Subject: Fwd(2): Panic at Peregonovka (pt. 2)
Date: Thu, 29 Oct 1998 09:54:29 -0800
From: nessie@sfbg.com (nessie)
To: spunk@locust.etext.org

Denikin's sent his very best cavalry against the Anarchists.  It was
excellent cavalry, the cream of the White's crop.  As Mahkno himself
declared, it was a cavalry that justified its name.  The very numerous Red
cavalry, organized later, was a cavalry in name only.  It was never able
to carry on hand-to-hand combat, and engaged in combat at all only when
the enemy was already disoriented by the fire of cannons and machine guns.
 During the entire Civil War, the Red cavalry always avoided a
confrontation with the Anarchist cavalry, even though they always had
superiority in numbers.  Their leader Budenny himself once had to flee at
full gallop.  Denikin's Cossacks and Caucasian cavalry regiments, on the
other hand, always accepted combat with sabers and charged at full speed,
without waiting for the enemy to be disorganized by cannon fire.  But even
these elite troops succumbed more than once in combat against the
Anarchists.  The commanders of Denikin's regiments said in their papers,
which often fell into Anarchist hands, that nothing in their entire
campaign had been as difficult or more horrible for them than these fierce
battles against Anarchist cavalry and artillery.

>From the middle of August 1919, Denikin's army began to exert powerful
force on the Anarchists, seeking to encircle them on all sides.  Mahkno
saw that even the smallest error on his part could be fatal for his entire
army.  Denikin's goal was not only to defeat, but to liquidate the
Anarchists altogether.  This is why Mahkno carefully sought the moment
when, taking advantage of some mistake on the enemy's part, he could
deliver a decisive blow against them. It was a matter of life and death.

By the end of August, supported by new reinforcements, Denikin's troops
once again were pushing the Anarchists westward.  The situation worsened.
The Anarchists blew up the armored trains.  The retreat continued on back
country roads, from village to village, away from the rail lines, across
the immense steppe.  By September the Anarchists found themselves near a
one factory town of 5,000 called Peregonovka.  The main body of Denikin's
fresh, well armed, troops were hot on the trail.  Elements were within
easy striking distance of Peregonovka, far too close for comfort, a
hell-bent on murder, rape and rapine.  The Peregonovkans were terrified.
They fully expected to be brutally savaged by Denikin's contras.  They had
no reason to believe otherwise.

On September 24, 1919, the Anarchists, seeing themselves about to be
caught in Denikin's vise, wheeled, turning suddenly east.  They saw only
one hope, to break through his lines.  Denikin thought the move was a
feint or reconnaissance.  His principle forces, concentrated near
Peregonovka, continued chasing Mahkno westward, thinking the Anarchists
were still in retreat.  Never did Denikin's staff dream that Mahkno would
turn to attack the bulk of the White army.  Suddenly they found the town
had been occupied by the concentrated Anarchist forces.  They were taken
completely by surprise.  The Anarchists had stolen a march on them.  The
Peregonovkans welcomed the Anarchists with open arms.  They opened their
cupboards, their homes, and their hearts.  They rolled up their sleeves.
They threw in their arms.  What else could they do?  Better to die on your
feet.

And where was the Red Army, that weeks before had been collecting taxes
and telling Ukrainians what to do, in the name of the so-called
"government" in Moscow?  They offered no protection at all.  They were
running north as fast as they could, tails between their legs.

Though their sudden turn to the east had taken Denikin unaware, it was now
the Anarchist's turn for an unpleasant surprise.  Near by Peregonovka, and
also retreating, was a small force of proto-fascist bandit/pogromists, led
by a would-be hetman named Petlura.  Petlura was a rival of Denikin as
well as an enemy of the Anarchists.  The Petlurists had proposed a
temporary neutrality between themselves and the Anarchists, in view of the
immediate danger of the overwhelming White force.  After all, they were
both at war with the Whites.  What to do?  What to do?  A debate had
ensued.  The Anarchists, backs to the wall, accepted reluctantly.  They
were just trying to buy a little more time to maneuver their way out of
doom's teeth.  They knew who Petlura was.  They fully expected betrayal.
They just thought it wouldn't be so soon.

Mistake.

Serious mistake.

A capital blunder, of the first order and the highest degree.

On September 25th the Petlurists sold out to Denikin and opened their part
of the line.  The Whites poured through unopposed, and by the next
evening, had surrounded the Anarchists completely.  The Anarchists were
heavily outnumbered and completely encircled.  There was no escape, no
room to maneuver.

Voline relates,

        "A order issued by the Denikinist command, which found its
        was to the Mahknovist staff, read as follows, 'Mahkno's bands
        are surrounded.  They are completely demoralized,
        disorganized, starving, and without ammunition.  I order that
        they be attacked and destroyed within three days.'  It bore
        the signature of General Slatstchoff, commander-in-chief of
        the Denikinist forces in the Ukraine (he later went over to
        the Bolsheviks)."

Sooner or later, it always comes to this.  End game.  Denikin felt certain
that victory was his.  The main force opposing him was worn down and
cornered.  His troops were fresh and well supplied.  He had the
initiative.  He gloated and bragged of "Christmas in Moscow." After this,
mopping up the Red army would be like taking candy from a baby.  How his
gut must have jiggled as he giggled with glee.

Mistake.

The battle commenced at 3 AM, on September 26, 1919.  Peregonovka awoke to
the rattle of Lewis and Vickers.  Mahkno himself, with his cavalry escort
of 150-200 men, had disappeared at nightfall, seeking to turn the enemy's
flank.  During the whole battle that ensued there was no further news of
them.  The battle reached it's peak at 8:00_AM.  By 9:00_AM the
outnumbered and exhausted Anarchists had begun to lose ground.  They fell
back to the very outskirts of the town.  The fighting was hideous, gory,
and fierce.  It's sheer manic fury beggared description.  The smoke and
the dust of it blotted the sun.  The rich black Ukrainian earth soaked up
blood like a Greek sponge.  It was good earth to die for, breadbasket
earth, joy of the peasant heart.  Heart's blood it soaked up, this year's
like that's.  Nothing new about that.  This was the steppe, birth land of
horse war.  Good earth soaks up blood anywhere on the planet.

Eye witness Peter Arshinov described the scene from his position at staff
headquarters.  Arshinov and Mahkno had done time together in the Butyrki
prison in Moscow.  They were close friends.  In 1910, when he was twenty
one, Mahkno's death sentence had been commuted to life.  They threw him in
with Arshinov.  Arshinov was a metal worker by trade. He was the son of a
factory worker, and a self educated man.  He had edited an illegal
newspaper.  It cost him a twenty year sentence.  It was he who had been
primarily responsible for Mahkno's education.  When both were freed in the
revolutionary amnesty, in March 1917, Mahkno headed for Gulyai-Polye in
the eastern Ukraine.  Arshinov stayed for awhile in Moscow.  In April
1919, he went to Gulyai-Polye, to join his friend.  He scarcely left the
Ukraine at all until 1921, when he barely escaped with his life.

Arshinov speaks,

        "The staff of the insurrectionary army as well as everyone in
        the village who could handle a rifle, armed themselves and
        joined in the fighting.  This was the critical moment when it
        seemed that the battle and with it the whole cause of the
        insurgents was lost.  The order was given for everyone, even
        the women, to be ready to fire on the enemy in the village
        streets.  All prepared for the supreme hour of the battle and
        of their lives.  But suddenly the machine gun fire of the
        enemy and their frantic cheers began to grow weaker, then to
        recede into the distance.  The defenders of the village
        realized that the enemy was retreating and that the battle
        was now taking place some distance away.  It was Mahkno who,
        appearing unexpectedly, at the very moment when his troops
        were driven back and preparing to fight in the streets of
        Peregonovka, had decided the fate of the battle.  Covered
        with dust and fatigued from his exertions, he reached the
        enemy flank through a deep ravine.  Without a cry, but with
        burning resolve fixed on his features, he threw himself on
        the Denikinists .  .  ."

They came at full gallop, a thunder of hooves.  The earth shook beneath
them.  Dust plumed above.  In front of them gun deafened ears perked in
wonder.  An army of sweat stung eyes turned as one.  As one the raw,
parched throats of that burning hot morning gasped in surprise.

What the hell was that?

Both sides strained to see through the swirling haze of the battle.
Everyone was thinking the same thought. Who were they, fondest dream or
worst nightmare?  Actually, as it turns out, they were both.  It just
depended on your point of view.  They were just common folks really,
country folks, folks from the heartland,.  We'd call them "rednecks."
They'd come to work.  There was a job to be done, and hands  used to work
had showed up to do it.  Peasants, at harvest time, they'd come to reap.

Could they be real?  Could this be happening?  Or had battle's fatigue
played tricks with the mind?  Time froze.  Then they struck.  Points
lowered; nostrils flared.  They struck as one, an avalanche of steel, guts
and horseflesh.  Now it was clear to all who they were.  The enemy
panicked.  The Anarchists rallied.

          "Mahkno is here!" they cried, "Mahkno is fighting with his

      saber!"

Arshinov tells us,

        "All exhaustion, all discouragement disappeared from among
        the Mahknovists.

        And with redoubled energy they all pushed forward, following
        their beloved leader who seemed doomed to death.  A
        hand-to-hand combat of incredible ferocity, a 'hacking,' as
        the Mahknovists called it, followed. . . . During the entire
        pursuit, the Denikinists had had no thought except to
        exterminate the insurgents. . . . Even the women who
        supported the Mahknovist army or fought alongside the men
        would not have been spared.

        The Mahknovists were experienced enough to know this."

Now it was their turn.

It was a very small avalanche as such avalanches go, but it was
exceedingly ferocious, and it fell exceedingly fast.  It fell right on top
of the First Officers' Regiment of Simferopol, who at first tried to
retreat in good order, but soon, simply ran.

Pawn takes knight.

At this the other regiments were seized by the panic and followed them.
The White army staggered back, stunned, reeling, and confused.  They
routed and scattered, each man for himself.  They tried to save themselves
by swimming across the Sinyukha River.

Mistake.

They were cut down like wheat.

After sending his cavalry and artillery in full pursuit, Mahkno himself
went at the head of his best mounted regiment, by way of a shortcut, that
would enable him to catch the fugitives from behind.  The pursuit
continued eight to twelve miles.  The last two miles were strewn with
corpses.  At the critical moment when Denikin's troops reached the river,
they were overtaken by the Mahknovist cavalry.  Hundreds perished in the
river itself.  Most of them, however, had time to cross to the other bank,
but there Mahkno himself was waiting.  His second vice had closed.  In
addition, the Denikinist staff and the reserve regiment that was with it
were taken completely by surprise and made prisoners.

Arshinov tells us,

        "Only an insignificant part of these troops, who had raged
        for months in stubborn pursuit of Mahkno, managed to save
        themselves.  The First Simferopol Regiment of officers, and
        several others were cut down completely."

Pawn takes queen, check.

Ukrainians know how to reap.  "Make hay while the sun shines," they say.
It can be done.  That day the Anarchist peasants with their callused,
peasant hands, cut to the ground the counter-revolution's best hope of
ever taking back Russia's empire with Russian troops.  Denikin's fist was
broken.  "Hope dies last," says the old Russian proverb.  This hope
drowned in Cossack blood.  Twenty years later the Whites tried again with
German troops that they had helped finance but found they couldn't
control.  That didn't work either.

Every contest of wills, has a turning point, a moment when the tide turns.
 In war it is usually at the peak of a particular battle.  In the American
Civil War it was at Gettysburg.  At Gettysburg it was Pickett's charge.
In the Russian Civil War, it was at Peregonovka.  At Peregonovka, it was
Mahkno's charge.  One failed.  One succeeded.  Both defined decades of
subsequent history.  History is like that.  It's course can change
utterly, one single moment.  Fate can swing wide on a very small hinge.
Had that single squad of Anarchist cavalry not turned Denikin's flank with
that single, decisive blow, that grim day in September at Peregonovka,
Denikin would have had his "Christmas in Moscow."  There was no one else
to stop him.  The Red Army, such as it was, was in total disarray.  It
would have been slaughtered.  Lenin & Co. would have hung by their necks.
Your and my lives would have been much, much, much, different.  Consider
the "Fall of Communism" in 1919.  Consider no Stalin, no Cold War, no
Soviet Union, perhaps even, no Second World War.  Different world, huh?
You betcha.

Consider the difference a handful can make, even a tiny handful.  In the
immense, raging, maelstrom of this furious battle, where tens of thousands
were fighting, one tiny handful, in one brief moment, in the right place
and time, made a whole world of difference.

Denikin himself was nowhere around.  He was not a "front line general;" he
was a private rail car general, who kept a private orchestra around to
amuse him should he become bored while about on his travels.  He liked
caviar.  He drank French champagne.  He got away.

Pawn blunders.

Rather than driving north and finishing off the real enemy of revolution,
the Reds, the Anarchists turned without resting, and pushed to the east,
driving panic stricken Cossacks before them like chaff.  After all, they
reasoned, the east Ukraine was their home.  They should liberate and
protect it.  What happened in Moscow was none of their business.  The
Muscovites had apparently failed to convince them otherwise.  The
Insurgents were Ukrainians, not Muscovites.  They weren't even Russian.
They didn't like outsiders telling them what to do.  They'd had enough of
that to last a life time.  They paid Moscovites the courtesy of leaving
Moscow for the Muscovites to sort out.  The principle of paying each other
such courtesies is, at first glance, very appealing.

Mistake.

Pawn blunders again.

The Moscow Anarchists and most of their friends were dead or in prison.
Their names had been on a list.  The list got around.  One thing led to
another.  Fate can swing closed on a very small hinge, too.

Eventually, isolated and surrounded, the Insurgent Army of the Ukraine
succumbed to Red terror and treachery.  The Greek machine gunners were
wiped out in a rear guard action that enabled Mahkno and eighty others,
including Galina and some of his family to cross the Rumanian border.
After great hardship, which included a year of internment in Poland,
Mahkno settled in Paris where he drank himself into oblivion.  He died in
1935, just when his talents were most needed in Spain.  Back home in the
Ukraine, six million Ukrainians died in the ensuing Red holocaust.  Some
were shot.  Some froze.  Most simply starved when the Reds stole
everything edible.

Still they echo, those fatal mistakes, those grim days that September.  In
life as in chess, the move of the greatest importance, isn't take, check,
or mate.  It's the blunder.  It is most exceedingly difficult to maneuver
out of a really good blunder, but it can be done..  It can even be done by
a pawn.  It can even be done with style.  But don't bet the farm on
pulling it off three times in a row.  Better to learn from the mistakes of
the past, and eschew the blunder altogether.  There are always better
moves.  All moves compound on each other,  blunders especially.  Don't
bemoan the blunders of the past.  Look on the bright side.  At least now
we know some more of what don't work. This is always handy to know.

It's too bad in a way; it would have made a great movie, blunders and all.
 But it didn't.

Switch to plan B.