The Ukrainian Theater
Author's Note: For future plot developments, the MacArthur mentioned in the telephone conversation has been revised to Patton, as he didn't fit the story!
It seems the Americans are dead serious about this. But would he even come? By my standards he’s a towering figure. Wow, impressive. Except it isn’t, not yet. Right now he’s simply a man who distinguished himself in the Great War. If the great powers have decided to treat the Red-White Civil War as something more than a distant fire on the far bank of the river, then nothing is truly impossible. So it isn’t strange at all that the officer the Germans dispatched is Walter Model.
The one piece of good news is that the addition of the Southern Russian forces has brought Vasily Kharlamov, leader of the White Army in the Caucasus, and Ilya Fondaminsky, a senior official of the Kerensky government, into the fold as well. A host of other figures have joined the Duma. And then—
“The Red Army has entered Ukraine. The anarchist Nestor Makhno, under attack by the Reds, has reached out to us at the head of his Black Army.”
At last the other side had begun to move. Entering Ukraine. The implication was clear: seize Ukraine, crush Anton Denikin, and drive a knife into our flank. I had no intention of simply watching it happen. Should the Soviets truly take Ukraine, support from the great powers through the Black Sea would become nearly impossible. Anton Denikin would be in mortal danger, and they could sever Tsaritsyn from the south once again.
In that case it was only right that we seize the initiative in Ukraine. If we could repel them here, a northward thrust straight toward Moscow would be excellent. Pyotr Wrangel had already taken Kazan; a coordinated pincer from the side and below would be ideal.
And then there was Nestor Makhno himself—an anarchist operating in the Ukrainian theater and an enemy of the Red Army. In the original timeline he had controlled southern Ukraine and the Crimea by 1919, only to later command the anarchist Black Army, recognize the Bolsheviks as dictators, and rebel. Eventually the Reds turned on him.
In this altered history the Soviets had shown their true colors far earlier and the situation looked grim, so it seemed he had rebelled against them, been attacked, and was now trying to attach himself to our side. Or perhaps Trotsky had simply decided that anarchists had no place in this crisis and was crushing them outright.
“Aren’t those fellows Red Army sympathizers as well?”
“They’re reds, all right. Same filth, different label. Hm.”
Infighting among reds was always welcome. The battles between them were far more entertaining. Those rootless creatures had already splintered into Leninists, Stalinists, Marxists, and every other absurd faction imaginable. Watching them tear one another apart would be its own pleasure.
“They will have conditions for joining the White Army. Have you heard them?”
“They have offered to aid the White Army’s victory. In return, after the war, they ask that we recognize the Makhnovshchina—at least the territories they currently control within Ukraine.”
Makhnovshchina. The Anarchist Free Territory. It was nothing less than an anarchist government in all but name. I had no intention of recognizing it now, but if it would make them fight the Reds, that much could be conceded. After all, the way of the world was to discard one’s tools once they had served their purpose. Later I could grant them some token position in Ukraine, manufacture a suitable pretext about suppressing the reds, and remove them. Then the eastern Ukraine that Nestor Makhno had controlled would be mine to swallow whole. Britain could hardly object that far from home.
“The struggle for initiative in Ukraine is critical.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“Britain will want to call on us soon enough. We should raise our own forces in the south. Contact Lieutenant General Anton Denikin. Tell him to strike northward from the south.”
I had considered going myself to raise morale, but the image of the Bolsheviks whipping the Red Army into a frenzy with cries of “Capture the princess and the war is over!” was all too vivid. Better not to step onto the board in person until we had bled the reds as much as possible. I could only hope Anton Denikin performed well.
The problem was that, according to the history I remembered, his reputation was far from stellar.
The British forces stationed in Ukraine were dumbfounded.
“Ukraine, the colonies, anything—take it all! Just spare the imperial family!”
The German Empire had emptied itself like a sacrificial tree, yet the pleasure of having forced Germany to its knees had been short-lived. After years of grinding war, Britain’s best option now was to install a pro-British government in Ukraine and withdraw. The garrison itself numbered only a few thousand men.
There had been belated murmurs that they had been too lenient with Germany, but even the American president had spoken of magnanimity, and what was done in victory could not easily be undone.
Yet at this most critical moment the Bolsheviks—whether mad or simply reckless—had sent an army against the British garrison despite their obvious lack of capability.
“Kill every last imperialist and liberate Ukraine!”
“Ura!”
“Have these reds lost their minds? Pointing rifles at the British Empire that brought even the Jerries to heel?”
At first, working alongside the Ukrainian units organized to British specifications and drawing on hard-won experience from the Great War, they had easily thrashed the conscript hordes. The problem was that the hordes were simply too numerous.
“Their numbers are too great for us to contain. The madmen are throwing bodies forward like the Chinese.”
“Damn it all. Send a request for aid to the Whites! They won’t want their own flank exposed if Ukraine falls to the reds!”
“At once!”
The British garrison in Ukraine formally requested assistance from the White Army. Since they were already dependent on British support, refusal was unlikely; no one wanted a knife in the side.
“Onward, soldiers of the great Red Army! Cross those trenches! Overthrow the imperialists! Ura!”
Meanwhile the Red Army, victories notwithstanding, was in poor spirits. It had been an army of conscripts from the beginning, driven forward at gunpoint. Resentment only grew. In a situation where death seemed certain, hostility toward the Bolsheviks swelled with every step.
Nor were the British the only enemy in Ukraine. Having attacked the anarchists they had assumed were fellow travelers, the Reds had turned even them into foes and now suffered constant headaches from their guerrilla tactics.
“Ura my ass. What kind of great Red Army is this? Well, we are red—with blood. Fuck!”
“Quiet, you idiot. The political officers will shoot you!”
“Let them shoot! This isn’t why I supported the Bolsheviks!”
The Red Army was growing ever more disillusioned with the Bolshevik regime. They had believed that supporting the Bolsheviks would bring a better life than under the Tsar. Reality proved far worse. At least the old order had ranks and open hierarchy; the high-born abused their station openly. These reds spoke of comradeship while ruling through violence and authoritarian terror. Disobedience was met with a rifle barrel and a bullet. Failure to heed Bolshevik commands often earned the label of White reactionary and a swift disappearance.
And it was the same here.
A political officer who had been watching them in silence leveled his pistol at a soldier he deemed to be spreading impure thoughts.
“You reactionary swine!”
Bang!
“S-Sergei’s dead!”
When the political officers opened fire, the soldiers could only submit. Yet desertions led by officers continued to rise daily. Those who felt betrayed by the Bolsheviks they had once trusted deserted en masse to the White Army that had entered Ukraine in accordance with the princess’s orders.
“The Whites are coming?”
“This is our chance. Let’s run!”
There was a limit to what guns could compel. If there had been no hope at all it might have been different. With British troops ahead and Bolshevik guns behind, they would have had no choice but to charge. But the proximity of the White Army offered a genuine alternative.
Those who wished to live fled in large numbers.
Even so, the Red Army advancing to seize Ukraine remained enormous.
Anton Denikin’s army advanced into eastern Ukraine. Makhno’s anarchists were diligently carrying out terror attacks in support of the Whites, harassing the Bolsheviks at every turn. Desertions from the Red Army increased daily. Separate from that, the British seemed to be dying in our place while fighting the Reds.
Well. Was that my problem? If anything, it was fortunate. Had the British been marching into the Russian heartland it would have been another matter. But the reds had gone in to devour an independent Ukraine and promptly smashed into the British instead. Even though Ukraine was sometimes called Little Russia, the conscripted soldiers could hardly be eager to die for the Bolsheviks’ belated attempt to reclaim territory they had already signed away in treaties. After surrendering so much to Germany to end the war, now they were threatening others to clean up their mess. The resentment of the conscripted Red Army could only grow.
“The Bolsheviks are overreaching,” I observed.
“They have few opportunities left. Desperation makes men reckless,” Kolchak replied, a mocking smile on his lips.
In the original timeline this man should have been grateful to me. Still, he had every right to scoff. What the Bolsheviks were attempting now was, by any measure, a betrayal of the revolution’s original ideals. They were grinding the Red Army to dust, yet if they managed to seize Ukraine they could proclaim its recapture and trumpet the strength of the Red Army. Imperialism has been defeated! In short, they were looking outward to preserve their own power.
Who knew—they might even be claiming right now that we were British puppets trying to hand Ukraine over to them. But even they weren’t foolish enough for such blatant stupidity. After all, we were marching at the request of Makhno to secure eastern Ukraine.
This was an opportunity. Considering the Soviet position, the force in Ukraine was likely their main army, prepared with great ambition. A pity. Honestly, wasn’t this the perfect moment? If we struck from Finland and the Baltic states while Pyotr Wrangel’s army drove straight into Moscow, the gamble might succeed. Annihilating the Ukrainian force would achieve much the same. Simply preventing them from taking Ukraine would be enough.
They had pushed and prodded that army into Ukraine. Once committed, they needed to win it. Failure to take Ukraine would mean military defeat for the Red Army. The advance on Yekaterinburg could be excused as an operation launched before the army was properly reorganized, but Ukraine was different. They had hurriedly assembled it by incorporating even former imperial officers and had scaled it up considerably. It had not yet reached the five-million-man force of the original timeline, but it was still a real army.
And now, after all that pressure, it was failing.
Stalin would probably be delighted. Of course, I intended to collapse the Soviet Union long before he could become General Secretary. If they failed in Ukraine, we would simply march on Moscow. The recapture of Moscow would mark the true end of the Soviets. Once the homeland of communism fell, how would the other nations react? Communist parties had grown considerably in many countries.
But first, the question was whether Anton Denikin could win. If it were Brusilov there would be no doubt. I did not expect him to lose, yet defeat here would be dangerous.
“Does Lieutenant General Anton Denikin believe he can handle the Bolsheviks in Ukraine?”
“He reports that it is entirely possible.”
“Complacency is forbidden.”
With me present the man seemed obedient enough, but Anton Denikin was a figure whose reputation as a great general remained somewhat ambiguous. Still, if he could not defeat such a wretched Red Army, he would be worse than useless.