World War: A Happy Show

Back in London last week from a visit to Russia’s front as chief of the British Military Mission was Lieut. General Frank Noel Mason MacFarlane, a pukka sahib, the archetype of British sporting soldiery, a man who had stuck pigs in India, raced autos in the Alps, shot grouse in Scotland, worn the kilt in Budapest, and in between times been military attache in Berlin (1937-39) and Army Commander at Gibraltar (1940-41). He thought the Reds were a bit of all right. His report:

“As a reply to the rather astronomical German claims about the tanks and planes they have destroyed, I may say that I saw large numbers of Russian tanks in this area [Smolensk] and I saw more Russian airplanes in the skies than German.

“The men were looking very hard and fit, and obviously were well fed. They had got their tails right up. Every lot that I saw seemed to be what I should call a happy show. There were very good relations all around and everywhere one got the impression of very deep-rooted universal hatred of what they called the Fascists.

“I was very struck with their horses, which are mostly used in transport. They are very little, hard, wiry horses, doing their stuff frightfully well and obviously well looked after.

“Then I must mention the smooth way in which all their rear organizations, such as supply, are going on. It was striking. A very good standard of driving and good traffic control were evident, and there were very few breakdowns. In the evening soup kitchens rolled up to the front, steaming, with dinner.

“I saw several army girls in uniform, wearing boots, dark-blue skirts and the army blouse. They were as far forward as advanced divisional headquarters. . . . One was a medical, one was a telegraphist, another was a motor driver, another was a clerk with an air force unit. . . .

“The country is very striking—rather like Salisbury Plain, only with very large patches of ten-foot-high scrub and a certain amount of forest. The Russians are unusually good at concealment. You would go along a patch of scrub and just catch something out of the corner of your eye, then find it full of men and stuff completely hidden from view.

“Once you get off the main road you are either driving in a blinding cloud of dust or, when it rains, you are sliding about in a good imitation of marmalade.

“From the moment I left Moscow to the moment I got back I did not see a single sign of refugees anywhere. . . . After the vivid memories of Belgium and France, this was most heartening.”