AN INTERVIEW WITH GORSHIN (Part 3)


By KATZMAREK


The sun broke clear and bright on the morning of the 1st of October 1904. Libau had a gala atmosphere about it. Bunting flapped from every window, choirs sang to the crowds, everyone had come down to the waterfront to watch.


The departure of the Second Pacific Squadron was again delayed. This time, however, it wasn't for technical or organisational reasons, but to await a formal review and farewell from none other than the Tsar himself.


Presently, around mid-morning, a cheer went up which gradually echoed by the crowds. The Tsar's yacht had been spotted rounding the headland.


The ships were bedecked with signal flags. Battle ensigns had been run up the masts. Each ship appeared to be in competition with its neighbours in the splendour of its display. Crews lined the deck in dress whites, Officers stood on the bridges or signal platforms rigidly at attention.


For an hour, the Imperial Yacht sailed up and down the lines of ships, each crew cheering as it passed. Finally it drew up to the ladder of the Suvurov and Tsar Nicholas ascended to the formal salute.


Icons were presented to each ship of the squadron as personal gifts from the Romanov family. Every ship was officially 'adopted' by a member of the Imperial family and a portait presented to be displayed in the ward room of the vessel. The Grozny was adopted by a girl, a niece to the Tsarina. Gorshin couldn't remember who.


With the departure of the Tsar, the boilers were ordered fired. It would take at least three hours for sufficient steam to be raised on all the ships for sailing. Most of the waiting time was spent writing letters home.


No secrecy was apparent nor possible. The press had signalled the fleet's intentions for some weeks now. The news was circulated around the World. The Japanese had no need of spies, they only needed to read the daily newspapers.


On the contrary, Japanese security was very effective. The Russians had no idea where Tojo's fleet was based nor its exact composition. Rhozdventsky believed he was to face a fleet of six battleships. In fact, the Japanese had been whittled down to four following the loss of two vessels to Russian mines.


Russian carelessness over security is difficult to fully explain. It apparently never occurred to anybody in the Navy that there was a need to keep their preparations and movements secret. 


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"Arrogance, laziness, ignorance, who knows?" said the old Admiral. "The Japanese knew the instant we took a crap," he chuckled, "we didn't even know where their fleet was anchored. They were near Ulsan on the Southern coast of Korea. We had no idea."


"So you departed Libau?" commented the young Archivist.


"Eventually, yes. At least as far as about 12 kilometres Southwest of the port. The Orel broke down once more. One of the valves in the sabotaged engine broke. That broken connecting rod, you know, put a great strain on the other components. The Chief Engineer wanted the complete engine replaced but there was no time. Rhozdventsky didn't want his 1st division cut by a quarter so it was never fixed properly."


On the mantelpiece above the small gas fire were arrayed a number of old photographs. One was a sepia of a low, sleek Destroyer, its four funnels grouped in two pairs. In the bottom lefthand corner was written the word 'Grozny' scratched white onto the original negative. Noticing the Ensign's gaze, Gorshin told him, "two days we wallowed outside harbour in that tub. They wouldn't even let us go on board the tug. I didn't know it then, but it was the first of many days, weeks, cooped up in that little tin can. I don't think I ever wore dry clothes again until we arrived in Vladivostok."


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The fleet didn't get away finally until noon, the 3rd of October. The clanking of the Orel's damaged engine was apparent to most of the warships.


The fleet, around 40 ships all told, cruised placidly in clear weather out into the Baltic. Soon the precise sailing order broke down into a strung-out, haphazard collection of ships belching clouds of sulfurous brown smoke.


The 1st and 2nd Divisions were supposed to be in two side by side columns. The Suvurovs, however, slowly began to overtake Felkersam's older ships, except for the Orel. Its engine banging like a rolling mill, it struggled to maintain even the leisurely cruising speed of the fleet. Eventually the ships reduced speed to 7 knots to allow the fleet to close up for the passage through the Kattegat straits.


Twice more the fleet had to stop while more running repairs were made to Orel. Therefore it wasn't until the night of the 7th before the Russian ships cleared the Skaggerak out into the North Sea.


Grozny, Bravy and Bezuprechny took station about 5 kilometres in advance of the fleet. Enkvist and the cruisers were ordered to starboard making a relatively compact mass of warships in three columns. The Admiral was worried about being attacked at night by Japanese torpedo boats.


This wasn't such a ludicrous suggestion as it sounds. Most of the Japanese torpedo boats were built by Yarrows of Britain, their Cruisers by the firm of Elswick. Britain was known to be advisors to the Japanese fleet and even had Royal Navy Officers aboard some of their Battleships. Rumours were going around that a flotilla of Torpedo boats was being prepared in Britain for a sneak attack. Rhozdventsky was taking no chances.


That night was clear and chilly. A new moon shone a dim blue hue over the sea. The distant land was a thin black streak. The fleet neared the area of the North Sea known as the Dogger Bank, a popular fishing ground.


"Lights, starboard 20," yelled the Lookout of the Grozny.


Yvgeny Gorshin was Watch Officer. He acknowledged the report then swung the binoculars onto the indicated bearing. Bravy, leading the half-flotilla, began flashing her signal lamp.


[LIGHTS NW 21] 


Bravy repeated the message until she received an acknowledgement from the flagship. A few minutes later, the Destroyers were ordered to investigate the unidentified vessels. 


"What do you see?" asked Commander Pikalevoi.


"Lights... many, maybe 30 or 40 vessels, sir. I see two lamps on each masthead," Yvgeny answered.


"Ah, fishing vessels," the Commander replied, "that's their signal that they have nets out. Will we clear them?"


"Yes sir. They are well out of the way."


"Good. Signal! Send to flagship, 'fishing vessels NW by 21 degrees... 4, 5 kilometres.' Repeat that until she acknowledges."


Ahead, the Bravy's searchlight suddenly stabbed the darkness. The beam waved about with the motion of the choppy sea until it lit up one of the fishing boats. Yvgeny could see the crew working on deck, the nets swung out on booms from the side of the vessel.


The searchlight passed on to other trawlers. In the intense beam, Yvgeny saw crewman hold a fish up into the light. Perhaps it was some signal they were having a good night?



Suddenly from astern came a bright flash followed by a loud crack. A tongue of flame lept out from the direction of the 1st Division.


"By the monk's beard..." exclaimed Pikalevoi.


"A torpedo!" someone yelled.


"No! The Battleships are opening fire, look!" somebody else said.


"At who? What? Are we under attack?"


"Gorshin, have you missed something?" yelled the Commander.


"No," replied Yvgeny, "there was nothing, I swear!"


More flashes rolled from the Battleships, lighting the night like an undercranked Cine film.


The gun crews piled onto the deck of the Grozny, unbidden. Presently a long black shape slid silently alongside the Destroyer, it was the Bezuprechny.


"Get out! Get clear!" yelled the Bezuprechny's Commander through the loud hailer.


"What's happening?" called Pikalevoi.


"Don't know. Get out of the line of fire, quick!"


"Aye. Engines, full revolutions! 90 degrees starboard helm! Alarm, alarm!"


Signals began flashing from the battleships. [Bearing?] [Target?] [Under attack] [Where's Alexander, identify?] [Unidentified vessel to port] [Where? I see no target]


The Alexander the Third had pulled out of line believing the flagship had been torpedoed. The lumbering Battleship nearly ran down the Destroyer Bedovy stationed to port. Hastily it swung back on course but couldn't rejoin the Division without hitting the Borodino next in line. Instead it continued on to port of the flagship.


[Cease fire] signaled the Suvurov.


In the distance Yvgeny saw a dull yellow glow, illuminating two tall funnels.


"Ship on fire," he yelled, "the Aurora I think."


All of a sudden the Aurora released a full broadside from its port-side guns. The flash lit up the ship and its next in line, Oleg.


"Fuck!" someone exclaimed.


[Aurora, cease fire] flashed the flagship. [You're bearing on Suvurov]


[Suvurov, cease fire] grumbled the Cruiser, [You're hitting Aurora]


[All ships cease fire now! Extinguish lights] screamed the Suvurov's Morse lamp. As suddenly as it began, firing stopped and the ships were plunged into darkness.


"What the Hell was that all about?" asked Pikalevoi.


"Don't know, sir," replied Yvgeny.


So ended the 'Battle of the North Sea,' all 11 minutes of it. Behind the Russian fleet a fishing boat from the English port of Hull was slowly sinking, two others had been damaged.


Russian casualties had been one hit amidships on Rear Admiral Enkvist's flagship, Aurora. A small fire had been started but quickly put out. The 6 inch shell had been fired from the Suvurov. It was as well that the Russian fleet's shooting had been so bad. Up to 40 guns of all sizes had been blazing away at each other and a fleet of fishing boats. The Hull fleet had actually been close to 200 vessels and for all that only three had been hit.


Rhozdventsky had been in his cabin when the firing had started. Rushing to the bridge, he was told that the fleet was under attack. Watching the scene, the haphazard, ill-aimed, ill-disciplined shooting, the Admiral was concerned his ships were exposing themselves with their searchlights. By ordering a cease-fire and the dousing of lights, he hoped to get a better view of the alleged Torpedo boats.


The nervous gun crews were made to remain by their guns all night.


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"The Admiral called for reports of the action in the morning," Admiral Gorshin told the Ensign, "many of the Captains reported that they had seen Torpedo boats attacking. Oslyabya's Captain said he'd personally seen a Torpedo boat sinking as he went past. He even recommended one of his gun crews for a citation. There were none, of course," chuckled the old man, "a collective act of the imagination. And downright, bald-face lying on the part of Officers who should have known better."


"Sir?" Ensign Koscuisko said, "the Official Record says that the Japs were hiding among the fishing boats. It says the fleet caught them before they could launch an attack."


"Crap! Utter crap and I know the fool who wrote that and why. It was Lieutenant Commander Jago, and Rhozdventsky had wanted to get rid of him since Libau. He sent him off at Casablanca to explain to the English our side of the argument. As you can imagine, the English were very angry at us. Even to the point of threatening war against Russia if we didn't apologise and pay compensation."


"Russia paid?" asked the young Officer.


"Damn right we paid," laughed Gorshin, "every last rouble they asked for. Remember, in 1904 the English Navy would have sent us all to the fishes 10, 20 times over."


"But," he went on, "we had no idea what trouble we'd caused when we reached the English Channel."


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When the Russian Squadron reached the coast of Britain, they were greeted by a Squadron of British Armoured Cruisers escorted by a flotilla of Destroyers. Several Royal Navy Destroyers ventured within hailing distance of their Russian opposite numbers.


Yvgeny Gorshin waved his cap in greeting. Some of the Grozny's crew on deck also waved and called out. They were greeted by a stony silence. A British sailor then waved his fist in the air and yelled something incomprehensible to the Russians.


"What's that all about, Gorshin?" asked the Commander.


"Don't know, sir. I think they're cursing us."


"Bloody arrogant English bastards," grumbled Pikalevoi, "go on, fuck off before I jam a torpedo up your arsehole!" he yelled across.


It was as well that neither crew spoke the other's language.


Soon the British Cruisers were joined by the Battle Squadron of the Channel Fleet. Menacingly, Yvgeny saw that they all had their guns manned.


"What the Hell's going on?" muttered Pikalevoi.


The four Majestic class battleships kept pace with the Russian Squadron in impeccable order. Each vessel kept exactly the same station, as opposed to the slovenly organisation of the Russians. Their ships were well-scrubbed, smart, and freshly-painted. The Russian ships, by comparison, were dirty from coal smoke and their paint flaking from two weeks at sea. A more bitter contrast was barely imaginable for many of the Russian crews. Many had never encountered the Royal Navy before.


The appearance and skill of the British fleet depressed many of the Officers of the Russian Squadron. They served to remind them of their inadequacies. None was more depressed than Rhozdventsky himself.


Admiral Rhozdventsky was a man who, in many ways, was unsuited for such an important enterprise. Reclusive and depressive, he was subject to wild mood swings, was short-tempered and distrustful of his subordinates. He was a gunnery specialist, ironically, however there were very few Senior Officers in the Russian Service who had the necessary skills. Simply, he was the best there was.


He drove himself hard, expecting the same from his men, and was furious when they failed to achieve the high standards he set for them. In the coming months, for instance, he worked his gun crews to exhaustion, citing the abysmal effort demonstrated in the 'Battle of the North Sea.'


He was very proud of the 1st Division, the brand new Suvurov class, and dismissive of his other Division. He would've preferred to have left them at home if it wasn't for the belief that the Japanese had 6 first-line Battleships, battle-ready. 


To be honest, he wasn't particularly well-supported by his Senior Officers. Enkvist, commander of the Scouting Forces, harboured a deep loathing. Apparently he believed he was better suited to lead the expedition. Felkersam of the 2nd Division suffered from Angina and would shortly die of a heart attack. To others he was a martinet with little praise offered for their dedication and hard work.


The Russians sullenly stumped their way down to Casablanca under the watchful gaze of the Royal Navy, like a group of unruly schoolchildren being marched to the detention room.


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The chief harbour of Morocco is more of an open roadstead. Its name in Spanish means, 'white houses'. White plaster coats the low, square buildings of the town. Along the waterfront can be seen the stone walls of the forts from the days when the Barbary pirates used to issue forth to extort taxes from passing ships.


The deep blue of the Atlantic slopped lazily against the sundrenched shore as the Tsar's Second Pacific Squadron staggered into Casablanca and  anchored. Its chaperones, the British Channel Fleet, lingered awhile just outside the harbour before being relieved by Cruisers from Gibraltar. The British let it be known they would not let the Russian fleet leave until honour had been satisfied.


The French administered Casablanca through the Bey of Morocco. A similar arrangement to the English in Egypt. With so much international attention focussed on Casablanca and the Russian squadron, it proved impossible to coal there. Hence the fleet had to move out beyond the three mile limit and provision in international waters. All under the glowering Royal Navy. 


Wrangling continued in diplomatic circles between British and Russian authorities. The ever-helpful French endeavoured to arbitrate. Publically the Russian Government stuck to the story about the Japanese Torpedo boats, but privately they conceded it had been one big cock-up.


Meanwhile, the crews of the Destroyers and most senior Officers of the fleet were allowed ashore. The Bey and the French authorities had laid on everything for the exhausted Russians. Business, at the end of the day, was business and some of the Russian notables had considerable wealth to spend.


The bars along the waterfront were lavish, expensive and industrial in proportions. Everything could be had there, German Beer, French Champagne and good Russian Vodka. Food was plentiful and Yvgeny saw Hashish being smoked for the first time, openly and apparently with no Official sanction. Most of the fancier establishments, though, were beyond Yvgeny's allowance. The side streets offered cheaper fare, however many of the bars fronted brothels.


The girls were all nationalities, shapes, sizes and ages. Yvgeny was surprised that even young teenage boys were being offered for sale. Although he felt he was a man of the World, the open, shameless behaviour of the prostitution industry in Casablanca made him feel uncomfortable. For all its pretentions of European fashionability, Russia was still deeply religious, pious and socially conservative. The Russians preferred their vice inside and out of sight.


The Officers of the Destroyer flotilla found themselves a bar away from the waterfront. The men preferred to keep themselves to themselves. They were the men of action and daring. The Officers of the big ships seemed effete and lazy by comparison.


The Destroyer Officers shared the same hardships as the men. Not for them the marvellous and ornate wood-panelled salons and wardrooms of the lavishly equipped Suvurov class Battleships. Life on the little boats was hard, wet, dirty, cramped and uncomfortable. Yes, they were exceptional, these hard men of the Destroyers.


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"The bar was really just a bordello with a few tables in a room to the side of the main desk," Admiral Gorshin told the Ensign. "Around the wall were private alcoves with red satin curtains. For a few durrums you could have a lady entertain you, fetch you drinks and listen to your bawdy jokes. I doubt they understood a word," he laughed.


"And were you, ah, entertained?" the young Officer asked.


"At first I held out. I'd pledged myself to my Katka, you understand, but some of the other men... I knew them to have wives and sweethearts back home. One by one they would disappear, and..."


"Sir?"


"Behind the satin curtains was another that led to a hallway. At the end of this was a stairway leading up to a second floor. Up there were rooms where the ladies did their business. A snake named Farouk, always in a red fez took your money on the way up. He had shifty bloodshot eyes that followed you around and a smirk that never left his face. He was stoned on Hashish all the time, he reeked of it."


"So you, um..."


"So I what, young man?" the old Admiral fixed him with a cold stare, "you must remember I was young, randy, half-drunk, with money to spend. Some of the ladies were a little over-ripe, shall we say. Others were somewhat disadvantaged in looks. But there was one. She was French, I think, and beneath the paint I could see she was very pretty, very pretty indeed."


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Madam Therese claimed to be French but was really an Armenian Turk. She and her husband, Farouk, an Egyptian, prided themselves on running an orderly house. They knew, for instance, that many of the Russian Officers sewed jewels and money into their coats. Some of the other houses had wardrobes with secret doors. They thought nothing of fleecing the Russians as they were being entertained by the girls. But Madam Therese reminded her husband that sailors gossip to other sailors. And those other sailors might be heading for Casablanca.


Yvgeny noticed Beatrice as soon as she emerged from behind the red satin curtain. She was wearing a long white, simple silk dress that brushed the floor. The dim gaslight turned the gown transparent as she moved in front. Yvgeny could see she was naked underneath.


He watched her slim figure as she glided into the room. Her hips swayed, the diaphanous fabric clung to her bobbing, all too perfect breasts. Thick paint on her face gave her a clown-like appearance, but her brown eyes and shy smile betrayed her youth.


"That one," slurred Pikalevoi, "a jewel... such thighs!"


Yvgeny looked at his Captain in a sudden fit of jealousy, but saw he was watching a large Black woman. 


"For you the skinny one, yes?" continued Pikalevoi, "I will have the mama." He clicked his fingers and the two women approached.


The senior Officer staggered towards one of the alcoves propped against the Black. Yvgeny saw his hand slide lasciviously over her ample rump. The other girl held out her hand to him. With a sigh he allowed himself to be towed to another alcove. As they sat, he asked her name.


"Beatrice," she told him.


"Where are you from?" he asked her, slowly.


"France," she answered. 


Yvgeny had basic schoolboy French and they began to talk. She giggled at his clumsiness and told him his French was 'good, very good.' He knew it wasn't, of course, but he smiled at the flattery.


Eventually the girl grew impatient. Time, after all, was money and she hadn't seen any yet. He took out some roubles and offered her some, saying it was 'for her and not for Farouk.' She palmed the cash with a smile and made it disappear somehow.


Suddenly, the curtain behind slid back and Farouk stood smirking.


"We go now," Beatrice told Yvgeny, hastily, "upstairs, yes?"


Handing the man the fee, Yvgeny, smiling, told him to 'fuck off'. Not understanding, Farouk thanked him in rough French and watched them as they ascended the stairs.


"I don't know many Russian words," Beatrice told him, "but I understand those," she laughed.


The room was small and hung with silk curtains. A wooden screen surrounded the bed, a small table the only other item of furniture. Beatrice indicated for him to sit on the bed while she slowly began to raise her thin gown.


Yvgeny's heart began to pound in his chest as more and more of the girl's long legs were revealed. When she raised it to her waist, Yvgeny licked his lips in anticipation at her dark brown thatch of hair.


His cock began to unfold in his pants as he watched the girl sway. She dispensed with her garment and held her small breasts, fingering the nipples.


She helped him off with his clothes and laid on the bed beside him. Yvgeny studied her body, ran his hands over down to her pussy.


It was damp to the touch and scented. He concluded she'd recently douched herself. He ran his fingers through the crinkly hair. He wished it was Katka's pussy.


Giggling, she opened her knees wide allowing him to look at her. 'How many cocks have been there tonight,' he wondered. But it smelled clean and fresh, and soft, so soft.


On impulse he lowered his head and put his tongue to her. Instinctively, she clamped her thighs on him, protesting.


"What you do?" she said, "crazy man! Oh!"


She jerked as he began to lick her juicy folds. She tasted of roses, sweat and, faintly, of jasmine oil. He straddled her, his knees on either side of her head so his cock dangled down for her. Beatrice pulled on him, lifted her mouth and slowly licked him.


"Kinky man," she told him, "we fuck, ah, now, yes?"


Yes, he wanted to fuck her as he had fucked Katka barely a month ago. He shut his eyes and imagined she was his Latvian lover. Beatrice was professional, gasped and moaned, and told him how big he was. Yvgeny ground himself against her crotch, trying to bring her pleasure. He doubted afterwards, though, that it was anything other than an act.


When he came in her she leapt off the bed into the corner of the little room. He heard water trickling. She helped him on with his clothes then sent him off down the stairs with a kiss on the cheek.


Farouk was waiting and ushered him out through the curtains into the bar. Sitting down at the table once more, he ordered a fresh bottle of vodka.


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The mail arrived by the third day of their 'detention' in Casabanca. At least, that is, for the Officers. Yvgeny was excited to find a letter from Katka, written, he concluded, the day after the fleet left.


'Dearest Yvgeny,' it read, 'I miss you with a heavy heart, although it has only been days since you left. I long to have your sweet body next to mine. My heart cries when I pass our special places, the park, the lodging house where we spent most of that Sunday. I have a warm feeling when I pass the stone wall at the back of the garden.


'I want to be with you, to be joined to you, to go where you go. I don't wish us ever to be apart again. Keep yourself free from harm and return safely. Your Katka.'


The Grozny had spread a canvas shelter on the after deck. Yvgeny slung a hammock there, listened to the sounds of the town and the Russian fleet, and waited for morning.


KATZMAREK(C)