Stories of the Forgotten Heroes

Russia's Moment of Glory: The 1916 Storming Conquest of Galicia

The slender figure of a soldier sitting in the dim light of morning could be seen staring at the trenches of the enemy, so far away from her that they seemed like the result of the hard toils of gigantic worms, ready to devour the world. This damned war. Nothing could be worse than this. The Tsarist troops had to capture them from the Austrians, but everyone knew it was easier said than done. Each line had been highly reinforced by stationary machine guns since the beginning of the campaign and always backed by artillery from the back of the lines if the need would arise. We need a miracle, otherwise, we're finished. A couple of days before, the Austrian commanders had derailed a shipment of ammunition and food supplies with deadly accuracy which resulted in the troops becoming so disquieted, the High Command had felt the need to excise any kind of rebelliousness. An Army was indeed marching on its stomach, and the Russians barely had one remaining. A simple motion, like turning ones head, revealed a sea of people, all looking ragged and lost, confused and yet aware of their predicament. This had been a direct result of their own inadequate equipment, for the enemy's cannons were no match to those held by them.  The rifles jammed. The coats barely kept them comfortable. When the Russians were bombarded, the Austrians simply hid in their trenches and survived the barrage. It was a different story altogether when they responded back.

The Reconnaissance Unit had come back from its perilous flight over the battlefield a couple of hours ago and discovered that there was almost one kilometre between each trench line. Flat. Boggy. Deadly. Three words that summed out perfectly how the land they had to cross was. On a hill, the windmill continued its monotone routine, but there was no flour this time. Weeks ago, while addressing his troops, Brusilov promised a victory, and they believed in him and indeed the troops gave all they had. Soon enough he was proven right. With little equipment but much understanding, he brought victory to a dying Empire. He loved all his troops and knew their innermost fears. It was easy enough to guess their hopes. A hot meal and a trusty rifle would have been enough to create a miracle, but the Tsar never thought of that. He was too busy playing soldier when others truly worked hard to achieve victory. If it was somebody who would bring victory to Mother Russia once again it was only he.

Galicia-Lodomeria had been the unfortunate region where the main engagements between the KuK and the Russian Army had happened since the start of the war but the region was anything but easy to subdue for any of the belligerents. The Austrians had the meagre support from some of the local population but the majority had happily welcomed the Russians. Two years into the war everything had been reversed, bloody pogroms instiagted by rumours and perpetrated by drunk soldiers every occasion they got, fueled by mistrust and hateful speech. Their commanders should have tackled it, but everyone knew it was wishful thinking. After all, in war nobody can be sure how the enemy really looks like.

As the soldier slowly walked towards the Commandment, leaving the small forward trench behind, the soldiers around began to stare strangely, lost at the sight of this interloper, whilst others were jeering, barring their badly kept teeth. She had dared change the rules, and who could blame them? After all, it was a men's world but she had to avenge her brother's death. Nadia Nikolaevna had seen him bleed to death because an Austro-Hungarian Officer wanted to make an example out of him for his troops. Now that officer was dead but her thirst for vengeance only grew with time. As she advanced, the familiar faces of the officers began to show, disagreeing by the looks on their figures but proud that the Russian woman was on the front line and enduring the hardships with her fellow countrymen.

Near the main trench, where all the troops had amassed, the general came, accompanied by his staff and delivered the first part of a passionate and heartfelt discourse about what they were about to embark upon. Curious by nature she tried to see the man that the Army revered and respected. From the back of the mass of units, a single person started moving through them. Dressed in the military garb of a Colonel belonging to the Imperial Russian Army she reached the platform where Brusilov was giving his passionate speech. Eyeing her, the general could not escape the opportunity of giving her as an example of the bravery that Russia had shown and continued to showcase. Propaganda is a necessary evil after all.