Yashka · Part III · Chapter 15 (1/3)

XV

The Army Becomes a Savage Mob

My women were enthusiastic over the return of their Commander. I reported to the Commander of the Corps and was invited to luncheon with the Staff. The officers were interested to know what was going on in the rear. I did not tell them the details of the quarrel between the Prime Minister and the Commander-in-Chief, but I did indicate in general terms that a difference had arisen.

Toward the end of the meal it was reported that the Chairman of the Corps Committee had come to see the Commander on important business. It appeared that the corps in the trenches was to be relieved at seven in the evening and orders had been issued to the corps in reserve, some miles behind, to move toward the trenches at five in the morning. However, they had not moved. The Chairman now came to explain the cause of the delay. He was himself a patriotic and intelligent soldier and was asked to sit down by the General while he told the story.

“The rascals!” he said of the men who had elected him as their leader, “they wouldn’t move. They have been holding meetings all the morning and refuse to go to relieve their comrades.”

We were all shocked. The General became excited.

“What the devil!” he exclaimed angrily. “That passes all bounds! If the soldiers refuse to relieve the very men who had relieved them a couple of weeks ago, then there is no use in continuing at the front, making a pretence of war. It’s a farce! It’s no use staying here, let them lay down their arms and go home and save the Government the trouble of keeping up the semblance of an army. The villains! Just shoot a few of them, and they will learn to do their duty! At seven o’clock the trenches will be empty. Go and tell them that I command them to move immediately!”

The Chairman returned to the billets and told his soldiers that the General ordered them into the trenches under penalty of death. This incensed the men.

“Aha, he is threatening to shoot!” cried one.

“He’s of the old regime,” exclaimed another.

“He wants to practise on us the Tsar’s methods!” shouted several voices.

“He is a blackguard!” suggested another.

“He ought to be killed! He wants to rule us with an iron hand!” the men roared, working themselves up to a fever.

Meanwhile, the news came from the trenches that the men were holding meetings there, proclaiming their determination not to remain in their position after seven o’clock. The General was in great difficulty. He was faced with the probability of his section of the front being left entirely open to the enemy. He telephoned to the reserve billets and asked the Chairman of the Committee what was going on there.

Suddenly the General grew pale, dropped the receiver and said:

“They want to kill me.”

Chief of Staff Kostayev took up the receiver and in a trembling voice inquired what the trouble was. I listened to the answer.

“They are in an ugly mood. They have mutinied and threaten to mob the General. The excitement is spreading, and some of them have already started out for Headquarters.”

The voice of the Chairman at the other end of the wire was clearly expressive of his alarm. In reply to questions what the General could do to calm the mob he said that the committee admired and respected the General, that its members were doing their best to allay the passions that had been aroused, but seemed helpless.

A few minutes later several officers and men ran into the house, greatly agitated.

“General, you are lost if you don’t get away in time!” one of them said.

Shortly afterwards Colonel Belonogov, a man of sterling heart, beloved by his soldiers even before the revolution, rushed in. He brought the same tidings, asking the General to hide. I joined in, imploring the Commander to conceal himself till the storm had passed. But he refused.

“Why should I hide?” he exclaimed. “What wrong have I done? Let them come and kill me! I have only done my duty.”

He went into his study and locked himself in.

The mob was moving nearer and nearer. There was a deathly pallor on the faces of all those present. Every minute or so someone would dash in breathlessly, with eyes full of horror, to herald the approaching tempest.

The tide of tumultuous humanity reached the house. There were cries and howls. For a second we were all in suspense. Then Colonel Belonogov said he would go out and talk to them and try to make them see reason. The Colonel had a gentle voice and a gentle heart. He never addressed even his own orderly in the ordinary fashion. When a little time before he had asked to be transferred to another position, his own soldiers persuaded him into staying where he was.

In a word the Colonel was an exceptional man. Without question there was no other officer in the Corps as fit as he to undertake the task of mollifying an excited mob. He went out on the porch and calmly faced the steadily increasing multitude.

“Where is the General? Where is he? We want to kill him!” the savage chorus bawled.

“What are you thinking of?” the Colonel began. “Come to your senses and consider the order. It was an order to relieve your own comrades, soldiers like yourselves. Now, you know that this was no more than fair. The General simply wanted you to take the places of your comrades.”

“But he threatened to shoot us!” interrupted the men.

“You did not quite understand. He only said generally that to get obedience one must shoot.⁠ ⁠…”

“Shoot!” a hundred voices went up from every side, catching the word but not the meaning.

“Shoot! Aha, he wants to shoot! He’s for the old regime himself!” a thousand voices roared, without even giving the ashen-faced Colonel a chance to explain.

“Kill him! Show him what shooting is!” raged the vast throng, while the speaker tried vainly to raise his voice and get a hearing.

Suddenly someone jerked the stool from under his feet. In an instant a hundred heavy heels had trampled the life out of that noble body. It was a horrible, terrifying scene. Several thousand men had turned into beasts. The lust of blood was in their eyes. They swayed backwards and forwards as if intoxicated, crushing the last signs of life out of their victim, stamping on the corpse in a frenzy. The mob’s thirst for blood became inflamed. The officers realized that every moment was precious. Kostayev thought that the only way to save ourselves was to escape through the rear of the house.

“I will go out to them,” I declared.

The remaining officers thought me mad and tried to dissuade me.

“Belonogov was the idol of his regiment, and see what’s become of him. If you go it is certain death,” they said. Colonel Kostayev disappeared and several of the Staff followed him.

I could not see how the situation would be saved by escaping. It might save a couple of lives, although even that was unlikely, but the mutiny would extend and might grow beyond control. “I will go out,” I resolved, crossed myself and dashed into the infuriated mob.

“What is the matter?” I shouted at the top of my voice. “What has happened to you? Let me pass!”

The crowd separated and made a way for me to the stool.

“Look at her!” jeered some voices.

“Eh, eh, look at this bird!” echoed others.

“Your Excellency!” scoffed one man.

“Now,” I began sharply, as soon as I had jumped on the stool. “I am no ‘your Excellency!’ but plain Yashka! You can kill me right away, or you can kill me a little later, five, ten minutes later. But Yashka will not be afraid.

“I will have my say. Before you slay me I must speak my mind. Do you know me? Do you know that I am one of you, a plain peasant soldier?”

“Yes, we do,” the men answered.

“Well,” I resumed, “why did you kill this man?” and I pointed at the disfigured body at my feet. “He was the kindest officer in the Corps. He never beat, never punished a soldier. He was always courteous, to privates and officers alike. He never spoke contemptuously to anyone. Only a month ago he wanted to be transferred and you insisted on keeping him. That was four weeks ago. Had he changed, could he have changed, in such a short time?

“He was like a father to his men. Weren’t you always proud of him? Didn’t you always boast that in his regiment the food was good, the soldiers were well shod, the baths were regular? Didn’t you, of your own accord, reward him with a Soldiers’ Cross, the highest honour that the free Russian army has to offer?

“And now you have killed, with your own hands, this noble soul, this rare example of human kindness. Why?

“Why did you do it?” I turned fiercely on the men.

“Because he was of the exploiting class,” came one answer.

“They all suck our blood!” shouted some others.

“Why let her talk? Who is she that she should question us?” somebody cried out.

“Kill her! Kill her, too! Kill them all! We have shed enough of our blood! The bourgeois! The murderers! Kill her!” was shouted from many throats.

“Scoundrels!” I screamed. “You will kill me yet, I am at your mercy, and I came out to be killed. You ask why I should be allowed to talk. You ask who I am. As if you didn’t know me! Who is Yashka Bochkareva?

“Who sent delegates to present icons to me, if not you? Who had me promoted to the rank of an officer, if not you? Who sent me this testimonial to Petrograd only a couple of weeks ago, if not you?”

Here I drew out from my breast pocket the resolution passed and signed by the Corps Committee and despatched to me while I was in the Petrograd Hospital. I had brought it with me. Pointing to the signatures, I cried:

“You see this? Who signed it, if not you yourselves? It is signed by the Corps Committee, your own representatives, whom you, yourselves, elected!”

The men were silent.

“Who suffered, fought with you, if not I? Who saved your lives under fire, if not Yashka? Don’t you remember what I did for your comrades at Naroch, when, up to my armpits in mud, I dragged dozens of you to safety and life?”

Here, I turned abruptly on a gaping fellow, looked directly at him and asked:

“Suppose the rank and file were to elect their own officers. Now, what would you do in the Commander’s place, if you were chosen? You are a plain soldier, of the people. Tell me what you would do!” I thundered.

The man looked foolish, making an effort to laugh.

“Ha, I would see,” he said, “once I got there.”

“That is no answer. Tell me what you would do if our Corps were in the trenches and another one refused to relieve it. What would you do? What?” I demanded of the whole crowd.

“Would you hold the trenches indefinitely or leave? Answer me that!”

“Well, we would leave, anyhow,” replied a number of men.

“But what are you here for,” I shouted fiercely, “to hold the trenches or not?”

“Yes, to hold,” they answered.

“Then how could you leave them?” I fired back.

There was silence.

“That would be treason to Free Russia!” I continued.

The men bowed their heads in shame. Nobody spoke.

“Then why did you kill him?” I cried out bitterly. “What did he want you to do but hold the trenches?”

“He wanted to shoot us!” several sullen voices replied.

“He never said anything of the sort. What he wanted to say was to explain that the General did not threaten you either, but remarked that in other circumstances your action would be punished by shooting. No sooner did Colonel Belonogov mention the word ‘shoot’ than you threw yourself upon him without even giving the man a chance to finish what he was saying.”

“That was not what we understood. We thought he threatened to shoot us,” the men weakly defended themselves.

At this point the orderlies and friends of the murdered Colonel rushed up. They raised such a cry of grief when they saw the mutilated corpse that all speech was silenced. They cursed and wept and threatened the mob, although they were few and the crowd numbered thousands.

“Murderers! Bloodthirsty ruffians! Whom have you killed? Our little father! Did ever soldiers have a better friend than he was? Was there ever a commander who took greater care of his men? You are worse than the Tsar and his hangmen. You are given freedom, and you act like cutthroats. You devils!”

And the mourners broke out in even louder lamentations. The wailing rent the air. It gripped everybody’s throat. Many in the mob wept. As the dead man’s friends began to relate the various favours they had received from him, I could not choke down my tears and stepped down from the stool, convulsed with sobs.

Meanwhile, in response to calls for help, a division from a neighbouring corps arrived to quell the mutiny. The Committee of the Division came forward and demanded the surrender of the ringleaders of the movement that had resulted in the soldiers’ refusal to return to the trenches and in the murder of Colonel Belonogov. There were negotiations between the two committees, which finally ended in the surrender by the mob of twenty agitators, who were placed under arrest.

The officers who had fled and the General now reappeared, although the latter was still afraid to order the soldiers to relieve the corps in the trenches. He asked me to broach the subject.

I first addressed the men about the funeral.

“We must have a coffin made. Who will do it?” I asked.

Several volunteered to get some timber and make one.

“How about a grave? We must bury him with full military honours,” I went on. Some soldiers offered their services as gravediggers.

An officer went to look for a priest. I sent a soldier to the woods to make a wreath. Then I turned and asked:

“Now, will you go to the trenches to relieve your comrades?”

“Yes,” the men answered meekly.

It was an unforgettable scene. These five thousand men, all so docile and humble, some with tears still fresh on their cheeks, were like a forlorn flock of sheep that had lost its shepherd. It seemed impossible to believe that these men were capable of murder. You could curse them now, you could even strike them, and they would bear it without protest. They were conscious, deeply conscious of a great crime. Quietly they stood, from time to time, uttering a word of regret, engrossed in mourning. And yet these same lambs were ferocious beasts two hours ago. All the gentleness now mirrored in their faces was then extinguished by a hurricane of savage passion. These obedient children had actually been inhuman a short time ago. It was incredible, and still it was the truth.

Such is the character of the Russian people.

The coffin, an oblong box of unshaven boards, draped inside and out with a white sheet, was brought at four o’clock. The body had been washed, but it was impossible to restore the face to its normal appearance. It was disfigured beyond recognition. With the help of some of the men, I wrapped the body in canvas and placed it in the coffin. Instead of one there were four green wreaths made. The priest began to read the service but could not control himself and burst into sobs. The General, the Staff, and I, with candles in our hands, were sobbing too. Immediately behind the coffin, as the procession started, the dead officer’s orderly wailed in heartrending tones, recalling aloud the virtues of his master. Behind us marched almost the whole Corps, including the Regiment commanded by the dead man. The weeping was so general and so increased with every step that by the time the procession reached the grave the wailing could be heard for miles around. As the body was laid to rest everybody dropped a handful of sand into the grave. The lips of all were moving in prayer.