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Chapter Twenty-One


White Russian Cossacks

White Russian Cossacks



Novocherkassk, Krug of the Don Cossacks, South Russia

The thatched-roof wooden cabin was not as grand as its current owner, General Pyotr Nikolayevich Krasnov, would’ve liked. The simple wooden table that sat between him and the generals of the White Army in South Russia should’ve been a polished oak surface instead of the rough-hewn cypress affair it was. It was clear from the skeptical, outright annoyed looks they gave him, that they were not sufficiently impressed with his status as Ataman, leader of the Host of the Don Cossacks.

Krasnov was a man of no small ambition, with talent and cunning to match—even his detractors would admit that much. He had led Cossacks valiantly under fire in Manchuria in 1904 and against the Germans in the West throughout the Great War. More importantly, from his perspective, he had taken care to write his own press, ensuring that his leadership in each war was perceived as even more valiant and adroit than the reality. Krasnov’s will to power and status had seen him through the uncertainty of the February, and then October Revolutions.

Seeking an opportunity amidst the chaos, Krasnov found himself among the Don Cossacks who were straining against the yoke of Bolshevik oppression. Seeing a discontented but largely leaderless population, he’d traded on his reputation to convene a council, the Krug, of the Don Cossacks.

That his electorate was less than ten percent of the actual adult voting population of the Don Cossacks because most of the region was still under Bolshevik rule didn’t give Krasnov a moment’s hesitation. He styled himself the rightfully elected ruler of the free and independent Don River Basin.

For what Krasnov possessed in drive and skill, he lacked in honesty and humility.

And where did honesty and humility land you, anyway? Krasnov examined the commander of the so-called Volunteer Army sitting across from him in his office. Anton Ivanovich Denikin was a stocky man of average height, with a graying beard and a round face, his normally kindly countenance marred by open frustration with Krasnov. Krasnov had known Denikin since 1905—they’d had a stimulating discussion on the Trans-Siberian Railroad en route back to service against the Japanese.

He’d found Denikin bright and observant, but when the round-faced peasant had taken exception to some of Krasnov’s embellishments regarding his own exploits in Manchuria, the conversation had turned chilly. In the intervening years, Denikin, for all his workmanlike military competence, hadn’t grown an imagination or even a hint of flair for the dramatic. Little wonder he was such an uninspiring leader. The other White Russian generals had probably defaulted to him as the “safe” option, for he was as uncontroversial as he was uninspiring.

Denikin oozed integrity. Denikin radiated responsibility. Denikin saturated any room he was in with his selflessness.

Denikin was a sucker.

“Your Excellency,” Krasnov said, smoothing the pointed, waxed ends of his gull-wing shaped mustache. “Given that my Host outnumbers your Volunteer Army by a factor of five, I would not be serving the constituency which elected me were I to submit my men to your command as you suggest.”

Denikin’s nostrils flared, his face growing even more flush. Krasnov carefully restrained his private glee at needling the old bear so mercilessly. He maintained an apologetic smile for the sake of the room.

“General Krasnov, I respect your place as leader of the Don Cossack host,” Denikin said, his voice brittle. “I would remind you that I am, properly, your commander. I am not suggesting.

Krasnov set his tea on the table between them and fixed Denikin with a glare.

“Your Excellency, the army we both served in is now defunct. The Tsar to whom we swore our allegiance is deposed—perhaps even dead. I am no longer your subordinate, General Denikin. I am the duly elected leader of five million free and sovereign people. The Don Cossacks do not submit to the Bolsheviks, and we do not submit to you, though we wish to be your allies.”

A muscle under Denikin’s eye twitched, but before he could respond, his chief of staff, Romanovsky, cut into the conversation.

“General Krasnov, surely you can see the need to put aside these petty squabbles of rank and station to defeat the scourge of Communism that threatens us all?”

Denikin cast a sharp glance at his subordinate, but allowed the question to stand without correction, so Krasnov deigned to answer it.

“You are right, General Romanovsky. We must have unity of command. Therefore, I propose this—I will provide six million rubles for the pay and provisions of the Volunteer Army, and you will place yourself under my command for the duration of the war.”

Denikin’s patience visibly shattered.

“This is outrageous, Krasnov,” he shouted, leveling a finger at Krasnov’s nose. “We are fighting for Russia’s very survival and you are trying to make some opportunistic gamble for power. I will not turn my men into mercenaries for an adventuring braggart such as you!”

Krasnov set his tea aside and crossed his arms.

“You wound me, Anton Ivanovich. How is my requesting your subordination any more outrageous than you demanding mine? We need unity of command; I have proposed a reasonable course of action to secure it.”

Denikin sputtered. Romanovsky again tried to salvage the situation.

“General Krasnov, you know the other factions will never accept you as supreme commander, please let us drop the matter. You will, of course, retain command of your host under General Denikin—with your Cossacks, the Volunteer Army and the Kuban Cossack regiments we already have, we can isolate and destroy the Soviet 10th and 11th Armies in the Kuban, clearing the path to Moscow.”

Krasnov shook his head and stood up, turning to the giant map of European Russia hanging behind his desk.

“This plan is too cautious, my friends,” Krasnov said he gestured at the city of Tsaritsyn astride the Volga River. “Tsaritsyn should be the objective of our first campaign. Securing this hub of rail and river traffic to Siberia will allow us to link up with the anti-Communist forces to the East. Reinforced by them, we can drive directly on Moscow this Fall. We can end the war before Christmas.”

Denikin’s indignant expression now gave way to incredulity.

“You would have us leave two full-strength armies in our rear areas while we attempt an offensive against the most urbanized and densely populated region of all Russia? Are you mad?”

“Every month we delay, the Reds recruit more men, they produce more weapons, they solidify their interior lines,” Krasnov said. “Today we have a large qualitative edge on most of their formations, but Trotsky sharpens them day by day. Our differential will shrink and vanish if we do not end this soon.”

The two generals across from Krasnov did not immediately reply. Though they had earned his contempt, Krasnov knew neither man was militarily stupid—they would see the logic of his argument.

“You have a point, General Krasnov,” Denikin said. “But we are perilously short on both infantry and artillery to undertake such an endeavor. Our Cossacks are magnificent on the open steppe, but to take and hold Moscow and the other cities would require they dismount and fight street to street, house to house. We have our Volunteer regiments and a handful of Cossack infantry, but they simply aren’t enough right now.”

Krasnov tilted his head to acknowledge the objection, then stabbed a finger back at Tsaritsyn on the map.

“That is why linking up with reinforcements from Siberia is vital. There are anti-Bolshevik Russian units forming there as we speak, and the Czech Legion, some fifty thousand battle-hardened infantrymen, reportedly now controls the Trans-Siberian Railway.”

Denikin sighed.

“If reports are to be believed, the Czechs only took up arms against the Soviets when the Soviets tried to disarm and detain them,” Denikin said. “Being willing to fight to return to one’s home is not the same thing as being willing to die by the hundreds or thousands in another country’s civil war.

“No, General, we will finish the liberation of the Kuban and the Don. We will swell our infantry formations to the necessary size for such an offensive, and then, with help from our Allies, we will advance on Moscow.”

Krasnov shook his head.

“Even now, the Allies are crumbling under the Ludendorff offensive. What makes you think they will have any spare men or resources for us beyond the trickle we are already receiving?”

Denikin leveled a finger at Krasnov’s face.

“You are too quick to side with the German villains against our allies.”

“And you are too quick to place the interests of those allies coequal with those of our own people,” Krasnov said, raising his voice, but then he held up a hand and affected a chagrined expression before Denikin could shout his response. “Forgive me, Anton Ivanovich, I spoke rashly, as I’m sure you did. I know your loyalty is always and forever to a free and united Russia. Intelligent, honorable men may disagree even about the most important issues.

“Since we seem to have come to an impasse, I propose that we continue to pursue our own strategies. I will take Tsaritsyn while you clear the Kuban of Soviets,” Krasnov said.

“We would be much more powerful unifying our efforts,” Romanovsky said.

“We would,” Krasnov agreed. “Unfortunately, we cannot agree on how best to do that, so let us, at least, not weaken ourselves with petty squabbling. As a show of good faith, and in appreciation for the reality that your operations protect our Western flank, I will still give you the six million rubles as a gift with no strings attached, as well as some of the equipment we have liberated.”

They haggled on for a few more moments, but in the end, Denikin accepted the money and equipment and left with a grudging expression of gratitude. Once they departed, Krasnov slouched in his chair. It certainly wasn’t an unalloyed victory, but he’d retained his independence.

Without the Volunteer Army—especially the crack Kornilov, Alekseev, and Markov infantry regiments—the campaign for Tsaritsyn would be more dangerous, but he still had his Host, and Cossack communities throughout the Don Basin held thousands more young men to recruit to the cause once they were freed. The Reds were still largely disorganized and fighting with half-trained, unindoctrinated conscripts—but Krasnov had meant what he said when he told Denikin that their lack of training and discipline would quickly change.

Moreover, what Denikin had not apparently heard, but Krasnov had, were the rumors of a surviving Romanov girl, Grand Duchess Tatiana. Krasnov had no special love for the Imperial family. Nicholas had been a damn fool, and his wife a pathetic neurotic who made decisions while impaled on that madman Rasputin’s cock.

Regardless, if one of the Tsar’s daughters lived, she was an important chess piece. Getting to her before Denikin, shaping her perception of events in European Russia, might help him garner support from the monarchists in the White Russian camp. To say nothing of the fact that the girl had, apparently, rallied a nontrivial force unto herself, a force, if rumors were to be believed, that had been transported to her rescue by a German zeppelin.

Perhaps, just perhaps, the girl, having been beneficiary of German help in her survival, might see sense. Where old men like Denikin clung to the skirts of the French and British, and now even the Americans, willing to wag their tails like faithful dogs for table scraps, Tatiana might see the value of forming a closer relationship with the state which was currently in the process of winning the Great War, rather than compounding Russia’s woes by anchoring her to a sinking vessel of geopolitics.

Krasnov’s train of thought was interrupted by his chief of staff, Bogayesky, entering the room. He looked at his subordinate in irritation. Bogayesky had pushed and pushed for unity with the Volunteer Army and the Kuban Host, even intimating, indirectly, that the Don Host might elect a different leader if Krasnov couldn’t bring the White Russian forces in South Russia into alignment.

Given that Bogayesky was also an experienced cavalryman with a good reputation among the Cossacks, Krasnov had little trouble discerning who the veiled threat to his position was.

Keep your enemies closer.

“General, what news?” Bogayesky asked.

“We have reached an agreement,” Krasnov said, standing with the pronouncement and smiling broadly. “Denikin and his forces will clear the Kuban of Reds and destroy the Soviet 10th and 11th Armies. We will press the attack on Tsaritsyn.”

Bogayesky grimaced.

“General, that will divide our forces unnecessarily—”

“I disagree and so does General Denikin and his staff,” Krasnov lied. “Both objectives are vital and time sensitive. Though it is risky, we have forces available for both objectives. Speaking of which—”

Krasnov handed Bogayesky a sheet of paper upon which he’d written down the six million ruble sum as well as a list of the arms and equipment he’d promised Denikin.

“To seal our alliance with the Volunteer Army and Kuban Host, see that the money and equipment listed there are transferred to Denikin’s train before they leave.”

Bogayesky accepted this order without protest.

“Yes, General. Will there be anything else?”

“I need a courier prepared to take a message to Hetman Skoropadsky in Kiev,” Krasnov said, referring the puppet governor the Germans had placed in Ukraine. “He may be able to confirm or deny the rumors I’m hearing about German involvement in the Romanovs’ rescue. Perhaps he can even convince Field Marshal Eichhorn to send us some troops.”

Bogayesky looked unhappy, but he didn’t protest the collaboration with the Germans.

“Yes, sir.”


Near Costantinovka, South Russia

A tall man in a brown field uniform sat at ease in the front passenger seat of a lorry as it traversed the ruts and deformities of the dirt road on a suspension system that had seen better days. General Baron Pyotr Nikolayevich Wrangel was long since accustomed to travel over rough roads, whether by horse or by motor car. His large dark eyes scanned the terrain relentlessly as he considered his new command and its situation.

The dark brown steppe of the North Caucasus stretched out in every direction from the road, the mountains only faint green masses against the distant horizon. Fortunately, the roads had hardened, but were not yet choked with snow, so the lorry’s wheels propelled it easily enough, if not smoothly. The command vehicle trundled past the mule carts heading toward the front with ammunition and reinforcements, and the streams of wounded and captured enemy personnel meandering away from it.

Wrangel wore his customary stoic, faintly disapproving expression. His neatly trimmed black mustache twitched in a faint smile to see the long column of Bolshevik prisoners shuffling despondently southward into captivity. His command, the 1st Cavalry Division of the Volunteer Army, was doing well in this war of maneuver against the Communists. Something alarming caught Wrangel’s attention, though—there were damned few guards for such large contingents of prisoners.

Wrangel tapped the lorry’s driver on the shoulder.

“Vladimir, pull over a second, I want to have a word with the commander of that detail.”

“Yes, sir,” Obolensky said.

His driver and aide-de-camp was Captain Prince Vladimir Obolensky. Like Wrangel himself, Obolensky was old nobility—his ancestors had once ruled Kiev before the days of Ivan the Terrible. Obolensky and Wrangel even looked a bit alike in their long faces and angular features. Obolensky was much younger and had served valiantly under Wrangel in the Tsarevich’s Own Cossack Cavalry in the Great War. He was one of few subordinate officers from Wrangel’s old regiment who had reunited with him in the 1st Cavalry.

Obolensky loved motor cars and airplanes, and all things new and fast. Thus, he insisted on driving while Wrangel’s enlisted orderlies sat in the back of the lorry, rifles at the ready. Wrangel allowed himself a small, wry smile. Even with their homeland torn asunder by civil war, he suspected Obolensky was still savoring the chance for adventure, regardless of the tragedy, danger, and suffering all about them.

The young lieutenant commanding the prisoner detail snapped to attention and saluted as Wrangel approached. Wrangel returned the salute crisply, gratified to see that the boy’s discipline wasn’t as lax as he’d seen in other corners of the Volunteer Army.

“Good afternoon, General!” the lieutenant said, nerves clear in his too-loud voice.

“Good afternoon,” Wrangel said. He cast an eye at the stream of bedraggled communist prisoners. He stepped closer and lowered his voice.

“Lieutenant, it seems you have an unfortunately small number of guards for this many prisoners.”

The lieutenant’s expression mixed chagrin and frustration.

“I agree, General, but there’s just too many prisoners. We can’t afford any more men off the line,” he answered in an equally quiet voice. “I only drew this detail because I was wounded.”

The lieutenant indicated a filthy bandage and sling around his left arm.

“It’s the damnedest thing, sir,” the lieutenant continued. “Some of these Bolsheviks fight like maddened bears, but others just throw down their arms in the thousands the minute things get tough.”

“They’re a composite force.” Wrangel did not say aloud: like us, “Wide variance in morale is to be expected. What is your name, Lieutenant?”

“Vasily Gavrikov, sir.”

“Well, Gavrikov, I will pray for your speedy recovery,” Wrangel said. He turned to go, but then he noticed the lieutenant carried no rifle, nor pistol, nor yet even a saber. “Lieutenant, are you unarmed?”

“Yes, sir.” Gavrikov looked sheepish now.

Wrangel considered that for a moment, nodded once sharply, then undid the buckle on his pistol belt and handed it out to Gavrikov.

“General, I couldn’t possibly take your pistol,” Gavrikov said, his expression aghast at the very notion.

“You’ve more need of it than I do, Lieutenant.” Wrangel gestured to the lorry where Obolensky and his enlisted guards waited. “I have these rough characters to protect me.”

Gavrikov accepted the pistol and belt as if they were the Tsarina’s Fabergé eggs.

“Thank you, General,” he said, fervently.

Wrangel made a deprecating gesture.

“There’s a round in every chamber and twenty rounds in the pouch for reloads. Good luck, Lieutenant.”

They exchanged salutes again before Wrangel turned on his heel and returned to his command lorry.

“Anything else you’d like to donate while we’re here, General?” Obolensky asked, grinning.

“Continue in this vein, Vladimir Platonovich, and I’ll give him your pistol as well,” Wrangel said, deadpan. “Drive. I want to inspect our divisional artillery before nightfall.”

Obolensky wound through the columns of supply wagons and prisoners with a deft hand. The rattle of small arms and the concussive blasts of artillery became louder and more distinct the further north and east they traveled. They reached the battery by sixteen hundred, according to Wrangel’s wristwatch.

The autumn sun painted the 76mm guns of his divisional artillery battery in warm orange light. The guns were arrayed in a field surrounded on all sides by tall rows of corn, providing some concealment for the aging, but still invaluable artillery pieces. Because the White Army was ludicrously heavy on officers, each light field gun crew had at least one officer, and some had two or more. Their crew drill was sharp, precise, and professional.

On a hillock overlooking the battery stood the stocky figure of Colonel Toporkov, one of Wrangel’s brigade commanders. Wrangel told his enlisted men to wait with the car while he and Obolensky went to have a chat with Toporkov.

As they ascended the hill, new vistas opened up over the stalks of corn. In the distance, a battalion of enemy infantry were emplacing in a hollow alongside with their own light artillery pieces. His own Cossacks wheeled about them, harassing the infantry with rifle and pistol fire, but the Bolsheviks held firm. Their cannons barked, and belched smoke; the volley flew over the heads of the Red infantry and White cavalry to detonate just two hundred meters short of Wrangel’s own artillery.

Once they reached the top of the hillock where Toporkov had set up his field command post, Wrangel cut through all pleasantries and came straight to the point.

“What is your situation, Colonel?” Wrangel asked.

“Fluid, sir,” Toporkov said without hesitation. “The Reds don’t have much in the way of quality cavalry, but what they do have seems concentrated in our sector, so we cannot dance about their flanks as easily as we have in the past. It doesn’t help that Pokrovsky’s division seems more interested in raping and looting than it does in fighting the fucking Communists, it leaves our right flank exposed.”

Toporkov stopped speaking, the realization that he might have gone too far in criticizing another division commander in front of his own general plainly visible on his face.

“I beg your pardon, General.”

Wrangel waved his hand in a gesture of negation.

“I expect your candor at all times, Colonel. Go on.”

“We remain short on rifle and machine gun ammunition, but we have enough 76mm to give the Reds some trouble. We’re emplaced now, we’ll signal the Cossacks out there to break off their harassment so our field of fire is clear.”

Wrangel opened his mouth, intending to voice his concern that his division’s precious artillery was so far forward without infantry support and only a screen of light Cossack cavalry.

“The cavalry!” one of Toporkov’s officers shouted.

Wrangel’s gaze shot back to the battlefield. The Cossacks were galloping back toward friendly lines, a mass of horsemen four times their number in pursuit.

“Where the hell were the Reds hiding a regiment of cavalry?” Obolensky mused out loud.

“It hardly matters now,” Wrangel said, then turned to Toporkov. “There’s no time to displace. Signal the Cossacks to wheel left, then treat the enemy to an enfilade.”

Signal flags went up, waved in a specific pattern, and went down. Whoever was commanding the Cossack cavalry squadron still had his men under good discipline, for the galloping formation of cavalry turned wide as instructed, clearing the artillery’s field of fire. Even as the hooves of the charging enemy shook the dirt and grass underfoot, the artillery answered with its own basso roar. Smoke filled the air for dozens of meters around Wrangel and his men.

Exploding shrapnel rounds tore men and horses to ribbons of shattered bone and severed sinew. Wrangel’s artillery killed dozens and left still more screaming and clutching at horrific wounds as their blood poured onto the Russian steppe. It wasn’t enough. The battery only managed one more volley before the Red Cavalrymen burst through the smoke into the midst of the cannoneers.

A saber flashed and an artillery officer fell, his life’s blood spilling through his own fingers as he clutched at the gash in his throat. The man next to him, a lad who couldn’t have been a day over seventeen, avenged the fallen officer. He clamped onto the boots of his commander’s killer and forced the Red out of the saddle, slammed him into the ground and rammed a trench knife into the horseman’s guts repeatedly, only to collapse to the grass himself as a pistol shot took off the back of his skull.

“General, get the hell out of here,” Toporkov said, drawing his saber with his left hand and his pistol with his right. “We’ll slow them down.”

Wrangel’s stomach clenched. Run while his men died covering him? No—

Obolensky grabbed Wrangel’s arm with crushing strength, and shouted in his ear over the din of rifle and pistol fire and the screams of man and horse.

“General, don’t be a damned fool, you don’t even have a weapon, you dying here won’t win the war!”

Wrangel snarled his frustration, but seeing the artillerymen falling as if they were the harvest of the field, no alternative occurred to him. He followed Obolensky at a sprint even as Toporkov shot a Red out of the saddle, deflected a saber cut with his own blade and hacked down a dismounted enemy before the man could stick a bayonet into him.

They were fewer than fifty meters from his command car when an enemy shell detonated mere inches from its right-front wheel well. The explosion sent up an orange, black and gray geyser, and fragmentation from the shell shredded the rubber of the front wheels and made a metallic hash of the engine compartment.

The concussion of the explosion was enough to knock Wrangel off balance in his headlong flight and he tumbled into the yellow grass. Ignoring the high-pitched whine in his ears, he scrabbled back to his feet, grabbed Obolensky by the shoulder and pulled him, stumbling, off the road into the tall stalks of corn. They ran hunched over, trying to stay below the line of sight of the pursuing cavalry—no comfortable feat given that Wrangel stood well over six feet tall. Wrangel led them south and west, into the setting sun.

Behind him the rattle and blast of gunfire and artillery, the death screams of his men pursued Wrangel relentlessly, ripping at his conscience. He gritted his teeth and sped up.

“What now, General?” Obolensky asked. Wrangel thought enviously that the younger man sounded far less winded than he felt. Wrangel tried to answer without huffing and gasping.

“We find that Cossack squadron, take it to go get two more like it and our infantry. Then we cut off this salient and continue the attack.”

After two grueling hours picking their way through the fields, an ambulance car sped past them. Sped was a relative term, given the condition of the roads. Wrangel chased it at a full sprint, Obolensky followed. Wrangel willed his legs to pump harder and he managed to catch the speeding car and jump up on its running boards.

“Who the hell are you?” the driver, a man with a thick brow and heavy features demanded.

“General Wrangel, 1st Cavalry,” Wrangel answered with exaggerated aplomb. “If you don’t mind, soldier, drop me off at my command post on your way to the aid station.”


It took most of the night, but by dawn Wrangel had rallied a brigade of his Cossack cavalrymen. He and Obolensky secured mounts for themselves rather than try to find another truck or motor car. Wrangel rode at the head of the main body astride a beautiful black mare. Obolensky had convinced him that the division commander couldn’t exercise proper control of his command out forward with the scouts. The scouts returned with news—the enemy was gone and so was their battery of light artillery.

It was an hour past dawn by the time they reached the battery’s position, and the enemy was nowhere to be seen. The scouts’ report had portrayed the grim reality accurately. The dead of both sides lay strewn about the field, largely stripped of clothes, as well as arms and ammunition. Two of the 76mm cannons were missing, two sets of parallel ruts in the grass indicating where the Bolsheviks had wheeled them northward. The rest of the guns had been destroyed with grenades or other explosives.

“They retreated, they fled before we could get here!” one of the Cossacks shouted.

“No, they never intended to hold this field,” Wrangel said, glaring north with a stony expression. “This was a jab to give their main body time to retreat and reconsolidate to defend along the Ouroup rather than having to face our cavalry massed in the open field.”

The officers gathered around him looked questioningly toward Wrangel. Before he addressed their worried looks, he pulled a blanket from his saddlebag and searched out Colonel Toporkov’s corpse from among the fallen. The brigade commander had been stripped of his coat, shirt and boots. His revolver and saber were gone. Wrangel laid the blanket across his valiant subordinate’s body and bowed his head, whispering a quick prayer.

Raising his head, he turned to regard his men.

“The fight will be harder—but the communists will pay no lesser a blood price than before. The road to Russia’s salvation will take us through defeats as well as triumph, my friends, but we will follow it through regardless.”



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