Vladivostok
December 4, 1936
Voroshilov lay in his warm bed, doing his very best to ignore the campaign going on in Manchuria. He knew that he could come up with a thousand reasons not to do so, considering his political and military rank in the Soviet Union, but for the moment all the reasons he needed to avoid distressful thoughts such as campaigning and fighting could be summed up by the words ‘warmth’ and ‘bed.’ He smiled sleepily to himself and he tried to push himself deeper into the extravagant feather mattress that he had saved from the philistines of the early Revolution, back in 1917. He had been in what was then known as Petrograd, its name changed from St. Petersburg due to the flourishing of the hatred of all things German, and managed to save the mattress from being destroyed by the proletariat who were raging through the Winter Palace, who were so ignorant of the truly good things in life.
Getting tired from his efforts to snuggle deeper into the bed and the blankets, Voroshilov gave up and simply lie contented in the semi-darkness of the room, which was lit by the diminishing luminosity of the withdrawing moon. He had no idea what time it was, but he knew that it was night, perhaps some time in early morning, and that any sane man would be asleep at this time. However, hearing the sharp footsteps of booted feet down the corridor, he knew that military men inhabited a mental state that was nowhere near sane. A second set of footsteps introduced itself as well, almost as if it was an echo of the first person’s strides. They both stopped near the door to Voroshilov’s chamber, or so he estimated. His curiosity piqued, he listened in as best he could through the thick wooden door at the conversation that followed.
“Greetings, Comrade. What does Voroshilov think of the recent developments in the campaign?”
Hearing his name made in connection with the campaign, Voroshilov pricked his ears and listened even more intently as the other person responded. “Oh, you know Voroshilov as well as I, Comrade. He doesn’t really think, not about military matters at least. Those he leaves to others as he attempts to put the best spin on the little he does, and takes the credit for everything else. Everything good, at least—the bad is automatically ascribed to us.”
Voroshilov was shocked, how dare they speak that way of him, of one of Stalin’s most trusted field marshals? He was in half a mind to storm out of his chamber and have a word with them, but his old political acumen, sharpened by the years spent in Stalin’s cutthroat court in the Moscow Kremlin, argued that he should wait and gain all the information he could. This argument was aided by the promise of remaining in his warm bed, and Voroshilov realized his mind was made up; he did not move but continued straining his ears.
“True, very true, Comrade. What do
you think of the campaign thus far?”
“It seems to be going relatively well. As you know, the battles along the border ended with our success and we pushed into Manchuria. The Manchurian field marshal Zhang Haipeng, who you know is a defensive mastermind, attempted to stop us at Xinjing with cavalry.”
The battle of Xinjing, the Manchurians commanded by their foremost field marshal and the Soviets ostensibly by theirs.
“Yes, I recall. Nothing much resulted from that attempt, right?”
“Correct, Comrade. Under the competent direction of the Front headquarters staff and the corps commanders, the Manchurians were pushed back. Voroshilov then made one of his rare military decisions and decided to have his division remain in Jilin to keep the supply line to Vladivostok open.”
“Yes. It reduced our thrust forward but on the whole, I think that it is largely a sensible decision.”
“Yes, that is true. One of his few, really. That Manchurian division at Mudanjiang poses a threat to our supplies lines.”
“So Voroshilov’s decision was quite wise, as now the supply line is safe!”
“No. There is still a danger.”
“You will have to explain that to me later, Comrade. Continue your narrative of the campaign.”
“Very well. The battle for Xinjing was on the 25th of November. On the 3rd of December, the three divisions still driving into Manchuria met the enemy again, at Mukden. Again, it was cavalry, though this time supported by a brigade of heavy artillery. They were, however, essentially leaderless and thus easily brushed aside.”
The battle for Mukden, another victory for the Soviet Union.
“Yes, I remember. That was barely mentioned in the dispatches, was it not? It barely amounted to a fight worthy of mentioning, I believe.”
“More or less correct, from what I’ve seen.”
“And now today’s events.”
“Yes, today’s events. That Manchurian division in Mudanjiang, commanded by Lieutenant General Nakajima, still poses a threat. He is also a master of defense, interestingly. Again, the division is cavalry, though under strength. I wonder if every single Manchurian division arrayed against us is cavalry, really.”
“So we attack the Manchurians in the hope of driving them off from Mudanjiang. What threat do they still pose?”
“They are positioned to march on Vladivostok.”
“They want to come here?!”
“Yes.”
“I understand now, Comrade. We must prevent them from doing so!”
The attack on Mudanjiang by the division in Jilin.
“Yes and no, of course.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.”
“I hope you did not forget, Comrade.”
“No, of course not.”
“Good. Of course, it would be helpful to prevent the Manchurians from conquering our base of supply. On the other hand, we were well paid to fail in the invasion of Manchuria. Given how well the thrust into Manchuria is going, we will be in a position to annex the state within two or so months unless the Manchurian Front suffers a serious reverse.”
“Such as losing Vladivostok.”
“And then the Manchurian Front will fall, and Voroshilov will be discredited.”
“Yes, and then someone else comes to restore the situation. Someone with great prestige and Civil War experience as well, such as Blücher. Or Buddenij.”
“Probably not Buddenij, though. He’s got command of the Reserve Front situated around Moscow.”
“True, but there are many others who would enjoy taking Voroshilov’s place and receiving the shower of prestige of restoring the dangerous situation in Manchuria. Blücher, as mentioned. Gamarnik too, and Fabricius. Kork, Bidemann, Stolbin or Smilga. The old guard of the Red Army. They know they are being sidelined by the younger, more energetic generals and each wants one final victory to crown their career. Gorodovikov and Egorov are safe, each are still valuable generals, though also part of the old guard, and are expected to actively command Fronts for a while yet.”
“Is Voroshilov part of the old guard?”
“Of course. That is why the others are trying to humble him.”
“Nevertheless, Vladivostok is in danger!”
“Come, we have talked here long enough. I hope we did not disturb Voroshilov’s sleep. We must oversee the attack on Mudanjiang.”
Two sets of footsteps came into being and faded away in one direction, allowing Voroshilov to collect his thoughts. As in his younger days when he was a true political mastermind, thoughts were whirling around his scheming mind. Someone was trying to get rid of him, perhaps multiple people! Vladivostok was in danger, and by extension so was he! Slowly, a plan formulated in his mind and a smile slowly evolved on his face. Contented by his thoughts, he dug deeper into his bed and went back to sleep.