I had broken my glasses, and it was necessary to secure others. I walked to the town and called at the shop of a jeweller and optician, with whom we conversed. Other customers joined in the talk, and we were here informed of the murder of the present owner's mother during the Bolshevik occupation of the town. The Soviet Commisar, with Red soldiers, visited the shop one day to loot the stock. The mother, an old lady over sixty years of age who was then looking after the business, protested against the robbery of her property. The commisar ordered one of the Red Guard to bayonet her, which he did. They then proceeded to remove everything of value, locked up the premises with the dead woman still lying on the shop floor, and for several days refused permission to her neighbours to give her decent burial on the plea that she was a counter-revolutionist. It was evident from the appearance of the place that the Red soldiers were pretty expert at this sort of business; but stories like this are so numerous that it is nauseating to repeat them.
The next point of interest was Lake Baikal, or as it is more correctly described by the Russians, the "Baikal Sea." We approached this famous lake on a very cold Sunday evening, and long before we reached its shores the clear cold depths of the water gave evidence of its presence in the changed atmosphere. A furious gale was blowing across the lake from the west, which lashed huge waves into fury and foam as they beat in endless confusion on the rockbound shore. Blinding snow mixed with the spray gave the inky blackness of the night a weird and sombre appearance. Our Cossack attendant, Marca, droned a folk-song about the wonders of the Baikal, which, when interpreted by my liaison officer, fitted the scene to a fraction. We put up the double windows, listed the doors and turned in for the night. I was fearful that we should leave the lake before morning and so fail to get a daylight view of this most interesting part of our journey. We all awoke early to find the scene so changed as to appear almost miraculous.
The strange light of these northern zones was gently stealing over an immense sea of clear, perfectly calm, glassy water, which enabled us to locate the whiter coloured rocks at enormous depths. A fleecy line of cloud hung lazily over the snow-capped mountains. The Great Bear nearly stood on his head, and the Pole Star seemed to be almost over us. The other stars shone with icy cold brilliance and refused to vanish, though the sun had begun to rise. And such a rising! We could not see that welcome giver of warmth and life, but the beautiful orange and purple halo embraced half the world. From its centre shot upwards huge, long yellow streamers which penetrated the darkness surrounding the stars and passed beyond into never-ending space. Gradually these streamers took a more slanting angle until they touched the highest peaks and drove the cloud lower and lower down the side of the mountains. I have been on the Rigi under similar conditions, but there is nothing in the world like an autumn sunrise on Lake Baikal. I stopped the train ostensibly to allow water to be obtained for breakfast, but really to allow the men to enjoy what was in my opinion the greatest sight in the world. Some of the men were as entranced as myself, while others (including officers) saw nothing but plenty of clean fresh water for the morning ablutions. We all have our several tastes even in His Majesty's Army.
Rumour says there are exactly the same fish to be found in Lake Baikal as in the sea, with other varieties which represent ordinary fresh-water types. I do not believe there is any authority for these statements. Sea gulls of every known category are certainly to be found there, and wild duck in variety and numbers to satisfy the most exacting sportsman.
Passing along this wonderful panorama for some hours we arrived at Baikal. The maps supplied to me show the railway as making a bee line from the south of the lake to Irkutsk. This is not so; the line does not deviate an inch from the western shores of the lake until it touches the station. Baikal is reached nearly opposite the point at which the railway strikes the lake on the eastern side. The lake is fed by the River Selengha, which drains the northern mountains and plains of Mongolia. No river of importance enters it on the north except the short, high Anghara; in fact, the rivers Armur and Lenha start from quite near its northern and eastern extremities. It is drained on the west by the famous River Anghara, which rises near Baikal, and enters the Polar Sea at a spot so far north as to be uninhabitable, except for the white bears who fight for the possession of icebergs.
Baikal had been the scene of a titanic struggle between the Czecho-Slovak forces and the Bolsheviks, who had in case of defeat planned the complete and effective destruction of the line by blowing up the numerous tunnels alongside the lake, which it must have taken at least two years to repair. The Czechs moved so rapidly, however, that the enemy were obliged to concentrate at Baikal for the defence of their own line of communication. Before they had made up their minds that they were already defeated a lucky Czech shot struck their store of dynamite and blew the station, their trains, and about three hundred of their men to smithereens. The remainder retreated off the line in a southerly direction, and after many days' pursuit were lost in the forests which form the chief barrier between Siberia and Mongolia, to emerge later on an important point on the railway near Omsk.
We stopped at Baikal for water and fuel, and examined the damage done by the explosion. The great iron steamer which used to be employed to convey the train from one side of the lake to the other was almost destroyed, its funnels and upper works being wrenched and twisted beyond repair. But out from every crevice of her hull and from every broken carriage came German and Austrian prisoners of war dressed in every conceivable style of uniform. There was no guard of any description, but they all appeared to be under the direction of a young German officer, who saluted very stiffly as we passed. No doubt existed amongst these Germans (so I heard from our men later) that we were tramping towards Germany and certain death. Not one would believe but that Germany would win the war, and destroy not only England, but also America. They had no feelings about France, nor would they consider her as other than an already half-digested morsel. Quartermaster-Captain Boulton put it to one prisoner: "But suppose Germany were defeated?" "Then," said the prisoner, "I would never return to Germany again." We fell in with thousands of German prisoners who all held a most perplexing view of ourselves. They described us as the only real and bitter enemy of their country. But the same men would volunteer to work for us rather than for any other Ally, because they said we treated them fairly and behaved to them like men, and listened to their grievances. That is something at any rate.