My brothers keeper, an OC/SI as the twin of Stalin

[Xodarap]

Opsec is really hurting British planning if they've already generalized Mikheils forces as purely Revolutionary Guard did the good admiral make mistakes in the telegraph messages or was the abbreviated nature of telegraph responsible for the misunderstanding

 

[Alenco98]

An excerpt from the Wikipedia article on the Czechoslovak revolt in Siberia:

By early 1918, the Czechoslovak Legion — once a coherent, if weary, fighting force — had become scattered across the immensity of Russia. Roughly 40,000 men remained under arms, but divided into four major concentrations:

10,000 within Ukraine around Kiev.

15,000 along the Penza–kazan-Samara region

10,000 in the Novosibirsk region, and

5,000 stationed near Vladivostok.

The Bolshevik seizure of power in October 1917, and the subsequent signing of the treaty of Brest-Litovsk in December 1917 left the Legion in limbo. Their original mission — to fight Germany and Austria-Hungary for Allied recognition of Czechoslovakia — was now impossible without transit out of Russia.

It was into this void that Mikheil Jugashvili, the Georgian warlord and commander of the Revolutionary Guard Corps came into play. Having marched into Ukraine with 5000 of his men. He offered to lead the Ukrainian contingent to Murmansk, all while sending messengers east promising the other Czechoslovaks to stand by as he would get them home as well. His infamous Caravan of Vice — a rolling mixture of alcohol, prostitutes, opium, brutality, and hard marching — deposited some ten thousand Legionnaires and 5 thousand revolutionary guardsmen in Murmansk on may 1st.

Initially Mikheil attempted to negotiate with the British, requesting they begin immediate evacuation of the legion. However, admiral Kemp, not having enough ships and having no authorization from London denied his request, informing Jugashvili that he would have to wait for a reply from London.

Not being one to be denied and with his patience running short, Jugashvili rallied the Revolutionary guardsmen and the Czechoslovaks. They subsequently seized the British fleet, scuttled its ships, and fortified the port that same night.

Jugashvili's mixture of ruthless charisma and opportunism attracted many Legionnaires. He promised them not only survival but wealth, glory, and women — and unlike Allied promises of distant evacuation, his words were backed by immediate plunder and authority.

By mid-May 1918, news of the "Murmansk Incident" had rippled across Russia like shockwaves through shattered glass. To Bolshevik sympathizers, Jugashvili's audacious seizure of the northern port was proof that revolutionary willpower could overcome the hesitancy of Allied imperialists. To the Allies themselves, it was nothing short of mutiny, an act of piracy dressed in the trappings of revolution. For the Czechoslovak Legion, the incident was the breaking point.

From that moment on, the once-unified Legion fractured into two bitterly opposed camps.

The Pro-Mikheil Faction. Bound together by Jugashvili's charisma, were drawn in equal measure by his promise of loot, survival, and revolutionary glory. Unlike the cautious Allied officers, Mikheil spoke in certainties: food today, women tomorrow, and plunder the day after. His words resonated with many Legionnaires of working-class origin and with younger junior officers who had grown tired of vague promises of evacuation to France. Among this camp, genuine communist sympathizers rose quickly in influence, reshaping Jugashvili's cult of personality into a revolutionary crusade. By late May, Mikheil's adherents were openly coordinating with Bolshevik forces under Trotsky in the Volga basin, particularly around the Samara–Kazan axis.

The pro allied pole meanwhile rallied around the idea of legitimacy. For these men — often senior officers, professionals, and those more tightly bound to Masaryk's vision of a Czechoslovak state — survival meant Allied recognition, not revolution. They sought nothing more than to escape Russia, regroup in France, and continue the fight against the Central Powers. In exchange for loyalty, they received supplies, ammunition, and arms from British, French, and Japanese missions in Siberia, with American matériel soon to follow. They aligned themselves closely with White forces, tying their fate to the anti-Bolshevik struggle.

The fragile balance between these camps collapsed on 27 May 1918 in Samara, when Jugashvili's adherents attempted to seize food and ammunition depots guarded by Pro-Allied Czechoslovaks. The clash was short but bloody: rifles cracked through the streets, bayonets were fixed, and in less than an hour fifty-seven men lay dead — the first Czechs to fall not against Germans or Austrians, but against their own countrymen.

The "Samara Bloodletting," as it was later called, set the precedent. From that day forward, every rumor, every whispered order, carried the risk of escalation into fratricide.

The Trans-Siberian Railway became the fault line of the Legion's internal conflict. Word of the Samara clashes spread faster than couriers could ride, magnified by rumor and distortion. In Penza, Legion detachments split over whether Mikheil was a savior or a bandit. In Novosibirsk, commanders argued openly in railway stations, pistols drawn, before men deserted to whichever side promised food and pay.

Entire units began switching allegiance at the drop of a rumor. A commander who one week swore loyalty to the Allies might, after hearing tales of Mikheil's victories in the north, defect the next. Others, more cynical, sold themselves to the highest bidder, looting towns and trading spoils with Bolsheviks or Whites as convenience dictated.

In some cities, the Czechs became petty warlords of railway yards, arsenals, or city blocks — men who had once envisioned themselves as liberators of Prague now ruled over stretches of Siberian mud and timber, their banners no longer a symbol of unity but of faction.

For the Bolsheviks, the split was an unexpected boon. Trotsky, wary yet pragmatic, saw the Czechoslovaks as dangerous but useful allies. With tens of thousands of disaffected Legionnaires adding steel to the Red effort on the Volga front.

For the Allies, the mutiny was a disaster. Instead of a disciplined, unified expeditionary asset, they now faced a divided Legion — one half cooperating with Whites, the other half fortifying Bolshevik strongholds. Japanese officers in Vladivostok fumed that their carefully laid plans to secure Siberia were being upended by "that Georgian bandit," while French officers in Irkutsk despaired that Czechs were killing Czechs before they had even set foot back in Europe.

By June 1918, the Legion's fate was sealed. The question was no longer whether they would fight for Czechoslovakia, but which Czechoslovakia they would fight for; one forged in the crucible of Allied legitimacy and Western recognition, or one born in fire and vice, under the banner of Jugashvili and the Bolshevik revolution.

The next battles — at Kazan, Ufa, and along the frozen stretches of the Siberian railway — would determine not only the survival of the Legion, but whether their homeland would be represented abroad as democratic allies of France and Britain, or as revolutionary comrades of Lenin and Jugashvili.

In Samara, Jugashvili's adherents formally threw in their lot with the Bolsheviks. Bolshevik detachments reinforced them, and together they began a series of lightning raids against White and pro-Allied Czechoslovak positions. Supply depots, rail stations, and even hospitals became targets.

The Whites and their Czechoslovak allies retaliated with their own brand of brutality, executing any Legionnaires suspected of being "red sympathizers." Executions were carried out in public squares to terrify the wavering. But rather than intimidating Mikheil's faction, the bloodletting only radicalized them.

The city became a deadly pendulum of control — swinging one day to the Whites, the next to the Reds. Civilians cowered in cellars, the streets stank of unburied corpses, and the Trans-Siberian line through Samara slowed to a crawl under the weight of barricades and patrols.

By 3 July, the Bolsheviks, supported heavily by Jugashvili aligned Czechoslovaks, seized the upper hand. The last pro-Allied Czech garrisons in the city were surrounded. Jugashvili's men offered them a choice: pledge allegiance or die.

In a grotesque echo of Jugashvili's earlier brutality in Moscow and on the Pukilovo Heights, those who defected were forced to execute their comrades who refused. Entire units dissolved in a haze of tears, drunkenness, and blood. The symbolism was deliberate — Jugashvili's new order demanded not just obedience, but complicity.

Flushed with their victory, the Czechoslovaks advanced south and seized Kazan on July 29th. There, in the chaos of conquest, they captured the Russian gold reserves — the single most valuable prize in Russia. The windfall provoked a bitter quarrel between the Czechoslovaks and Trotsky, who argued the gold belonged solely to the Soviet state.

After tense negotiations, a compromise was struck on August 15. The Czechoslovaks, backed by the sheer fact of physical possession, as well as by the political backing of Joseph Stalin, forced the Bolsheviks to concede. The gold was divided: one-third for the Bolshevik aligned Czechoslovaks in Samara and Jugashvili's northern contingent that was fighting in Finland, and two-thirds for the Bolshevik government. The split was grudging, but decisive. The Bolsheviks gained a financial lifeline that would sustain their revolution, while Czechoslovaks secured the loot that Jugashvili promised them.

Far to the east, in Novosibirsk, the schism played out differently. There, rival Czechoslovak commanders each declared themselves the rightful representatives of the national cause, forming dueling "committees."

Skirmishes on the outskirts escalated into pitched battles. By June, the fighting had drawn in Russian civilians and partisans, swelling into a localized civil war. Artillery duels turned entire neighborhoods into smoldering ruins. Railway cars filled with the dead were sent eastward, silent testimony to the ferocity of the fighting.

In the end, the Whites proved stronger. With substantial Allied support and better supply lines, they gradually ground down the Mikheil-aligned Czechoslovaks. By July's end, the Red-sympathizing Czechs had been surrounded, captured, and executed en masse. Their corpses were displayed publicly, a warning against Bolshevik agitation in Siberia. The pro-Allied faction declared Novosibirsk the "legitimate heart" of the Czechoslovak struggle — though the ruins around them spoke more of fratricide than liberation.

In Vladivostok, the balance was never in question. The Allied faction remained intact and unchallenged. Reinforced by Japanese divisions and with Allied warships in the harbor, Vladivostok became a fortress of pro-Allied order.

Pro-Mikheil agitators, sent eastward to stir dissent, were quickly uncovered and crushed. Those who attempted to rally troops were executed or shipped back west in chains. A rare moment of unity occurred when Japanese and Czechoslovak forces jointly suppressed Mikheil's supporters with ruthless efficiency. Vladivostok thus remained a bastion of Allied legitimacy, a gateway through which supplies, weapons, and political recognition flowed.

By the beginning of September, the map of the Czechoslovak Legion reflected its fracture. Samara–Kazan laid firmly in Jugashvili's hands, aligned with Bolsheviks and enriched by the gold reserves.

Novosibirsk and Vladivostok were purged of Mikheil's adherents, under White and Allied control. With Vladivostok in particular having become a stronghold of the Allied faction, which was heavily bolstered by Japanese power.

The Legion, once imagined as a unified army of national liberation, was now irreparably divided. Two banners flew under the same name: one red, revolutionary, and drenched in vice; the other white, legitimist, and chained to Allied interests.

And in between lay thousands of miles of railway, towns, and villages — the battleground of a civil war within a civil war.

The Legion Civil War remains a footnote in the broader Russian Civil War, yet it had lasting consequences. For the Allies, it shattered faith in the reliability of émigré forces. For the Bolsheviks, it proved both a boon — weakening White control, the securing of the Russian gold reserves — and a danger, as the Czechs were only loyal to loot, not to ideology.

Most poignantly, for the Czechoslovaks themselves, it was a tragedy. Men who had left their homes to fight for independence found themselves killing their own countrymen on distant Russian soil, their sacrifice entangled in the ambitions of foreign empires and the madness of revolutionary war.

 

[Alenco98]

Excerpt from the Wikipedia page on the German Spring offensive:

By the winter of 1917, Russia had been knocked out of the war. The treaty of Brest Litvosk, signed on December 10, 1917 was a major coup for German diplomacy. It knocked Russia out of war and allowed Germany to achieve some of its strategic objectives in the east. More importantly, it freed vast numbers of German and Austro-Hungarian troops for deployment elsewhere. The German High Command (Oberste Heeresleitung, or OHL), under Paul von Hindenburg and Erich Ludendorff, immediately began plans to shift divisions west.

The December signing gave the Germans nearly three extra months of freedom of action. In January and February 1918, troop trains rumbled westward, ferrying men, horses, and artillery. By the end of February, nearly half a million soldiers had been transferred, along with the bulk of the cavalry formations once used for sweeping maneuvers across the Russian plains. These divisions would become the cutting edge of the Kaiserschlacht, the "Kaiser's Battle," designed to win the war in the west before the United States could intervene in strength.

The winter of 1917–18 was eerily quiet on the Western Front. The Germans, conserving their strength, limited themselves to probing attacks, trench raids, and artillery harassment. Allied intelligence noted unusual rail activity behind German lines but failed to predict its scale. British commanders suspected an offensive was coming but believed it would be delayed until late spring.

Behind the lines, Ludendorff reorganized the German Army for one last decisive effort. The stormtrooper units—specially trained infiltration troops—were expanded and equipped with light machine guns and grenades on top of their usual arsenal. Cavalry divisions, redeployed from the East, were refitted for exploitation roles. The goal was not to break through with brute force, but to bypass strongpoints, infiltrate weak sectors, and sow confusion deep in enemy rear areas.

Meanwhile, in Britain and France, morale was fragile. The French Army was still recovering from the 1917 mutinies. Though discipline had been restored, confidence was brittle. The British, having borne the brunt of Passchendaele, were stretched thin. Both nations awaited American reinforcements, but as of early 1918, the U.S. presence was modest—fewer than 200,000 combat-ready troops.

On the morning of March 3, 1918, the largest German offensive of the war began. At 4:40 a.m., more than 6,000 guns opened fire along a 50-mile front. A hurricane bombardment—mixing high explosive, poison gas, and smoke—fell on the British Fifth Army and parts of the French front. Communications were shredded, and forward trenches obliterated.

By mid-morning, stormtroopers advanced under the cover of moke. Instead of attacking strongpoints head-on, they filtered between them, cutting off defenders and pushing into rear areas. The British Fifth Army collapsed. Thousands surrendered, thousands more streamed westward in chaotic retreat. Within three days, the Germans had advanced farther than in any offensive since 1914.

The three month lull in combat had allowed Ludendorff and the OHL to draft a coherent battle plan. The result showed itself in those first few weeks. The German army concentrated relentlessly on the Amiens axis. Cavalry divisions pushed forward, probing for weak spots, seizing crossings, and cutting telegraph lines. British and French commanders, stunned by the pace of events, struggled to form coherent defensive lines.

By April 1, less than a month after the offensive began, German troops seized Amiens. The city, a critical rail junction, was the linchpin connecting British and French armies. Its loss severed north-south coordination and created the real possibility that the Allies might be defeated in detail.

The fall of Amiens sent shockwaves through Allied capitals. In London, the Cabinet debated whether Britain could continue the war if France collapsed. Lord Lansdowne and other moderates argued for exploring peace terms. Winston Churchill, then Minister of Munitions, urged defiance, but admitted privately that the situation was "the gravest since 1914."

In Paris, panic gripped the Chamber of Deputies. On April 2, a vote of no confidence was brought against Prime Minister Georges Clemenceau. He survived only after delivering a thunderous speech:

"I would rather throw myself and my children in front of a firing squad than to even think about surrender!"

The chamber roared its approval, and Clemenceau's reputation as the "Tiger" of France was secured. Yet behind the rhetoric lay genuine fear: the Germans were closer to Paris than at any point in four years.

By mid-April, the German advance pressed into the Oise valley. On April 15, skirmishes erupted around Chantilly, home to the French General Headquarters (Grand Quartier Général). Though not fully captured, the area became a contested zone. French staff officers fled toward Paris, disrupting command and control.

The symbolic impact was enormous. Chantilly had been the nerve center of the French war effort since 1914. Its loss suggested that even the high command was no longer safe. Rumors swept Paris that the Germans would soon storm the capital. The government quietly prepared evacuation plans to Bordeaux, echoing the desperate days of the Franco-Prussian War.

In London, panic deepened. Some cabinet ministers urged opening peace talks, fearing that continued fighting would leave Britain isolated. Only the intervention of Lloyd George and the quiet support of King George V held the government together.

The crisis forced the issue of American participation. General John J. Pershing, commander of the American Expeditionary Force (AEF), had long insisted on fighting as an independent U.S. army. President Woodrow Wilson supported him, fearing that subordinating American troops to European command would diminish U.S. influence at the peace table.

But Clemenceau, Foch, and Lloyd George argued that without immediate American reinforcements under French command, the war could be lost within weeks. The capture of Amiens and the German threat to Chantilly gave their pleas urgency.

For weeks Wilson resisted, torn between national pride and strategic necessity. Pershing lobbied hard against subordination. Yet the crisis worsened. On May 7, Chantilly fell and the Germans began to advance towards Paris. Wilson's hand was forced. American divisions were placed under Foch's command. The decision transformed the Allied war effort.

The Amiens–Chantilly offensive represented the high-water mark of German arms. But even as the Germans celebrated, cracks appeared. The very success of the advance strained logistics beyond endurance. Supply columns struggled over cratered terrain. Horses starved for lack of fodder. Ammunition dumps lagged miles behind the front.

Most critically, the elite stormtrooper units, used as shock troops in every assault, suffered irreplaceable casualties. By May, the cutting edge of the German Army was blunted. Replacement troops were less well-trained and less motivated. Food shortages at home, exacerbated by the British blockade, sapped morale.

Meanwhile, the Allies regained their footing. French reserves stabilized the front before Paris. British divisions regrouped behind the Somme. And with American manpower now committed, the balance began to shift.

By June 1918, over 600,000 Americans were in France. Though many were still untested, their sheer numbers freed up French veterans for counterattacks. At the Battle of the Aisne in mid-June, German thrusts toward Paris were halted by combined Franco-American forces. For the first time, American divisions played a decisive role, boosting Allied morale.

Through July, Foch prepared a grand counteroffensive. The German spearheads around Amiens were deeply salient, their flanks exposed. On July 14, Bastille Day, French and American troops launched surprise attacks east of Paris. The Germans, exhausted and undersupplied, fell back. Chantilly was recaptured on July 22, and the tide finally began to turn.

By August, the Entente, now enjoying numerical superiority, launched coordinated offensives along the entire front. The Canadians and Australians spearheaded the recapture of Amiens on August 6, in what would later be hailed as the "black day of the German Army." Thousands of German prisoners were taken, and morale collapsed.

The loss of Amiens shattered the last illusions of German victory. Ludendorff, once confident, now admitted privately that the war was lost. Desertions mounted. At home, strikes and protests spread in Berlin and Munich. The blockade had reduced civilian rations to near-starvation levels.

In September, further Allied offensives drove the Germans back toward their 1914 positions. American forces, now over a million strong, proved decisive in weight if not yet in skill.

By late September, German leaders faced the unthinkable. With Austria-Hungary on the brink and Bulgaria seeking peace, Germany stood alone. On September 28, Ludendorff suffered a nervous breakdown, declaring the situation hopeless.

On October 7, 1918, less than seven months after the spring offensive began, Germany requested an armistice. The Kaiser's government, terrified of revolution, sued for peace.

 

[Alenco98]

May 15, 1918
Murmansk
Russia

I stood on the edge of the ruined harbor, the smell of burnt wood and saltwater clinging to the morning air like a cheap cologne you can't wash off. The sea was calm now, though it still reeked faintly of oil from the ships we'd scuttled. In the distance, the wreck of the British flagship jutted up through the water at an angle — half-submerged, half-defiant — like a knife forgotten in the belly of a corpse.

"It's funny, don't you think, Aleksandra?" I asked the empty space beside me, dragging on the last cigarette of the pack until it seared my fingers. I flicked the butt into the sea, watched it hiss out. "I offered — to bring the Czechoslovaks to Murmansk, to get them and the British out of Russia. Simple. And instead, I probably just started a war."

I laughed. Not loud. Just enough to remind myself I still could.

Funny thing was, it didn't hurt anymore. The grief. The constant sobbing into my sleeve at night, the choking on my own tears until sleep finally smothered me — all of that was gone now. In its place was a neat, clean void. A hole in my chest where she had once lived. A hole that no drink, no opium, no woman could fill. I didn't try to fill it either, there was no need. It didn't ache. It didn't burn. It was just there. A vacancy.

Then again, spending weeks shepherding ten thousand armed, drunken Czechoslovaks across Russia on a rolling carnival of drugs, alcohol and prostitutes was a surprisingly effective distraction. Turns out, logistics can be therapeutic when the cargo is half lunatics and half whores. Even now, with the train parked and the Legion dug into defenses around Murmansk, with nothing pressing to do but smoke, fuck hookers and stare at the sea, the absence barely registered.

It helped that I still pretended to talk to Aleksandra. I spoke aloud, usually late at night, when I was alone, always half in half jest. Asked her what she thought of the men, of the bear cub gnawing on boots, of the British prisoners eating their rations in silence. The Guards and Czechoslovaks found it unnerving — their commander whispering to a dead woman as though she were still at his side. I didn't care. They'd follow me anyway. Their fear of me, my willingness to fight at the front, prostitutes, alcohol, opium and ciggarettes are stronger than sanity.

I glanced down at my hands — scarred, cigarette-stained, faintly bloodied still as far as I could tell from April. "Competence is all they require from me Aleksandra," I said. "Competence, and the occasional payment in vodka, women, cigarettes or all 3. Keep the trains running, keep the rifles oiled, keep the corpses out of sight. That's enough to hold an empire together right my love?" I chuckled, then sighed.

"Man, life is just boring without you, you know. It would have been your birthday today, we'd be having a picnic right now. In front of the artic ocean. Funny."

The sea lapped at the wreckage, the gulls screamed overhead. I nodded faintly into the cold air.

"But it's fine, Aleksandra," I murmured to the nothing beside me. "Me, keke, Aleksandra, Joe, and the children will be fine. As long as I win this war. Then it'll be smooth sailing for me and the family."

Me and the family, I'd be 40 this year. 40 years in this body. 40 years away from my old life. I'd accepted it a long time ago, my mom, stepdad, the rest of my family. I'd never see them again, I'd made peace with it. I'd even grown to love my new family, Keke, Aleksandra, the kids, Joe, yes, even Joe. Yet I was different, Stalin never had a twin, I was never meant to be. Though they accepted me, and I accepted me. Deep down inside, I knew I was wrong, I didn't belong.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have told Aleksandra. "No." I shook my head. "You'd think I'm even crazier than I already am."

The silence after my little statement was broken when I heard boots crunching over the gravel. I didn't bother turning. The only man who walked that heavily was Voroshilov. Loyal, dutiful, unimaginative. Exactly the kind of man you want at your side when reality itself is wobbling.

"Comrade Jugashvili," he said, his voice cautious. "A train has arrived from Petrograd. Several hundred men. They claim to be from the KGB. Their leader requests to see you."

I smiled faintly at the wreckage bobbing in the water, then tilted my head toward the empty air beside me.

"You hear that, Aleksandra? They've sent the secret police. They want to have a chat. Or maybe I'll get shot and we can reunite."

I chuckled and turned at last, meeting Voroshilov's uneasy eyes. He looked at me like a man watching a wolf talk to a gravestone.

"Let's go see them then," I said, brushing ash from my coat. "Let's not keep our new friends waiting."

Voroshilov shifted uncomfortably, clearly disturbed by the one-sided conversation. His lips pressed together, as if he wanted to say something but thought better of it. The silence stretched.

I patted him on the shoulder as I passed. "Don't worry, Klim. Talking to the dead keeps me sane. Talking to the living, well… that's what makes me dangerous."

As we walked toward the station, I murmured. "Don't worry, Aleksandra. If they think they can control me, they're in for a surprise. You can't control a man with no fear of death."

Voroshilov stiffened at that. He heard me, though he pretended he hadn't. He always pretended. That was why I kept him close. Just like Tukachevsky.

The station loomed ahead, KGB men already forming ranks on the platform — blue coats, stiff posture, rifles at their shoulders. At their center stood a sharp-eyed man in a leather trench coat, waiting.

I walked up to the platform and gave the men a crisp salute. They didn't return it. Neither did the man in charge.

"Comrade," I said anyway, holding the gesture longer than etiquette required, just to see if it would make them twitch. "Mikheil Jugashvili reporting. The British have been routed. We're holding them as prisoners. Murmansk is being fortified against further landings. Their fleet is scuttled, the harbor burnt. Unless they're eager to waste hundreds of lives, they won't dare try again. I've also dispatched a thousand men under Tukachevsky to secure Archangel."

The officer didn't answer. He only nodded, lips curling into something halfway between amusement and contempt.

"You're shorter than I expected," he said at last.

I laughed, a dry rasp that hung in the air. "That's what everyone says. Funny thing, though — it never stopped me from killing beside my men."

"Let's skip the pleasantries," he said, stepping forward. "Vsevolod Balitsky. KGB. I've been sent here by the Central Committee. I'll be blunt — they're very upset with what you've done."

"I see." I returned the nod, calm, almost bored. "So you and your men are here to arrest me? Shoot me? Or just put me on a leash?"

"The latter," he replied without hesitation. From his coat he produced a folded letter and held it out to me. "Better if you read this."

I took it, glanced at the seal, then smirked. "I'm disappointed. Honestly, I thought you'd pull out a pistol and shoot me on the spot."

Balitsky gave me a look then — sharp, clinical, like a doctor realizing the patient isn't just sick, but terminal. The kind of look that said: this man is completely insane, and somehow the revolution has decided to trust him with an army.

I broke the seal and unfolded the letter slowly, letting the silence hang between us. Balitsky's men stood at attention behind him, rifles held too neatly, eyes too fixed. Theatrical, the whole thing. A stage play with only one audience member.

The paper crackled in my hands. My eyes moved across the words. Each line felt heavier than the last.

The Revolutionary Guard Corps was no more. As of today, it was officially merged into the Red Army under Trotsky's command. My title, my creation, gone with a stroke of the pen. In exchange, they had given me something colder, heavier: General of the Northern Front. No seat at the table, no voice in the Central Committee. Just a uniform and orders.

I read further. I was to report to Leningrad for an official reprimand. Official reprimand — the phrase was underlined, as though to drive the knife in. Afterward, I was to secure Finland. Once the Finns were broken, I was to return to Leningrad and command the city's defenses for the rest of the war. A soldier's leash, tight and short.

My seat on the Central Committee — revoked. Replaced by that sniveling little shit Adolf Joffe, now Commissar of Religious Affairs. Religious Affairs. They hadn't just taken my place, they'd humiliated me with the replacement.

And then the line that made my pulse slow to a crawl: my Guards, the men who watched over my family, over the Committee itself — dismissed to barracks, to be sent to Finland with me. Their posts had been handed to the KGB. Balitsky's men. My family wasn't guarded anymore. They were held.

I lowered the letter, staring at the ink as if willing it to change. The air felt thin, the harbor distant. For the first time in months, I didn't laugh, didn't sneer, didn't talk to the ghost beside me.

I was in the shitter now. No doubt about it. They'd taken everything but my command of soldiers and the war itself — and even that was a leash, coiled tight around my throat.

Behind me, the sea slapped against the wreckage. A gull shrieked.

I folded the letter carefully, too carefully, and slipped it back into its envelope. My fingers lingered on the seal. Then I looked up at Balitsky. His eyes were steady, expectant.

For once, I had no joke to give him. Only silence.

I stared at the letter a moment longer, then let out a sharp bark of laughter. Not hysterical, not mocking — just enough to snap the tension like a rotten board. Balitsky flinched slightly, the first crack in his mask.

I straightened my coat, folded the letter neatly, and tucked it away. When I spoke, my voice was smooth, almost deferential. "Of course, Comrade Balitsky. If this is the will of the Central Committee, then I'll carry it out to the best of my abilities. Finland will fall, Murmansk and Archangel will hold. You'll have no complaints from me."

I tilted my head, polite as a bureaucrat at a tea party. I just sighed. I wanted to ask whose idea this was. But no, too much suspicious would be aroused. I'd ask Joe when I got back to the capital. Once I had the names. I would strike, though not yet.

On the surface, calm compliance. Inside, I was already planning to murder people. The gall of these people, taking my Guards, taking my family, daring to put them in the hands of the secret police. They thought this was a leash. They'd discover it was a fuse. Let the war end, let the Finns freeze in their trenches, let Murmansk hold. Then I would come for them. Patiently, methodically. And when the time came once the war ended, they would all die screaming.

But none of that reached my face. I only smiled, as if amused by the Committee's wisdom.

"I will need reinforcements, however," I continued, as though discussing a shipment of boots. "Murmansk and Archangel are not easy posts to hold, and the Czechoslovaks are… not exactly communists. They fight well enough, but they expect to be paid. Women, loot, alcohol, cigarettes, opium — you know, the usual currencies of loyalty."

Balitsky's mouth twitched at that, some mixture of disgust and reluctant acknowledgement. He said nothing, merely gestured for me to follow.

I fell in step beside him, hands folded politely behind my back, voice even and compliant. But inside, the fire burned steady and cold. Felix had made a mistake. A very grave mistake. And once the war was done, I would correct it.

Balitsky led me a few paces down the platform, his men shadowing us like tin soldiers. His voice was clipped, professional, the kind of tone a man uses when he wants to remind you that he represents not himself, but the state.

"More units will arrive shortly," he said. "The Red Army will reinforce both Murmansk and Archangel. You will not lack men."

"Good," I said smoothly. "The more the merrier." I glanced sideways at him, letting just a hint of steel creep into my voice. "And you may monitor me, Comrade. Monitor me, my officers, my Guards, hell — follow me into the latrine if it pleases you. But the Czechoslovaks are off limits."

His eyes narrowed slightly.

"Not because I care for them," I continued, almost conversationally, "but because I don't care to have a mutiny on my hands. These men aren't Bolsheviks, Balitsky. They're mercenaries with rifles and hangovers. They expect to loot, smoke, drink, and fuck to their heart's content. If you or your men interfere with that, you'll learn the hard way that the pistol on your belt can be used for more than intimidation."

Balitsky's jaw flexed, but he said nothing. He only gave the faintest nod, the kind a man gives when he wants you to know he heard the threat and will file it away for later.

I smiled, polite again, almost warm. "Good. Then we understand each other."

Inside, though, the fury still seethed. They thought I was leashed. They thought the KGB could strip me of my Guards, turn my family into hostages, and I would simply salute and smile. Let them. I would play the dutiful general for now. But when the war was done, when the northern front was quiet, I would break their leash. And then they would learn what happens when you touch what is mine.

I immediately called for an officer meeting, revolutionary guard only. The meeting was subsequently held in a drafty warehouse near the rail yard around 30 minutes later, a map of northern Russia including Finland spread across a table lit by a single lantern. The faces around me were hard and watchful — Voroshilov, a handful of Guards officers, commissars too frightened to speak. Tukachevsky was already gone, leading his thousand toward Archangel. Balitsky sat near the wall, silent, his KGB men standing like shadows behind him.

I placed the folded letter on the table, tapped it once with my finger, and let the silence stretch.

"This," I said flatly, "is the will of the Central Committee. As of this morning, the Revolutionary Guard Corps no longer exists. Our men are absorbed into the Red Army. I am now officially General of the Northern Front. I am ordered to secure Murmansk, hold Archangel, march on Finland, and afterward return to Leningrad to oversee the city's defense."

A murmur rippled through the room. I raised my hand, and the sound died at once.

"My seat on the Committee is gone. Adolf Joffe has replaced me. The Guards assigned to protect my family and our comrades in Moscow have been removed from their posts. They are now under the care of the KGB." My eyes flicked briefly toward Balitsky. "This is the reality. None of us will pretend otherwise."

The officers shifted uneasily, some glaring at the letter as though it might catch fire. I leaned forward, both palms pressed flat on the map.

"You will comply," I said, voice low but sharp as glass. "All of you. Because if one of you falters, if one of you 'forgets' his duty, the Central Committee will not just cut off my head — they will cut off my family's head and all of yours as well. And I will save them the trouble. If any man here fails in his orders, I will put a bullet in him myself."

The room went still. No one moved, no one breathed too loudly. Even Balitsky's eyes flickered toward me, weighing whether the threat included him.

I straightened and smoothed my coat, tone softening slightly. "The war will give us opportunities. Victories breed influence, and influence brings back what we've lost. So we obey. We hold the ports. We bleed the Finns. We keep the north secure."

I let my gaze sweep the table, pinning each man in turn. "But hear me clearly once again: one mistake, one botched defense, one drunken collapse of discipline — and I will personally execute the offender. Do you understand?"

A chorus of muttered Da, comrade general filled the air, voices uneven but obedient.

I leaned back at last, the faintest of smiles tugging at my mouth. "Good. Then we fight, we win, and we wait. That is how we survive this."

The lantern hissed in the silence that followed. Somewhere outside, the Czechoslovaks were already singing drunkenly, a woman's laugh rising above their voices. Balitsky sat rigid, his expression carefully neutral. He had his leash. For now.

Shortly after the meeting was done I called for a general meeting. The men were gathered in the square by the rail yard — Czechoslovaks smoking and laughing, Guards standing rigid in formation, commissars trying not to look disgusted at the whole spectacle. A chill wind rolled in off the water, carrying with it the smell of salt, smoke, and stale vodka.

I stepped up onto a crate, coat flapping, hands clasped behind my back. Over 10 thousand eyes turned toward me. I let the silence hang for just a moment, long enough for the cold to bite.

"Comrades!" I called out, voice carrying over the crowd. "As of today, the Central Committee has recognized our achievements. The Revolutionary Guard Corps, the Czechoslovak Legion, and all of you — the defenders of Murmansk!" I spread my arms wide. "The British have been crushed, their fleet sunk, their pride burned on our shore. And now, Moscow has given me a new title: I am your General, commander of the Northern Front!"

A ragged cheer rose — some earnest, some drunken, some sarcastic. I grinned through it. I didn't bother with the politics, let them think was on a winning streak instead of on the shitter. Like I heard in this one movie in my past life; always claim victory, even if defeated. I continued and took a deep breath.

"And with this command comes our next task. We are ordered south, to secure Finland!" I jabbed a finger at the horizon. "Do you know what that means? More loot! More women! More glory! A land rich with spoils, just waiting for the bravest to take it!"

That set them roaring — boots stomping, rifles waving, drunken voices shouting oaths and slurs. Even the Guards smirked, though they hid it behind their discipline.

"And once the Finns are broken, once the north is ours, we march back to Petrograd!" I raised my arms higher, voice booming. "And I assure you — the women there are far better looking, and the opium's better too!"

The laughter came like a wave, bawdy and vicious. Some of the Czechoslovaks shouted crude promises about Petrograd women, others broke into song. The Guards just stood, but the gleam in their eyes was enough.

I let the noise settle, then lowered my voice. "We move when reinforcements arrive. Not before. Until then, hold your posts, keep your rifles ready, and enjoy the spoils of victory."

I turned my head slightly, looking down at Balitsky where he stood at the edge of the crowd, stiff-backed, his face carved from stone.

"When will they arrive, Comrade Balitsky?" I asked, tone smooth, but loud enough for the men to hear.

All eyes shifted toward him. A ripple of amusement passed through the Czechoslovaks — the sight of a KGB man being put on the spot pleased them greatly.

Balitsky adjusted his coat, his voice carrying just enough. "Within the week. Several battalions are en route from Petrograd."

I nodded sharply, then spread my arms to the men again. "You hear that? A week! So drink, fuck, loot, and sing while you can. Because after that, comrades, we march to Finland!"

The cheer that followed shook the air like a storm. Balitsky's jaw tightened, but he held his silence.

 

[iceknight90]

Inside, though, the fury still seethed. They thought I was leashed. They thought the KGB could strip me of my Guards, turn my family into hostages, and I would simply salute and smile. Let them. I would play the dutiful general for now. But when the war was done, when the northern front was quiet, I would break their leash. And then they would learn what happens when you touch what is mine.

Click to shrink...

No Comrade Makarov, you were the Stalinist purges all along!

(Gasp) WHAT A TWIST!

Haha but seriously though, the upcoming reprisals are going to be messy as fuck.

 

[Xodarap]

Oh I called the mess trying to pursue party discipline for the Czech's and Balitsky is going to be cursing who's bright idea it was to piss off a army backed up with at most 2500 men hated for being commisars.

Heck they are taking Mikheil back to Lenningrad for however long it takes to go back and forth from Murmansk which could take up to a month due to conditions not to mention the additional months required for preparing a offensive with more men then was planned to take Finland by the time they arrive it will be autumn or mid summer.

All the while the Czech's have their original leadership ready to march on their own without Mikheil there to lay out the path if Balitsky tries to order them around.

 

[George Mathew]

The purge will be most glorious and the Czechs I suspect will have a large role to play as the distraction. I think the Revolutionary Guard is going to clean house with the traitors and the KGB.

 

[death734]

Thanks for the chapter, wordsmith.