Operation Unthinkable, part 13 : Fighting Soviets with Ataman Semenov in Siberia, July 1945

First part of the diary of the American mercenary John Russo, fighting with Japanese and Cossacks in Siberia https://www.reddit.com/r/AlternateHistory/s/0zwIDzmnR7

the wild west The events of this morning will stay with me forever. I was in my tent, when a Cossack entered, whispering something urgent: "They found Red partisans nearby. Come, American. Time to go to fight!"

I stepped out of the tent, and in the light of Dawn on the taiga, there were several dozen Cossacks in front of me, armed with modern rifles and with sabers at their waists. The ataman Semenov was leading them, sitting on horseback, more like Genghis Khan than a modern general.

He smiled to me and said : "come American, let me show you how we deal with enemies of Holy Russia!". I went on my horse and a Cossack gave me a rifle. Then Semenov grinned and added ironicaly : "you are a mercenary and we paid for you! Now It Is to fight the reds with us ! ".

We galloped throgh the forest for hours, until we arrived at the partisan Camp. I watched Semenov orchestrate what he called "justice" with the cold precision of a surgeon and the fervor of a priest performing a sacred rite.

The partisan camp was small - maybe 30 men and women holed up in an abandoned logging station. Semenov ordered his men to surround it but didn't attack immediately. Instead, he sat on his horse in the moonlight, completely exposed.

"Watch," he told me quietly. "People think power comes from the barrel of a gun. Real power comes from here." He tapped his temple. "And here." He placed his hand over his heart.

He rode forward alone, calling out to the partisans in Russian. His voice carried across the snow with an almost hypnotic quality. Later, Dmitri translated what he'd said:

"Brothers and sisters! You hide here in the forest like animals, fighting for men in Moscow who don't even know your names. But I know who you are. You are Russians! Your grandfathers rode with the Cossacks. Your blood is the same as ours. Join us. Help us build a new Russia - not Stalin's paradise of slaves, but a nation worthy of our ancestors!"

Three of the partisans came out. Young men, barely twenty. Semenov dismounted and embraced them like a father welcoming prodigal sons. Then Semenov ordered to attack.

The strategy was straightforward: ambush the small partisan camp. The enemy wasn't numerous, but they knew the land like the back of their hand. Semenov opted for a rapid cavalry charge with the Cossacks, but I knew the key would be to force the partisans to scatter at the right moment, then trap and slaughter them without a single survivor.

We set off immediately, the dim light piercing through the taiga's fog. The sound of hooves crushing undergrowth, the Cossacks' drums resonating in my ears, it was like living in an old frontier tale where every man is both hunter and hunted. Semenov, ever the stoic commander, led with chilling calmness. For me, this was when I felt most alive.

The charge was like a thunderbolt. The Cossacks, masters of horse warfare, formed a tight wedge and hit the partisans with the force of a storm. Gunfire erupted, bullets whizzing past, but it was the relentless drumming of horse hooves that left an indelible mark. The partisans, caught off-guard, scrambled to respond, but they were already encircled.

I was at the vanguard, like a lone wolf, rifle in hand and knife at my belt. As partisans attempted to flee, we cut them down with precision. No quarter was given. Semenov's command was clear: kill or be killed. Each man knew this was a fight for survival.

As the initial wave of partisans was decimated, some tried to escape into the forest, but it was futile. The Cossack cavalry executed their maneuvers flawlessly: they boxed them in, cut them off, and shot them down without pause. Some partisans, in sheer terror, dropped their weapons to surrender, but even they met the same fate. In this war, there was no space for compassion.

I patrolled the battlefield, ensuring no escape routes were left open. When I spotted a group of partisans attempting to scale a hill for cover, I spurred my horse and gave chase. The thrill of hunting down fleeing men, hearing their panic as you gain on them, is unforgettable. I caught up in no time. I downed the first with a well-aimed shot, then the second. When the third tried to bolt, I shot him in the legs, watching him collapse. The rest were easy prey.

But then, i saw a scene unfolded like something from a nightmare. A Cossack, his eyes wild with the frenzy of battle, approached a wounded Russian partisan who was already on his knees, hands raised in surrender. Without hesitation, the Cossack drew his saber high into the air. The partisan's eyes widened in terror as the blade descended, slicing through flesh and bone with a sickening crunch. The head rolled to the side, a look of eternal shock frozen on the face, while the body slumped lifelessly to the ground. 

By the end, the camp was nothing but a smoldering pile of bodies and wreckage. No partisans remained alive. Semenov had his victory, and I had played my part well. The Cossacks scavenged what they could, while I stood there, my stomach knotted, my rifle still warm, surveying the carnage. 

The mission concluded, but the memory of that ferocious charge would never fade for me. In war, as in the Wild West, you either claim victory or meet your end. Today, we claimed victory.

Night at the camp That night, around the campfire, Semenov played his role of benevolent leader to the converts while the screams of the "traitors" being hunted down still echoed in my mind. He told stories of old Russia, sang traditional songs in a surprisingly good baritone, and spoke of his visions for the future.

"You see these young men?" he said to me privately, gesturing to the former partisans who now sat among his Cossacks. "They understand now. Revolution, communism - these are foreign ideas, like weeds in a garden. But the soil of Russia is fertile. When we tear out the weeds, new life will grow."

He pulled out a small notebook, its pages yellowed with age. "My father's journal. He wrote about the day Cossacks came to our village when he was a boy. Their horses were like devils, he said, their sabers like lightning. He was afraid. But then their leader took him on his horse, showed him the steppes from a warrior's view. That day, he understood his destiny."

His voice grew softer, almost dreamy. "We used to be something magnificent, you know? Not just soldiers or guards, but the spirit of Russia itself. Free men, bound only by honor and tradition. The Tsar understood this. He let us live by our own laws, because he knew that some men must remain wild to protect the civilized."

Discussions with the Japanese

The following morning, a messenger arrived in semenov's camp - a Japanese officer with reports of Soviet movements near the border. Semenov read them with obvious disdain.

"The Japanese think they can use us as their dogs," he remarked after the officer left. "Let them think it. I've outlasted the Tsar, the Whites, the Reds... I'll outlast them too. You want to know how?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Because I understand something they don't: there is no future. There is no past. There is only the eternal moment of battle, of decision, of life and death. Politics, ideologies - these are dreams. Blood? Blood is real."

He stood up, stretching like a great cat. "Tomorrow, I'll show you something few outsiders have seen. The ceremony of the sword. My men think it gives them power, protection." He smiled that wolfish smile. "Maybe it does. Maybe the old gods aren't as dead as we think."

I watch him now, silhouetted against the dying fire, speaking softly with his officers. There's something both magnificent and terrible about him - a man who has stripped away all pretense of civilization to reveal something primal underneath. He represents a Russia I never knew existed - not the Russia of Tolstoy and Tchaikovsky, but something older, something that remembers the hoofbeats of Mongol horses and the screams of ancient battles.

A Russia that waits in the shadows, ready to devour the weak and raise up the strong.

"Get some rest," he told me before retiring to his tent. "Tomorrow, you'll see why the Japanese fear us, why the Soviets hate us, and why, in the end, Russia will always need men like me. Not because we're good men. But because we're necessary men."

The wind is picking up again. Through the walls of my tent, I can hear the sound of men chanting - ancient prayers or war songs, I can't tell which. And somewhere out there, Semenov plots and dreams his dreams of blood and glory.

Cossacks rituals Dawn broke blood-red over the steppes. Semenov had insisted I wake before sunrise to witness what he called "the old ways." The Japanese officers were conspicuously absent - apparently, this ceremony was not for foreign eyes, though for some reason, Semenov wanted me to see it.

"You're a warrior," he explained, leading me to a clearing in the forest. "Not a politician, not a mercenary playing at war. I see it in your eyes. You understand the truth of violence. That makes you worthy to witness this."

The clearing was arranged with dozens of candles, their flames barely visible in the growing light. Orthodox icons were placed at cardinal points, their gold leaf catching the dawn. But there were other symbols too - older ones, things that seemed to pre-date Christianity. Semenov caught me studying them.

"You see those marks?" He pointed to strange symbols carved into the trees. "They're older than Russia itself. From when the steppes belonged to the spirits. The church calls them pagan, but power is power, no matter its source." He smiled that unnerving smile. "We Cossacks, we take our strength where we find it."

His men began to gather, about thirty of them, all veterans judging by their scars and the hardness in their eyes. They formed a circle, and to my surprise, began to remove their uniforms until they wore only simple white shirts.

"Strip away the modern world," Semenov said softly. "No ranks, no uniforms. Only men and steel."

He himself removed his coat, and I saw for the first time the mass of scar tissue on his arms and chest - a map of violence written in flesh. One scar in particular stood out - a star-shaped mark over his heart.

"A gift from a Red commissar," he explained, noticing my gaze. "He thought he killed me. I wore his scalp on my saddle for a month after."

The ceremony began with Orthodox prayers, but they soon gave way to something else - chants in a language I didn't recognize. The men moved in patterns that seemed random at first, but gradually revealed their purpose. Each man carried his shashka, the traditional Cossack sword.

"Watch closely," Semenov whispered. "This is how we bind men together. Not with laws or propaganda, but with blood and steel."

What followed was both beautiful and terrifying. The men began a dance with their swords, but not the showy kind I'd seen before. This was something primal, almost hypnotic. The blades flickered in the dawn light, and the chanting grew louder.

Then came the blood. Each man cut his palm, letting the blood drip onto his blade. Semenov explained: "The sword drinks first from its owner. That way it knows who its master is."

He himself took center stage, his pale eyes seeming to glow in the half-light. He spoke in Russian, his voice carrying that strange power I'd noticed before. Dmitri, standing nearby, translated in whispers:

"We are the wolves of God. We are the lightning on the steppe. We are the heirs of Ermak and Stenka Razin. Our blood is the blood of conquerors. Our swords carry the weight of centuries. In this dark time, we keep the old flames burning. Let those who would make slaves of Russians fear us. Let those who would make Russia weak tremble at our coming."

The ceremony reached its climax as the sun cleared the horizon. Each man drove his bloodied blade into the earth, forming a circle of steel. Semenov moved around the circle, speaking to each man in turn, so quietly I couldn't hear. When he finished, he turned to me.

"You wonder why I showed you this? Because the world needs to know that not all of us have forgotten who we are. Your Americans, the British, the Soviets - they think they can reshape the world with their treaties and their bombs. But there are older powers in this land. Powers that remember."

After the ceremony, I noticed a change in the men. They moved differently, spoke differently. Even the way they handled their weapons had changed - as if the blades had become extensions of their bodies.

The philosophy of Semenov

Later, over breakfast, Semenov expanded on his philosophy: "You see, this is why the Bolsheviks will never truly win. They want to create their 'New Soviet Man,' but they don't understand that you cannot simply erase the past. It lives in our blood, in our dreams. The old gods, the old ways - they sleep, but they do not die."

He paused, staring into his tea as if reading the leaves. " Soon the Soviets will come in force. Many think I should flee east, maybe to China or Manchuria. But I have seen too many men die running. No, we will stay. We will wait. The wheel turns, you see? Stalin, Hitler, the emperors and commissars - they are temporary. But Russia... Russia is eternal. And it needs its wolves."

As I write this, the sun is setting, and I can hear the men singing old Cossack songs around the fires. Semenov's words echo in my mind. I came here expecting to find remnants of a dying way of life. Instead, I've found something far more dangerous - a vision of Russia that bears little resemblance to either the Tsar's empire or Stalin's union. Something older, darker, and somehow more vital.

The Japanese officers are back now, issuing orders with their usual precision. But I notice how they avoid meeting Semenov's eyes, how they keep their distance from his men. They sense it too - the barely contained violence, the hint of something prehistoric wearing a modern uniform.

God help me, but I'm beginning to understand Semenov's appeal. In a world of ideologies and propaganda, he offers something raw and real. Whether that's a good thing... I'm no longer sure I'm qualified to judge.

The Japanese officers

The tension that had been building between Semenov and the Japanese command finally erupted today. I witnessed a scene that revealed just how precarious their alliance truly is.

Colonel Tanaka arrived at the camp with news from Manchuria. The Japanese officer, despite his crisp uniform and rigid posture, seemed diminished in Semenov's presence. The Ataman received him in his tent, and I was asked to stay as a "neutral observer" - a role that I suspect Semenov assigned me purely to unnerve the Japanese.

"The Soviets are massing forces," Tanaka reported, spreading a map on the table. "Our intelligence suggests they're preparing for a major offensive. We need your Cossacks to-"

Semenov cut him off with a gesture. "To die for the Emperor?" His voice carried that peculiar mix of courtesy and menace I'd come to recognize. "Tell me, Colonel, how many divisions do you have left in Manchuria? How many planes? Or should I ask how many pilots?"

The Colonel's face remained impassive, but I caught the slight tremor in his hands. "The Emperor's armies are-"

"Losing." Semenov filled two glasses with vodka, offering one to Tanaka, who didn't take it. "You know it. I know it. Soon, the Red Army will come, and your Emperor's armies will break like ice in spring."

He drained both glasses himself, then leaned forward, those pale eyes fixing on Tanaka. "But you're not here about that, are you? You want to know if we'll stay loyal when the tide turns."

The Colonel's silence was answer enough. Semenov laughed, that chilling sound that made even his own men uneasy.

"Let me tell you a story, Colonel. In 1921, I had everything - an army, territory, power. Then I lost it all. The Reds drove me into exile, killed my family, destroyed everything I'd built. But here I am, twenty-four years later, still fighting. Do you know why?"

He stood, moving to the map on his wall - that old map of Imperial Russia I'd noticed before. "Because I understand something you don't. Power isn't about winning or losing. It's about surviving. Adapting. Becoming what you need to be until the moment is right."

Turning back to Tanaka, his voice dropped to a near whisper. "Your Empire is dying, Colonel. But my Russia... my Russia is eternal. It sleeps under the snow, waiting. The Reds think they've killed it, but they've only made it stronger. Every drop of blood they spill feeds it. Every atrocity makes it hunger more."

Ambush Just then, a rider arrived with urgent news. A Soviet reconnaissance unit had been spotted nearby - a significant force, testing our defenses. Semenov's demeanor changed instantly, like a wolf catching a scent.

"Perfect timing," he smiled. "Colonel, would you like to see how Cossacks fight? Not your organized battles with maps and plans, but real fighting. The kind that was old when your samurai were still learning to hold swords."

Without waiting for a response, he strode out, barking orders in Russian. His men materialized from nowhere, already mounted, weapons ready. I was struck again by their efficiency - not the drilled precision of regular soldiers, but the fluid coordination of predators.

"Come!" Semenov called to me, tossing me a spare rifle. "Today you'll see why the Japanese keep us around, even though they fear us. Why the Reds hate us more than any other enemies. Today you'll see what Russia really is!"

As we rode out, he explained his strategy - if you could call it that. "The Soviets expect order, discipline. They think war is a science. We'll show them it's an art. A beautiful, terrible art."

The battle I witnessed today was unlike anything I've seen in my years of war. It deserves its own detailed account, if only to understand how Semenov's "wolves" fight against modern military might.

The Soviet force consisted of about sixty men - a reconnaissance unit with two light tanks and several trucks. They moved with typical Red Army confidence, their tanks leading the way along the forest road. Professional soldiers, well-equipped, following modern doctrine. They never stood a chance.

Semenov orchestrated the attack like a conductor leading a savage symphony. "Watch," he whispered to me as we observed from a ridge. "This is how the steppes fight. No grand charges, no heroic stands. Just death, coming like the wind."

His Cossacks had spread out in groups of three or four, hidden in the woods on both sides of the road. No radio communication - they used bird calls and wolf howls to coordinate. Some of his men had ditched their horses for this fight, becoming infantry, while others remained mounted for what was to come.

The first sign of attack was almost subtle - a fallen tree appearing suddenly in the road behind the Soviet column. A few soldiers went to check it, and that's when the first phase began.

"We don't target officers first," Semenov explained. "That's what they expect. We target the radiomen, the drivers, the machine gunners. Take away their eyes and teeth before going for the throat."

Shots rang out from multiple directions - precise, aimed fire. The Soviet radio operator fell first, then the heavy weapons crew. The Soviets responded with disciplined volleys into the forest, but they were shooting at ghosts.

Then came the horses. Not the massive cavalry charge of old Cossack tales, but something more terrifying. Small groups of riders emerged from different directions, firing from horseback with devastating accuracy before vanishing into the trees. Each appearance lasted only seconds, but left dead men in its wake.

"Modern soldiers," Semenov said with clear disdain, "they expect war to be orderly. They don't understand that chaos is a weapon too."

The Soviet tanks were their strongest asset, but also became their weakness. In the narrow forest road, they couldn't maneuver properly. The Cossacks never engaged them directly - instead, they picked off any infantry that strayed too far from the armored protection. Isolated and blind, the tanks became steel coffins.

I watched in awe as four Cossacks executed what Semenov called "the wolf's feast." Two fired at the tank's viewports, forcing the crew to button up. Another threw smoke grenades to blind it completely. The fourth rode in close - so close the tank's guns couldn't depress enough to target him - and dropped a bundle of grenades into the tank's engine compartment. The explosion didn't destroy the tank, but it paralyzed it.

"Now watch the fear do our work," Semenov murmured.

He was right. The Soviet soldiers, professional and brave just minutes before, began to break. Some tried to retreat to the remaining tank. Others attempted to flee into the forest. Both choices were fatal.

That's when Semenov gave a signal that unleashed hell. The main body of his Cossacks, who had been holding back, charged from multiple directions. Not the disciplined cavalry attacks I'd read about in military history, but something primordial - screaming warriors firing from horseback, sabers flashing, moving so fast the Soviets couldn't establish a firing line.

"This is how our ancestors fought!" Semenov shouted, his eyes blazing. "No quarters! No mercy! Show them what it means to invade our lands!"

The Cossacks rode through the Soviet position like a whirlwind of steel and lead. Their horses, trained for war, kicked and bit as their riders cut down anyone in reach. The savagery was breathtaking. These weren't modern soldiers - they were warriors from an older, darker age of war.

Several Soviets tried to surrender. Semenov's response was cruel in its simplicity: "Russia has no room for weakness anymore." His men understood. No prisoners were taken.

The entire engagement lasted perhaps twenty minutes. When it was over, sixty Soviet soldiers lay dead or dying. The Cossacks had lost three men - a remarkably low number given the ferocity of the fighting.

Semenov rode among the dead, occasionally stopping to listen to a dying man's last words or examine papers from fallen officers. His men stripped the bodies of weapons and ammunition with practiced efficiency.

Semenov walked among the dead and dying with an expression almost of pity. "Poor souls," he murmured. "They die for a lie. For a Russia that never was and never will be." He knelt beside a dying Soviet officer, listening to his last words.

"He cursed me in Georgian," Semenov said, standing. "Like Stalin himself. You see? Even their curses are foreign." He drew his sword from its sheath and thrust the blade into the enemy's chest, who then expired. Then, Semenov cleaned his blade methodically as he spoke. "Russia doesn't need foreign saviors or foreign ideas. It needs to remember what it is. What it has always been."

"You see," he said to me afterward, "this is why the Reds fear us more than the Japanese. The Japanese fight with logic, with rules. We fight like the land itself - merciless, endless, devouring. We remind them of what Russia really is, beneath all their Communist ideas."

He picked up a fallen Soviet commissar's medal, studying it before tossing it aside. "They can build their factories, their collective farms, their workers' paradise. But this?" He gestured at the battlefield. "This is eternal. This is Russia's true face."

Suddenly Semenov's Cossacks brought a young Soviet soldier, still in one piece, found among the dead. Semenov saw the boy and ordered his Cossacks to let him go so that he could return to the Soviet camp. The boy looked around, frightened and amazed, and after this unexpected act of clemency, fled running into the forest.

The Japanese officers who witnessed the battle kept their distance, their expressions unreadable. But I saw how their hands stayed close to their weapons, how they watched Semenov's blood-spattered men with barely concealed unease.

As we rode back to camp, Semenov was unusually reflective. "You know what the Reds don't understand? Violence isn't just about killing. It's about memory. That Is why i let live that boy in Soviet uniform, Who Will go back to the Soviet camp. Those who survive today's battle will tell stories. The story will grow, spread. Soon, other Soviet units will hesitate before entering our territory. Fear has a power all its own."

Colonel Tanaka, who had watched the entire engagement from a distance, approached with newfound respect - and fear. Semenov acknowledged him with a nod.

"Report to your superiors, Colonel. Tell them the Cossacks remain loyal. For now." His smile was cold. "But remember what you saw today. This is how we've survived for centuries. Not through loyalty, but through strength. Through understanding that power flows like water - you don't try to stop it, you learn to swim."

As the sun sets, I watch Semenov among his men again. They're celebrating their victory in the traditional way - with songs, vodka, and tales of past glories. But there's something different in their eyes now. They know what's coming. They know the Japanese can't protect them much longer.

Yet they seem unconcerned. Perhaps because they share their leader's conviction that they're not just fighting for survival, but for the soul of Russia itself. A dark soul, perhaps, but one that refuses to die.