Excerpt from George Orwell's 1945 novel, Animal Farm:
Napoleon and Bonaparte were two large Berkshire boars, littermates from the same sow, but so different in manner that many animals wondered how they had come from the same mother.
Napoleon was a pig of quiet disposition, rarely seen in argument, but with a heavy presence that made others uneasy. He had a way of watching, waiting, and saying little, as though every word were a weapon to be saved. He spoke seldom, but when he did, it was always with an air of finality, as though the matter had been decided long before.
Bonaparte, by contrast, was a creature of fire and fury. The animals admired him, for he lived among them, worked beside them, and boasted that his own sons would labour as hard as any beast. Yet there was a hardness in his eye that frightened even his admirers. To friends he was loyal and generous, but to enemies he was merciless, as though cruelty were a form of justice.
Beside them was Snowball, a lively boar with quicker speech and more inventive ideas than either of the brothers. He was less imposing, but far more articulate, and seemed to carry the future in his words. Where Napoleon's silence was oppressive and Bonaparte's zeal was terrifying, Snowball's enthusiasm was infectious.
It was plain to all, even in those early days, that the destiny of the farm would be decided between these three.
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May 1, 1918
HMS Glory
Off the coast of Murmansk
The cabin reeked faintly of coal smoke and polished brass. I sat opposite Admiral Thomas Webster Kemp, commander of the North Russia Squadron, who regarded me the way one might study an exotic disease under a microscope — fascinated, but not entirely convinced it wasn't contagious.
I couldn't blame him. I was, after all, a half-mad Georgian warlord who had just hauled ten thousand Czechoslovaks across Russia on a caravan fueled almost entirely by women, alcohol, cigarettes, and opium. If I'd been in his shoes, I'd have been perplexed too. Possibly even alarmed.
But as Meiko Nakahara once said in one of her songs — jinsei wa like a joke. Life is like a joke. And after the year I'd had, I was inclined to agree.
I leaned forward, cigarette smoldering between my fingers, and spoke plainly.
"I'll cut to the chase, Admiral. We've both heard the news from out west. The Germans have taken Amiens. They're currently fighting at Chantilly. Paris is well within artillery range and if Chantilly falls the way to Paris is open. The French are screaming, the British are bleeding, and the Americans are still learning which side of a rifle to hold."
Kemp's face twitched, but he said nothing.
"I have bought you ten thousand Czechoslovaks," I continued, "battle-hardened men who fought for the Tsar, who've survived revolution, betrayal, and a railway trip with me in command — which is frankly the greater miracle. Russia may be technically out of the war, but the Czechoslovaks aren't. They're armed, they're angry, and most importantly, they hate the Germans."
I stubbed the cigarette out on the edge of his polished desk, just to watch his jaw tighten.
"So here's my proposal: you take them. Put them on your transports. Empty your warehouses here and in Archangel, give them rifles, shells, boots — and sail them to France. God knows you'll need them, unless you'd prefer to let the Germans parade down the Champs-Élysées."
I sat back, letting the words hang in the smoke-thick air.
Kemp stared at me for a long time, his expression torn between incredulity and calculation. I knew what he was thinking: Who the hell is this man, and why does he sound like he's negotiating a trade deal instead of dropping ten thousand mercenaries in my lap?
Admiral Kemp sat very still as I finished my proposal. His staff officers — pale, stiff men with neatly trimmed mustaches — exchanged glances that hovered somewhere between disbelief and alarm.
Finally, Kemp spoke.
"Your English… it's very good. Unexpected."
I smirked, flicking ash into a polished brass tray.
"Seminary, Admiral. Before I was a warlord, I was training to be a priest. Turns out God didn't need me, but the revolution did."
The room went quiet at that, the only sound the creak of the ship's timbers and the distant clang of hammers on deck. The British weren't sure whether to laugh or cross themselves.
Kemp leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"Let me be frank, Comrade Jugashvili. What you've accomplished is… extraordinary. To bring ten thousand armed men across that distance, in the middle of civil war, on a railway held together with spit and sabotage — it defies reason. But your proposal…" He shook his head slightly. "It's not that simple."
One of his staff officers cleared his throat.
"London's policy is… unsettled. We do not know yet whether we shall commit significant forces here, in North Russia, or whether these—" he hesitated, eyeing my Czechs through the porthole window "—forces are to be shipped to France, or held in reserve."
Kemp nodded.
"Your men are valuable, there's no denying it. But the Foreign Office is cautious. They see Bolshevism as the greater danger in Russia now. Ten thousand battle-hardened Czechs could make a difference here — holding Murmansk, Archangel, keeping these ports open."
I lit another cigarette, exhaling smoke across his desk.
"So your plan is to keep them here, wasting away guarding warehouses, while the Germans stroll into Paris? Brilliant. Truly, British genius at work."
Kemp's eyes narrowed, but he didn't rise to the bait. He was a professional. "Be careful, Comrade. This isn't London, but my orders still bind me. I cannot promise France. Not yet. What I can promise is supplies, rest, and order for your Legion. After what I've seen today on that platform, they'll need all three."
I leaned forward, voice low.
"Admiral, you're playing for time. I understand. But time is exactly what the French don't have. And when Paris falls, don't say the mad Georgian didn't warn you."
For a moment, no one spoke. The cigarette smoke curled between us like a third participant in the conversation.
Kemp finally broke the silence.
"You will have your supplies. And a message will be sent to London immediately. Until then, I suggest you keep your men under control."
I smiled thinly, stood, and straightened my bloodstained coat.
"Admiral, I don't give a shit about London. I have a civil war to fight. Counter-revolutionaries to kill. If you think I'm going to sit here while you write polite letters back and forth with London, you're out of your mind. Put me on the line with London. Now."
The temperature in the room dropped. His staff stiffened, some glancing at the revolver holstered at my hip.
Kemp frowned. "Comrade Jugashvili, that is not how—"
I cut him off with a laugh. "Spare me the procedure. You're in Russia, Admiral. Bolshevik Russia. Your government has no business here now that we're out of the war. Unless, of course, you'd like to declare war on Russia. That'd be something. I've never killed British before. Could be an educational experience."
That got them. One officer actually half-rose from his chair, knuckles white on the edge of the table. Kemp raised a hand and barked, "Sit down!" Then he turned back to me, eyes flashing.
"Comrade, you are addressing the Royal Navy, not a cabal of drunken mercenaries. Watch your tongue."
I leaned back, spread my arms, grinning through the smoke.
"You've seen my train, Admiral. You think you're negotiating with a delegation, but you're really negotiating with ten thousand drunk mercenaries, 5000 battle hardened men and one half-mad Georgian who brought them here alive. If you want order in Murmansk, you talk to me. If you want chaos, by all means — wait for London."
The room boiled with restrained outrage. Kemp's voice rose, clipped and sharp.
"You presume too much. Britain's role here is not subject to your approval. You are a guest — nothing more."
"And you," I snapped, slamming my hand on the table hard enough to rattle the inkpot, "are a bureaucrat in a uniform, hiding behind telegrams while Europe burns. France is choking, Germany is winning, and you sit here quoting the Foreign Office like a schoolboy reciting his catechism."
Kemp surged halfway out of his chair before catching himself. For a moment, it looked like the meeting might collapse into outright shouting. His face was red, his staff looked horrified, and I just smiled, lit another cigarette, and blew the smoke directly toward him.
"Admiral," I said softly, "get me London. I want to speak to your manager."
The silence after my "manager" remark stretched. Kemp's knuckles were white on the table, his staff stiff with indignation. For a moment I thought he might throw me overboard himself.
Then he breathed in, slowly, and unclenched his fists. His voice, when it came, was clipped and deliberate — the sound of a man forcing himself down from a ledge.
"Comrade Jugashvili… I understand your urgency. Truly. But this is a delicate matter. I will send cables to London tonight. In the meantime, your men will be provisioned — food, boots, ammunition, medical supplies. We can stabilize your Legion here, rest them, ensure discipline is restored. And we will see, in due course, what deployment is appropriate."
His officers nodded, glad their commander was at least pretending this was under control.
I nodded along too, cigarette bobbing between my lips. Outwardly, calm, agreeable. Inside, though? I knew exactly what this was: stalling. The British didn't care about Amiens or France — not really. They wanted an excuse to stay here. To carve out a foothold in the north, to meddle, maybe even to overthrow the Bolsheviks.
And if that was the case… well, I'd have to pull a gamer moment and take Murmansk by force. Expel them. Show them Russia wasn't theirs to treat like a colony.
But none of that touched my face. Instead, I leaned back, smiled thinly, and said,
"Admiral, of course. I appreciate your… consideration. My men will be grateful for the supplies. Food, cigarettes if you have them, and perhaps some whiskey — it's been a long journey. We'll await London's reply."
I extended my hand across the table, all courtesy and warmth. Kemp hesitated, then shook it.
Inside, I was already planning where to place my Guards if it came to a fight.
I left the Glory with a smile plastered on my face, all handshakes and pleasantries, as though Admiral Kemp and I had agreed on the price of a horse. By the time I was back among my men, the mask had slipped. The smoke of the British fleet still hung in the bay, and the thought of their polished arrogance gnawed at me like a rotten tooth.
I called Tukachevsky and the Revolutionary Guard officers into a commandeered warehouse by the station. Just them — no Czechs, no hangers-on, no one who might have second thoughts. The door slammed shut, and the noise of the drunken Legion outside became a dull backdrop.
I lit another cigarette, paced once, then turned on them.
"The British are stalling. You saw their faces. They don't care about France. They don't care about Germany. They want to stay here — to use the Czechoslovaks as their cudgel, to overthrow the Bolsheviks, to make Russia their colony. They'll bleed us dry guarding warehouses until they find an excuse to run the government themselves."
The Guards shifted uneasily. Tukachevsky's jaw tightened, but he didn't interrupt. He knew where I was going.
"So we're going to beat them to it," I went on. "We'll take the British by surprise, overwhelm their detachments in the city. Their liaison officers and sailors will be taken alive. Hostages. Then we scuttle their fleet in Murmansk harbor — sink their transports, cripple their warships if we can. That way, they'll have no landing point, no supply line, no foothold in Russia."
I exhaled smoke and jabbed the cigarette in the air like a pointer.
"Once that's done, we fortify Murmansk. Then Archangel. Barricades, trenches, machine guns on the ridgelines. Let London howl from across the sea. Without ships, they'll be powerless. And the Bolsheviks? They'll thank us for defending the north from imperialists."
The room was silent except for the hiss of the oil lamp.
"Get me translators," I said finally. "All of them. Tonight, I'm going to rile up the Czechoslovaks. Tell them the British plan to abandon them here in the snow, to starve and rot while France falls. Tell them we've been betrayed — and that the only answer is to take Murmansk for ourselves."
I ground the cigarette out on the warehouse floor.
"Gentlemen, we're about to add the British Empire to the list of people who regret meeting me."
---
May 1, 1918
Murmansk
Russia
The night air was sharp enough to cut through coats. The Czechoslovaks were gathered in the square, stamping their boots against the frost, clutching the rations the British had just handed out. Biscuits, tins of meat, a few crates of hard tack — enough to keep them alive, but not enough to buy their loyalty.
I climbed up onto a wagon, lit by torchlight and the glow of barrel-fires, and looked down at ten thousand tired, hungry, angry men. Translators stood ready on either side, waiting to turn my Georgian-Russian bark into Czech and Slovak growls.
I raised my arms. The noise died down.
"I have spoken to the British," I began, my voice carrying across the square. "And I will be blunt — they told you all to go fuck yourselves!"
A ripple of laughter, boos, curses. The translators spat the words with venom.
"They give cheap excuses! They say Bolshevism is a threat to Russia — while the Germans march toward Paris even now! They want to keep you here, cold and miserable, while they dine on caviar in their ships and piss on your sacrifices!"
Shouts of anger broke out in the crowd. Someone hurled their ration tin into the snow.
"I say no! I have given you women! Loot! And I will get you home, one way or another! Not as beggars in some frozen port, but as men — as soldiers, as Czechoslovaks!"
The translators bellowed it, and the square shook with roaring voices in reply.
I stepped forward, stabbing the air with my cigarette. "I say we teach the British a lesson! We seize their ships! We take their guns! We strip everything they have stashed here in Murmansk! And then we make our way home on our own terms. We will show the British you are not their slaves! You are Czechoslovaks! You are a proud people — not British puppets!"
The roar that followed was deafening — fists in the air, rifles raised, the bear cub Lenin howling with the men as if it understood.
I grinned, lifted my arm high, and gave them the chant:
"Glory! Women! Loot! Follow me, and you will have them!"
They answered in thunder, and at that moment Murmansk itself seemed to tremble.
The speech had barely died down before I gave the order. No time to let the anger cool, no time for second thoughts. Rage is like vodka — best drunk quickly before it loses its burn.
I pointed toward the harbor lights where the silhouettes of British warships loomed in the bay.
"To the docks! Catch them with their pants down!"
The roar that followed was feral. The Czechoslovaks surged forward, rifles and bayonets in the air, boots pounding the frozen earth. I didn't stay behind to "coordinate" or "observe." No — I went with them, cigarette clenched between my teeth, revolver in hand. If I was going to turn Murmansk upside down, I'd do it from the front.
The march became a charge, drunken voices twisting into war cries in Czech, Slovak, Russian. They poured into the dockyards like a tide, scattering the few guards and laborers unlucky enough to be standing watch. The British liaison officers, still lingering near the warehouses, barely had time to shout before they were shoved to the ground and trussed up.
Gunfire cracked as a few Marines tried to hold their ground by the piers. I saw one in his blue greatcoat raise his rifle — I put a Nagant round straight through his chest without breaking stride. Another swung a bayonet at close range, and I smashed him in the face with the butt, teeth scattering across the planks.
Behind me, the Czechoslovaks howled like wolves, storming through the dockside, seizing cranes, smashing open warehouses, and dragging crates of rifles and whiskey into the open. The Revolutionary Guards moved with precision, cutting off escape routes and herding the British sailors at gunpoint.
The harbor echoed with chaos — shouts in half a dozen languages, gunfire, the crash of crates hitting the water. In the distance, a klaxon began to wail from one of the British ships, a hollow, panicked cry that carried over the black water.
I spat my cigarette into the snow and drew another from my pocket with blood still on my sleeve.
The klaxons from the anchored ships were screaming now, echoing across the bay like the howls of a cornered beast. Lanterns and searchlights swung from masts, slicing through the Arctic dark, catching flashes of armed Czechoslovaks swarming the piers.
The Royal Navy, caught in its nightshirt, scrambled to respond. Officers barked orders from the decks of HMS Glory and her escorts, Marines lining the rails with rifles. But it was too late for clean discipline.
Dozens of my men had already seized rowboats. They shoved them into the black water, overloaded with armed Czechs and Guards, who paddled furiously toward the ships while shouting curses in a medley of languages. Some carried rifles slung across their backs, others carried grenades like apples in their belts.
"Take the ships! Take the guns! Take the officers alive!" I roared from the dock, revolver raised. The men howled in reply.
On the water, the first rowboats smashed against the hulls of the British ships. Grappling hooks went up, and drunken Legionnaires clawed their way aboard, firing pistols into the air and screaming like demons. The British Marines fired down, muzzle flashes stabbing the night, but the sheer chaos of it worked in our favor. Shots went wild, rowboats pressed in from every angle, and before long the first Czech flags were waving defiantly from a captured deck gun.
I saw one of my Guards leap from a rope ladder straight onto the quarterdeck of a destroyer, tackle an officer, and put a revolver to his temple. A cheer went up from the rowboats below. Hostages. Exactly what we needed.
The harbor had become a battlefield of shouts and gunfire, the water dotted with the black shapes of boats swarming like ants on a carcass. The Royal Navy still had discipline, still had steel, but they hadn't expected to be ambushed in their own anchorage by a mob of feral mercenaries led by a bloodstained Georgian.
I lit another cigarette, watching the flashes of light on the water.
"Gentlemen," I muttered to myself, "the scuttling comes next."
May 2, 1918
Murmansk Harbor
Russia
By midnight, the first decks had fallen. The rowboats kept coming, wave after wave of Legionnaires clambering up rope ladders, bayonets flashing in the searchlights. The British Marines fought hard — stiff, disciplined, barking orders through the chaos — but they were drowning in sheer numbers. Ten thousand half-drunk Czechs, whipped into frenzy, were not an enemy the Admiralty had trained them for.
I boarded HMS Glory myself, revolver in hand, coat whipping in the Arctic wind. A knot of Czechoslovaks cleared the way, their boots splashing through blood and seawater on the deck. A British lieutenant tried to draw his sword; I shot him in the head, watched him crumple, and kicked the blade away.
"Captain on deck!" one of my Guards shouted mockingly, dragging the Glory's real captain forward. A proud man — square jaw, greatcoat still neat even in the chaos. I shoved my revolver under his chin.
"Order your men below decks. Now. Or I paint the deck with your brains."
He hesitated, jaw working. Then the reality set in — Marines already disarmed, sailors herded at bayonet point, Czech flags already fluttering from the rigging of the destroyer beside us. He barked the order. Reluctant, but clear. The crew obeyed. Down into the guts of the ship they went, stripped of rifles, stripped of dignity.
It went the same on the other vessels. Captains forced at gunpoint to surrender their men, stokers driven into the holds, machine-gun nests turned outward to cover the docks instead of the bay. The Guards were efficient, if brutal: once a ship was secured, they lined the crew against the bulkheads, locked hatches, and posted men at every ladder. Hostages, every last one of them.
From the dock, the view was surreal. British warships — proud silhouettes of the Royal Navy — now bristling with Czech sentries at the rails, drunken Legionnaires firing pistols into the air, waving captured rifles and shouting in triumph.
I lit another cigarette and let the smoke curl in the frigid wind.
"Scuttle teams next," I muttered. "If London wants their ships back, they'll have to drag them from the bottom of the bay."
Lenin the bear cub waddled along the dock behind me, chewing on a torn bit of Marine epaulet. The men cheered as I raised my arm toward the harbor. Murmansk was ours.
At least, for tonight.
I gave the order to evacuate the British sailors and officers once everything calmed down. No massacres — not yet. Dead men rot, but live men panic. Panic spreads faster. My Guards herded the crews ashore at bayonet point, rifles pressed into backs, revolvers against skulls. The British lined up on the frozen docks, shivering in their thin uniforms, officers trying to keep their men straight while drunken Czechs jeered.
I let my guardsmen and the Czechoslovaks strip the prisoners of belts, watches, anything of value. I did promise loot after all.
Meanwhile, demolition teams went below decks. Not engineers, not specialists — just Guards with crates of dynamite and a vague understanding that "engine room plus explosives equals sinking ship." They smashed open hatches, dragged charges into boiler rooms, coal bunkers, and magazines. The work was loud, frantic, clumsy — crates slamming onto steel, fuses unspooled across decks slick with seawater.
I paced the quay, cigarette in hand, watching the black silhouettes of the Royal Navy against the stars. Beautiful ships, even now. Steel built for empire. Soon to be twisted wreckage on the seabed.
"Sir," one of the Guards reported, "charges set on the Glory and two destroyers. Another hour for the rest."
"Light them when ready," I said. "Then off the ships. All of you."
At 0200 the first charges blew. A deep, guttural thump rolled across the harbor as Glory's engine room tore itself open, water rushing in with a roar. The old battleship listed sharply to starboard, smoke curling from her funnels, then settled with a groan as the sea claimed her.
One by one the destroyers followed, keels cracking, decks splitting under the weight of inrushing water. Some capsized, masts vanishing beneath the black waves; others sank slowly, stubbornly, until only their funnels jutted above the surface like gravestones.
The British prisoners on shore stood in rigid silence, watching their squadron die in the harbor they had come to command. I caught the captain of the Glory staring at me, his face pale but steady. I raised my cigarette to him in a mock toast.
By dawn, Murmansk harbor was a graveyard. The Royal Navy's North Russia Squadron lay half-submerged in the bay, smoke and oil slicking the water.
I turned to my officers, voice hoarse from smoke and cold.
"Fortify the city. Machine guns on the ridges. Trenches along the approaches. Burn every ship that isn't used for fishing to ensure landing is impossible. From this day forward, Murmansk will remain ours."
May 2, 1918
Daytime
Murmansk
Admiral Kemp sat on a wooden chair in what had once been a fish storehouse, now emptied of crates and filled with British officers under guard. The smell of salt, smoke, and oil from the harbor clung to the air. Outside, the muffled roar of Legionnaires celebrating drifted in — laughter, boots stamping, the occasional gunshot fired into the sky.
I stepped in, coat still streaked with grime, revolver on my belt. Kemp looked up at me with a face carved from stone. He had the look of a man who knew he'd just watched his entire squadron drown and was still trying to make sense of it.
I took out my cigarette case, tapped one free, and lit it. The flame caught the edge of my face in the dim light. Then I leaned against the table opposite him and exhaled smoke.
"Should have put me on the line to London, asshole," I said in fluent English, voice almost casual. "Might've saved your fleet."
Kemp's jaw flexed, but he said nothing. He was too disciplined for that.
I held out the pack, offering him a cigarette. "Go on. Last one's free. After all, I'm a generous host."
He hesitated, then took it. I lit it for him, watched the smoke rise between us.
"You and your men," I said, tone soft but cutting, "will be treated with dignity. No parading in the streets, no executions, no insults. You'll be hostages, Admiral. Nothing more, nothing less. Alive, useful, respected… as long as you don't make me regret it. We'll arrange for you all to be sent to Moscow."
Kemp exhaled through his nose, the cigarette trembling just slightly between his fingers. He met my eyes finally.
"You'll regret this, Jugashvili. London will not forget Murmansk."
I smiled thinly, blew smoke into the dim air, and leaned closer.
"London can't even hold Amiens, Admiral. Let them remember Murmansk. Maybe it'll remind them they don't run the world."
I straightened, flicked the ash from my cigarette, and turned to leave. Behind me, the British officers sat in silence, their uniforms rumpled, their pride drowned with their ships.
May 2, 1918
Night
Murmansk
We gathered in what passed for my headquarters — a commandeered customs office overlooking the recently burnt harbor. The windows were cracked, the floorboards stained with salt and coal dust, but the view was good. You could see the half-submerged hulks of the British squadron bobbing like corpses.
Tukachevsky stood at attention, flanked by the senior officers of the Revolutionary Guard Corps. They were still flushed from victory, but I saw the hunger in their eyes. Victory was an appetizer. They wanted the main course.
I leaned over the map spread across the table, cigarette clamped in my teeth, finger tracing the line of the railway down to Archangel.
"Tukhachevsky," I said, my voice flat. "Take a thousand men. Guards only. Leave the Czechs here — they're drunk, unruly, and too busy looting Murmansk to be of use. You'll march on Archangel. If the British are there, you expel them. If they resist, you take hostages like we did here. If you can't, you burn the harbor and every ship that floats — make it impossible for them to land again."
The Guards exchanged glances, but none spoke.
"On the way," I went on, "kill every SR, every monarchist, every provisional government rat you find. No exceptions. They are to fear our march like a plague of fire." I jabbed my finger against Archangel on the map. "Fortify it when you're done. Trenches, barricades, machine guns on the approaches, burn the fucking port. If the British want a foothold in the north, they'll have to claw it back over corpses."
I straightened, exhaling smoke.
"In the meantime, I'll turn Murmansk into a fortress. The coast will be mined. Every pier burned, every slipway made useless. If they try to land here again, they'll find nothing but wreckage and gunfire."
Tukachevsky nodded sharply. "I'll take care of it."
I smiled thinly, tapping ash onto the map.
"Good. Then let the world know — the north belongs to us. Not London. Not Paris. Us."
The room was silent except for the hiss of the oil lamp. Outside, the drunken singing of Czechoslovaks drifted through the night air, punctuated by the low growl of the bear cub Lenin rooting through a crate.
