days. They were interested to hear of the work and organization I had seen in their home district.
I saw the soldiers under many conditions. In the reserve regiments, even in those just behind the line, there was long and severe drilling every day. "We have to keep them busy to keep them happy," was the explanation. One day we came to a village where the famous M— regiment was stationed. I saw only the sentinels as we drove up; but I was able by this time to recognize the methods for concealment and knew there were long lines of underground shelters here, full of soldiers. These zemlyanki (houses in the ground) are built with heavy timber—ample protection again light shell; they cannot be detected by the aeroplane scout. Fir branches are used for the bedding and in the ceiling, giving out a pleasant pine odor. Large brick stoves keep the underground dwellings dry and warm. They are clean and sanitary. One officers' mess would have made a pleasant country bungalow, a little dark perhaps, for they had the windows only on one side, facing east.
The M— regiment had just come from a week in the trenches and the soldiers were having a day of rest. I urged the General not to disturb them, but he ordered the alarm to be sounded. In less than ten minutes the entire regiment was under arms, lined up to be inspected. As they marched by, shouting their "Glad to strive" to the General's salute, the old General began to shout himself, and jumped up and down in his joy. For there was strength and determination in the faces of the men, and their voices rang with vigor and spirit. I thought of the officer I had met on the train; the bullet that passed through his mouth had not interrupted his shouting.
I came on regiments at play, during the noon hour of recreation, when the soldiers were having snowball fights and games, entering into the horseplay like mere children. The regiments always sang as they broke ranks after inspection. The peasant-soldiers were constantly singing, continuing the custom of their peasant village. When the colonel wished to reward a regiment or a squad, he gave them a day of singing. One night I was returning from an observation station just back of the trenches. It had been a hard day, physically and mentally, and I felt slightly depressed as I thought of what I had been witnessing. We were driving through a thick wood, and suddenly the sound of singing reached our ears. We found a whole regiment gathered in the dark forest—no lights were allowed, for we were just behind the line— and they were singing, celebrating a regiment holiday. When I dined with officers, a chorus of soldiers always entertained us. I shall never forget one dinner where the selected choir of a Cossack regiment sang for us the old, fifteenth century Cossack songs. The Russian soldiers sing in the trenches. One officer explained: "We understand that it irritates the Germans, so we let the soldiers sing." A general had sent the regiment band down to the front trenches, to play to the soldiers.
Thus for a week I lived the life of the army. Then I began to understand why my friends had urged the visit. It is probably somewhat the same in all armies. But here in the Russian regiments there was the atmosphere of the village life from which the soldiers come.
They play and sing when they are not working or fighting; ten hours out of the trenches and they are normal once more. This makes for great strength in this army of peasants. After a severe retreat, or after a long spell of fighting, the Russian soldier is able to recuperate with remarkable rapidity. General Kuropatkin emphasized this point to me, and he has seen the Russian fight under many conditions.
Another source of strength in the Russian army is the comradeship that exists between officers and men. It is now a national army, in the broadest sense of the word. Reserve officers have filled in the gaps in all the regiments; this may impair strict military discipline, but it creates a wonderful spirit. The general always addresses his soldiers with the word "children." They told a typical story about one general. He was inspecting for the first time a certain trench position. The soldiers gave their salute in a low voice, not wishing to draw the fire of the enemy. But the general yelled at them: "Shout it out, so that the Germans may know that your generals come down to you, to the front trenches." It was in the front trenches that I came on General Kuropatkin. One day after the inspection of a regiment, we were asked if we would watch the dancing. Some of the soldiers were real artists, especially the "comic" of the regiment. The general was so carried away with the dancing and music, that he began to do steps himself, to the great delight of the soldiers.
There were many young faces among the soldiers, but I was assured that they were all over nineteen years of age. Every regiment had its boy scouts. The youngsters had run away from home; they were allowed to stay in the army only after the consent of the parents had been obtained. The diminutive soldiers, some of them wearing two or three St. George crosses, did most valuable scouting service, and were the pride of the regiment.
The number of soldiers, the thickness of the line extending back through several reserves, astonished me, though I had no basis for comparison. All were well clothed and properly equipped. Now, at any rate, no soldier goes to the front without his complete equipment.
I saw the more pleasant side of war; it was almost joyous life at the front, though a life of hard and constant work, except for the intervals of play. The scouts were busy, however, especially at night, bringing in prisoners. The entire staff of an army corps, including three generals, had been captured shortly before my arrival. Men were being picked off every day. I had watched the shelling of a trench.
When I came back to Petrograd, my friends smiled at my enthusiastic account of what I had seen and heard and felt. "Well, you caught it too; everyone comes back from the army full of confidence and spirit." I recommended to all pessimists the easy cure. An American competent to judge from a military point of view, used the expression "a brilliant army." All that is needed is more efficient organization in the rear, more ammunition. I have already described how I saw Russia "mobilizing all the forces of the country," and "organizing for victory." The Minister of War announced only a few weeks ago that the problem of ammunition is now well in hand. I heard an officer announce to a regiment that the artillery parks were full to overflowing. The shouting of the soldiers lasted several minutes. One of the soldiers explained to me, "They don't need to hit anything, but we must hear our artillery behind us. It's hard when the guns are silent."
