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Naval Fiction • Letterstime - Die Flotte Faehrt Nach Osten - Chapter 21

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Chapter 21 – Dancing Among the Elms
 
December 21st. 0100 SMS Kaiser. 18nm Northwest of Dagö Island. Heading 225 at 8 knots.
 
Another midwatch - why is the weather always scheiße when I have the midwatch?
 
Despite the heavy sleet there was little wind; the big dreadnought moved gently, content to follow the lethargic motion of the seas as she trailed five cables behind Kronprinz. Her Deck Officer pulled the collar of his sea coat closer in a doomed attempt to keep his neck dry. For his half-frozen half-wet face there wasn’t even that slim hope.
 
Staring forward, he caught sight of a weak flickering of light along Kronprinz’s starboard side. One of the ships ahead signaling with flashing light, reflecting off ice particles.
 
The pattern was repeated as the signal moved from the flagship down the line toward Kaiser. The Deck Officer marveled at the prism of colors the ice gave to the light. All the colors in their fractured fractions, drifting, swirling, almost glowing.
 
Nature’s kaleidoskop.
 
Because the signal had been somewhat visible each time it had been repeated down the line on its way to Kaiser, the signalmen were able to deliver the message as soon as Kronprinz’s signaling stopped. He’d remember to mention their initiative to the signals obermaat.
 
“Deck. Signals. From SNG to Kommander Sixth Division. YOU ARE DETACHED ON DUTIES ASSIGNED.”
 
“Signals. Acknowledge the flag’s signal, then send to the Division, Pillau and Elbing: I ASSUME TACTICAL KOMMAND. FORM COLUMN. CSE 295, SPD 15.
 
“Bootsmann! Have your messenger take this signal to the Konteradmiral”.
 
He made a quick call to the Kapitän informing him of the signal and his intentions.
 
Hell hath no fury like a Kapitän awoken in the night by an unexpected change in the ship’s motion!
 
“Helm. Right standard rudder, come to new course 295 and make turns for 15 knots.”
 
“Deck. Second signal from the flag. GOOD SHOOTING AND GOTT SPEED.”
 
 
December 21st. 0320. 74th Infantry Brigade. Hapsal, Western Esthland.
 
Generalleutnant von Blumenthal rode his stallion down Unter den Linden as the Empire’s nobility cheered their hero. On the fringes the commoners were held back by ranks of feldgrau clad men. His men.
 
Crossing the Spree and turning in front of the Königliches Schloss, von Blumenthal rode up to his Emperor, who stood with arms outstretched in welcome. At last, he would receive his due. The man of the hour.
 
As he made to dismount, the All Highest suddenly turned away and rapped hard on the huge wood and bronze door.
 
I don’t understand. Is he inviting me inside? This wasn’t part of the ceremony.
 
Twice, thrice, Wilhelm II rapped hard on the door before calling out “Herr Generalleutnant.”
 
“Herr Generalleutnant.”
 
Von Blumenthal sat up in confusion, then recognized the room; the fine bed and furnishings that once belonged to Hapsal’s Russer garrison kommander. Far from Berlin, he was still in Esthland and it was his adjutant’s voice, not his monarch’s.
 
Scheiße.
 
“Ja. Come!”
 
“Herr Generalleutnant, sorry to wake you, but a wireless from 20th Korps just arrived.”
 
Swinging his legs over to sit up, the sharp pain in his wounded leg reminded him that he wasn’t so young anymore, and wounds took longer to heal. He put the pain aside, not having time to indulge it.
 
Turning up the lamp, he read the message quickly, then a second time more carefully. Von François delayed…poor harbor …lack of suitable shipping...some units begin arriving today… the bulk of the korps days later.
 
Excellent! More opportunity for independent action!
 
The final line crushed those thoughts: REMAIN ON DEF HAPSAL UNTIL MY ARR.
 
He turned to his aide. “Status of the brigade?”
 
“The last of the artillery was offloaded before midnight, the brigade is now all here. The 4th Radfahrer is all ashore except for their supplies.
 
With Russer regulars sniffing about the eastern approaches he was certainly not going to remain completely on the defensive. Scouting east and pushing the depth of his defenses outward could certainly be interpreted within his new orders. Perhaps further, once more of the korps arrives.
 
Nothing earns forgiveness better than success.
 
 
December 21st. 0830. 31st Infantry Division. South of Ecks, Northern Livland.
 
Generalleutnant von Berrer checked his watch and realized that there was still an hour until dawn. It could have been midnight or noon, and the pebbly mixture of snow and hail would have let no more light filter through. The snowfall couldn’t even cover up the worst of yesterday’s battleground, not with Russer prisoners still combing the battlefield to recover the remains of their dead comrades.
 
“Ohne Tritt… Marsch!” (Note 1)
 
The last batallion of the 62nd Infantry Brigade stepped off along the bloody-muddy track, following the rest of the brigade and the ulans that had disappeared into the murk. Both on their way to Dorpat to link up with the Landwehr moving up from the south.
 
Von Berrer, followed by his senior staff, returned to the impromptu staff offices inside the train station. While waiting for further word from the south, his staff provided the latest status of the 32nd Brigade. His dour Chief of Staff began the briefing.
 
“Total casualties for the 32nd Brigade in the last two days were 730 men. 221 killed in action, 505 wounded, two men missing, and one dead from non-combat illness. Of the wounded, 133 have returned to light duty, and a further hundred or so are expected to fully recover. For the artillery – all from the 67th – 48 casualties, 7 dead, 41 wounded, 17 returned to duty and all the remainder expected to recover.”
 
Far better than it might have been, had the Russers been intent on taking the town rather than escaping around it.
 
“Send me the lists when you have them finalized, and the first trains returning south are to take the serious cases to Riga,” von Berrer ordered.
 
He saw his Operations Chief purse his lips and look up to meet his gaze. There had already been a lively discussion about the priority for using the trains that they could recover. Ops was in favor of using them to move the Division back north to join von Hutier’s main thrust north. The Logistics Officer argued to use them to reestablish solid lines of supply to the south. Though von Berrer was also keen to join the fighting that was sure to happen in Esthland, the five divisions of the Armee-Abteilung had been operating away from rail lines almost since the offensive kicked off. Any large-scale effort to take Tallinn – which the Russers were sure to contest – would benefit from good supplies more than his lone division getting there quickly.
 
Rather than reopen an argument once lost, Ops nodded.
 
“Estimates of Russer dead, and the total count of Russer prisoners?” Von Berrer asked of the Chief of Staff.
 
“Rough numbers, Herr Generalleutnant, about 4,500 killed and 11,600 taken prisoner. Many of those are wounded, and beyond the care of our medical services, who are overstretched with our own men. There was no artillery – we think they left it in the south as they fled. We captured several of the enemy’s senior officers, including two generals and four obersts. One general kommanded the 78th Division and the other was the deputy of the Livonia Governorate. He had gone missing when we captured Riga.’”
 
“Any problems with them?”
 
The Chief of Staff cleared his throat. “With most, no. We did capture an oberst who had removed his rank insignia. He refuses to say why.”
 
“Hmmm. Since he wishes to hide among the men, treat him as a ranker. No privileges. I’ll have lunch with the two generals.” Von Berrer turned to his aide: “Get me some background on them.”
 
He forestalled the aide’s reply as a messenger came in, bringing the outside bitterness with him through the train station’s double doors. His double-breasted tunic and cap flash identified him as one of the 7th Ulans. (Note 2)
 
“Report.”
 
“Herr Generalleutnant, Oberstleutnant Würt reports he has taken the bridge over the Embach.”
 
“Half-way to Dorpat!” crowed Ops before the messenger continued.
 
“No resistance encountered, though he left small groups of disarmed Russers for the infantry to sweep up. The rail line is completely stopped up with trains, nose to tail, from four kilometers south of here to as far as he can see toward Dorpat, and he has encountered many civilians fleeing the city that are slowing him down. He recommends Eisenbahn experten be dispatched south as soon as possible to begin moving the trains.”
 
“Messenger. No reply for Oberstleutnant Würt. Rest your horse and remain with the messenger gruppe for now.
 
Von Berrer turned and continued to the Operations officer. “Send to the 62nd, direct civilians return to Dorpat. We’ll let the Landwehr sort them out.”
 
 
December 21st. 0905. 16th Coastal Artillery Brigade, Detachment B. Utö Island, Grand Duchy of Finland.
 
Starshiy feyerverker Kuzmin finished lacing up his boots, then donned the fine heavy coat that was as much a symbol of his command as the shoulder flashes. He took one last look around the hut he shared with his elderly deputy before putting on gloves and a fur hat to begin his dawn inspection tour of the battery.
 
The wind nearly took his breath away, cutting through all his clothing, the ice in the air seemed to shred his exposed face. He looked out over the sea, the near islets visible, but none of the larger Mörskärs on the other side of the channel could be seen.
 
Somewhere between three- and ten-kilometers visibility then. In this weather I’ll be lucky to find any of the duty men awake. Which is more numbing, this weather or staring off into the dark seeing nothing night after night? They know me well enough: anyone caught sleeping will just get extra duty, but I will burn any caught drinking.
 
All was well in gun pits 4 and 3. Lacking concrete and steel emplacements, the four guns of his battery were emplaced in shallow dugouts carved by hand in the flat rock. Poor protection for the tall 15.2 cm guns, but good enough protection for the men when lying down between loading cycles. He was trudging toward gun pit number 2 when kanonir Voronin ran up, out of breath.
 
“A ship!”
 
Voronin’s eyes were as big as the lid of a samovar.
 
Fear is no excuse for sloppiness.
 
He slapped Voronin. Hard.
 
“Make a proper report!”
 
Voronin came to attention and saluted crisply, blinking rapidly as the sleet speared his cherry-red face.
 
“Starshiy feyerverker. The observation tower reports sighting a warship in the mists to the south-southwest at 8 kilometers.”
 
“Better, kanonir. Identification?”
 
“Uncertain. Small warship, three funnels?”
 
Oleg? Or that Swedish cruiser…Fylgia? More likely one of a double handful of German cruisers.
 
Kuzmin pushed past Voronin and raced to the observation tower. He was out of breath by the time he reached the top of the 8-meter ladder.
 
“Show me,” he demanded of Bombardir Avonik.
 
“There, Starshiy feyerverker.”
 
Staring through the big observation glasses, he couldn’t find it at first, then suddenly a gray shape separated from the gray and white of the sleet and mist.
 
Small cruiser. Three funnels. Front funnel taller than the others. Der’mo! A German for sure.
 
“Sound the general alarm!”
 
WAAAAAAaaaahhHHwwwwaaAAHHHH.
 
As Bombardir Avonik started cranking the ululating alarm Kuzmin thought he saw a single puff of smoke from the enemy’s front…bow? Or maybe it was just the mist.
 
WAAAAAAaaaahhHHwwwwaaAAHHHH.
 
Splash!
 
Not the mist! A tall plume of water rose a hundred meters to seaward.
 
WAAAAAAaaaahhHHwwwwaaAAHHHH.
 
“Avonik!
 
“Avonik!!! Enough. You’ve woken the dead, now man the rangefinder.”
 
To their credit, the men were not slow in racing from their huts to the gun pits, up into the tower, and to the magazine behind him. Gun pit 2 reported manned and ready at least a minute before the first rangefinder cut.
 
“8250,” marked Avonik, his call nearly drowned out by the sound of an enemy shell passing low over the tower.
 
Kuzmin gave the first real firing orders of his life, “Gun 2. Target: enemy warship south-southeast, range 8250. One round HE. Load and shoot!” The tinny voice of the gun pit 2 captain acknowledged on the field telephone a second before
 
Crack!
 
“Gun 1 manned and ready!”
 
BOOMckckckcssssssssssss!
 
An enemy shell struck 50 meters to the right of gun pit 4; shards of metal and rock scythed two men off their feet seconds before they reached the relative safety of the pit.
 
Kuzmin didn’t have time to see how badly they were hurt, the first shell from Gun 2 splashed into the water just behind the enemy ship.
 
“Gun 2. Behind target, range good. Target speed 18. Adjust. Gun 1, same target south-southwest, range 8250. One round load and shoot!”
 
Crack!                    Crack!
 
The next shots landed near the enemy.
 
“Guns 1 and 2. You’re on. Rapid and continuous fire!”
 
Rapid fire for the ancient 15.2 cm cannons, each older than anyone in Kuzmin’s command except his deputy, was one round every 50 seconds. The damn Germans – now firing four guns with each salvo – were firing at least three times that rate. Enemy shells began hitting the rocky peninsula in a steady cracking, hissing, drumbeat.
 
Crack! Crack!                  
 
“Gun 3 manned and ready!”
 
“Gun 4. Two men short, ready for slow fire.”
 
Kuzmin’s deputy finally managed to reach the top of the tower, the older man wheezing. Kuzmin was too busy to admonish him, but happy to have him here finally.
 
“Here,” Kuzmin handed him the telephone handset, “relay for me.
 
“Rangefinder?”
 
“8175.”
 
Kuzmin eyed his deputy. “All guns. Range 8175. Fire when ready.”
 
The deputy relayed the order.
 
Crack! Crack!                   Crack!                                                  Crack!
 
Hit! The top of the enemy’s middle smokestack now sported a clean hole through it.
 
Too bad it didn’t explode. The old shells they give us don’t work for a damn.
 
BOOMckckckcssssssssssss!
 
An enemy shell landed near the base of the tower.
 
“Starshiy feyerverker, the telephone is out.”
 
Crack! Crack!      Crack!    Crack!
 
“The line must be cut. Go down and reconnect the wires.”
 
The deputy had just regained his breath, but nodded once and turned to the ladder.
 
“He’s turning away!”
 
Kuzmin looked out to sea and saw that the enemy had indeed turned away.
 
Is he coming back around? No, he seems to be running!
 
Knowing he didn’t have a very large store of shells to begin with, Kuzmin yelled down to the guns to cease fire, but of course they couldn’t hear him in the midst of shooting.
 
“Avonik, half a crank on the alarm.”
 
WAAAAAAaaaahh!
 
The gun captains turned to look, and he crossed his arms above his head to have them cease fire. Somehow all four understood.
 
As he watched the enemy ship steam away a strange flickering light played through the far mists, covering much of the southern horizon.
 
What is that?
 
A heavy grumbling, as of giants beating on boulders with giant hammers, arrived just ahead of the first shells.
 
-------------------------------------------
 
The heavy shelling had gone on for hours, or perhaps it had been the longest ten minutes of Kuzmin’s life.
 
When it ended, he found himself lying amidst the broken wreckage of the observation tower, cuts all over his body and his left leg twisted painfully underneath him. How he got there, or how the tower had been wrecked, he had no idea. Avonik was sitting up a couple of meters away, holding his bloody head. The deputy beyond him lay very still.
 
He dragged himself from under the broken wood and found that his leg would not hold his weight. A rough plank from the tower served as a crutch, allowing him to hobble over to the nearest gun pit.
 
Gun 4 was laying on its side in the pit, the bent tube proclaiming it would never fire again. Of the crew, he could see only bits and pieces of uniforms, a boot, and red smears on the rocks.
 
In gun pit 2 the entire crew was there, curled up in the bottom. Neither they nor the shattered gun would ever fight again.
 
In pit 1 and 3 he found a few men still alive; all wounded and lying as if asleep. Gun 3 even looked remarkably whole, but for a twisted breach block.
 
He hobbled over to the magazine and was gratified and amazed to find it undamaged, though partially covered in rubble blasted from the island’s surface. The dozen men of the magazine crew huddled in a corner.
 
It would be hell, but somehow, he needed to get his remaining men to the boat landing, half a kilometer across the little island, and from there – if the boat had survived the enemy shelling – back to the mainland at Turku.
 
His Detachment B, and with it the defenses of Utö Island, were finished.
 
 
December 21st. 0945. SMS Markgraf. 18nm North of Dagö Island. Heading 345 at 14 knots
 
Carl Rudburg watched as the last of Hopman’s ships disappeared into the snow squalls to the south.
 
A new risk, piled on earlier risks grudgingly accepted.
 
With Sixth Division to the north with half of his available kreuzers and torpedoboots, and now Hopman off to coal and rearm, his Fifth Division was screened by only two kreuzers and two torpedoboot flotillas. Should the Russer Baltic Fleet sortie, he might be at a numerical disadvantage.
 
He would still accept battle on those terms, if necessary, but given even a little warning he could bring Hopman and his ships back within hours, and 6th Division within a day.  The new supply anchorage that Blücher and the six kreuzers were heading toward was only an hour away, less than half the distance of the old anchorage at Tagalaht Bay, yet…
 
One more risk there as well. The new anchorage was far less protected from either the weather or enemy attack. He was only a little mollified that it was a temporary expedient; once he shifted operations inside the Russer minefield barrier to the east, and the old but heavy ships of the 8th Linienschiff Division could provide protection in Moon Sound, he’d move the supply ships to the northern Moon Sound.
 
Despite his inclinations to come to grips with the Russer Baltic Fleet as quickly as possible, the delay in shifting the 20th Korps from the islands to western Esthland was giving him an opportunity to conduct operations in the Finnischer islands. They were not strategic targets, but he hoped to hold the Russer kommander’s attention there.
 
Was the risk of splitting his dreadnaught divisions worth such a diversion?   Tomorrow’s aerial reconnaissance might give him an answer.
 
 
December 21st. 1345. Stavka of the Supreme Commander. Novgorod, Russia.
 
“Vitze-admiral, your seat is over there.”
 
Vasily Kanin thanked the aide and took his designated seat in the corner farthest from the head of the table. It was without doubt a snub, but he’d come to the meeting ready to accept whatever games the Army-led staff wished to play. He would eat crow, so long as he received permission for his plans.
 
The only real powers he cared about – those that could summarily remove him from command – were the Minister of the Navy Admiral Ivan Gregorovich, and the Tsar himself. He supposed that the new Chief of Staff, General of the Army Mikhail Alekseyev, could engineer to have him removed, but Gregorovich would certainly oppose such a move as it would tread on his prerogatives.
 
Kanin stifled a yawn. Rurik hadn’t even reached her anchorage at Helsingfors before he’d received the summons to attend this meeting. 15 hours on the overnight train left him depleted and on edge, but he certainly wouldn’t let these men see it.
 
The senior Stavka officers filed in, last being Alekseyev. Kanin didn’t know much about the new chief, other than his reputation as a flinty, unbending man who was far less capable than his predecessor Yanushkevich. That and a reputation as the Tsar’s ‘Konechko’ (Note 3).  
 
Gregorovich caught his eye, and nodded with what Kanin hoped was approval. They’d only had a few minutes before the meeting to discuss the battle and Kanin’s plans to oppose the inevitable German efforts to penetrate the Gulf of Finland. Gregorovich was receptive, but warned that the Army was scared, almost panicked at the enemy’s thrust toward St Petersburg. He must tread lightly lest he become their scapegoat.
 
“Operations, you’re up first,” Alekseyev opened the meeting without preamble.
 
A slender, dark-haired cavalry polkovnik (Note 4) stood up from his chair just over Alekseyev’s shoulder. A second man uncovered a map on an easel. “Generals and admirals, the situation in the NorthWest Front remains difficult. As of midnight, enemy troops reached Plyussa.”
 
A sharp intake of breath, and groans, around the table.
 
“How far, from Luga?” asked one general.
 
“44 kilometers,” said the well-prepared polkovnik.
 
If this were a cathedral there would be weeping, gnashing of teeth, and rending of garments. It almost sounds like poorly rehearsed lines in a play. They have had too much bad news for far too long.
 
“Two fresh divisions of the 29th Corps, the 3rd Caucasian Rifle and the 110th Infantry, will reach the front tonight.” [“Fresh?” someone muttered] The polkovnik continued, “The northern German flank army – the 9th – has advanced a few kilometers beyond the Austro-Hungarian 5th, but our forces facing the German 8th Army to the south, especially General Lesh’s troops, are putting up stiff resistance as they fall back.”
 
“We must give them the artillery support to stop the mongrels in the center!” Shouted one.
 
“Where are we to get artillery ammunition? General Olchesnik, do you have stockpiles we’re not aware of?” said another.
 
Olchesnik shouted back “Nyet! I have held nothing back!”
 
Kanin listened as the generals bemoaned the situation, especially the galling fact that they’d been unable to stop the Austro-Hungarians advancing along the railway route. The finger pointing went on for some time.
 
“Enough,” Alekseyev finally interrupted, “These operations are only intended to delay the enemy while the defenses of Luga are made ready. Stopping the enemy was never required.” He then turned to the head of the Department of the General on Duty, General-Leytenant Dukhonin. “Nikolay Nikolayevich, status of the fortifications at Luga?”
 
“Those in the center are essentially completed, Mikhail Vasilyevich” the overweight general in charge of fortifications answered, “The only missing components are reserve artillery ammunition stockpiles, and assignment of the reserve infantry. The flank defenses are proceeding, two weeks to complete the works in the south and ten days those in the north. I must stress that as yet, assigned artillery units have not arrived, nor have the primary artillery stockpiles been established.”   
 
“You do not have two weeks, Nikolay Nikolayevich,” Alekseyev answered sharply.
 
“I do not have the men to move earth faster!” Dukhonin whined.
 
Alekseyev paused for only a moment, then nodded. “Draft a decree for my signature. All residents of Luga and surrounding villages within 20 versts – men, women, and children, excepting only gravid women and children aged 8 and younger – are from this moment mobilized.”
 
Alekseyev continued into the shocked silence, his voice rising, “Use these workers wisely Nikolay Nikolayevich; the defenses of Luga are to be completed within six days. Six days and not an hour more!”
 
Alekseyev slapped the table, then drew a long breath before continuing.
 
“Operations, move on. Northern Front.”
 
“A moment, Mikhail Vasilyevich, before we leave NorthWest Front. What of Liflyandskaya?” asked a general Kanin thought might oversee the organization of reserve and opolchenye forces. (Note 5)
 
Alekseyev looked like he’d bitten into a rotten fruit, then glanced at the Operations briefer.
 
“Uh, I have no recent reports,” the Polkovnik stammered. “The, uh, last report from Tartu was that the commander was investigating reports of enemy scouting forces northwest of Tartu.”
 
Northwest of Tartu? Were not the Germans 75 kilometers south of Tartu, at last report?” asked a cavalry general.
 
“Da, General.”
 
“The Germans on the coast, at Pernau, must have moved inland…”
 
“Whatever is happening in Liflyandskaya,” Alekseyev interrupted, “is irrelevant. As long as we hold eastern Estlyandskaya and the Peter the Great Fortress in the gulf, we have nothing to fear from the lands west of Chudskoye Ozero. (Note 5)
 
“While on the topic of the Peter the Great sea fortress, admiral Kanin, do you have an explanation for the naval battle yesterday that took place outside the main position? I have heard disappointing rumors of a major naval defeat, and I for one am not impressed.”
 
The sound of indrawn breath around the table sounded loud in Kanin’s suddenly hot ears.
 
How dare Alekseyev use the barest of ranks to address me, when the rest of the generals – even those junior – use familiar address! (Note 7) The junior officer seating, the lack of familiar address; he’s goading me.
 
Kanin stood. “Thank you for the opportunity to address the Stavka, Mikhail Vasilyevich. Any rumors of a ‘major naval defeat’ are, I assure you, misplaced.”
 
Alekseyev’s eyes squinted, but otherwise Kanin observed no reaction.
 
Fighting back in anger is what he wants, to put me and the Navy in its place. Will a civilized tongue defang this viper?
 
“Yesterday, embarked on the Fleet flagship Rurik, I took the three cruisers of 2nd Cruiser Brigade to sea for training. As I’m sure the Stavka is aware, the ships of the 2nd Brigade have spent the war thus far in reserve, and these three ships were in dire need of training that could only be accomplished at sea,” Kanin began, carefully not mentioning the loss of von Fersen’s ships that necessitated bringing the 2nd out of reserve.
 
“The seas behind the Peter the Great fortress system,” he continued calmly, “are more cluttered with islands and shoals; thus, the open waters outside the central position provide better waters for maneuvering.”
 
“Da, da,” Alekseyev interrupted. “No doubt you thought you had good reasons to expose your ships outside the Central Position. We can set that issue aside for now, but what of the battle itself?”
 
Before Kanin could reply, the side doorway opened, and an aide stepped in and stomped to attention. “His Imperial Majesty, Tsar Nicholas the Second.”
 
Chairs scraped the floor, and everyone leapt to attention.  
 
“Mikhail Vasilyevich, forgive me for breaking in, but I wished to hear first-hand what happened to the Navy yesterday,” gushed the Tsar, before seating himself at the head of the table. The staff resumed their seats; Kanin struggled to keep a straight face as Alekseyev displaced the next officer to the right, and he the next man, and so on down the table. The last officer now bumped from the table looked around for an open seat before a junior artillery officer leapt up to offer his.
 
“Konechko, your Imperial Majesty,” simpered Alekseyev. “Vitze-admiral Kanin was just about to brief us on that very matter.”
 
“Most excellent! Vitze-admiral?”
 
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Kanin began, his jangling nerves subsiding, “Embarked on the Fleet flagship, Rurik, I took the 2nd Cruiser Brigade to sea for maneuvering exercises, the brigade having recently been upgraded from a reserve status to active.
 
“At 1045 smoke was sighted to the southwest, which eventually resolved into a German cruiser squadron led by armored cruiser Blücher.  Their appearance inside the outer mine barrier was something of a surprise – our patrol submarines having failed to report the breach. I would note this parallels the experience of the Royal Navy in the North Sea, their scouting submarines having proved largely ineffective in reliably observing and reporting sorties of the High Seas Fleet. We are staffing proposals to correct this deficiency.”
 
Kanin waited a moment for the Tsar to acknowledge the point before moving on. “I chose to engage the enemy, as with Rurik supporting the 2nd Cruiser, our ships carried the heavier guns and thicker armor - I felt we could stand up to anything short of enemy dreadnaughts or battlecruisers.
 
“The battle began after both sides formed up in line ahead on converging northerly courses; Rurik leading Rossia, Bogatýr and Oleg. The German’s Blücher was followed by six small cruisers.”
 
“But, Vasily Vasileyvich,” interrupted a general, “You engaged even though the enemy outnumbered you?”
 
Kanin caught an obscure look from the Tsar. Irritation at the interruption?
 
“Da. They did indeed,” Kanin replied, “with seven ships to our four, but that brought no fear to our brave men, for our ships were larger.” Kanin looked directly at the Tsar, “and as those familiar with naval affairs appreciate, larger ships are more sturdily built, and better gun platforms.”
 
The Tsar nodded sagely.
 
Kanin continued to describe the battle, highlighting each hit on the enemy and speculating at the tremendous damage done to Blücher in particular. Somehow, he implied that the three hapless cruisers of 2nd Brigade also scored on the German small cruisers, without ever saying exactly that. He impressed upon the Tsar and Stavka the importance of the steadfast courage of the officers and men, especially those on Oleg who fought both the enemy and the fires onboard.
 
Kanin closed his account by suggesting that the Germans were the ones to break off the action, and he was only prevented from pursuing by the enemy’s greater speed, and a concern that the enemy’s dreadnaughts were known to be close by.  
 
It was quite a tale.
 
He even managed to slip in that his ships, limited to speeds of no more than 21 knots, would have trouble pursuing any German formations, which of course was the reason that the Ganguts were designed with high speed in mind.
 
Hopefully that seed sprouts in the Tsar’s imagination.
 
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Kanin finished, “damage to Rurik is likely already made good. Oleg will return to the Kotlin yards to effect modest repairs. Considering our oldest and least capable ships faced off against seven of Germany’s biggest, newest, and fastest cruisers – the same ships that have run rings around the Royal Navy – the Baltic Fleet acquitted itself quite well.”
 
Admiral Gregorovich quickly spoke up, “Vasily Vasileyvich, perhaps His Imperial Majesty would appreciate a precis of your plans, should the German main force challenge the Central Position.”
 
“Da, I would very much like to hear of your plans,” said the Tsar, a large smile gracing his face.
 
“Konechko!” added Alekseyev.  
 
----------------------------
 
As the last of the Stavka left the room, Gregorovich turned to Kanin. “Well done Vasily Vasileyvich. Very well done indeed. The Tsar gave us everything you wanted.”
 
“Perhaps not everything I wanted, but what I need.
 
“Oh, and you’ll have an updated version of the battle report – one that reflects today’s briefing – on your desk before I board the train for Helsingfors. Please destroy the original.”
 
 
December 21st. 1400. 7th Ulaner Regiment. Dorpat, Livland.
 
Anarchy!
 
Rittmeister Heinrich von Massow swallowed a curse as another scream filled the air. A mob of civilians, men and women alike, dragged a pair of struggling men – one the source of the scream – toward their doom.
 
Thank Gott our horses are well trained to ignore the sounds of death and suffering. Better trained than the men, I think.
 
The lane leading into the heart of Dorpat passed below the cathedral and Bishop’s manor, shadowed by otherwise magnificent trees. Huge oaks and elms now sported an array of men swinging from their branches. Many were already dead, several in the final throes of strangulation, two new ones about to hang from these makeshift gallows.
 
Some of the victims wore Russer green uniforms, but most appeared to be civilians. Sickeningly, there were a few women dangling here and there.
 
Riding at the head of the leading squadron of the regiment, von Massow was keenly aware of the looks from the civilians crowding the park-like and now-profaned church grounds. Some few smiled and waved, most gave blank stares of mild distrust. The remainder, perhaps a fifth, had faces twisted in hatred.
 
Von Massow called a halt as the squadron came abreast the mob. They grew quiet.
 
Someone yelled in a corrupt Deutsch, “Don’t try to stop us!”
 
Von Massow held up a hand. “We’re not here to interfere.  Who is in charge here in Dorpat?”
 
“Tartu!!!!” Someone shouted. “We’re in charge of Tartu,” yelled one of the men holding the noose around the latest victim’s neck.
 
“Who is in charge here?” von Massow repeated calmly.
 
“Your Excellency,” one of the smiling ones offered, “The mērs – the burgermeister – can be found in the central square. That way.”  
 
“Danke.”
 
Von Massow turned his horse to leave, then turned back. “What did these people do?”
 
“Guard Department!” came from several throats. (Note 8 )
 
Von Massow nodded and rode on toward the central square. Turning in his saddle he caught the messenger’s eye.
 
“Ride back to the regiment and respectfully suggest that Oberstleutnant Würt request the 62nd Brigade hurry. They’ll be needed sooner rather than later.”  
 
 
 
Notes
 
Note 1. Ohne tritt Marsch = Without step march = route march
 
Note 2. The polish-style flat topped czapka/tschapka helm that distinguished most uhlans had by now been largely replaced in the field by a more function flat-topped soft cap.
 
Uhlan helm.jpg

Uhlans soft hat.jpg

 
Note 3. Konechko = “Certainly.” A Yes-Man.
 
Note 4. Polkovnik = Colonel
 
Note 5. Liflyandskaya = Livland (Roughly modern Latvia and southern Estonia).
 
Note 6. Chudskoye Ozero = Lake Peipus
 
Note 7. Familiar address: using one’s given name and patronymic (father’s given name plus ‘-ovich’ or ‘-evich’). Using the polite form of address wasn’t wrong by itself, since Kanin is an outsider to the Stavka, however using the non-familiar address combined with using an informal rank address (‘admiral’ vice ‘Vitze-Admiral’), Alekseyev was being both demeaning and exclusionary to Kanin.
 
Note 8. The “Guard Department” was the common name for Tsarist Russia’s Department for the Protection of Public Safety and Order (in English sources, Okhrana, lit. ‘the Guard’). The Tsar’s secret police were particularly reviled in the Baltics and the Grand Duchy of Finland during the Russification programs of the early 20th Century.

statistics: Posted by seaoh19794:14 PM - 1 day ago — Replies 8 — Views 94



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