The Ukrainian Front (2)
The situation with our tanks—how does it stand?
I had ordered the production of tanks. If the reds truly managed to field five million men, we would have to crush them with superior quality. That was why I had also requested fighter planes. Where did the resources and money come from? From the great powers who were pouring in aid to kill the Bolsheviks. Germany in particular was unusually enthusiastic, and I had heard that tank development was proceeding smoothly because of it.
“Yes. Our tanks are indeed being produced, but they are not yet ready for actual combat deployment.”
“Hmm. That is unfortunate.”
“Still, with British, French, and German tanks available, subduing the Bolsheviks should not be difficult. We have already sent some to the Black Baron as well.”
The Black Baron, Pyotr Wrangel. I had originally elevated him to the position of Western Commander, yet he was known far more as the Black Baron than as the White Army’s commander. It was certainly easier to say.
“That is good to hear. Would it not be wise to send some to the Ukrainian front as well?”
“German and French volunteers are already there.”
German and French volunteers. In other words, suspiciously fluent White Russian divisions speaking German and French. In the end, when numbers were insufficient, quality had to make up the difference. It was correct to throw in every tank and airplane as soon as they rolled off the line. Since the First World War had ended early, matériel was overflowing.
“Once the Ukrainian front is wrapped up, we must advance on Moscow.”
“Understood. Also, Major General Ungern-Sternberg says he wishes to strike the reds himself. What should we do? He claims to have greatly expanded the Asiatic Cavalry Division.”
That man? He was more passionate than I expected. Still, how large could the Asiatic Cavalry Division truly be? At most a few thousand men, surely? And weren’t they inferior to the Cossacks?
“Hmm. Can they truly be compared to the Cossacks, the Tsar’s own blade? Still, their courage is admirable. If there is no threat from China, tell him to head to Ukraine.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
More importantly… was this really all right? I had been thinking about it for a while. On the surface, I was still only eighteen years old. Yet these people were listening to every word that came out of this eighteen-year-old’s mouth. No matter how staunchly monarchist they were, could they really entrust everything to the Tsar’s daughter—an adolescent girl?
Kolchak seemed to be working hard, but if the White government only functioned properly when I was around, that said everything. Of course, it was convenient that the Duma members handled things on their own whenever I gave an order. Still—
Thud.
Why was it so noisy outside?
“You cannot do this!”
“Out of my way!”
“Who on earth is being so stubborn—”
The door burst open with a bang. Who was this person who would fling open the door and barge in? It wasn’t a Bolshevik—at least, the uniform suggested otherwise.
“Listen here, Princess.”
The face looked familiar. The uniform, the English with an American accent… Who was this man who had charged all the way here? Was he dissatisfied with the Russian army? No matter how I looked, I was still a princess. This was a bit much. Did they think they held the upper hand?
“Who are you, sir?”
“I am George S. Patton, here as military attaché.”
“And?”
“Give me a chance too! I will lead the American volunteers under my command and smash the skulls of every red I find!”
Was George S. Patton always like this? Why did I feel like something had just clicked into place? Setting that aside, America was currently playing the role of our wallet. He had come as a military attaché—what was he thinking? There were American troops helping with logistics, but the United States itself had not sent volunteers. They had not been dispatched as combat troops.
“This man is being completely reckless!”
Mikhail Drozdovsky tried to drag Patton out, but I raised my hand to stop him. This was Patton. If the reason he had sought me out was to crush the Bolsheviks, it was worth hearing him out.
“I would like to hear your reasons.”
“What about those German bastards? They lost the war, yet they strut around participating in combat. How can I sit still after seeing that?”
That area was under Anton Denikin’s jurisdiction. Had he rushed all the way here because it rankled him? That was the Southern Russian sector, after all. But if this man went wild and got himself killed, wouldn’t that be dangerous?
“We are grateful that the United States supports us, but isn’t this rather arbitrary? Has your government given permission?”
At my question, Patton dragged a chair over and sat down in front of me.
“Our excellent Mr. President sent me to Russia to prevent a revolutionary war caused by the Bolsheviks.”
Wilson? In real history, Woodrow Wilson had advocated for lenient treatment of Germany. It had all been to prevent another war. But Britain and France, driven half-mad by their enormous losses, had imposed crushing reparations on Germany, which later became one of the causes of the Second World War. In this timeline, where Britain and France—having had their thirst for revenge tempered by the Bolshevik threat—had shifted to a “let’s watch Germany for now” stance, Wilson’s lenient policy might have actually worked. I didn’t know the current state of American affairs, but it seemed Wilson was now supporting the Whites to prevent a new war sparked by the Bolsheviks. Patton’s words were probably not entirely wrong. The man called Patton was known as a fighting cock who rampaged everywhere. From America’s perspective, they were probably killing two birds with one stone—disposing of a troublesome hothead while stationing him in Russia as military attaché to keep an eye on things.
“Patton. I doubt your orders were to stop anything. Aren’t you supposed to be reporting the situation in Russia to your home country as a military attaché?”
“It amounts to the same thing! Doesn’t it?”
No, why are you asking me that?
The Second World War… yes, that sort of thing. He should step up then. Wait—given that I existed in this timeline, wouldn’t the Second World War unfold strangely as well? In that case—
“Can you swear you will not resent us even if you die?”
“I will not die. On the contrary, if you do not include me, I will resent you, Princess, for the rest of my life.”
This man truly had madness burning in both eyes. Was he always like this? If he wanted to do it, there was no need to stop him.
“Very well. However, there is a condition. The Bolsheviks are using the presence of foreign troops as propaganda, calling us traitors and conscripting more men. Therefore, if you wish to participate in combat, you must wear a Russian uniform.”
“You want me, an officer of the United States, to disguise myself as a Russian soldier?”
“If you refuse, I cannot grant permission. Whether you resent a girl far younger than yourself or not is entirely up to you.”
If you don’t like it, what can you do about it? That was the subtext. From the look of him, he was desperate to catch Bolsheviks. In that case, he would have to follow our rules. If he wanted to fight however he pleased, he would still have to listen to us.
“Ugh… My Russian is terrible.”
“You seemed so confident earlier. Are you saying you lack the confidence to wipe them all out before the Bolsheviks can spread propaganda claiming that the Princess has brought in foreign troops?”
If he couldn’t manage that, permission was impossible. Pyotr Wrangel was steadily advancing westward. Once the Ukrainian campaign was over, we planned to strike from both the side and below. We could not allow even the slightest blemish.
“Ahem. Who said I couldn’t? I’ll do it.”
That was the right answer from the start. Still, considering George S. Patton’s record in the First World War, perhaps it was worth expecting something.
“Understood. I will inform the military headquarters. Go ahead and rampage to your heart’s content.”
“Kwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Good! At last I can catch those Bolshevik bastards!”
Patton dashed out like a child who had just received the toy he wanted. The whole thing had happened in the blink of an eye. Wait, where were these volunteers he mentioned? Well, he would probably handle it himself. Whatever. Let him do as he pleased. If he could not be controlled, it was better to simply let him run wild.
“Isn’t he being too arrogant given our situation?”
Kolchak seemed displeased with Patton, but as long as he was helpful, it was fine. He was not the type to ruin things.
“Leave him be. After that day, I have thought of the title of Princess only as a focal point—a symbol. I have never once considered myself a princess.”
“My apologies.”
I actually preferred it that way. Anastasia’s memories were just memories. I was originally a Korean. A Korean who had been too busy trying to survive day to day. It would be awkward for people to treat someone like me as a princess. On the contrary, it was better when people barged in with such brute force.
“Anyway, since he wants to run wild, what can we do? Give him a suitable position. Sending him to the Ukrainian front should work.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
For now, the civil war clearly favored our side. Thanks to the flood of supplies pouring in from the great powers, we were pushing forward despite having weaker industrial capacity than the Soviets. Above all, the united White Army was strong. It would be wonderful if Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin were caught while fleeing. That way, we could spread the word that those great revolutionaries had run for their lives. Even those who still harbored some lingering attachment to the Bolsheviks would give up.
“Your Highness. Once we capture Moscow, will you move the capital back there?”
“We are already operating with Yekaterinburg as the center, but it is something worth considering.”
Honestly, Moscow was the ideal capital. The Russian Empire had claimed succession from the Eastern Roman Empire and emphasized that Moscow, like Rome, stood on seven hills. As such, Moscow was a city that carried symbolic weight as the successor to Byzantium. In real history, the Whites had even called Vladivostok the “Fourth Rome” in their final days, showing how important they considered the Byzantine legacy even as they collapsed. Yes—if Moscow had been defiled, it would be fine to call Yekaterinburg the Fourth Rome.
“Although the civil war is not yet over, even after it ends, I will keep Yekaterinburg as the capital and call it the Fourth Rome. It feels wrong to call Moscow, which has become the heart of the red plague, the Third Rome.”
Besides, there was no telling how history would change. The German Corporal Adolf might still insist on Lebensraum and invade. To be safe, Yekaterinburg seemed better. Of course, there was no guarantee that Hitler would become the Führer of Nazi Germany. The snowball I had set rolling was enormous. The Kaiser might even submit to Britain and return to Austria. Still, it never hurt to be cautious.
In Ukraine, aside from the British garrison, there were German troops, French troops, and even unidentified American soldiers who had volunteered to fight for Russia. Of course, to prevent them from being used as propaganda material by the Bolsheviks, they all wore uniforms of the Imperial Russian Army. A certain man watching the Russian troops chatter away in various languages could only shake his head in disbelief.
“To think I would live to see something like this.”
Roman von Ungern-Sternberg, who had brought the Asiatic Cavalry Division to the Ukrainian front, laughed heartily at the German, English, and French ringing in his ears. He had considered linking up with Lieutenant General Anton Denikin to sweep the Bolsheviks from Ukraine, but this was truly a multinational army. It was a sight as rare as the one Grigory Semyonov constantly ranted about—how today’s Russia had inherited the Mongol Empire and must advance into China.
Above all, the German soldiers had once been the enemy. Then Ungern quietly observed the army he had brought with him.
The Asiatic Cavalry Division. Unlike in real history, the Whites had stabilized their sphere of influence, allowing Ungern to greatly expand the division. Russians, Buryats, Tatars, Bashkirs, Mongols, Chinese, Manchus, Poles… It was truly a multinational force. Recently, troops who had joined from Mongolia, as well as Koreans who had fled Japanese rule into Manchuria, had been added, bringing the total to a full five thousand men. When combined with the troops Semyonov had left behind to guard Mongolia, the number was considerable compared to the original timeline.
It was a ragtag unit, but it had conquered Mongolia in the blink of an eye, repelled Chinese forces that occasionally crossed the border in hopes of seizing Mongolian territory, and become a true elite military organization. Above all, every soldier in the cavalry division admired Ungern’s fierce courage and outstanding horsemanship. They were tightly united; nationality meant nothing to them.
“Now that I think about it, the Bolsheviks are said to be marching on Kiev, aren’t they?”
For a moment he almost acknowledged the momentum of those rootless red bastards, but upon hearing their strategy, he changed his mind. From what he understood, the Bolsheviks had numbers but lacked real combat ability. According to the retreating British troops, they had only withdrawn because the enemy had charged in human waves until their ammunition ran out. The Bolshevik strategy was simple. Lacking supplies, many of their men were unarmed. Those without rifles would charge, pick up the weapons of fallen comrades, and charge again. When they died, the next man would take the gun. It was crude and barbaric.
Ungern was certain that the Bolsheviks were far more ignorant and savage than the Asiatic Cavalry Division under his command. In that case… couldn’t they stab the Bolsheviks in the back?
The enemy numbers were large, but if they drove a sharp thrust into their flank, the reds would fall into chaos. If Anton Denikin’s Southern White Army then attacked from the front, perhaps they could rout the Bolsheviks in Ukraine. It was within the realm of possibility.
In any case, I cannot let them steal all the glory. Those Bolshevik bastards probably haven’t prepared properly for a night raid either.
At the very least, it was worth trying. As always, he would lead the troops himself. With that thought, Roman von Ungern-Sternberg mounted his horse.
