Russia at war

by Alexander C Werth

  German captivity (or even broke out of a German encirclement) were, as a rule, treated as

  "suspects". Some were cleared; others put in "punitive battalions", others still, as we know from certain recent publications, were sent to Russian "labour" camps.

  I recall a grim conversation I had with a Russian colonel shortly before the fall of Sebastopol, where many thousands of Russians were to fall into German hands.

  What was it, the Colonel said, that made Sebastopol so different from Tobruk or

  Singapore? "Isn't it because of the Russian's more intense hatred of the enemy, and because of the British temptation to surrender when all hope of holding out is lost? Is not the good treatment of British war prisoners by the Germans part of a definite policy—

  aiming at stopping the British from fighting to the last man?"

  "Do you then suggest," I said, "that if the Germans treated Russian war prisoners better, Sebastopol would have fallen long ago?" "No," he said rather angrily, "because such calculations don't enter the head of a Russian soldier, still less a Soviet sailor. These people loathe the guts of every German. Besides, they know that by fighting this hopeless battle of Sebastopol till the very end, they are tying up very large German and Rumanian forces, and are so helping the rest of the Front. Here is heroism—but heroism plus

  definite orders."

  I then brought up the question of the International Red Cross, the Geneva Convention, and so on. Would it not be better if Russian war prisoners were given some International Red Cross protection, for instance, as Molotov had indeed suggested? The colonel said to this: "I am not so sure about that. The damned Germans are going to trick the

  International Red Cross, anyway, at least as far as our prisoners are concerned. We treat the German war prisoners reasonably well [This was, of course, much too sweeping a

  statement] because, in the long run, it's a policy that will pay—not that we like doing it.

  These swine are better fed than millions of our civilians—and that's a galling thought.

  But would a convention with the Germans on war prisoners be a good thing? Our troops have gone through hell, and will go through many more hells before we are finished with this war. And in such a hell—I am ready to admit it—the thought that a comfortable bed and breakfast—the kind of thing British prisoners get—may be secured by the simple

  gesture of surrendering to the Germans might be bad for morale. Not every man in our army has the makings of a hero. So let him die, rather than surrender... Listen, this is a terrible war, more terrible than anything you've ever seen. It's an agonising thought that our prisoners are starved to death in German camps. But, politically, the Germans are making a colossal blunder. If the Germans treated our prisoners well, it would soon be known. It's a horrible thing to say; but by ill-treating and starving our prisoners to death, the Germans are helping us."

  The interesting thing is that the Germans used very much the same kind of reasoning; German propaganda aimed at impressing upon every soldier that falling into Russian

  hands was equal to suicide: either he would be immediately shot, or die a slow agonising death "in Siberia". This was, roughly, the story of every German prisoner whom I was to see later in the Don country, at Stalingrad and in numerous battles after Stalingrad, when the fear of encirclement became a kind of obsession with the German army, and even led to some unexpected withdrawals. Also, rather than surrender, many SS-men committed

  suicide.

  It will be convenient here to look a little beyond the pre-Stalingrad phase of the war, and deal with the next stages in the process which began immediately after the fall of Rostov.

  These next steps may be said to fall under three headings: the "inner" smartening-up of the officer corps through the promotion of many young officers who had shown a high

  degree of technical competence during the war, and the demotion or shelving of the "old war-horses", a process which had already had its precedent in 1941 with the removal from key positions in the Army of men like Voroshilov and Budienny. This shelving of the "old war horses" served to divert popular annoyance about the military defeats from the Party (including Stalin) to "certain" Army leaders. Secondly, there was the "outer"

  smartening-up of the Soviet officer through the introduction of smarter uniforms,

  complete with epaulettes and gold braid. Thirdly, the process begun soon after Rostov of drawing a clear line between the officer's and the commissar's respective roles (see the Red Star editorial of August 9 quoted above) was brought to its logical conclusion on October 9, when the officer's "sole command" was at last restored.

  The contrast between the old and new types of officer was vividly brought out in

  Korneichuk's play The Front which is worth examining, if only because of the enormous publicity given to it.

  [Korneichuk told me soon afterwards that the "general idea" of the play had been given to him by Stalin himself.]

  The main theme of the play was the conflict between Army-General Gorlov, Commander

  of a Front (i.e. army group) and his subordinate, Major-General Ognev, in command of one of the armies. Gorlov is an amiable man, brave, with a fine Civil War record, but wholly unsuitable for modern warfare.

  He pokes more or less good-natured fun at the "specialists", and proudly claims: "I have never gone through any of your academies or universities; I am not one of your theorist chaps. I'm an old war-horse." Personal bravery, to him, is the secret of military success.

  "We'll smash any enemy," he says, "not with wireless operators, but with heroism and valour." He is surrounded by toadying nonentities who flatter him; they are men with none of Gorlov's fundamental honesty. Among them are his intelligence chief, the editor of the Front newspaper, a war correspondent, and his liaison officer. All of them are drawn in a highly satirical vein.

  The central figure in the opposite camp is Ognev, a young general with a mastery of

  modern warfare. He is supported by Gorlov's brother, director of a large aircraft factory, and worshipped by Gorlov's own son. The atmosphere in Gorlov's headquarters is

  thoroughly easy-going, with frequent supper parties, toasts and smug speeches. Ognev is disgusted by all this, and Gorlov's brother, who has come on a tour of inspection from Moscow (where he had discussed aircraft production with Stalin himself) is taken aback by all this and then reports to Moscow on the very unsatisfactory job his brother is doing.

  The central episode is one where the two schools of thought clash in a military operation which Gorlov completely bungles; then the situation is saved, at heavy cost, by Ognev's much clearer vision of the Germans' intentions and by his far better organisation.

  In the very first scene the following typical conversation occurs:

  General Gorlov (to Udivitelny, the Intelligence Chief): How many German tanks are there at Kolokol station?

  Udivitelny: Fifty, comrade commander.

  Gorlov: Not more?

  Udivitelny: Maybe they've brought up a few more in the last five days, but I shouldn't think so.

  Gorlov: But Ognev says they've got three hundred.

  Udivitelny: But how's that possible, comrade commander? I don't imagine they've got more than five hundred along the whole Front.

  Gorlov (to Ognev): There you are!

  Ognev: Why then are they bringing up petrol at such a rate to Kolokol?

  Udivitelny: I couldn't say. I suppose they are preparing for the next offensive.

  They've got stores there, anyway.

  Ognev: Who is in command of the Germans here?

  Udivitelny: I really don't know. Before, they had that—what d'you call him; difficult sort of name; can't remember; Major-General von something-or-other. He was

  replaced. Who the present Von is I couldn't say.

  Ognev: What fire power have they got?

  Udivitelny: Well, the usual four divisions—with a seventy per cent complement; couldn't tell you exactly.

  Ognev: H
ave they got any ski regiments?

  Udivitelny: I don't suppose so. Maybe a few small groups. Why, the Germans weren't preparing for winter.

  Ognev (yelling): God damn you! What the hell do I care what you think? What I want to know is what the Germans have actually got. Answer me: do you know, or

  don't you know?

  Kolos (commander of the cavalry group): Volodya, please...

  Gorlov: Why yell like this; this isn't a bazaar.

  Ognev: You ask him why he is lying like a carpet-vendor at a bazaar. What the hell does he mean by "maybe" and "I suppose so", "That's possible", and "I don't imagine so". How can you issue orders if that's all your Intelligence produces? What data have you? With the snow-storm raging for five days, what kind of data could

  you have got from your air reconnaissance? What else do you know? Nothing. And

  in these five days the Germans might have done any damned thing.

  Here was the official condemnation by the Party of Russia's peculiar brand of Blimps; these, in September 1942, were produced as an answer to the bewildered questions why the Germans were again, for the second year in succession, overrunning vast areas of Russian territory.

  In the last act, after a hard victory has been won, and disaster averted by Ognev, despite Gorlov's original orders, Gorlov is dismissed from his post. He is bewildered, but begins to understand, and accepts his removal with good grace. In the course of the action, his son, one of Ognev's most devoted admirers, is killed. Gorlov is not treated viciously in the play, and whoever has seen The Front at the Moscow Art Theatre will remember the pathetic, almost Chekhovian figure Gorlov cuts in the last act when played by the great Moskvin.

  But the play is intended to convey an optimistic message. In the end, not only Gorlov, but his whole entourage disappear; and they are replaced by other men like Ognev, who have been brought to the surface by the war itself, and who, in addition to their "academic"

  training, have also learned a great deal from direct military experience. Ognev is very much the new type of the Soviet officer and, in a sense, the publication of the play in September 1942 constitutes an important link between the immediate "post-Rostov"

  reforms and their logical sequel, the heightening of the officer's role in the Red Army, his

  "glamourisation" through the introduction of new uniforms, and above all, the abolition of the commissars and the restoration of "sole command".

  That many "Ognevs" had been exiled and even shot in the 1937-8 Purge is, needless to say, not even alluded to in Korneichuk's play. Rokossovsky, for one, was well aware of it; and that may be why he (and many other officers) did not care for the play. They felt, moreover, that it produced some awkward discussions among the troops themselves, and caused some disrespectful questions to be asked. Paradoxically, the play was, on the one hand, a Party-versus-Army demonstration, but, on the other, an exaltation of the

  professional soldier at the expense of the old civil war hack with his more "revolutionary"

  tradition.

  The full restoration of the officer's "single command" was contained in the ukase of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of October 9, which abolished the Institute of the

  Political Commissars in the Red Army. The ukase, alluding to the friction that often used to arise inside an army unit between the officer and the commissar, especially during the hard weeks of the retreat, explained that there was now no further need for political commissars in the old sense; they had originally been introduced during the Civil War to keep an eye on the officers, many of whom had belonged to the old Tsarist Army and

  "who did not believe in the strength of the Soviet regime and were even alien to it."

  Without as much as alluding to the reduced rôle of the commissars under Tukhachevsky, and the "politisation" of the Army after the purges, the abolition of "dual command" in 1940, at Timo-shenko's insistence, and its reintroduction once more at the beginning of the German invasion in 1941, the ukase merely said that, since the Civil War, a large number of officers had been trained under Soviet conditions, and that, during the present war, "an enormous number of new and experienced officers have emerged; they have acquired the greatest experience, have proved their devotion to their country, and have grown in stature both militarily and politically."

  On the other hand the commissars and political workers have greatly increased

  their military knowledge; some of them have already been given commanding

  posts ... while others may be employed as officers right away, or after a certain period of military training... In the circumstances, there is no longer any reason for having political commissars in the Red Army. What is more, the perpetuation of the Institute of Political Commissars may act as an obstacle in achieving the best results in the command of the troops; this, in itself, would put the commissars in a false and awkward position. The time has therefore come for establishing complete Single

  Command, and for placing upon the officer the sole responsibility for military

  decisions..,

  Thus dual control was abolished; the commissar was turned into the officer's "deputy in the political field"; he was also an officer, but usually of junior rank and was, above all, in charge of political education, propaganda, welfare, etc. The important thing was that he could no longer interfere with the officer's decisions, least of all with his operational decisions.

  Another great practical advantage of this reform, after the terrible losses suffered since June 1941, was the great increase, within a short time, in officer cadres drawn from the ranks of ex-commissars, most of whom had had first-hand experience of the war.

  The ukase replaced the "institute" of political commissars and political instructors (the opposite numbers of the n.c.o.'s) by an "institute" of "deputy-commanders in the political field in army units, staffs, sub-units, military schools, and in the central... offices of the People's Commissariat for Defence..."

  The Red Star editorial of October 11 pointed out that numerous commissars had had a gallant war record; there had been many cases when an officer was killed or wounded, and the commissar took over his duties. Many such commissars had already been given

  officers' posts. The article emphasised that the latest ukase was, in effect, the last phase of a process that had gone on for a long time. Distorting history pretty mercilessly by omitting all that had happened in the late 1930's and also since the war, it set out to show that the latest reform, was in effect, merely an application of the army reform Frunze had advocated back in the early 'twenties. Tukhachevsky, that opponent of "dual command"

  was, of course, not mentioned.

  Having extolled the merits of "single command", Red Star nevertheless went on to say that the new reform did not mean any lowering in the standard of political education and Bolshevik agitation in the army.

  The officers' deputies in the political field must continue this propaganda ... They must go on forging men of iron, capable of the greatest fearlessness, of the greatest spirit of self-sacrifice in this battle against the hated Hitlerites.

  In conclusion it said that the Red Army would very shortly be endowed with 200 new

  regimental commanders and 600 new battalion commanders drawn from the ranks of the

  ex-commissars.

  All this was, in a sense, a clear victory of the "Army" over the "Party".

  Together with this reform came the introduction of the new uniforms. A little later, in 1943, in addition to new uniforms, a whole code of manners was introduced for officers; above a certain rank, for instance, they could not travel by public transport, and were not allowed to "carry paper parcels". Altogether a number of points from the etiquette of the old Tsarist Army were revived.

  Chapter VI STALIN ROPES IN THE CHURCH

  The establishment of correct and even seemingly cordial relations between Church and State had been one of the imperatives of Soviet Government policy ever since the

  beginning of the war. Even before th
e war, especially since the publication of the "Stalin"

  Constitution of 1936 which guaranteed freedom of religious beliefs, the cruder forms of anti-religious propaganda had been largely abandoned. As we have seen, one of the most comic episodes in this process had been the decease, a fortnight after the German

  invasion, of Emelian Yaroslavsky's famous "anti-God" weekly, Bezbozhnik.

  The aim of the Soviet Government was to create absolute national unity; and, with a very high proportion of soldiers in the Army coming from peasant families, among whom

  religious traditions were still strong, it was important to do nothing that would offend their religious "prejudices". With government propaganda becoming more and more patriotic and nationalist, complete with invocations of the great national heroes of the past, including a saint of the Orthodox Church—St. Alexander Nevsky—it was

  impossible to treat the Church as a hostile element in what soon came to be known as

  "the Great Patriotic War". It was, indeed, essential to secure the utmost co-operation from the Church, and to induce the clergy to do patriotic propaganda among the faithful, and support the Soviet regime, rather than look for salvation to the Germans who, despite all the monstrosities of their occupation policy, still gave some encouragement to the

  Orthodox Church which they regarded (not unreasonably) as an element with serious

  grievances against the Soviet system. To the Soviet Government the Church was, in

  effect, a potential Fifth Column, which it was imperative to win over.

  Some of the Orthodox clergy in the occupied areas certainly collaborated with the

  Germans, or pretended to—particularly during the earlier stages of the war—while some members of the Ukrainian church hierarchy were wholly subservient to Berlin to the end.

  In 1941 and 1942 there were many instances of the Germans posing as liberators of the Christian faith in the occupied areas. General Guderian mentions, for example, the town of Glukhov, near Briansk, where "the population asked our permission to use their church as a place of worship once again. We willingly handed it over to them."