Snow Trenches

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

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SNOW TRENCHES

An American Soldier in Russia

DAN STEELE

Snow Trenches was originally published in 1931 by A. C. McClurg & Company, Inc., Chicago.

Table of Contents

Contents

Table of Contents 4

Introduction 5

I — Cossacks 7

II — The Americans 12

III — Nadya and Peter 18

IV — Nadya and Semyonov 23

V — Seltzo Captured 26

VI — Shenkursk 39

VII — Death at Nijni Gora 48

VIII — Cossacks and Convoys. 59

IX — Patrols 71

X — Defense of Ust Padenga 83

XI — Retreat 92

XII — Nadya Disappears 97

XIII — Shenkursk Evacuated 113

XIV — Nadya Escapes 120

XV — Desperate Vistavka 133

XVI — The Raid 145

XVII — Bereziuk 155

Maps 164

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 166

Introduction

The World War, to most of those who fought in it, is a memory of long, white, wet roads bounded by a horse’s ears, gray landscapes sodden with rain and the dismal slime of trenches and emplacements cut in clay. When one speaks of the exploits of the American troops he envisions the France of Vauquois Hill, Château Thierry, Chemin des Dames, the Argonne and St. Mihiel. And excusably he considers the picture of human suffering complete in this scene. Here was the war of What Price Glory and Journey’s End. What need to consider its endless sameness in a different setting?

Dan Steele’s book brought to this reader a distinct sense of shock. There were other fields beside France, other deserts of barbed wire, other forced marches to a slaughter which had the merit only of a novel stage. There was the little contingent that fought in North Russia in a bitter campaign which had little reason to begin with, and was doomed to be forgotten in the end. The men went out. The men came home, most of them to remain silent amid discussions of a war that was beyond their own experience—many of them to minimize their own efforts and to feel that they had somehow been cheated.

Thus it is that Snow Trenches, coming after all these years, is as new as if it had been presented the year of the armistice. It tells, virtually for the first time, what happened in that Russian campaign and will surprise a good fifty per cent of the war-wise populace who probably do not remember that a Russian campaign was ever fought.

Only one who as a soldier faced the foreordained hopelessness of that operation could have written this book. Only one whose blood froze in the white desolation of North Russia could have recreated in words such an atmosphere of bitter cold. The story itself is simple, the motivation made powerful by the inevitable suggestion that not one man but thousands fought this fight. There is an air of unmistakable truth about it that any soldier who ever heard a shell will recognize at once.

One learns here that brass hats may blunder just as stupidly amid hummocks of snow and mountains of ice as in the wine cellars of a French chateau and that men will go to senseless death just as readily on a frozen tundra as in a dusty wheatfield or a steamy morass. One puts the book down with the amazed realization that the limit of human endurance is something that no tactician has yet calculated.

Robert J. Casey

Publisher’s Note:

Mr. Casey, himself the author of many best sellers, served in France with the American Expeditionary Forces as Private, Second Lieutenant, First Lieutenant and Captain, receiving three citations for bravery. Since the close of the war he has been a staff correspondent of the Chicago Daily News, his duties taking him from Chicago to Cambodia and from Easter Island to Esthonia. We consider his opinion that of an expert.

I — Cossacks

IN THE CAFE of the men-from-the-barges, Efim Grigorivich Skverny was buying vodka for two deserters. His arrogance and affectations were such clumsy imitations of the mannerisms of the officers he had seen in the Czar’s army, that he was obviously removed from the cruel, beaten, hopeless mob by his showy uniform alone. His instincts were the same as theirs, his lusts as vicious, too. His companions were much impressed by the glitter of his trappings, which bore a vague resemblance to the uniforms of the old order.

I tell you, comrades, he said familiarly, "there’s never been anything like it! Money, vodka, rations, women,—whatever you like. And the Colonel has bulging trunks full of gold roubles. Gold roubles!"

The man opposite him drew a grimy forefinger through a puddle of liquor and scrawled a row of circles on the table-top.

Sounds good, little officer, but we’ve heard big talk before. Eh, Mikhail? He nudged his friend.

Yes. That’s what the Red Ossipenko told us; and where is he now, and his hundred men? He lies at the foot of the big wall of the Cathedral—or did yesterday. And his men, the fools that believed him?...God knows! Perhaps some of them have his boots and tunic...fine boots...

Archangel seethed. It had become as an anthill, crowded, disturbed, impermanent...an ant-hill across which lay an injured serpent. The writhing and tail-lashing of the tortured thing could not drag its body clear of the gritty earth-heap. It scored and furrowed the surface, but the ant-hordes buried it under the swarm of their millions.

Anarchy writhed across Archangel, a city now swollen by refugees to a population of half a million. Normally it was a gaunt, dirty, impoverished port, sprawling along the east bank of the Dvina River where it empties into a waste of tawny swamp and leaden water at the White Sea. But the war and revolution had magnified its every aspect. Its squalor and want were thrown into sharper relief by the opulence of limitless military stores which the Allies had shipped into Russia through this doorway. Cruisers and paint-streaked freighters came and went from quays where trawlers and barges had discharged their fish and lumber. In the plain chambers of the Archangel Provisional Government now were housed the fugitive ambassadors and diplomatic corps of all the nations still friendly to Russia. Deserters from the vast debris of Russia’s armies had sifted back into the city, without rations, without money, without billets. And through the streets trooped armed bands of them, their fickle loyalty claimed first by the White Russians, then by the Bolsheviki, then by their own instincts to kill and to rob. A delirium of riots and senseless bloodshed gripped the city.

What side is this colonel’s company on? inquired Ivan tentatively. I’ve no thirst for facing a firing-squad.

Nor I! We’ve had a bellyful of fighting. Besides Mikhail spat on the floor.

We all have! broke in Skverny, filling their glasses again. But this is different. I’m not sticking my neck into any rope, either. We’re leaving Archangel tonight. We’re not on any side. The British claim that transports are on the way with troops enough to chase the Bolsheviki back to Vologda. Colonel Eristoff is going to lay low till he sees which way the cat jumps. He’s no fool...As for pay,—you’ll get the same as sergeants in the old army.

Kerenski money?

No! Nikolai roubles!

Mikhail, and the other had their heads together when he finished. A stolid grunt of indecision; a thick lisp of persuasion. The pinched stub of Mikhail’s cigarette scorched his flat thumb. He squeezed the light out, separated the few crumbs of unburned tobacco, and stowed them away in a small sack.

What kind of man is your colonel?—a flogger, or has he learned his lesson?

"He’s all right! He was trained in the old school, but he’s fair. He’s like a gray wolf: crafty enough not to fight unless there’s little risk, but game when he’s cornered. Don’t worry! You’ll like the Colonel...Listen! I’ll give you five roubles extra if you’ll come now. It’s your last chance. The Sokolik’s sailing at midnight."

He picked the money carefully out of a leather wallet and laid it on the table, holding his hairy red hand over it. The door of the café banged open. Sh-h! he cautioned. The Colonel!

A big man, he was. The top of the astrakhan cap that tilted so jauntily across his forehead brushed the lintel of the door as he stalked into the room. The low ceiling added to the impression of his tallness. In his countenance a certain nobility of line and feature was contradicted by vague, unscrupulous expressions and the cynical hardness of his mouth. Cruelty stared from the roving black eyes. His nose borrowed its curve from the Cossack sabre. He wrinkled it now in distaste to the smell of stale, unchanged air, unwashed muzhik [Peasant] bodies, tobacco fumes, and spilt liquor. There was fastidiousness in the trim of his narrow black moustache and the Vandyke beard that shaded from his vigorous chin toward his ears. His uniform, in fit and material, would have served an aide-de-camp of the Czar. A Luger automatic pistol hung at his hip. Holding his riding-whip under his arm, he lighted a long cigarette and shot a glance at Skverny and his two recruits.

Time to get out of here! he snapped. We leave in just two hours. Get your men and your stuff on board.

Very good, your honor!

Are these men with us? He strode toward them.. Stand up!

They clicked their heels and faced him in veteran style.

I am, your honor! said Ivan, the more aggressive one.

So am I, chorused Mikhail.

Where are you from?

Both from Vyatka.

Have you seen active service?

Yes, your honor. On the Galician front.

What are you doing in Archangel?

.They looked at one another...Skverny interposed, They’re both loyal

Loyal to what? To their paymaster?

They’re not Bolsheviki, anyway.

How do you know? You never saw either of them before tonight...However, to hell with their politics! Bring them with you!

 2

Come, Nadya, darling, get your things ready. We’re leaving this cursed Archangel tonight...but, mind you, we won’t have room for all the boxes and bags I see lying about.

Colonel Eristoff, noticing his niece’s downcast expression, and the tears starting in her soft, dark eyes, put his great fist under the oval of her chin and tilted her face until she looked into his.

Well, well, he continued, I thought you’d be glad to slip out of this brawling, dirty city, with White patrols playing tag with Red rioters...and a firing-squad hunting your poor old uncle. Nadya Ivanovna arose listlessly, with the air of one being obliged to continue a course she had hoped to forsake and, stepping to the door, called, Anna!

A young woman having the broad face and even features of a Georgian Cossack came into the room and commenced packing under the distraught eye of her mistress. Colonel Eristoff’s restless strut showed him in unwonted high spirits, in contrast to his recent surliness. He came again to Nadya’s side and put his hand on her shoulder.

Oh, smile a little, for God’s sake! he begged. The British and Americans are due here in a very few days to hold Archangel for the Allies and chase the Bolsheviki back to their forests.

Then why must we leave? Nadya cried. Where can we go? Why must we become fugitives again?

Leave that to me, child. We can bargain with the Allies later. At any rate, we go the richer by the four million roubles I rescued from the Imperial Bank to equip our loyal Cossacks.

Loyal Cossacks! she blazed. Are these ‘Cossacks,’ the scum of Archangel you’ve picked up? They’re worse than the Bolsheviki!

Call them what you like, my dear, but hurry. He bellowed for his orderly: Sergei! Here! Semyonov, the Colonel’s adjutant, came unannounced into the room, and saluted Eristoff with ironic precision.

"Captain Niutkin said to tell the Colonel that the Sokolik is ready, steam up, and the troops and equipment on board. He is ready to leave when the Colonel gives the word."

Find a cart for these things of Nadya Ivanovna’s. Nadya, you must hurry! Sergei will look after the rest.

Nadya abruptly stopped packing and went over to her uncle. She put her hand in his, and tried to smile. Please don’t force me to go on this mad trip, she pleaded. Let me stay here with Anna until you are settled. Oh, please! I can only be a burden to you. There is far more risk to me from your wild company than to remain quietly here.

Nonsense! Enough of this! Damn it! Do you think I can’t take care of you? You’ll do as I tell you!

The streets leading to the quay were midnight dark. At rare intervals lamplight shone through a slit in some curtained window. People on the streets passed furtively, hugging the houses, avoiding each other. They stepped around those patterns of light as though dodging puddles. An air of mystery and danger lay heavy as the darkness. Patrols and reliefs of the guard progressed more boldly, occasional lanterns showing as they met, or halted someone for questioning. The city was under martial law, but the authorities were not strong enough to keep order.

The Sokolik was moored beside a one-story warehouse having one broad door on the street and one at the waterside. A knot of men carrying lanterns lounged at the street door. A slipshod sentry, who handled his rifle as though it were a crutch, roamed from one group to another, assuming a belligerent, officious attitude whenever a newcomer approached. Beyond, in the eery dimness of the low-raftered building, huge, distorted shadows of men slid along the walls. The white rails of a steamer crossed the door at the far end. A shrill curse...a scuffle...

Drop that damn knife, or I’ll punch this bayonet through your neck!

A non-commissioned officer ran from the steamer and ordered the brawlers to return on board.

Colonel Eristoff and his party entered the building and proceeded directly across to the gangplank. In the smudgy flare of the deck-lanterns Nadya saw more closely the type of men her uncle had recruited for his expedition. She shuddered. A black-hatted Mongol at the rail pushed his swarthy face impudently forward, clicked his thin lips, and threw back his head with a broad wink. He turned aside to the bearded giant who had been peering over his shoulder.

Did you see her look at me? The little white dove! The Colonel had better keep the door to her cage locked, or the hawk of Chita will get her.

But Eristoff had seen what had passed. He brushed in front of Nadya and his great fist caught the Mongol below the ear, slugging him to the deck. He gave the prostrate figure a savage kick.

Learn your place, or you’ll sleep on the bottom of the Dvina!

Anna put her arm around her mistress’s shoulder.

The Sokolik was crowded as an excursion steamer. Men were sleeping or settling down on every inch of deck space. Even the companionways were occupied. On the foredeck, a squad of men were passing chunks of wood from a pile on the deck through a hatch to the boiler-room.

At the stern, boatmen were attending to the cables that would connect the barge carrying the company’s horses.

Nadya was speedily installed in a closet-sized cabin just ahead of the starboard paddle-wheel. She bolted the door and flung herself down on the hard, narrow bunk. She found relief now in tears. Her courage and pride had given way to hopeless terror and a shrinking dread of this gray cell that would confine her, perhaps for weeks. For months past, she had followed her uncle in precarious flight across the breadth of Russia. The black books of the Cheka had his name underlined in the lists of the wanted. The needy, perilous banners of Denikin and Kolchak had no appeal to this self-seeking adventurer. Patriotism, self-sacrifice...what nonsense! From village to village they had fled, by cart, on foot, across forest and river, spurred by fear of capture. Archangel had been a haven when they reached it. To turn away seemed abandonment of hope...

In that moment of helpless loneliness she discovered an ikon, shadow-hidden in the corner above her bed. She crossed herself twice and pressed her hands tenderly against the reassuring little symbol. She was not quite alone now. With her handkerchief she brushed the dust off the tarnished frame and straightened the tiny candle-holder. Precious Mother of God, give me hope and courage, she whispered. Then she smoothed the blankets on her bunk, blew out the candle and lay down.

The Sokolik moved so little that Nadya scarcely noticed it. Its nose drifted away from the bank as the current caught it. A muffled bell jangled below in the engine-room. The old steamer shivered as the paddle-wheels took hold. Nadya raised her head to look out of the square window over her bunk. Directly abeam, the riding-lights of a British cruiser floated by. Beyond, in Bakharitza, in spite of the lateness of the hour, a few lights remained. The dark shadow of a motor launch passed within a cable-length. Over the quiet water she heard the sound of firing, but could not distinguish the direction. A reddish glow appeared above the southern end of Bakharitza; sharp spires of flame followed. Nadya lay back with a little sigh. Musketry and burning homes! The chaos in Archangel...unimaginable horrors in the desolate, forest-smothered villages beyond.

She glanced again out of the window. The burning building had fallen further astern. As she watched, the clouds thinned out, revealing a patch of luminous silver. The full strength of the moon poured through, and a shimmering pathway of moonlight unrolled from her window to the sombre forest on the far bank.

II — The Americans

FOG, A CHILLING DRIZZLE, and great sullen swells. The White Sea was bleak and forbidding. Lieutenant Peter Burns, standing at the railing of the boat deck of the transport Nagoya, stared thoughtfully out over the gray waste toward the other ships of the convoy. Although it was early morning, Taps had blown on the Somali, a quarter-mile distant on her starboard quarter.

Starting early, today, Burns had remarked grimly to himself. It’s a pity they couldn’t have waited a few hours and buried the poor devil on land.

A moment later he had vaguely seen through the veil of fog, the tell-tale group of men at the rail of the Somali, the pathetic wrapped and weighted figure placed on the teeter-totter. The seaward end dipped slowly. Down plunged its burden. His imagination, more vivid than sight, brought him the rest: the leap of a gray wave to meet it, a swirl of white spume, waters parting and closing with a sound of indescribable finality.

Out ahead, a midget beside the transports, a slovenly, low-waisted trawler, fresh from Archangel that morning, led the way. The Tydeus, third member of the convoy, trailed astern, now visible, now hidden by fog.

Burns saw the first trace of land, as they entered the broad mouth of the Dvina River, in the occasional appearance of clumps of reeds and swamp grass. The convoy stopped. A small tug drew alongside. The pilot shouted a guttural inquiry up to the bridge, then clambered aboard. In single file, the Nagoya leading, the transports headed up the Dvina.

The fog thinned out, bringing the shoreline into sight. Swampy patches grew closer together, a mingling of gray water and wispy tundra, the color of dirty straw. On wider stretches of solid ground were stacks of marsh hay. Lieutenant Burns came away from his solitary contemplation of the dreary Russian foreground and re-entered the life of the ship. He walked twice around the boat-deck, spoke to the lookouts, and went down to the main deck. The troops were now astir; the rails lined with men silently watching the desolate scene float past. Silently, without the chatter and comment natural to travelers approaching their destination. Rather, with the attitude of men emerging from some dread experience, fearing that it might return. Watchers of a hovering doom.

Behind them, in a drab pattern on the deck, the overflow from the ship’s hospital lay on stretchers in the grip of influenza. The contagion had trapped an entire battalion in their cramped quarters below decks. Burns had kept on his feet in spite of a day of dizziness and lassitude; there was too much to be done. He had given up his berth in a crowded stateroom and had moved his bedding-roll out into the open.

Now, as he turned again