Told in gallant deeds

I should now like to tell you something of our great ally, Russia, and of the gallant deeds performed by her soldiers in this war.

Valour does not belong to one nation more than to another, but each country, and this is rather a curious fact, has its own kind of valour. The British excel in what I should call the “forlorn hope”—the kind of valour that stood our soldiers in such fine stead at Mons, and during Sir John French’s magnificent retreat. The Marquis of Montrose embodied the spirit of England and this peculiar stoical type of valour when he wrote:

The Briton never fears his fate too much to put it to the touch—that is why he generally gains it all!

Now the Russian has a singularly splendid kind of valour. It is the kind that faces certain death for love of country, with joy rather than with resignation. Never in the history of mankind was a finer thing done than the sailing of the Russian Fleet to certain doom, during the Russo-Japanese War. Every man, from admiral to stoker, knew of the fate awaiting him, and every man went cheerfully to the encounter for the sake of “Holy Russia.”

This courage of the Russians is part of their grand passion for romance, or what people now call idealism. A great many years ago a writer quaintly and truly wrote in Blackwood’s Magazine: “I have seen the unromantic drop like sheep under the rot of their calamities, while the romantic have been buoyant and mastered them.” So never let anyone laugh us out of being romantic. Too often those who try to do so are in the sad case of the fox who, having lost his tail, could not endure to see any other fox with one.

It was this same peculiar strain of magnificent, romantic courage which made the Governor of Moscow, after having given orders to burn the city, when Napoleon and his Grand Army were approaching, himself set fire to his own beloved house. This great deed will live in the long noble history of human sacrifice and valour as long as the world endures, for it was the burning of Moscow which turned the tide against the greatest conqueror Europe had known since Julius Cæsar.

The Russians are as mighty with the pen as with the sword. The finest story ever written on war was written by a Russian named Count Tolstoi. It is called “War and Peace.”

And now to the Russians this great war with Germany is a crusade, a holy war. They are fighting for their fellow-Slavs, who like them belong to the Greek Church, and who if they became Germans and Austrians would be most cruelly oppressed by their conquerors. So strong is this feeling in Russia that it has united everyone—from the Tsar to the poorest moujik—in one great passion for justice and freedom.

The following moving letter from his mother was found on the breast of a Russian officer killed in action. It will show you more than anything I can tell you how Russia feels about this war:

“Your father was killed very far from us, and I send you for the sacred duty of defending our dear country from the vile and dreadful enemy. Remember you are the son of a hero. My heart is oppressed, and I weep when I ask you to be worthy of him. I know all the fateful horror of these words, what suffering it will be for me and you, but we do not live for ever in this world. What is our life? A drop in the ocean of beautiful Russia. We must die, but she will live for ever. I know we shall be forgotten, and our happy descendants will not remember those who sleep in ‘brothers’ graves’ (soldiers’ graves).

“With kisses and blessings I parted with you. When you are sent to perform a great deed, don’t remember my tears but only my blessing. God save you, my dear, bright, loved child. One word more; it is written everywhere that the enemy is cruel and savage. Don’t be led by blind vengeance. Don’t raise your hand at a fallen foe, but be gracious to those whose fate it is to fall into your hands.”

What a noble and beautiful end is that to this letter, but how one’s heart aches for the writer now that the dear, bright, beloved son sleeps in “brothers’ graves.”

Of all the Tsar’s soldiers the most typically Russian is the Cossack. Now the Cossack has been well described as being a man of war from his youth upwards. He is always the child of a soldier, and his mother cradles him with war songs. When he gets a little older and begins crawling about the floor, his games are mimic battles, and his father takes him off to the stables for at least an hour every day that he may regard horses as his friends and playfellows.

At seventeen he becomes a Cossack, and after a very few weeks’ training he is ready for war. The Cossack’s equipment is most peculiar, and it is so arranged that he can creep along, even when on horseback, quite noiselessly. A proverb in Russia runs: “One dragoon makes more noise than a regiment of Cossacks!” The Cossack’s claim is that what mortal man can do he will do, and a great deal more besides. As a rule he is a small man and his horse is a small horse, in fact what we should call a pony. No cavalryman is on better terms with his mount, and many and many a time a Cossack has given his life for his horse. But a Cossack never allows his mount to know what the inside of a comfortable stable is like; the Cossack’s horse has to learn to be as hardy as his master.

Small wonder therefore that the Cossacks are the most amazingly clever horsemen in the world. One of their favourite manœuvres, when on active service, is to swing down beneath their horses’ girths, thus causing the enemy to believe that they have before them a number of runaway horses.

The story goes that a patrol of ten Cossacks lately came upon a German squadron who, to avoid a fight at close quarters, opened fire. The Russian horsemen swung round under their horses; the Germans mounted and set forth to capture what they believed to be runaway horses. When they came close up the Cossacks reappeared in the saddle, and attacking them with awful fury, cut them to pieces!

The Cossacks have retained their old, picturesque uniform—not for them the sober khaki—and an action in which they engage recalls the verse of Robert Burns:

The Cossack trooper has a great deal of that simple, resourceful cunning which is so important an asset to all sportsmen and fighting men.

This was shown in the present war by the adventure of one such brave horseman called Polkovnikoff, who was taken prisoner by the Austrians.

His captors treated Polkovnikoff kindly, and asked him many questions concerning his famous corps. “How do you manage to unsaddle just in front of the enemy’s entrenchments, and attack them on foot? Is not your horse a drag upon you?” they asked.

Polkovnikoff volunteered to show how it was done, so they lent him a fine horse, belonging to an officer, to enable him to make an exhibition of his skill. Conscientiously and artistically he went through some vaulting exercises. Then, in order to put the finishing touch to one of his feats, he went the furthest possible distance from the assembled company, and, before they realised what was happening, he had put spurs to the horse and was galloping madly away!

This delightful little sketch of a Cossack officer will show you how fortunate these Russian cavalrymen are in their leaders. It was written by a British war correspondent on his way to the front.

“At Pavlodar a Cossack officer came on board, who will ever stand out in our memory as a great little man. He was clean-shaven, fat, and jolly-looking. Within two hours he had the reservists under his thumb to such an extent that had they been asked to storm, unarmed as they were, a German position, they would have gone without hesitation! His treatment was paternal, almost to the extent of the schoolroom. He read to them, and he told them funny little stories. Then he made them sing choruses, and wound up by warning them that upon their arrival at the great concentration camp of Omsk they must remember to treat all strangers with courtesy.”

A Cossack never “retires” from active service. He goes on being a fighting man as long as he can ride well and straight. A Cossack whose leg was amputated clamoured for a quick recovery that he might go back to the front. The doctor asked him what he could do in the war with only one leg. He replied proudly, “Have I not still my strong right arm with which to strike down the enemy?”

All grown-up people hope that among the very best consequences of this great war will be the restoration of freedom and happiness to heroic Poland. It is the unhappy fate of this valiant country to be, as it were, a buffer State. I expect you know that a buffer is something wedged in between two contending forces. India-rubber, which is at once hard and yielding, makes an excellent buffer. Poland is between Russia and Germany, and before the war she had been divided between them. Neither had treated her well, but for many years past Germany treated her part of Poland with far more harshness than Russia treated hers. As a consequence of this, even German Poland now sides with Russia, the more so that the Tsar, very early in the war, issued a general proclamation in which he promised the Poles their freedom after victory.

Poland has been the scene of some fierce conflicts, and the Poles have had the opportunity of performing many gallant deeds. The Polish villagers have also been very good to the wounded of both sides. In one village a little girl of seven years old went up to a wounded man and saw that he was bleeding dreadfully from a wound in his head. She tried her best to staunch the blood with her pinafore, but as it went on coming through she put her hand tight down on the place, and sent her baby brother to fetch an ambulance man.

You will remember how more than one French boy managed to get to the front. This has also happened in Russia. Indeed, it is said that there boys as young as eight years have run away from home in the hope of fighting for Holy Russia.

Touching stories of the kind are being told in Petrograd concerning not only boys but girls.

Very soon after the war broke out, four little girls made their way to a police station. Each had a bundle on her back, each wore a Red Cross armlet. The police inspector was much surprised to see them. “Has someone sent you with these things?” he asked, pointing to their bundles. “If so, you must go on to the hospital.” “No, indeed,” said the boldest of the four; “we have come here on our way to the front. We intend to nurse the soldiers ourselves.” Proudly they exhibited their bundles, which contained bits of old linen and cotton wool. The inspector did not like to make fun of these valiant and patriotic little girls, so he kept them there while he sent out men to look for their parents. At last these arrived. The spokeswoman of the party then turned on the inspector and, with a look of grave reproach, exclaimed, “We trusted you with our secret, and now you have given us away!”

And here I must stop and tell you that very early in this stupendous war, where whole nations and their manhood are engaged, Russia did a very noble thing by her allies. Knowing that Germany had thrown her full strength into an effort to defeat, once for all, the British and the French armies, the Russian Commander-in-Chief made up his mind to create what is called a diversion. Although he was not yet really ready to meet so powerful and fully prepared a foe, he threw a large force over the German frontier.

Filled with alarm, the enemy hurried a big army to meet the oncoming Russians. This successfully relieved the rush on the British and French, but at a heavy cost to Russia. In a very real sense thousands of Russians then laid down their lives for their friends. Had they not been idealists and romantics, they could not have brought themselves to do it, for it requires a kind of courage differing from every other courage (and there are ever so many other kinds), deliberately to face defeat.

Very soon the Russian Army, completely ready by now to face their formidable foe, showed how temporary had been the check her commanders had knowingly courted and endured.

The Russian peasant is noted for his kindness of heart, and when he becomes a soldier this beautiful human quality stands him in good stead. In one instance four classes of the Order of St. George, which is like our Victoria Cross, were conferred upon a Hussar trooper, the orderly of a dangerously wounded officer, whom he rescued amid a hail of shot, and carried four miles. On the way he evaded numerous patrols of the enemy, and several times he had to swim broad streams, holding up the officer as best he could while they were both being “potted” from the banks.

We in our country did not know at first of the fine things being done in Russia. Many people were surprised to learn, for instance, how very good is the Russian Army Air Corps.

You are of course aware that an airman takes his life in his hand every time he goes out to observe what is going on in the enemy’s lines. Putting aside all the ordinary—they ought to be called the extraordinary—dangers of air service, there are times when a great deal may depend on a flying scout being willing to give his life for his beloved country. How true that is was shown by a grand exploit performed by Captain Nesteroff, the Russian Pegoud, one of the first men in Russia to loop the loop.

During a fierce battle with the Austrian troops, Captain Nesteroff was able to convey information of extreme value to the Russian commander. He was resting after his exertions, when he observed two Austrian aeroplanes making their way towards the Russian positions. Aware that at the moment of their appearance a strategic move of the utmost importance to the safety of the Russian Army was in progress, and that it was absolutely necessary to prevent information from reaching the enemy, he took the air and flew towards them.

By skilful manœuvring he succeeded in getting so close to one of the aeroplanes that he was able to fire his revolver almost point blank at the pilot. The latter was wounded, and fell with his machine to the ground, where he was captured. As soon as he had fired, Captain Nesteroff commenced a spiral upward flight, and he was at once followed by the second Austrian airman. Realising that it was, above all else, necessary to prevent the enemy aeroplane from returning to the Austrian lines with the valuable information that he had gathered, Nesteroff nerved himself for a supreme effort, and launched his aerial craft full tilt at his foe. The machines came together with a crash, and descended to the ground interlocked, both the gallant airmen being killed.

I have told you that the Russian peasant has a very kind heart. Kindness almost always implies sympathy and understanding. When the first trainload of wounded Austrians arrived on Russian soil they were treated at each place the train stopped with wonderful kindness and sympathy, and one poor woman was seen, while feeding a young Austrian soldier, to be crying bitterly.

“What is the matter?” asked one of the doctors. “Has he insulted or annoyed you in any way?”

“No, indeed,” she answered; “I am crying because I cannot help feeling sorry to see a boy like this all alone in a foreign country, not even able to say a word in our language. I am mourning over what his mother must be feeling now. If you will allow me, I will take him home with me and nurse him back to health!”

And yet this peasant woman, simple as she may have been, must have known quite well that Austria has always had a peculiar dislike, and even contempt, for the Slav race to which she belonged, and for the sake of which Russia is at war.

The following little story illustrates the same beautiful qualities of mercy and of kindness, but this time the hero of it is a soldier.

An artilleryman’s battery, after hours of hard work, was at last ordered to retire. As it sullenly retreated, he saw a baby girl toddle from the doorway of one of the houses of the village right into the path of the battery. Amid a rain of shell and shrapnel, this brave fellow went to the baby’s rescue, while his comrades gave him up for lost. As he reached the child a shrapnel shell burst overhead, and, throwing himself down, the man shielded the child’s body with his own. One bullet passed through his back, injuring him so badly that he could not regain his feet. But two of his comrades immediately went to his assistance, and carried him, with his little protégée, to the battery, whence they were removed to hospital.

It has been said that every country has the Jews it deserves. Now Jews have never been quite fairly treated by the Russian Government. But during this war they have shown themselves to be true patriots and brave soldiers, and so we may hope that they will be treated as well as they deserve to be in future.

Very early in the campaign a Jewish soldier, named Pernikow, won the St. George’s Cross for valour. He was charged with the delivery of important secret despatches, and, though very seriously wounded on the way, he struggled on to his journey’s end, and fulfilled his mission.

We must not forget another of our Allies, the country which Russia regards as her small sister—I mean Serbia.

This gallant little country was the greatest help to the Allies, and especially to Russia. She had by no means recovered from the terrible Balkan wars of 1912 and 1913, when Austria fell upon her. But little Serbia not only drove away the enemy, but herself invaded Austrian territory. Thus she engaged and defeated large Austrian forces which would otherwise have been thrown against Russia.

Here is the story of a young Serbian officer who at one time was well known in London and in Paris, for his father is a diplomatist.

Lieutenant Voislav Grashanin was not only a keen soldier, beloved and honoured by his men, but he was also a very clever and many-sided man. A comrade thus described his gallant death:

“It fell to our detachment to lead the attack on Iverak and Golo Tchuk. Grashanin was first in the charge, and after a fierce tussle he reached the height of Golo Tchuk and ranged his men quickly in firing order once more. I saw him passing among the lines, and heard him say: ‘Now, brothers, show how straight you can aim! There is glory in store for us here if we know how to take it. Who cares for life? We’ve all got to die some day!’ Shortly afterwards the enemy began to fall back, and Grashanin called: ‘What did I tell you? See! A battery is offered us. A battery of our own. Forward, and seize their guns!’

“Just then he was shot in the right hand. He bound up the wound where he stood, and lifted the other hand to give the signal, when that hand, too, was struck by a bullet. This time the wound was graver, his fingers being severed. We bound it up for him as well as we could, for he refused to go to the rear. He had taken off his coat for the hasty operation, and now the bandages were so clumsy that he could not pass his arm through the sleeve. We hung it by one button round his neck, and he went on giving orders as before.

“We advanced steadily, and again the enemy made a backward move. Then Voislav shouted, ‘Come on for the guns!’ At that moment a bullet lodged in his chest. He fell, but got up again on his knees to command: ‘The guns! Take the guns!’

“Our lieutenant was dead when we brought up the guns to where he lay. Still, I think he must have heard our ‘Hurrah!’ when we took the guns. Every man of us kissed him before we buried him, and we dug him the deepest grave I have seen in this campaign. We were very fond of him because of his kind heart and elegant manner of speech. Some had nicknamed him ‘the Parisian,’ but he was Serbian to the core.”