Operation Unthinkable, part 17: meeting with the Russian Fascist Rodzaevsky in Manchuria

Parts of diary of John Russo , American mercenary fighting Soviets with the Japanese and the Cossacks of Semenov

Who Will lead Semenov's Cossacks

A Game of Power

After the unglorious death of Semenov, a lot of things have changed. The bitter Siberian wind cut through my coat like a knife as our train ground to a halt at that godforsaken station. I watched Semenov's Cossacks huddled around their campfires, their faces etched with exhaustion and something deeper – the kind of loss that comes when you've got no leader and too many questions. Their commander was dead, but somehow they hadn't scattered to the winds yet. Maybe they were just waiting to see which way the storm would blow.

"Ready to play politician?" Dimitri muttered beside me, his breath forming clouds in the frozen air. I shot him a sideways glance, catching that familiar glint of amusement in his eyes.

"About as ready as a bear in a ballet," I replied, adjusting my collar against the cold. "But I don't see anyone else volunteering for the dance."

We made our way to General Yamamoto's quarters – a mobile office that somehow managed to look both temporary and immaculately ordered, just like the man himself. The Japanese general had been Semenov's shadow for so long that some joked he was more Cossack than samurai these days. Not that anyone would dare say that to his face.

When we entered, Yamamoto was standing there like he'd been waiting for us all morning, wearing one of those smiles that never quite reached his eyes. He bowed with practiced precision. "Welcome, gentlemen. We are pleased to have the honor of your visit. How may I assist you during this time of transition?"

I stepped forward, channeling every ounce of confidence I'd learned from years of bluffing my way through war zones. "General, it's an honor. My name is Russo, and I have been a close collaborator of Semenov." The lie rolled off my tongue smooth as silk. Beside me, Dimitri nodded like we'd been brothers-in-arms since the cradle.

"Ah, really?" Yamamoto's head tilted slightly, like a bird sizing up its prey. "We've heard of you, Russo. Your reputation precedes you."

"Thank you," I said, waving my hand vaguely enough that it could've meant anything or nothing. "The situation is... complicated. With Semenov gone, the Cossacks are like a horse without reins – they need direction, leadership. Someone needs to step up before everything falls apart."

The general studied me with the patience of a man who'd seen enough war to know that silence could be sharper than any sword. "Interesting," he finally said, each syllable measured carefully. "And what do you suggest, Russo? Who could take command?"

That's when Dimitri decided to earn his keep. He stepped forward with a grin that would've made a card shark proud. "Well, the American here is quite the specimen," he said, gesturing at me like a carnival barker introducing his star attraction. "Fought under Semenov, survived more battles than most men have hot dinners. Sharp as a Siberian winter, this one."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Subtle as a hammer to the head, our Dimitri.

Yamamoto's smile widened fractionally. "Very well," he said, nodding with the gravity of a judge passing sentence. "These are uncertain times, and uncertainty breeds... opportunity. Your proposal merits consideration, Russo. The White Russian community in Manchukuo will need to be consulted, of course. Their support is... essential."

"Couldn't agree more," I said, trying to look like a man who'd expected exactly this response. "Strong alliances make strong leaders, after all."

The general rose from behind his desk with the fluid grace of a man half his age. "Indeed they do, Russo. I will arrange meetings with key figures in the community. Your... diplomatic skills may prove useful in maintaining order during this delicate time."

Dimitri and I shared a look that spoke volumes. We'd gotten our foot in the door, but in this game, that's usually when things started getting interesting – and by interesting, I mean dangerous.

As we prepared to leave, Yamamoto's voice followed us like a shadow. "We'll be watching your progress with great interest, Russo. Good luck."

Outside in the biting cold, Dimitri couldn't contain himself anymore. "Well, well, looks like you're moving up in the world, my friend. Should I start calling you 'Commander' now?"

I pulled my collar up against the wind. "Save the congratulations, Dimitri. We've just volunteered to walk through a minefield wearing blindfolds."

"Always the optimist," he chuckled. "But admit it – you're enjoying this."

I didn't answer, but maybe I was smiling a little as we walked back through the snow. After all, in times like these, you take your entertainment where you can find it. And if there's one thing I've learned in this business, it's that the game is always more interesting when you're making up the rules as you go along.

The Siberian wind howled around us, carrying the sound of opportunity – and danger – on its frozen breath. But that's the thing about war: it's all uphill until suddenly you're rolling down the other side, usually with someone shooting at your back.

The little Hitler of Manchuria

The headquarters of the Russian Fascist Party in Manchukuo was a building that matched its leader’s grandiose ambitions. Located on the outskirts of Harbin, it stood as a monument to Rodzaevsky’s vision of power and purity. The architecture was imposing—an austere structure of grey stone and steel, its sharp, angular lines reflecting the cold, unyielding nature of the ideology it housed. The windows were narrow and high, like the eyes of a predator, and the entrance was guarded by tall iron gates adorned with the double-barred cross of the Russian Fascist Party.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of old wood and polished metal, the floors gleaming with an unnatural shine. The walls were adorned with portraits of Rodzaevsky himself, each one showing a man with piercing eyes and a stern, almost messianic expression. His image was everywhere—on banners, flags, and even on the polished brass plaques that marked the rooms. But the most striking feature of the building was the room at the heart of it all: the central hall, where the meetings of the inner circle were held.

The hall was vast, its high ceiling supported by columns that seemed to stretch endlessly upward. A long, dark wooden table dominated the center, surrounded by chairs made of black leather and iron. At the far end of the room, on a raised platform, hung a large portrait of Adolf Hitler. The Führer’s cold, calculating eyes stared down at anyone who entered, his presence a constant reminder of the alliance between Rodzaevsky’s Russian Fascists and the Nazis. The portrait was framed in gold, a testament to the reverence Rodzaevsky held for the German leader and his vision of racial purity.

The walls of the hall were lined with shelves filled with books—propaganda, history, and philosophy all designed to reinforce the party’s ideals. The books were meticulously organized, each one a piece of the puzzle that made up Rodzaevsky’s twisted vision for the future of Russia. The room was dimly lit, with harsh, artificial lights that cast long shadows across the floor, adding to the eerie, almost oppressive atmosphere. The room smelled of stale tobacco and something colder—like death, though it wasn’t the kind of death that you’d find on a battlefield. This was the kind of death that lingered in the air, in the eyes of the men around me. Rodzaevsky.... I’d heard his name before, whispered in the back alleys of Manchukuo, where men like him, men with visions of grandeur and a twisted sense of destiny, were always one step ahead. He had that look, that presence. Tall, rigid, with eyes that could cut through you like a blade through paper. And his uniform? Immaculate, as if he were ready to give a speech in front of a crowd at any moment. The double-barred cross on his armband was the only thing that stood out in a room full of men who’d long stopped caring about such details.

When we met in his party head quarters, I didn’t know what to expect. But I wasn’t surprised when he greeted me with a handshake that felt like a grip of iron, and a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“So, you’re the American mercenary,” he said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge. “I’ve heard about your work with Semenov. Efficient, ruthless—qualities I admire.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle, even though I didn’t feel like it. “Just doing my job,” I said, keeping it casual, but there was a bitterness in my throat that I couldn’t quite swallow.

He gestured for me to sit. The air between us felt heavy, but I played it cool, watching him as he leaned forward, his fingers steepled together like he was about to make a grand proclamation. And he did.

“You see, the problem with Russia,” he began, his voice growing more fervent, “is that it has been poisoned by the Jews, the Bolsheviks, and the so-called intelligentsia. They have destroyed the natural order, undermined the greatness of our people. What we need is a return to purity, to strength, to the true essence of Russian identity.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the one to lead this... purging?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral but with a hint of sarcasm.

He didn’t flinch. Instead, he smiled like I had just asked the most obvious question in the world.

“The Soviet regime is a cancer,” he said, his voice now almost a growl. “But it’s just a symptom of a larger disease—a global conspiracy led by Jewish financiers, Freemasons, and weak-willed liberals. It is our duty to cleanse Russia of this filth and restore it to its rightful place as a bastion of strength and order.”

I took a long drag from my cigarette, blowing out the smoke slowly, watching him as he spoke. There was no hesitation in his words, no doubt in his eyes. The man was a true believer, a fanatic, and I could see it in the way he carried himself. He wasn’t just some warlord. He was a zealot, a man who believed his cause was bigger than anything else—bigger than the war, bigger than the people who would die for his vision.

“And what’s your plan for achieving this?” I asked, genuinely curious, though I already had an idea.

“Unity through strength,” he said simply, like it was the most logical thing in the world. “The cosacchi, the remnants of the White Army, the support of our Japanese allies—we will forge a new Russia, one that will stand as a beacon for all who value order and tradition. The weak will fall, and the strong will rise. That is the natural law.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “Sounds a lot like Nazi Germany have tried to do in Europe,” I said, flicking my cigarette to the ground.

Rodzaevsky’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but then his smile returned, colder than before.

“The Germans are misguided in their methods,” he said, almost dismissively. “But their principles are sound. Nationalism, racial purity, the rejection of decadence—these are universal truths. Where they faltered, we will succeed.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine. This wasn’t just a man trying to carve out his piece of the world. This was a man who believed in something far more dangerous than that.

As I left his quarters, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just had a conversation with a man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. He wasn’t just dangerous because of his army or his alliances. No, it was his belief that he was right, that he was chosen to reshape the world, that made him terrifying.

Rodzaevsky wasn’t a warlord. He was a zealot. And in this frozen wasteland, surrounded by death and desperation, that made him the most dangerous man I’d ever met.

As I walked back to the barracks with Dimitri, the weight of the conversation still hung in the air. Dimitri, ever the cynic, was already making light of it.

“Quite the speech, huh?” he said, his thick Russian accent making the words sound almost comical. “Purity, strength, the usual nonsense. What’s next? He going to start talking about the ‘master race’?”

I shot him a look, half-amused, half-irritated. “You think it’s funny? This guy’s serious. And he’s got the power to back it up.”

Dimitri shrugged, taking a swig from his flask. “Everyone’s got a dream, my friend. Some dream of riches, others of power. Rodzaevsky? He dreams of a pure Russia. Just hope he doesn’t make us all clean his boots to prove our loyalty.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, though it was a hollow sound. Dimitri had a way of making the darkest situations seem trivial, but even he couldn’t shake the unease that Rodzaevsky’s vision stirred in me.

“You think he’ll actually pull it off?” I asked, lighting another cigarette.

Dimitri snorted. “Not if he keeps talking about purity like it’s a commodity. But if he can rally the right people, make enough noise, who knows? The man’s got the charisma of a snake oil salesman.”

We walked in silence for a while, the cold Siberian wind biting at our faces. In the distance, the fires from the campfires of other soldiers flickered like distant stars. But all I could think about was Rodzaevsky’s vision—and the chilling certainty in his eyes that made me wonder just how far he was willing to go to make it a reality. He was too Dangerous.

Partisans and Japanese

So, I decided to act. I approached General Yamamoto, one of the senior Japanese officers overseeing the remnants of Semenov’s forces. He was a shrewd man, always weighing the cost and benefit of every decision. Over a bottle of sake in his private quarters, I laid out my proposal.

“General,” I began, “I understand that the Japanese Empire values stability and strength in its allies. Rodzaevsky is a charismatic leader, no doubt, but his ideology is dangerous—not just to the Soviets, but to your alliance with America.”

Yamamoto raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, so I continued.

“Washington has been monitoring the situation here. If Rodzaevsky consolidates power, it will send the wrong message. However, if he were to… disappear, I’m confident I could secure increased American support. More weapons, medical supplies to combat the plague, and even additional military advisors like myself. Imagine what that could mean for your efforts here.”

The general sipped his sake thoughtfully, his face betraying nothing. Finally, he spoke. “You make an interesting argument, Mr. Russo. But such matters are delicate. Rodzaevsky is a useful tool, for now.”

“Tools can be replaced,” I said, leaning forward. “Especially when they’re more trouble than they’re worth.”

He nodded slowly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I will consider your words.”

It didn’t take long for the news to reach me. Rodzaevsky was dead. Officially, the communique stated that he had been killed in an ambush by Soviet partisans, but the details didn’t add up. The ambush had occurred in a region under complete Japanese control, an area where the partisans hadn’t dared to operate for months.

I couldn’t help but smirk as I read the report. “Partisans,” I muttered under my breath. “Sure.”

The Japanese, of course, were careful to maintain their deniability. Yamamoto didn’t so much as glance in my direction when we crossed paths later that day, but I knew he’d taken my advice to heart. Rodzaevsky had outlived his usefulness, and in this game, that was a death sentence.

I wasn’t losing sleep over it. The man was a monster, worse than Semenov, and his death was no great loss to the world. What amused me was the delicate dance of power and pragmatism. The Japanese had eliminated a liability while maintaining the façade of cooperation with their Soviet enemies.

For my part, I’d done my job. The Americans would be pleased, the Japanese had removed a thorn from their side, and the cosacchi were left leaderless once again. The chessboard had shifted, and I was still standing. In this war, that was all that mattered.

The Italian comandante of the Cossacks

The cold Siberian wind cut through my jacket as Dimitri and I walked back to our makeshift headquarters, a small, dilapidated building that looked like it had been abandoned for decades. The men were camped out around it, a mix of weary cosacchi, White Russian exiles, and a few opportunists who’d heard rumors of loot to be had in the chaos.

“Can you believe this, Dimitri?” I muttered under my breath. “I’m the vicecomandante of a ragtag bunch of misfits, and the guy I’m supposed to be following is a walking relic of a bygone era.”

Dimitri, ever the loyal cosacco, chuckled beside me. “At least he’s got the medals, Russo. They probably haven’t seen a battle since the tsar was still in power.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, but the truth was, I wasn’t far from the mark. General Ivanov, the so-called leader, was a joke. The man was a relic of the old Russia, living in a fantasy world where cavalry charges and speeches about the divine right of kings were enough to inspire men to fight.

When I first met him, he practically crushed me in a bear hug, his breath reeking of vodka and his eyes sparkling with the kind of naïve enthusiasm that only a man who’d never seen a real battlefield could have.

“Ah, Mr. Russo!” he boomed, clapping me on the back so hard I nearly lost my breath. “Together, we will crush the Bolshevik scum and restore the glory of Mother Russia!”

I forced a smile, trying not to show my irritation. “Of course, General. I’m here to assist in any way I can.”

The truth was, Ivanov was a puppet, and I was the one pulling the strings. While he made speeches and toasted to the tsar, I was the one organizing patrols, coordinating with the Japanese, and making sure the men didn’t starve or freeze to death. It wasn’t glamorous work, but someone had to do it.

“Dimitri, you know what this means, right?” I said, pacing in front of the fire where a few of the men were huddled, warming their hands. “I’m running the show now. Ivanov’s just here for the photo op.”

Dimitri raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve got the look of a man who’s used to it, Russo. But don’t get too comfortable. These cosacchi don’t follow just anyone. They’ll respect you for your skills, but they’ll also test you.”

“I know,” I replied, leaning against the cold stone wall. “But the Japanese want stability. And stability means someone who can actually get things done. Ivanov’s good for morale, but he’s useless when it comes to the hard stuff. That’s where I come in.”

I could see the skepticism in Dimitri’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he nodded and took a swig from his flask, the warmth of the liquor briefly cutting through the chill.

As the days went on, it became more and more apparent that the men weren’t looking to Ivanov for leadership—they were looking to me. The old general was content to sit in his tent, making grandiose plans and talking about the glory of Russia, while I was out there in the trenches, dealing with the realities of survival. The men respected strength, and Ivanov didn’t have it.

One evening, as we sat around the fire, I overheard a conversation between a couple of cosacchi. They were talking about Ivanov’s latest plan—a cavalry charge against a group of Soviet partisans who were rumored to be in the area.

“He’s crazy,” one of them muttered. “That’s not how you fight in this terrain.”

I couldn’t help but grin. “They’re right,” I said to Dimitri, who was sitting next to me. “Ivanov’s a relic. He’s living in the past, thinking that cavalry charges are going to win this war. But it’s not the 19th century anymore.”

Dimitri chuckled. “Maybe he’ll surprise us, Russo. Maybe he’ll lead us to victory with his speeches.”

“Right,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And maybe pigs will fly.”

But the truth was, I wasn’t laughing anymore. I knew that the real battle wasn’t against the Bolsheviks—it was against the incompetence of the leadership that was supposed to be guiding us. If we were going to survive in this frozen hellhole, I had to take control, even if it meant stepping on a few toes.

The next morning, I found Ivanov sitting in his tent, nursing a hangover. His medals gleamed in the low light, but they were just for show.

“General,” I said, walking in without waiting for an invitation. “I’ve been thinking about the next move.”

Ivanov looked up at me, his bleary eyes struggling to focus. “Ah, Russo! What is it now? More plans for glory?”

I nodded, trying to keep the sarcasm in check. “Yes, General. Glory. But also survival. We need to think about the long term. The men are hungry, they’re tired, and if we don’t start getting supplies, we’re going to lose them. You can’t win a war on speeches alone.”

Ivanov’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t argue. He knew, deep down, that I was right. But he was too proud to admit it.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “You take care of it, Russo. I’ll rally the men. But don’t forget, we fight for the tsar!”

I gave him a tight smile. “Of course, General. For the tsar.”

As I walked out of the tent, Dimitri was waiting for me, a knowing look on his face. “How’d it go?”

“Same as always,” I said with a sigh. “More work for me. But at least the men are starting to see who’s really in charge.”

Dimitri slapped me on the back. “You’re not fooling anyone, Russo. They all know it’s you.”

“Maybe,” I said, looking out over the snowy expanse. “But as long as they follow, I don’t care who they think is in charge.”

It was a gray and freezing afternoon, with the wind mercilessly blowing through the Cossacks' tents, when Ivanov was preparing to give his speech. Dimitri and I were hard at work, trying to make the greatest speech of his life (and probably his only one) worthy of a man who, aside from medals, had never seen modern warfare.

"Dimitri, we must make this speech epic," I said, scribbling on a piece of paper. "It must be a mix between a church sermon and an appeal to Mother Russia. It should make them feel like they're about to conquer the entire world."

Dimitri laughed, looking at the paper. "And you think Ivanov understands anything of what you're writing?"

"It doesn't matter," I replied. "The important thing is that he seems like someone who knows what he's doing. The enthusiasm will be provided by the audience."

Ivanov entered the tent, his drunken smile barely hiding his pride for his imminent speech. He sat down, carefully adjusted his medals, and then, with a booming voice, began.

"Valiant Cossacks!" he shouted, throwing his arm in a gesture that could have been a salute or an attempt to touch his nose. "The fight against the Bolsheviks is no longer just a military war! No, no, my valiant warriors! Now it is a war for our soul, for our Russia! A war fought not only with the sword, but with the heart!"

The Cossacks, who had no idea what he was saying, responded with a thunderous applause, as if they had just heard the words of a saint.

"We will no longer fight just the Soviet soldiers and the communist partisans!" Ivanov continued, puffing out his chest. "No! Now, the Cossacks will be the angels of salvation! We will no longer touch Russian civilians! Women and children will be safe!"

At that point, someone among the Cossacks shouted, "Hurrah!" and another added, "For Russia!" as if it were a well-rehearsed chorus. Dimitri gave me an amused look but said nothing.

"And anyone who dares kill a civilian, an innocent, a Russian!" Ivanov raised his voice, "will be shot on the spot! There will be no mercy! Russia does not tolerate traitors!"

The crowd seemed ecstatic. They hadn't understood a word, but the idea of shooting someone in the name of Russia excited them.

"But it doesn't end here!" Ivanov continued, his tone becoming increasingly solemn. "In every country occupied by the Bolsheviks, the Cossacks will not only be warriors! No! They will be liberators! We will arrest the communist authorities and put the pope in power! And the local leaders! The churches will be reopened! The schools will finally be for the people again! Russian peasants will be able to return to pray, to live as God commands!"

Another round of applause. Ivanov looked around, visibly satisfied. It almost seemed like his speech was changing the fate of all Russia, but the truth was that the Cossacks had understood little or nothing.

"And not only that!" Ivanov added, making another theatrical gesture. "The Cossacks will no longer be just warriors! No, no, no! They will be the conquerors of hearts and minds! We will conquer the minds of the Russians, and free their souls from the yoke of communism!"

Dimitri looked at me, raising an eyebrow. "You know, Russo, I think he's about to win the award for the best speech ever made by a man who has never read a book in his life."

I shook my head, trying not to laugh. "It's not important, Dimitri. The important thing is that they believe we are doing something great. They want to feel like heroes. And Ivanov, well, he's good at making them feel that way."

The Cossacks, now completely overtaken by enthusiasm, began to shout and clap as if they had just won a battle. They hadn't understood a word of what Ivanov had said, but the idea of being on the right side of history made them happy.

"For Russia!" Ivanov shouted, raising his hand in a gesture of victory.

"For Russia!" the Cossacks yelled, like a wave of never-ending enthusiasm.

Dimitri looked at me with an ironic smile. "Well, if this isn't a stroke of genius, I don't know what is."

"Exactly," I replied. "Now, if only we could make them believe we're winning, we could really make them fight like lions."

The rest of Ivanov's speech was lost amid the shouts and applause, but in the end, no one bothered to ask what we had really done to change things. Semenov's Cossacks were ready to follow their leader, even though they had no idea what was happening. But in the end, wasn't that what mattered?

Conquering hearts and minds

A week later, the plan was set into motion. The Soviet partisans had been spotted deep in the forest, and Ivanov, with his usual bravado, insisted on charging in with the full force of his cavalry. The men were eager for action, their spirits lifted by Ivanov’s fiery speeches and the promise of victory. They were ready to ride into the heart of the enemy, as he had said, like a storm sweeping away leaves in the wind.

I watched them prepare with a mix of amusement and apprehension. Ivanov, as usual, was full of bluster, his chest puffed out as he barked orders to the men, who cheered in response. It was a spectacle, but the reality of the situation was far from glorious.

“We’ll show them the might of the Cossack cavalry!” Ivanov shouted, his voice carrying over the camp. “No Bolshevik can stand against us!”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. The cavalry was impressive, sure, but charging into a dense forest filled with partisans who knew the terrain was nothing short of madness. I had already made my objections clear, but Ivanov, in his infinite wisdom, had dismissed them. “We’ll ride them down, Russo! Trust me!”

I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust any of them. But for now, I had to play along.

The cavalry began their march at dawn, Ivanov leading the charge with his usual flair. The men rode in formation, their hooves pounding the frozen earth, the sound of their arrival echoing through the forest. I stayed back with a smaller group of scouts, moving through the trees as quietly as possible, trying to stay out of sight.

The first sign that things weren’t going according to plan came when the sound of gunfire erupted from the front. Ivanov’s cavalry had entered the forest, and the partisans had opened fire from the treeline, taking advantage of the dense cover. The men screamed in confusion, their horses panicking, throwing riders to the ground. It was chaos.

I motioned for my scouts to move forward, and we quickly flanked the partisans, catching them off guard. With our smaller, more mobile force, we managed to surround them, cutting off their escape routes. The battle was short but brutal. The partisans fought fiercely, but they were outnumbered and outmaneuvered.

By the time the cavalry arrived, the fighting was already over. The partisans had been wiped out, their bodies scattered across the forest floor. The men were jubilant, shouting victory as they rode through the trees, their swords raised high.

Ivanov, though clearly disappointed that he hadn’t been the one to deliver the final blow, couldn’t help but smile. “Well done, gentlemen!” he boomed, clapping me on the back with enough force to knock the wind out of me. “We have shown the Bolsheviks what it means to face the might of the Cossacks!”

I smiled tightly, nodding. “Yes, General. A great victory.”

The truth was, the victory was mine. My plan had worked, and we had come out of the battle with minimal losses. The men were impressed, and even Ivanov had to admit that my approach had been more effective than his cavalry charge.

Later that night, around a campfire, Ivanov gave his usual victory speech. The men gathered around, their faces lit by the flickering flames, eager to hear the words of their leader.

“We have crushed the Bolsheviks!” Ivanov shouted, raising his glass. “But this is just the beginning! We will ride into every village, every town, and we will restore Russia to its former glory! We will bring back the tsar, and we will rid this land of the communist plague!”

The men cheered, their spirits lifted by his words. I stood off to the side, watching the scene unfold. It was all so predictable. Ivanov’s speeches were always the same—grandiose, full of promises, and completely disconnected from the reality of what was happening on the ground.

But it didn’t matter. The men were drunk on victory, drunk on the idea of restoring Russia to some mythical past that never really existed. And for now, that was enough to keep them in line.

The next day, as we moved through the villages, Ivanov ordered the men to follow through with his earlier proclamations. They arrested the local communist authorities, rounded up anyone they suspected of being a Bolshevik sympathizer, and put the pope in charge of each village. The churches were reopened, and the men forced the locals to pray, as if that would somehow erase the years of suffering they’d endured under the tsarist regime.

I watched it all unfold with a mixture of disgust and resignation. The men were following Ivanov’s orders to the letter, but the whole thing felt like a charade. The peasants were scared, their eyes hollow with years of hardship. They didn’t care about tsars or popes—they just wanted to survive.

And yet, the Cossacks rode on, convinced that they were restoring Russia to its former glory, one village at a time. It was a dangerous illusion, but it was an illusion they were willing to die for.

As we moved further into the heart of Siberia, I couldn’t help but wonder how long this fragile alliance would last. The Japanese were watching, and Ivanov’s incompetence was becoming more apparent by the day. But for now, I had my role to play, and as long as I kept my head down and played the game, I might just make it out of this frozen hell alive.

At least, that was the plan.

Parts of diary of John Russo , American mercenary fighting Soviets with the Japanese and the Cossacks of Semenov

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