The Russian Turmoil; Memoirs: Military, Social, and Political. Anton Ivanovich Denikin
Markov join the Division than the attitude towards him became one of love on the part of the riflemen, or even enthusiasm on the part of the Volunteers. The Army had its own psychology. It would have no abruptness and blame from Markov as a Staff Officer. But when their Markov, in his usual short fur coat with his cap at the back of his head, waving his inevitable whip, was in the rifleman’s firing line, under the hot fire of the enemy, he could be as violent as possible, he could shout and swear—his words provoked sometimes sorrow, sometimes mirth, but there was always a sincere desire to be worthy of his praise. I recall the heavy days which the Brigade endured in February, 1915. The Brigade was pushed forward, was surrounded by a semi-circle of hills occupied by the enemy, who was in a position to snipe us. The position was intolerable, the losses were heavy, and nothing could be gained by keeping us on that line. But the 14th Infantry Division next to us reported to the Army H.Q.: “Our blood runs cold at the thought of abandoning the position and having afterwards once more to attack the heights which have already cost us rivers of blood.” I remained. Matters, however, were so serious that one had to be in close touch with the men. I moved the field H.Q. up to the position. Count Keller, in command of our section, having travelled for eleven hours in deep mud and over mountain paths, arrived at that moment, and rested for a while.
“Let us now drive up to the line.”
We laughed.
“How shall we drive? Would you come to the door, enemy machine-guns permitting?”
Count Keller left fully determined to extricate the Brigade from the trap. The Brigade was melting away. In the rear there was only one ramshackle bridge across the San. We were in the hands of fate. Will the torrent swell? If it does, the bridge will be swept away, and our retreat will be cut off. At this difficult moment the Colonel in command of the 13th Rifle Regiment was severely wounded by a sniper as he was coming out of the house where the H.Q. were stationed. All officers of his rank having been killed, there was nobody to replace him. I was pacing up and down the small hut, in a gloomy mood. Markov rose.
“Give me the 13th Regiment, sir,” said Markov.
“Of course, with pleasure.”
I had already thought of doing so. But I hesitated to offer it to Markov lest he should think it was my intention to remove him from the Staff. Markov afterwards went with his regiment from one victory to another. He had already earned the Cross of St. George and the sword of St. George, but for nine months the Stavka would not confirm his appointment, because he had not reached the dead line of seniority.
I recall the days of the heavy Galician retreat, when a tidal wave of maddened peasants, with women, children, cattle and carts, was following the Army, burning their villages and houses. … Markov was in the rear, and was ordered promptly to blow up the bridge at which this human tide had stopped. He was, however, moved by the sufferings of the people, and for six hours he fought for the bridge at the risk of being cut off, until the last cart of the refugees had crossed the bridge.
His life was a perpetual fiery impulse. On one occasion I had lost all hope of ever seeing him again. In the beginning of September, 1915, in the course of the Lutsk operation, in which our Division so distinguished itself, between Olyka and Klevan, the left column commanded by Markov broke the Austrian line and disappeared. The Austrians closed the line. During the day we heard no news, and the night came. I was anxious for the fate of the 13th Regiment, and rode to a high slope, observing the enemy’s firing line in the silent distance. Suddenly, from afar, from the dense forest, in the far rear of the Austrians, I heard the joyous strains of the Regimental March of the 13th. What a relief it was!
“I got into such a fix,” said Markov afterwards, “the devil himself could not have known which were my riflemen and which were Austrians. I decided to cheer up my men and to collect them by making the band play.”
Markov’s column had smashed the enemy, had taken two thousand prisoners and a gun, and had put the Austrians to disorderly flight towards Lutsk.
In his impulsiveness he sometimes went from one extreme to another, but, as soon as matters grew really desperate, he immediately regained self-possession. In October, 1915, the 4th Rifle Division was conducting the famous Chartoriisk operation, had broken the enemy on a front about twelve miles wide and over fifteen miles deep. Brussilov, having no reserves, hesitated to bring up troops from another front in order to take advantage of this break. Time was short. The Germans centred their reserves, and they were attacking me on all sides. The situation was difficult. Markov, from the front line, telephoned: “The position is peculiar. I am fighting the four quarters of the earth. It is so hard as to be thoroughly amusing.” Only once did I see him in a state of utter depression, when, in the spring of 1915, near Przemyshl, he was removing from the firing line the remnants of his companies. He was drenched with the blood of the C.O. of the 14th Regiment, who had been standing by, and whose head had been torn off by a shell.
Markov never took any personal precautions. In September, 1915, the Division was fighting in the direction of Kovel. On the right our cavalry was operating, was moving forward irresolutely, and was perturbing us by incredible news of the appearance of important enemy forces on its front, on our bank of the River Styr. Markov became annoyed with this indecision, and reported to me: “I went to the Styr with my orderly to give the horses a drink. Between our line and the Styr there is no one, neither our cavalry nor the enemy.”
I reported him for promotion to General’s rank, as a reward for several battles, but my request was not granted on the plea that he was “a youngster.” Verily youth was a great defect. In the spring of 1916 the Division was feverishly preparing for the break-through at Lutsk. Markov made no secret of his innermost wish: “It is to be either one or the other—a wooden cross or the Cross of St. George of the Third Degree.” But the Stavka, after several refusals, compelled him to accept “promotion”—once again the office of Divisional Chief-of-Staff. (This measure was due to a great dearth of officers of the General Staff, because the normal activities of the Academy had come to an end. Colonels and Generals were made to hold for a second time and on special conditions the office of Chief of Divisional Staff before they were appointed to Divisional Commands.) After several months on the Caucasian Front, where Markov suffered from inaction, he lectured for some time at the Academy, which had then reopened, and later returned to the Army. At the outbreak of the Revolution he was attached to the Commanding Officer of the Tenth Army as General for special missions.
In the beginning of March a mutiny broke out at Briansk in the big garrison. It was attended by pogroms and by the arrest of officers. The townfolk were terribly excited. Markov spoke several times in the crowded Council of Military Deputies. After tempestuous and passionate debates, he succeeded in obtaining a resolution for restoring discipline and for freeing twenty of those arrested. Nevertheless, after midnight several companies in arms moved to the railway station in order to do away with Markov and with the arrested officers. The mob was infuriated and Markov seemed to be doomed, but his resourcefulness saved the situation. Trying to make his voice heard above the tumult, he addressed an impassioned appeal to the mob. The following sentence occurred in his speech: “Had any of my ‘Iron’ Riflemen been here, he would have told you who General Markov is.” “I served in the 13th Regiment,” came a voice from the crowd.
Markov pushed aside several men who were surrounding him, advanced rapidly towards the soldier, and seized him by the scruff of the neck.
“You? You? Then why don’t you thrust the bayonet into me? The enemy’s bullet has spared me, so let me perish by the hand of my own rifleman. …”
The mob was still more intoxicated, but with admiration. Accompanied by tempestuous cheering, Markov and the arrested officers left for Minsk.
Markov was lifted by the wave of events, and gave himself entirely to the struggle, without a thought for himself or for his family. Faith and despair succeeded each other in his mind; he loved his country and felt sorry for the Army, which never ceased to occupy a prominent place in his heart and in his mind.
Reference will be made more than once in the course of this narrative to the personality of Markov, but I could not refrain from satisfying my heart’s desire in adding