AN INTERVIEW WITH GORSHIN


By KATZMAREK


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Author's Note:


This is a work of fiction based on fact. It remains my work and may not be used for gain without my express permission in writing.


I have used my common sense in the spelling of Russian words into Latin script and don't claim they conform to any particular system. I found a variety of spellings in historical records used for this work. I have tended to employ those in Russian sources in preference to English ones. 


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An Interview With Gorshin.


Anatoly Koscuisko walked towards the red brick compound with a mixture of dread and anticipation. This interview could be the making of his career and he was terrified of blowing it. To offend such a well-respected personage as the great Admiral (ret) Yvgeny Ivanovich Gorshin would be curtains for him.


In 1969 the old boy was nearing 90 years old with a well-known short fuse. He was, it was said, particularly impatient with young snotty academics who seemed to be swelling the ranks of the Navy these days. In a well-circulated quote he was reported to have said, 'The art of seamanship is being submerged by black boxes and button-pushing 'Robotniki'.'


The Admiral's apartment wasn't particularly impressive from the outside. It was a rectangular, workmanlike brick building dating from the last century. It sat uncomfortably among the Soviet-era apartment blocks of anonymous light brown stone. The compound accomodated senior officers posted to the Kronshtadt Naval Base. The Admiral's block contained retired officers held in great esteem by the Navy.


The door was answered by an orderly, impeccably rigged in dress blues. He examined Anatoly's papers suspiciously before handing them back with a snap of the wrist.


"This way," he said. Then set off smartly up the stairs. Anatoly trotted rapidly after the orderly, their boots ringing in the cold stair-well. He knocked three times on the polished hardwood door and opened it. Anatoly heard muffled voices before the orderly re-emerged.


"You may go in," he said before retreating down the corridor.


The old Admiral struggled to his feet from his ornately embroidered, padded sofa. He extended his hand, stained yellow with nicotine, and beckoned the young archivist to an armchair. Sitting down once more, the Admiral pulled a cigarette from a silver case and lit it with an aging Ronson petrol lighter.


"Ensign Kosciusco?" the Admiral said, his voice croaky with age and a lifelong tobacco habit, "You are from the Navy's Archives Department?"


"Yes sir," the young officer answered nervously. "We are recording the recollections or our great officers, sir, before, er..."


"Ha!" Gorshin cried, his voice alarming in its sudden strength, "before we all hand in our pensions, eh? Before they spread us over the Baltic from a silver urn?"


"I didn't mean..." the young man started to say, squirming uncomfortably.


"Quite all right," the old man grinned maliciously, "we Destroyer men stop thinking of our futures when we pass down the gangway," he told him, "I have been very lucky to have survived this long."


The young Ensign extracted a sheet from his brown satchel and began to read the first question. His hands were still shaking in the presence of so-great a hero as the Admiral. Gorshin silenced him by holding up his hand.


"You save your questions," he said in a bored voice, "put away that paper, turn on your tape recorder and I'll tell you how it was. Not, young man, as our dear comrade idiots in the Kremlin would like it told, but how it really was. Are you ready for the truth, Ensign?"


"Yes sir, I suppose so, sir," Koscuiko answered doubtfully. The Admiral's tone alerted him that he might hear some things his superiors would not allow him to use.


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"It was the autumn of 1904," the Admiral began, "I'd graduated from the Peter the Great Naval academy in Sankt Peterburg two year's before and had made Sub-Lieutenant before being posted to the 'Grozny'."


"A Destroyer, sir?" the Ensign asked.


"In those days we called them PTKs, 'Protivo-Torpedo Korabl' (Anti-torpedo boats). They were small, fast and very lively in rough seas," he chuckled, "you couldn't stand on deck they rolled so much. The crew harnessed themselves to rails bolted to the deck otherwise... poof," the Admiral said, "you go over the side."


"They were very wet boats," the Admiral continued, "the Grozny was of what we called, 'the 600 ton class.' She had a 3.4 inch Oblukhov gun on the forecastle and one on the stern. Two trainable tandem torpedo tubes were mounted in the waist of the ship, between the two sets of funnels. She was fired by four locomotive-style boilers, two to each boiler room. They had to be mounted lengthwise because the boat was so narrow. The engine room was between the two boiler rooms. Two four-cylinder, triple-expansion engines cranked out nearly 3000 horse-power between them. 25... 26 knots in a calm sea. They were good boats for their day."


"Sir, ah..." the young Ensign started to say. He didn't need the specifications of the Navy's old ships, he could look up such information back at the department.


"Don't interrupt!" Gorshin warned, "is that how you demonstrate respect to a superior?"


"No sir, I..." Koscuisko faltered.


"We were all very young, then. The brightest, keenest, most passionate and patriotic signed on to the Destroyers. The big ships, they struggled for crews but not so the 'greyhounds' of the fleet. What young man could resist the adventure of rushing at an enemy, waves crashing over the bows, to launch torpedo after torpedo at a suicidal distance?" the old man enthused. "Didn't the girls love us? Not so our senior Officers, I'm afraid..."


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Libau was a fishing port on the Baltic coast of Russian Latvia in 1904. It was there that the Tsar's Second Pacific Squadron assembled for the great epic voyage around the World.


Russia was at war with the fledgling Empire of Japan over who should dominate Korea and Manchuria. The Russians had been given railway concessions and the ports of Port Arthur and Dailan on the Lioshung Peninsula. That is the piece of Manchuria that juts into the Yellow sea.


Striking suddenly, the Japanese attacked the Russian fleet at anchor in Port Arthur. By a series of blunders and just plain bad luck, the Russians found themselves bottled up by the Japanese army on land and Admiral Tojo's Japanese fleet at sea.


Enthusiastic Russian Naval Officers convinced the Tsar they must send another fleet to Port Arthur's relief. The only problem was that there were no friendly bases with which to coal and provision the fleet on its way. The German Kaiser, however, stepped in, and in order to keep the Russians embroiled in a war, offered 65 colliers from the Hamburg-Amerika Line to provision the fleet at sea.


So it was at Libau that the fleet gathered. The heart of the squadron was the first division of 4 brand new battleships, Kniaz Suvurov, Orel, Alexander the Third, and Borodino. Next came the second division lead by the Oslyabya, Sisoi Veliki, Navarin with the armoured cruiser Monomakh making up the numbers.


The scouting division consisted of the Cruisers Rossiya, Aurora, Oleg, Svetlana, Izumrud, Zhemtchug and the ancient Dimitri Donskoi. Nine Destroyers protected the fleet from torpedo boats, co-ordinated from the light cruiser Almaz (Diamond).


Nearly 20,000 seamen from the warships and the support fleet descended on the small port. One of them was a young Sub-Lieutenant Y I Gorshin.


Gorshin was born into a Naval family and his fate was sealed from an early age. Petrodvorets lay across the Neva estuary from Russia's premier Naval base, Kronshtadt. From there the little Yvgeny could watch the ships at anchor and dream. His Father had been a sea Officer but had later become a teacher at the Gunnery School across the bay. He was an old buddy of Rhozdventsky, the Admiral chosen to lead the enterprise.


Yvgeny worshipped his father. An only child, he had the privileged upbringing of a well-connected family in a system where those things mattered. His childhood memories consisted of boating with his Father, ice fishing in Winter when the fleet was laid up and visits to warships. At 14 he was introduced to Tsar Nicholas the Second on the investiture of his Father into the exclusive Order of St Andrew.


Topping his class at the Navy Academy, Gorshin could have chosen any career in the Navy he wished. Many were surprised when he chose the little cockleshell boats, the Destroyers.


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The Destroyers' shallow drafts allowed them to be moored to the fishing jetties at Libau, much to the chagrin of the fishermen. The Almaz was anchored a little way off like a mother hen protecting her chicks. As the harassed clerks tried to unravel the supply and organisational problems, the fleet sat impatiently at anchor for two weeks while the crews drank themselves into a stupor ashore.


Yvgeny found himself a room in the town while they waited to sail. The Grozny's tiny, spartan quarters became unbearably boring for a young Officer with nothing to do.


Merchants, small traders, and local farmers had flooded into the town to take advantage of the sudden increased business. Inebriated sailors bought trinkets, fresh fruit, kvass and pet animals from street stalls as they made their way from bar to bar. All was pandemonium for a few days until the Admiral began to restrict shore leave.


Yvgeny saw Katka at a street stall selling hand-made carpet squares in local designs. At first he was attracted by the bright Latvian artwork until he noticed the girl holding up the rug.


She had the look of mixed parentage about her. Tall and slim, her fair Finnic features were bronzed by the Southern Caucasus. Her eyes were dark and faintly Asiatic. They reminded Yvgeny of rock pools of infinite depth.


"Hey, you buying or looking?" a rather older version of the girl spoke up. Her voice was harsh.


"Um, how much?" Yvgeny replied, unable to take his eyes off the girl.


"10 kopeks for the rug. My Granddaughter's not for sale," she added, pointedly. 


"Such fine work," the Sub-Lieutenant told the older woman, "perhaps you can send it to my Mother?"


"Not a problem, Sailor. Give her address to my Granddaughter. My eyes, you know, can't read as well..."


Seizing his chance, Yvgeny scribbled the address down and added a note to the girl. 'Meet me?'



She looked startled and confused. Swallowing, she gave a little shake of the head, indicating her Grandmother with her eyes. Yvgeny took the cue, paid for the rug and bade goodbye to the two women.


For the rest of the afternoon he couldn't take his mind away from the girl. Eventually he took a stroll back to the market, just to get another glimpse. The Grandmother was there alone. Emboldened, he walked back to the stall.


"Back again, Sailor? What are you after this time?" the old woman asked.


"Your Granddaughter..." he started to say.


"I told you before, she's not for sale."


"You don't understand," he said, a little desperate.


"I don't?" she asked, her eyes boring into his skull. "You think I was born yesterday?"


"I just want to talk to her awhile, perhaps take a stroll?" he told her. "Please, I'm from a good respectable family. I will behave honourably."


"Hah!" she spat, "in any case, she has gone with her Mother and little brother to the park at the end of the street. I doubt she will pass the time of day with you."


"Thank you, thank you!" he told the old woman as he sped down the street.


The light was fading and there was a chill breeze coming off the Baltic when he reached the park. It was crowded with children and strollers and it was some time before he spotted the girl. She was sitting with her Mother watching her Brother on the swings.


"Madams!" he bowed.


"Do we know you?" the Mother spoke.


"I met your daughter at the stall," Yvgeny explained. Her Mother shot a glance at her daughter who was trembling with nervousness. "We have not been introduced. Sub-Lieutenant Yvgeny Ivanovich Gorshin, Third Officer of the Grozny."


"I see," the Mother said suspiciously, "Peta Talsii, and this is my daughter Katka, Sub-Lieutenant. What can we do for you?"


"I was wondering..." Yvgeny started to say before his courage began to falter. Taking a deep breath he continued. "I was wondering if your daughter... er, would like to take a little stroll somewhere..."


"Ah!" realisation dawned on the Mother, "I don't think she would be interested. Katka?" The daughter was unable to speak, she was so nervous. Yvgeny found it all very fetching.


"Perhaps a few minutes? Around the park perhaps?" Yvgeny pressed. Eventually the girl's Mother relented with the proviso that they don't leave her sight.


Katka Talsii dumbly followed Yvgeny along the cobbled path. She stared fixedly ahead, although Yvgeny noticed her shoot a little sidelong glance at him.


"Are you local?" he opened the conversation.


"Village... not far," she stumbled a reply.


"Latvian?" 


"Finnish, Georgian, Latvian and Russian."


"The blend is a good one," he told her smiling. Katka broke out in a grin that Yvgeny thought would melt snow.


"Mother says I have the temper of a Tartar and the gloom of the Steppe," she told him.


"Gloom?"


"I guess I dream a lot," she explained.


"Nothing wrong in dreaming. Feeds the spirit, my Father always said."


"Ah, and is he a smart man, your Father?" she asked him.
&&& I'd tend toward a comma after 'man'--but here it's sort of dependent on what speech rhythm you want to show.


"An Admiral," Yvgeny told her.


"My Father says that's not a recommendation," she said, her eyes dancing with mischief.


Returning, Yvgeny asked if he could call on her. She explained that they were staying at her Uncle's for the week and shyly suggested he could visit her there.


"Only if you want to," she added.


"Very much so," he grinned broadly.


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As Yvgeny returned to his room, he walked streets being cleared of drunken sailors by burly Marines. Some carts had been obtained to shift the immobilised, and there were many. Yvgeny clutched the note from his Commander lest the Marines' enthusiasm came his way. He hurried to his lodgings, it was no-longer safe to be on the streets after dark.


Later that evening two of his fellow Officers from the Destroyers came seeking refuge with a bottle of Vodka. They toasted each other's success until well into the night.


Morning, the Sub-Lieutenant returned to the Grozny as Duty Officer. He was rostered on until 2. There was little to do so he bundled himself up against the wind on the tiny bridge of the vessel and thought of Katka.


He imagined what his Father would say. 'A peasant girl? Are you serious?' But his Father was a realist and a man of the World. He understood the sailor in a foreign port, away from home and lonely after months at sea.


Yvgeny had had girls before. Kronshtadt attracted them like bees to a field of clover. What young cadet had not visited establishments such as Madam Grusha's or the notorious Apollo Palace? It was, after all, required if one was to earn one's first service stripe. But he longed for something the Grecian-pillared whorehouses couldn't provide. At 24, he wanted a girl he could write home to. Someone who would be waiting for him when he returned from sea.


It wasn't until 4.30 before he could leave his ship. A sailing alert had been issued from the Almaz, only to be cancelled two hours later. The conventional wisdom of the lower deck described the senior Officers of the expedition as not knowing what they were doing. The constant delays and supply muddle seemed to back this up.


Much of the delay, however, emanated from the ships of the first division. Brand new, they betrayed a host of teething troubles. Not the least of these was that they settled fully a metre lower in the water than they should have. This was serious because it partly submerged the armoured belt around the waterline. There had not been enough time to correct this fault.


Then, to cap things off, it was discovered that Orel had been sabotaged on the slipway. Iron filings had been tipped into the bearing cases of the main engines. Consequently on her proofing trials a bearing had seized, smashing the huge connecting rod.


Many other problems revealed themselves later on. The doors to the central 6 inch hull battery weren't water tight and the gun flooded in a seaway. There were no sighting apertures in the main turrets. These had to be cut through the armour by civilian engineers 'en route.' Lastly, all the Suvurov class rolled like logs alarmingly in any sort of sea except a dead calm. All of these technical problems could have been overcome given time. However the biggest headache for the fleet at anchor in Libau was organisational.


For the Tsarist Navy, like the Autocracy itself, was sick. Nepotism, Aristocratic privilege, a crushing class system that squashed talent men unless they had 'connections', indolence and a strangling amount of red tape: these problems preoccupied the Navy as it struggled to gear itself up for war. 


Then there was a downright racist arrogance displayed towards the Japanese from Tsar Nicholas II down. 'A short victorious war' was the catchcry circulated in the Government newspapers. This created a certain smugness among the Russian Military. The Japanese were to be taught a 'lesson', like an unruly class of children.


None of this interested the young Sub-Lieutenant as he finally scampered down the gangway, across the Destroyers Bravy and Bezuprechny moored alongside, and down the quay into town.


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The house was difficult to find in the labyrinthine back streets. Eventually he found it, a reasonably prosperous two-storey town house.


He introduced himself to the woman who answered the door. She showed the same suspician that Katka's Mother had displayed to him at the park. She explained that she was Katka's Aunt and she would consult her niece's Mother.


Yvgeny had brought small gifts for the family, Georgian Tobacco, wine and a bottle of good Russian Vodka. For Katka he brought Swiss chocolate, purchased for a grossly inflated price at a local speciality shop. With the distribution of the presents the general mood eased and he was invited to stay for dinner.


Far from being poor peasants, Katka's family turned out to be passably well-off farmers. They augmented their pastoral income by selling rugs made on a loom at the family's home. Apparently they all took turns at this demanding craft. 


Her Father thoroughly grilled Yvgeny after dinner on his family, prospects and ambitions. He felt overwhelmed by the family's protectiveness. Throughout the interview Katka sat in the corner of the room, swaying sullenly in a rocking chair.


It was late before her Father consented to leave the couple alone in the lounge. Yvgeny sat on the sofa, Katka rocked silently in the corner, focussing on her hands folded in her lap.


"Katka?" Yvgeny said, concerned.


"I'm sorry," she said eventually, her voice barely audible, "my Father, he..."


"Wants the best for you?" Yvgeny suggested.


"Wants to marry me off to some local Farmer's son," she told him bitterly.


"And you?"


"Me!" she said, exasperated, "I'm just 18 and what have I done, where have I been? Nothing, nowhere! I envy you," she added, looking at him for the first time. "You get to sail around the world, visit other countries..."


"Weeks at sea locked in a tin can with 50 men?"


"That wouldn't be so bad," she said before dissolving in laughter. Apparently the joke was unintended, but nevertheless it broke the ice.


She told him briefly about herself and her family. She had an older brother away at University in Riga. He was studying Law, she said, and had recently joined the Socialist Party.


"I stay away from politics," he told her.


"Father says that you can't give all the peasants land. They wouldn't know what to do with it."


"So what are they doing with it now?" he replied. "My Father says we're selling Russia to the French and in future things here will be decided in Paris."


"And what do you think?" she turn to look up at him, "we know what our Fathers think, but what do you?"


"I think..." he considered smiling, "that you are the prettiest Girl in all of Latvia. Perhaps even all of Russia."


Katka blushed and looked away. Yvgeny crossed the short distance to her and touched her cheek with his palm. Turning her face to him, he stared for an uncomfortable time into her eyes.


"Don't," she mouthed, but accepted a brief kiss on the mouth.


Yvgeny caught a faint whiff of perfume. He felt a powerful urge to seize her, mould her body to his. Katka looked frightened, her eyes flicking from his to the door.


"I'll meet you tomorrow," she said hurredly, her voice breathess, almost a whisper. "2 o'clock at the park. You must go now or there'll be trouble."


Yvgeny backed away.


"2 then," he whispered. He retrieved his service cap and followed Katka to the door. He squeezed her hand before saying goodbye.


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That morning there was to be torpedo practice. As third Officer, Yvgeny was also the Torpedo Officer of the Grozny. The Destroyers moved out just beyond the line of battleships before commencing dummy runs against them.


The first 'attacker' was the Destroyer Buiny. Charging in towards the Suvurov it fired its first torpedo, which promptly rose out of the sea like a porpoise. Nose in the air, it continued to bob in the waves like a mooring buoy, its spinning propeller foaming the water around it.


Three runs later and there were three torpedoes nose up in the sea and going nowhere. Roars of laughter could be clearly heard from the battleships. The crew of the Buiny were beside themselves with shame.


Almaz signalled to the flotilla's torpedo Officers to check all the depth valves on the practice torpedoes. All were of the incorrect type and rendered the torpedoes useless. The flotilla returned at noon to a blistering reprimand from the Commander in Chief instantly cancelling shore leave for the Destroyers. Luckily for Yvgeny, this was rescinded an hour later after the intervention of Rear Admiral Enkvist, Commander of the Scouting Divisions.


The armed torpedoes were double-checked and found to be in working order. Nevertheless, the Commander insisted one be fired at the beach with its detonator removed to prove they ran true. The test was successful and the crews breathed a sigh of relief.


Finally dead on two, Yvgeny was granted leave and headed for the park at a brisk trot. In desperation he searched through the crowd for Katka, fearing she hadn't waited for him and left. At last he found her sitting alone. He brother was playing nearby with a group of children. She hardly acknowledged him as he sat down next to her.


"You're late," she said quietly. Yvgeny detected no sign of reproach, however.


"I'm sorry... tough day."


"When is the fleet leaving?" she asked, "no-one seems to know."


"Neither does the fleet," he told her, "could be tomorrow, next week, next month, maybe never. Things are not going well in the Far East. Any more delays and there'll be nothing to relieve there."


"But," her tone one of worry and confusion, "but I heard that all you need to do is to sail to Japan and..."


"We are not as powerful a Navy as you have been told," Yvgeny explained, his voice low and conspiratorial, "the Port Arthur Squadron was one of our strongest, yet..."


Katka fell silent, her head down.


"So, you may not return?" she said eventually.


"We will give a good account of ourselves. And arrive in Vladivostok to a hero's welcome," he boasted.


"Is that your best effort? You are not a very good liar," she told him, "that's good, I don't like liars. Now tell the truth to me or I shall leave, now."


Yvgeny clicked his tongue and shook his head.


"We must tell ourselves we'll succeed, but..." he stared into the middle distance.


"But?"


He shook his head sadly and looked away at the children playing.


"Perhaps the Tsar will change his mind and make peace with the Japanese?" she said breezily.


Suddenly morose, Yvgeny replied, "Is that likely, Katka?"


In reply, she lightly stroked her fingertips over the back of Yvgeny's hand. He smiled at the sudden contact and turned to look into her eyes. They sparkled like the night sky. He felt he could drown in them.


"I need to see you alone," he said quickly and quietly.


"I can't, I don't see how, it's impossible."


"We may not have much time."


"I know, I..."


"There must be a way," he told her, frustrated.


"Well?" she raised her eyes, thinking, 'it worked before when I was little.'


"What?"


"Tomorrow's Sunday and we always go to Church. Afterwards we go to the cemetery to visit Grandad and then to the lake for a picnic."


"Sounds nice," Yvgeny said puzzled.


"When I was little," she continued, "and I wanted to play down by the river I'd pretend I was not feeling well and I'd get to stay at home."


"You little minx," he laughed, "your elders never cottoned on?"


"Never! They always return for tea at four before evening service at seven. They always go. Are you off Sundays?" she asked.


"All day," he smiled, "the priest visits around ten and they have a service on the quayside for the Destroyer crews. I could explain to the Commander that I wish to attend the Basilica in town. He wouldn't care."


"Then it's perfect," she announced, "what shall we do? Where shall we meet?"


She was excited, her breathing quickened. Her enthusiam for intrigue, deception and daring was infectious and ideas flooded Yvgeny's mind.


"We must make sure we're not seen by someone who knows your family," he told her.


"Yes, I shall have to wear a shawl," she considered, "then go along the back streets."


"I have lodgings in town," he explained, hopefully.


"You do? Oh... I see..."


Her expression became serious as if it suddenly became clear to her that this wasn't some children's game. She was planning on meeting a man alone. One, albeit handsome and charming, that she barely knew. The enormity of what she was doing began to dawn on her. She thought for a while, her eyes flicking to and fro as if scanning all the possible consequences in her mind.


Yvgeny was on the point of growing concerned when she threw her shoulders back and raised her face to look at him.


"Your address?" she asked.


"Here, I'll write it down for you," he suggested.


(C)KATZMAREK







