Vladivostok
November 9, 1936
Voroshilov yawned and stretched, loudly, before shrugging and resuming his nap in the very large, very comfortable chair he had brought with him all the way from Moscow on the railway that spanned across the Soviet Union from Moscow to Vladivostok. Voroshilov smiled, it had been a pleasant return as he had used his own personal train to make the return to the forsaken patch of land that comprised his backwater front in considerable comfort. At the moment, he was giving a briefing to his corps commanders for the invasion of Manchuria. Voroshilov smiled sleepily,
he was not giving it, but rather his chief-of-staff was, Voroshilov could not remember the man’s name. This did not worry him, as he admitted to being somewhat poor with names, he could never remember them. Not that he actually tried, of course, he could not think of a single reason why he should try to do anything, other than remain in Stalin’s favor.
Voroshilov yawned again, failing to notice the looks cast in his direction, and scratched at his cheek drowsily. That was what the invasion of Manchuria was all about, after all: retaining Stalin’s favor. As a Field Marshal of the Soviet Union, as the commander of the Manchurian Front and as the Chief of the Soviet Army Staff, he had certain responsibilities. Of course, what man truly took care of his own responsibilities, especially a man in Voroshilov’s situation, he wondered. Rather, Voroshilov had two staffs working for him; one was his staff in Moscow to take care of business concerning the army as a whole and was authorized to countersign any STAVKA paper released by Tukhachevskij in his name. The other staff he kept isolated in Vladivostok, to take care of the particular needs of the Manchurian Front. The foremost of these needs at the moment was to plan the invasion of Tannu Tuva and Manchuria.
A thought crossed his mind, causing a strange sensation that made Voroshilov hiccup. He remembered that the Tannu Tuva operation had already occurred, and that the Tuvans should be annexed by the end of the month. Voroshilov was pleased with the victory, and was sure that Stalin would see it in a similarly optimistic light once Voroshilov—or rather, his staff—spun a sufficiently glorious account of it. This all left the invasion of Manchuria, and as he idly listened to his chief-of-staff’s droning, he realized that this was what the meeting was about. Voroshilov frowned, much like a boy who had seen something that intrigued and puzzled him. The invasion of Manchuria was to be beginning soon; the declaration of war had gone out from Moscow.
The Soviet Union declared war on Manchukuo early on November 9, 1936.
Voroshilov sighed, wishing that he had some good vodka, or wine. Looking at the ceiling thoughtfully, an expression that came difficultly to him, he mentally appended his wish and thought of wenches as well. He misses the parties of the good old days, before all the talk and fear of war with Germany. Back then, Budennij could organize a
real social gathering. Voroshilov sighed again, lustily this time, as his mind wandered back to those days: an external pool, filled with good wine and naked women. Everyone had been drunk and some junior officer had had the brilliant idea of opening fire on the pool. Wine spurted out, and women and men screamed alike in drunken ecstasy and horror as blood mingled with the wine, though this did not stop those outside the pool from putting their mouths close to the puncture holes to lap at the fountains of wine. Three women had been injured, and one man as well, yet the party had continued on all night, ending with a fine alcohol-fueled orgy of released sexual desires.
Voroshilov’s eyes descended from the ceiling until they stared uncaring at the men surrounding the table. Voroshilov almost wondered whether their operational plans were as interesting as his memories of wild orgiastic parties but at the last moment easily decided that they were not and closed his eyes to sleep again. He was confident that all would go well, his staff had not yet failed him in peacetime, and it certainly felt like peacetime to him despite the declaration of war. He smiled knowing that he was one of those precious few souls that war could not ever touch no matter how deep he waded in. Voroshilov snuggled deeper into the comfortable chair, wishing that it was his warm bed. The wind howled outside, making him feel even drowsier yet also filling him with confidence regarding the campaign ahead. It would be another glorious victory for him, he just knew it.
The invasion plan for the conquest of Manchuria.
He must have drifted off again, lulled by thoughts of bed and victory as he idly wondered whether or not he could link those two concepts, when he was startled by a constant resounding rumble rolling into the city from a distance. Blinking rapidly, he realized that he was alone in the room, his command staff and the corps commanders had left. Upon this realization, Voroshilov understood that the far away growling was Soviet artillery battering the Manchurian positions. Smiling, he closed his eyes again and pushed himself deeper into the cushions of his chair. He barely noticed his chief-of-staff enter with other staff members, discussing how the attacks were panning out. They were quiet about it, of course, not wishing to disturb their great leader. Voroshilov was glad that he was surrounded by such considerate people; they made being such an unusually great politician and general as he was a much easier burden to bear.
The battle for Jiamusi, the beginning of the northern prong of the invasion of Manchuria.
Voroshilov came to again, to an incessant, but gentle, prodding of his shoulder. He sleepily opened his eyes to see his chief-of-staff and yawned right in his face before swirling his tongue around his mouth. “Chief-of-staff, is there any wine to drink? Or vodka? I have a terrible taste in my mouth.”
“I shall get you a glass of wine, Field Marshal. I wish, however, to inquire whether you would like to move to your chamber and continue sleeping in your bed? There is no need for you to remain in the staff room, after all, as the briefing is done and I can take care of the minutae of our battle myself.”
Voroshilov raised his eyebrows in surprise, shocked. “Why, chief-of-staff, how could you possibly think that? That would be greatly negligent of me! I will remain in the staff room until the battle is done and only then will I retire to my chambers to rest! Now, where is that wine you promised?”
“I will fetch it presently, Field Marshal.”
Voroshilov’s chief-of-staff strode away, leaving Voroshilov’s thoughts to linger on the man’s presumptuousness. Why should Voroshilov not involve himself in the minutae of the battle? After all, he had presented the operational plan, had he not? He wondered whether his chief-of-staff was becoming self-important. Frowning, he shrugged and awaited that wine; it would rid him of that awful taste in his mouth and send him back to sleep as well. He did have to admit, though, that the idea of retiring to his bed appealed to him.
The battle for Jilin, the first battle along the southern prong of the invasion.