XV
The Army Becomes a Savage Mob
My women were enthusiastic over the return of their Commander. I reported to the Commander of the Corps and was invited to luncheon with the Staff. The officers were interested to know what was going on in the rear. I did not tell them the details of the quarrel between the Prime Minister and the Commander-in-Chief, but I did indicate in general terms that a difference had arisen.
Toward the end of the meal it was reported that the Chairman of the Corps Committee had come to see the Commander on important business. It appeared that the corps in the trenches was to be relieved at seven in the evening and orders had been issued to the corps in reserve, some miles behind, to move toward the trenches at five in the morning. However, they had not moved. The Chairman now came to explain the cause of the delay. He was himself a patriotic and intelligent soldier and was asked to sit down by the General while he told the story.
“The rascals!” he said of the men who had elected him as their leader, “they wouldn’t move. They have been holding meetings all the morning and refuse to go to relieve their comrades.”
We were all shocked. The General became excited.
“What the devil!” he exclaimed angrily. “That passes all bounds! If the soldiers refuse to relieve the very men who had relieved them a couple of weeks ago, then there is no use in continuing at the front, making a pretence of war. It’s a farce! It’s no use staying here, let them lay down their arms and go home and save the Government the trouble of keeping up the semblance of an army. The villains! Just shoot a few of them, and they will learn to do their duty! At seven o’clock the trenches will be empty. Go and tell them that I command them to move immediately!”
The Chairman returned to the billets and told his soldiers that the General ordered them into the trenches under penalty of death. This incensed the men.
“Aha, he is threatening to shoot!” cried one.
“He’s of the old regime,” exclaimed another.
“He wants to practise on us the Tsar’s methods!” shouted several voices.
“He is a blackguard!” suggested another.
“He ought to be killed! He wants to rule us with an iron hand!” the men roared, working themselves up to a fever.
Meanwhile, the news came from the trenches that the men were holding meetings there, proclaiming their determination not to remain in their position after seven o’clock. The General was in great difficulty. He was faced with the probability of his section of the front being left entirely open to the enemy. He telephoned to the reserve billets and asked the Chairman of the Committee what was going on there.
Suddenly the General grew pale, dropped the receiver and said:
“They want to kill me.”
Chief of Staff Kostayev took up the receiver and in a trembling voice inquired what the trouble was. I listened to the answer.
“They are in an ugly mood. They have mutinied and threaten to mob the General. The excitement is spreading, and some of them have already started out for Headquarters.”
The voice of the Chairman at the other end of the wire was clearly expressive of his alarm. In reply to questions what the General could do to calm the mob he said that the committee admired and respected the General, that its members were doing their best to allay the passions that had been aroused, but seemed helpless.
A few minutes later several officers and men ran into the house, greatly agitated.
“General, you are lost if you don’t get away in time!” one of them said.
Shortly afterwards Colonel Belonogov, a man of sterling heart, beloved by his soldiers even before the revolution, rushed in. He brought the same tidings, asking the General to hide. I joined in, imploring the Commander to conceal himself till the storm had passed. But he refused.
“Why should I hide?” he exclaimed. “What wrong have I done? Let them come and kill me! I have only done my duty.”
He went into his study and locked himself in.
The mob was moving nearer and nearer. There was a deathly pallor on the faces of all those present. Every minute or so someone would dash in breathlessly, with eyes full of horror, to herald the approaching tempest.
The tide of tumultuous humanity reached the house. There were cries and howls. For a second we were all in suspense. Then Colonel Belonogov said he would go out and talk to them and try to make them see reason. The Colonel had a gentle voice and a gentle heart. He never addressed even his own orderly in the ordinary fashion. When a little time before he had asked to be transferred to another position, his own soldiers persuaded him into staying where he was.
In a word the Colonel was an exceptional man. Without question there was no other officer in the Corps as fit as he to undertake the task of mollifying an excited mob. He went out on the porch and calmly faced the steadily increasing multitude.
“Where is the General? Where is he? We want to kill him!” the savage chorus bawled.
“What are you thinking of?” the Colonel began. “Come to your senses and consider the order. It was an order to relieve your own comrades, soldiers like yourselves. Now, you know that this was no more than fair. The General simply wanted you to take the places of your comrades.”
“But he threatened to shoot us!” interrupted the men.
“You did not quite understand. He only said generally that to get obedience one must shoot. …”
“Shoot!” a hundred voices went up from every side, catching the word but not the meaning.
“Shoot! Aha, he wants to shoot! He’s for the old regime himself!” a thousand voices roared, without even giving the ashen-faced Colonel a chance to explain.
“Kill him! Show him what shooting is!” raged the vast throng, while the speaker tried vainly to raise his voice and get a hearing.
Suddenly someone jerked the stool from under his feet. In an instant a hundred heavy heels had trampled the life out of that noble body. It was a horrible, terrifying scene. Several thousand men had turned into beasts. The lust of blood was in their eyes. They swayed backwards and forwards as if intoxicated, crushing the last signs of life out of their victim, stamping on the corpse in a frenzy. The mob’s thirst for blood became inflamed. The officers realized that every moment was precious. Kostayev thought that the only way to save ourselves was to escape through the rear of the house.
“I will go out to them,” I declared.
The remaining officers thought me mad and tried to dissuade me.
“Belonogov was the idol of his regiment, and see what’s become of him. If you go it is certain death,” they said. Colonel Kostayev disappeared and several of the Staff followed him.
I could not see how the situation would be saved by escaping. It might save a couple of lives, although even that was unlikely, but the mutiny would extend and might grow beyond control. “I will go out,” I resolved, crossed myself and dashed into the infuriated mob.
“What is the matter?” I shouted at the top of my voice. “What has happened to you? Let me pass!”
The crowd separated and made a way for me to the stool.
“Look at her!” jeered some voices.
“Eh, eh, look at this bird!” echoed others.
“Your Excellency!” scoffed one man.
“Now,” I began sharply, as soon as I had jumped on the stool. “I am no ‘your Excellency!’ but plain Yashka! You can kill me right away, or you can kill me a little later, five, ten minutes later. But Yashka will not be afraid.
“I will have my say. Before you slay me I must speak my mind. Do you know me? Do you know that I am one of you, a plain peasant soldier?”
“Yes, we do,” the men answered.
“Well,” I resumed, “why did you kill this man?” and I pointed at the disfigured body at my feet. “He was the kindest officer in the Corps. He never beat, never punished a soldier. He was always courteous, to privates and officers alike. He never spoke contemptuously to anyone. Only a month ago he wanted to be transferred and you insisted on keeping him. That was four weeks ago. Had he changed, could he have changed, in such a short time?
“He was like a father to his men. Weren’t you always proud of him? Didn’t you always boast that in his regiment the food was good, the soldiers were well shod, the baths were regular? Didn’t you, of your own accord, reward him with a Soldiers’ Cross, the highest honour that the free Russian army has to offer?
“And now you have killed, with your own hands, this noble soul, this rare example of human kindness. Why?
“Why did you do it?” I turned fiercely on the men.
“Because he was of the exploiting class,” came one answer.
“They all suck our blood!” shouted some others.
“Why let her talk? Who is she that she should question us?” somebody cried out.
“Kill her! Kill her, too! Kill them all! We have shed enough of our blood! The bourgeois! The murderers! Kill her!” was shouted from many throats.
“Scoundrels!” I screamed. “You will kill me yet, I am at your mercy, and I came out to be killed. You ask why I should be allowed to talk. You ask who I am. As if you didn’t know me! Who is Yashka Bochkareva?
“Who sent delegates to present icons to me, if not you? Who had me promoted to the rank of an officer, if not you? Who sent me this testimonial to Petrograd only a couple of weeks ago, if not you?”
Here I drew out from my breast pocket the resolution passed and signed by the Corps Committee and despatched to me while I was in the Petrograd Hospital. I had brought it with me. Pointing to the signatures, I cried:
“You see this? Who signed it, if not you yourselves? It is signed by the Corps Committee, your own representatives, whom you, yourselves, elected!”
The men were silent.
“Who suffered, fought with you, if not I? Who saved your lives under fire, if not Yashka? Don’t you remember what I did for your comrades at Naroch, when, up to my armpits in mud, I dragged dozens of you to safety and life?”
Here, I turned abruptly on a gaping fellow, looked directly at him and asked:
“Suppose the rank and file were to elect their own officers. Now, what would you do in the Commander’s place, if you were chosen? You are a plain soldier, of the people. Tell me what you would do!” I thundered.
The man looked foolish, making an effort to laugh.
“Ha, I would see,” he said, “once I got there.”
“That is no answer. Tell me what you would do if our Corps were in the trenches and another one refused to relieve it. What would you do? What?” I demanded of the whole crowd.
“Would you hold the trenches indefinitely or leave? Answer me that!”
“Well, we would leave, anyhow,” replied a number of men.
“But what are you here for,” I shouted fiercely, “to hold the trenches or not?”
“Yes, to hold,” they answered.
“Then how could you leave them?” I fired back.
There was silence.
“That would be treason to Free Russia!” I continued.
The men bowed their heads in shame. Nobody spoke.
“Then why did you kill him?” I cried out bitterly. “What did he want you to do but hold the trenches?”
“He wanted to shoot us!” several sullen voices replied.
“He never said anything of the sort. What he wanted to say was to explain that the General did not threaten you either, but remarked that in other circumstances your action would be punished by shooting. No sooner did Colonel Belonogov mention the word ‘shoot’ than you threw yourself upon him without even giving the man a chance to finish what he was saying.”
“That was not what we understood. We thought he threatened to shoot us,” the men weakly defended themselves.
At this point the orderlies and friends of the murdered Colonel rushed up. They raised such a cry of grief when they saw the mutilated corpse that all speech was silenced. They cursed and wept and threatened the mob, although they were few and the crowd numbered thousands.
“Murderers! Bloodthirsty ruffians! Whom have you killed? Our little father! Did ever soldiers have a better friend than he was? Was there ever a commander who took greater care of his men? You are worse than the Tsar and his hangmen. You are given freedom, and you act like cutthroats. You devils!”
And the mourners broke out in even louder lamentations. The wailing rent the air. It gripped everybody’s throat. Many in the mob wept. As the dead man’s friends began to relate the various favours they had received from him, I could not choke down my tears and stepped down from the stool, convulsed with sobs.
Meanwhile, in response to calls for help, a division from a neighbouring corps arrived to quell the mutiny. The Committee of the Division came forward and demanded the surrender of the ringleaders of the movement that had resulted in the soldiers’ refusal to return to the trenches and in the murder of Colonel Belonogov. There were negotiations between the two committees, which finally ended in the surrender by the mob of twenty agitators, who were placed under arrest.
The officers who had fled and the General now reappeared, although the latter was still afraid to order the soldiers to relieve the corps in the trenches. He asked me to broach the subject.
I first addressed the men about the funeral.
“We must have a coffin made. Who will do it?” I asked.
Several volunteered to get some timber and make one.
“How about a grave? We must bury him with full military honours,” I went on. Some soldiers offered their services as gravediggers.
An officer went to look for a priest. I sent a soldier to the woods to make a wreath. Then I turned and asked:
“Now, will you go to the trenches to relieve your comrades?”
“Yes,” the men answered meekly.
It was an unforgettable scene. These five thousand men, all so docile and humble, some with tears still fresh on their cheeks, were like a forlorn flock of sheep that had lost its shepherd. It seemed impossible to believe that these men were capable of murder. You could curse them now, you could even strike them, and they would bear it without protest. They were conscious, deeply conscious of a great crime. Quietly they stood, from time to time, uttering a word of regret, engrossed in mourning. And yet these same lambs were ferocious beasts two hours ago. All the gentleness now mirrored in their faces was then extinguished by a hurricane of savage passion. These obedient children had actually been inhuman a short time ago. It was incredible, and still it was the truth.
Such is the character of the Russian people.
The coffin, an oblong box of unshaven boards, draped inside and out with a white sheet, was brought at four o’clock. The body had been washed, but it was impossible to restore the face to its normal appearance. It was disfigured beyond recognition. With the help of some of the men, I wrapped the body in canvas and placed it in the coffin. Instead of one there were four green wreaths made. The priest began to read the service but could not control himself and burst into sobs. The General, the Staff, and I, with candles in our hands, were sobbing too. Immediately behind the coffin, as the procession started, the dead officer’s orderly wailed in heartrending tones, recalling aloud the virtues of his master. Behind us marched almost the whole Corps, including the Regiment commanded by the dead man. The weeping was so general and so increased with every step that by the time the procession reached the grave the wailing could be heard for miles around. As the body was laid to rest everybody dropped a handful of sand into the grave. The lips of all were moving in prayer.
The order was given that by seven o’clock the Corps should be moved to relieve the soldiers at the fighting line. I went to my girls and gave the word for them to be ready too. They had heard of the disturbance and had passed some anxious moments, and therefore they gave me a hearty welcome. The General had telephoned to the front line that the Corps was a few hours late and asked the soldiers there to remain in the trenches for the night. The distance that we had to cover was about ten miles, and we arrived at the front before dawn.
The Battalion, now consisting of only some two hundred women, occupied a small sector to itself, opposite the town of Kreva. There was no sign of actual warfare at the fighting line. Neither the Germans nor the Russians used their arms. Fraternization was general. There was a virtual, if not formal, truce. The men met every day, indulged in long arguments and drank beer brought by the Germans.
I could not tolerate such war and ordered my women to conduct themselves as if everything were as usual. The men became very irritated by our militant attitude toward the enemy. A group of them, with the Chairman of the Regimental Committee, came over to our trench to discuss the matter.
“Who are our enemies?” began the Chairman. “Surely, not the Germans who want peace. It’s the bourgeoisie, the ruling class, that is the real enemy of the people. It’s against them that we ought to wage war, for they would not listen to the German peace proposals. Why does not Kerensky obtain peace for us? Because the Allies will not let him. Well, we will very soon drive Kerensky out of his office!”
“But I am not of the ruling class. I am a plain peasant woman,” I objected. “I have been a soldier since the beginning of the war and have fought in many battles. Don’t agitate here against officers.”
“Oh, I don’t mean you,” he replied; trying to win me over to the pacificist idea. Several German soldiers joined the Russian group. The discussion became heated. They repeated the old argument that the Germans had asked for peace and that the Allies had not accepted it. I replied that the Germans could have peace with Russia if they withdrew from the invaded parts of our country. So long as they kept our land, it was the duty of every Russian to fight and drive them out.
Thus life dragged on. Nights and days passed in discussions. Kerensky had almost entirely lost his hold on the men, who were drifting more and more toward Bolshevism. Finally, the feud between Kerensky and Kornilov reached a crisis. Kerensky asked the Commander-in-Chief by telephone to send some loyal troops to Petrograd, apparently realizing that his days were numbered. Kornilov replied with a message through Alexeiev, requesting a written certificate from Kerensky, investing the Commander-in-Chief with full authority to restore discipline in the army. It would seem that Kornilov was willing to save Kerensky, provided the latter allowed him to save the front.
But Kerensky evidently saw in this an opportunity of restoring his fallen prestige and securing his position. He therefore turned against Kornilov, publicly declaring that the latter was aiming at supreme power and he appealed to the workmen and soldiers to rise against the Commander of the army. The result was the brief encounter between the revolutionary masses and Kornilov’s Savage Division. Kornilov was defeated. Kerensky triumphed, and for the moment it looked as if he had attained his object. All the radical forces were united and Kerensky, as the saviour of the revolution from an attempt at a counterrevolution, again became the idol of the soldiers and the working class.
The larger part of the army sided with Kerensky when he appealed for support against Kornilov. But this did not last long. Kerensky little by little lost the confidence of the masses which he had suddenly acquired, because he did not bring them the much desired peace.
Those of the soldiers and officers who sided with Kornilov were nicknamed Kornilovetz. To call a man by this name was equivalent to calling him a counterrevolutionary, an advocate of the old regime, or an enemy of the people.
The inactivity of life in the trenches became wearisome. One rainy day I sent out a listening party into No Man’s Land, with instructions to shoot at the enemy in case of his approach. I watched the party go forward. Suddenly, a group of Germans, numbering about ten, came in the direction of our trenches. They walked along at their ease with their hands in their pockets, some whistling, others singing. I aimed my rifle at the leg of one of the troop and wounded him.
The whole front was in an uproar in a second. It was scandalous! Who dared do such a thing! The Germans and the Russians were seething with rage. Several of my women came running up to me greatly alarmed.
“Commander, why did you do that?” they asked, seeing me with a smoking rifle in hand.
A number of soldiers who were friends of mine next hastened into our trench to warn me of the men’s ugly temper and threats. I told them that I saw the Germans approach my girls and make an effort at flirtation. But this defence did not appease the soldiers. They placed machine guns in the first trench and were preparing to slaughter us all. Fortunately, we were informed in time and were hidden in a side trench. The machine guns raked our position, without causing any casualties. The firing was finally interrupted by the sharp orders of the Chairman of the Regimental Committee. I was called before him to give an explanation. I bade farewell to my girls, telling them that there would probably be a repetition of the episode of Colonel Belonogov’s lynching.
I was received by the men with threats and ugly words.
“Kill her!”
“She’s a Kornilovka!”
“Make an end of her!”
I was surrounded by the members of the committee, who kept back the mob. Several speakers rose in my defence, but hardly succeeded in appeasing the crowd. Then an officer got up to talk in my behalf. He was a popular speaker. But this time his popularity did not avail him. He said that I was right. He would have done the same thing had he been in my place. That was as far as he got.
“Aha, so you are a Kornilovetz too!” shouted the crowd. “Kill him! Kill him!”
In an instant the man was thrown off the chair and struck on the head. In another instant he was crushed to death under a thousand heels.
Then the mob swayed in my direction. But the committee seized me and carried me off to the rear, hiding me in a dugout. One of my girls, Medvedovskaya, was placed at the entrance to guard it.
Meanwhile, my girls heard what had happened and hurried to my aid. The mob dispersed to look for me and some of the men came to the dugout in which I was concealed.
“Where is Bochkareva? Let us in to see if she is there!” they shouted. The girl sentry said she had orders to shoot if they approached near her. They did. She-fired, wounding one in the side.
The poor girl was bayoneted by the brutes.
The committee and my friends, numbering about one hundred, insisted that I should be given a trial and not lynched. My girls were ready to die for me to the last one. I was taken out from the dugout by my defenders, who made an effort to lead me to safety for an open trial.
The mob, which had now increased, pressed closer and closer. The two sides were fighting for me. It was agreed that no weapons were to be used in the scramble. The mass of humanity swayed back and forth, my girls fighting with the strength of infuriated wild beasts to stave off the mob. Now and then a man would get close enough to strike a blow at me. As the struggle developed these blows increased in number till I was knocked senseless. In that state my friends dragged me away from the scene of the struggle.
My life was saved, although I was badly knocked about. It cost the lives of a loyal girl and an innocent friend. I was sent to Molodechno, a couple of my girls going with me to look after me. The Battalion was taken from the front to the reserve billets. But even there their lives were not safe. They were insulted, annoyed, and dubbed Kornilovki. There were daily tumults. The windows of their dugouts were broken. The officers were powerless and seldom showed their faces. My instructors did their best to defend me and the Battalion, explaining that we were non-party.
One morning a car came for me from Headquarters at Molodechno. There I met the Commanding General of my Corps, who described the unbearable conditions in which my girls were placed. They were waiting for me, refusing to go home, unless I disbanded them. He had sent them to dig reserve trenches in order to keep them away from the men. They did splendid work, he said, but as soon as they returned the men began to molest them. Only the previous night a gang of soldiers made an assault on the dugouts in which my girls were billeted. They beat the sentry and broke in with the intention of attacking the women. There was a panic. Some of the girls seized their rifles and fired in the air. The noise attracted the attention of my instructors and several other soldiers, among whom there were numerous decent men. The situation was saved by the latter.
But what was to be done? Life for the Battalion was becoming absolutely unbearable, at least at this part of the front. It was difficult to understand the change which had come over the men in a few months. How long ago was it that they almost worshipped me, and I loved them? Now they seemed to have lost their senses.
The General advised me to disband the Battalion. But that would be to admit failure and despair as to my country’s condition. I was not ready to make such admissions. No, I would not disband my unit. I would fight to the end. The General could not understand my point of view. Was not the case hopeless since the soldiers had turned machine guns on the Battalion? Wouldn’t I have been lynched but for the desperate struggle of my girls and the soldiers who were my friends? So I resolved to go to Petrograd and ask Kerensky to transfer me to a fighting sector.
I went to see my girls before leaving for the capital. It was a pathetic meeting. They were glad to learn of my intended journey. They could not stand it much longer where they were. They were prepared to fight the Germans, to be tortured by them, to die at their hands or in prison camps. But they were not prepared for the torments and humiliation that they were made to suffer by our own men. That had never entered into our calculations at the time the Battalion was formed.
I took my documents with me and left the same evening, telling my soldiers that I would not stay away longer than a week, which was the limit that they set on their endurance. Upon my arrival in Petrograd I went to the quarters occupied by the Battalion while in training. It was evident at a glance that an atmosphere of depression weighed heavily on the Russian capital. The smiles and rejoicings were gone from the streets. There was gloom in the air and in everybody’s eyes. Food was very scarce. Red Guards were plentiful. Bolshevism walked the streets openly and defiantly, as if its day had already come.
My friends, who had taken an interest in the Battalion, were horrified to learn of conditions at the front. Their accounts of the state of affairs at the capital depressed me greatly. Kerensky, after his dispute with Kornilov, had cut himself off completely from his friends and acquaintances of the upper classes. I went to General Anosov, telling him of my mission. But he would not accompany me anywhere, although he placed his motorcar at my disposal. I drove to the Commander of the Military District, General Vasilkovsky, a Cossack, who looked impressive and strong, but was actually a weakling. He received me cordially and asked the purpose of my visit to the city. He had heard of the rough handling I had endured and expressed his sympathy.
“But,” he added, “no one is safe in these days. I, myself, expect to be thrown out at any time. It is a matter of days, of hours, for the Government. Another revolution is ripening and is close upon us. Bolshevism is everywhere, in the factories and in the barracks. And how are things at the front?”
“The same or even worse,” I answered, and I told him of all my trials and troubles, and the help I expected to obtain from him and the War Minister.
“Nothing can help you now,” he said. “The authorities are powerless. Orders are not worth the paper on which they are issued. I am going now to Verkhovsky, the new War Minister. Would you like to come with me?”
On the way we discussed Verkhovsky’s appointment. He was the same man who, as Commander of the Moscow Military District, had rescued me from the mob at Moscow some weeks before. He was a very popular leader and had considerable influence with the soldiers.
“Perhaps if he had been appointed some months ago he might have saved the army. But it is too late now,” said Vasilkovsky.
When we arrived at the War Ministry, we found that Kerensky was in Verkhovsky’s study. We were announced, and I was asked to come in first. As I opened the door I saw immediately that all was lost. The Prime Minister and the War Minister were both standing. They presented a pathetic, heartbreaking sight. Kerensky looked like a corpse. There was not a vestige of colour in his face. His eyes were red as if he had not slept for nights. Verkhovsky seemed to me like a man who is drowning, reaching for help. My heart sank. War had made me callous, and I was seldom shocked. But this time I was nearly overcome by the sight of these two agonized figures. I saw the agony of Russia reflected in their despairing faces.
They made an effort to smile, but it was a failure. The War Minister then inquired how things were at the front. “We heard you were roughly treated,” he said.
I gave a detailed account of everything that I had myself witnessed and experienced. I told them in detail about the lynching of Colonel Belonogov, of the officer who tried to defend me, of the bayoneting of my girl, of the machine guns that were turned on me because I wounded one of the enemy.
Kerensky seized his head in his hands and cried out:
“Oh, horror! horror! We are perishing! We are drowning!”
There was a tense, painful pause.
I ended my story with the suggestion that action was urgently needed or all would be wrecked.
“Yes, action is needed, but what action? What is to be done now? What would you do if you were to be given authority over the army? You are a common soldier, tell me what you would do?”
“It is too late now,” I answered after thinking a little time. “Two months ago I could have accomplished a great deal. Then they still respected me. Now they hate me.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the War Minister. “Two months ago I might have saved the situation myself, if I had only been here then!”
We then discussed the purpose of my journey. I asked for a transfer to a more active part of the front and for a certificate that the Battalion was to be run without committees. This certificate I obtained from the War Minister without delay, and I still have it in my possession. He also agreed to my first request and promised to look into the matter and issue orders for my transfer.
Kerensky was silent during the conversation. He stood like a ghost, the symbol of once mighty Russia. Four months before he was the idol of the nation. Now almost all had turned against him. As I looked at him I felt I was in the presence of that immense tragedy which was rending my country into fragments. Something seemed to clutch my throat and shake me. I wanted to cry, to sob. My heart dripped blood for Mother Russia. What would I not have done to avert that impending catastrophe? How many deaths would I not have died at that moment?
Here was my country drifting towards an abyss. I could see it sliding down, down, down. … And here were the heads of the Government powerless, helpless, clinging hopelessly to the doomed ship, despairing of salvation, abandoned, forlorn, stricken. …
“God only knows the future—shall we ever meet again?” I asked the two men in a stifled voice, as I bade them farewell.
Kerensky, livid, motionless, answered in a hoarse whisper:
“Hardly.”