alternatehistory.com

Hello, everyone. I'm rebooting an old story idea I had where the Russian Revolution/Civil War developed differently, leading to a much different Russia and world.

Version 2.0 is very different, if not non-identical from the original story. The new story deals with a POD wherein Alexander F. Kerensky is killed in Gatchina village during his escape from revolutionary Petrograd, whose death greatly reduces the length of the Russian Civil War.

Read and discuss. Any helpful advice and/or criticism will be welcome. :D I plan to finish this to be well beyond 2,000 words. I will try to post every once and a while on the discussion forum for now. the story starts below the bold font.

Petrograd, The Red Flame Of Russia 2.0

An Alternate History Of The Russian Revolution And Civil War


Part One


Kerensky, enemy of the people and conciliatory political escapee, has been found dead in the village of Gatchina, where he sought to escape justice at the hands of the new Soviet government! The Military Revolutionary Committee, in lieu of such an event, raises a call to all honest members of the red guard to step up the offensive against the now leaderless hordes of the deposed Provisional Government. Long live the revolution! Long live the workers' and peasants' government!


THE MILITARY REVOLUTIONARY COMMITTEE
Petrograd, December 1917




“In fact,” screamed a socialist revolutionary over that of a roaring, angry crowd, “Kerensky was found savagely beaten to death at the hands of the Bolsheviks!” The crowd was vengeful, intent on hearing out anyone-that is anyone with information, reliable or not-whom had something to say about Kerensky's fate. The socialist revolutionary stood tall over the crowd on top of an armored car, clenching a raised fist while his voice struggled to compete with the increasing ardor of the crowd. “To hell with the Bolsheviks' demagoguery!” Shouting, against the Bolsheviks.
“Damned fool, get off of there!” Gradually, surely, the rough voice of a man arose over the chaotic noise of the crowd. Silence as all present prepared to listen to him. “Indeed, Kerensky is dead. Yes, it is true that his body was badly bloodied. No, no, speaking as a Bolshevik I can say that we had no hand in his brutal death. See, even your own bourgeois paper confirms this!” The man clambered up on top of the armored car with his friends' help to be near the socialist revolutionary, from where he held up a copy of Dielo Naroda. He read the main headline aloud and in a clear voice: 'Kerensky Found Murdered By Cossacks!' “See?” Said the Bolshevik. “My party has not spilled a drop of Kerensky's blood. That would be the fault of the Cossacks!” A hushed murmur arose through the crowd.
“Socialist Revolutionary, remove yourself from our sight!” A thin, booming voice pierced through the silence. Cheering from the Bolshevik members of the crowd as the rest booed the Socialist Revolutionary speaker off of the vehicle. The Bolshevik smiled.
“I believe that we've won the crowd and soon enough the day.” He muttered under his breath. To an extent, he was right. The Bolsheviks' victory was to come, but not today.


From The Russian Civil War: A History By: Nathan Holmes


“...Kerensky's untimely death at the hands of a band of Bolshevist Cossacks effectively drove the final nail into the coffin that was the overthrown Provisional Government. Had he lived to continue his escape from the village Gatchina, the civil war (then still in it's infancy) in Russia would've probably gone on indefinitely til one side's ultimate annihilation on the revolutionary front line. Instead, the civil war came and went in a swift manner, the right-wing opposition to the Bolsheviks having been in want of a symbolic figure to rally behind.”



Heavy rain falls down
Washing Moscow's streets clean of sin
Covering up that awful sound
Of martyred kin
Long ago vanquished in their fight for freedom
That great ideal, reduced to a mere phrase
Serving only to numb
Left to dissipate in the haze
With all of their strength and with all of their might
Those kin not yet wasted away fight to uphold what is beholden to them
To hold onto what is theirs by right
In a vain effort to mend
That last vestige of freedom frozen in ice
Left behind and ready to freely, cheaply lend


Title: “That Great Ideal”


Date: 1918


Author: Unknown


From Poems Of The World Socialist Revolution

Stretching across Moscow were dug trenches in which hid the Red Guard. Soviet artillery pieces rained steel and fire onto the Moscow duma building, which appeared as if it had been bit by bullets and shrapnel. The bourgeoisie cowered in their cellars.
What unit are you in?” Alexander Zyuganov's voice rose steadily over the roar of artillery off to the distance. He had been pressed into officership by a show of hands, and soon wound up in Moscow fighting the White Guard. The man with a rifle slung around his shoulder looked at him quizzically.
No unit. I'm just a worker.” Alexander pointed vaguely in the direction of the duma, or at least where he figured it was from the perceived safety of the trench.
Do you think a group of you could take the duma?” The worker-turned-soldier's eyes grew wide. He was scared. They were all scared.
The duma? Let me see, it should be visible from here.” The worker placed his rifle up against the trench wall and attempted to clamor up over the side of the trench. A rapid hail of bullets sent him scurrying back into the trench. “Machine guns.” The worker's voice was stone cold.
Alexander sighed heavily, resting a thin hand on his holstered pistol. “Are you sure you can't take it? The worker breathed in a rush of rancid, gunpowder-filled air.
We could try-” Alexander wasn't the man to interrupt others, but felt that now was the proper time to do so.
Try, then.” The worker picked his rifle back up and spoke to a cluster of red guard workers quickly and without delay.
We'll take it.” Alexander turned away from the group and held his head low. He never expected to be shedding Russian blood. No one did. He turned back around.
I'll take the lead, comrades.” The worker nodded his head. He was elected for a reason, and whatever possessed him to follow them was probably not a decision made by a clear-headed mind, but of his heart or quite possibly his gut. “When I say so, we charge.” Charge they would.
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