I’ve read several histories of Russia, but the best education I received was a game of Axis & Allies in which I drew the role of the Soviet Union. With German armor driving on Moscow, I urged my Western allies with increasing desperation to do something — anything — to take the pressure off me. I felt, irrationally, as if the British and American players secretly wanted me knocked out of the game.
Russia is a blood-soaked story drenched in the paranoia that someone, somewhere, is out to get you. This is crucial to understanding a state that habitually destabilizes the globe in its quest for stability. British author Mark Galeotti, writing from more than thirty years of experience with his subject, captures that paradox with a quote from a Russian veteran: “Yes, Russians can do terrible things to protect their Motherland, but it's because we know the price of war that we understand the value of peace.”
Galeotti translates this paradox into a language Westerners can understand using the lexicon of Russia’s wars. Not all of them, of course: he admits in his introduction that “it quickly became clear what a foolish ambition” that would be. Instead, he frames his narrative around twenty-four key conflicts in as many chapters, progressing chronologically from the raid on Constantinople in 860 to the drive on Kyiv in 2022, which he covers in a final chapter provocatively entitled “Putin’s Hubris.” Unsurprisingly, Russia banned Galeotti from its borders within months of that invasion.
If you already know your Russian history, Galeotti offers little that’s new. He follows well-established lines of Russian historiography; for example, attributing the nation’s martial culture partly to its lack of natural borders and a consequent felt need to push the limits of state security ever outward. You won’t find any fresh or revisionist takes here. On the other hand, if you aren’t well versed in the subject, then “Forged in War” is a solid starting point. Galeotti provides a strong narrative thread that’s clear and easy to follow, which is good given the number of Vladimirs and Ivans and Alexanders he has to juggle.
What you won’t get is a fully-fledged history of Russia. Galeotti sets his goalpost early, offering to help the reader “understand the ways that war and military security have shaped not just Russia's past, but its own sense of its present - and the ways that there is real debate about its future.” In other words, this book is all war, all the time. The evolution of Russian Orthodoxy, the enslavement and emancipation of the serfs, the challenge of incorporating Islamic realms into an Orthodox Empire, the experience of Russia’s Jews, and other such topics come into glancing focus if or when the thesis demands it — with the exception of a slightly more involved discussion of Cossack culture in order to contextualize the origins of Ukrainian nationalism and Putin’s determination to exterminate the same.
This isn’t a bad goalpost given the vastness of Russian history and Galeotti’s specialized interest in explaining how we got from Rus raiders cutting through the Black Sea to T-72s burning on the road to Kyiv. “Forged in War” provides a competent understanding of Russia’s militarized and messianic psychology, and I recommend the book as a readable explainer of Russia’s tendency to defend itself in other people’s countries; but it lacks the sociological and cultural context to explain fully this enigmatic holdover from the age of empire. To balance this, each chapter provides a shortlist not only of recommended additional reading, but also of movies, television series, and even tabletop wargames that give texture and flavor to the various epochs in Russia’s past.
Something else to note is that we history addicts are always tempted to overinterpret the present in terms of the past. The shadow of Putin’s war in Ukraine projects backward throughout Galeotti’s book, such as in his criticism of the “old men in the Kremlin” whose invasion of Afghanistan in 1979 sprang from a delusion that Kabul represented a “desperate zero-sum struggle for global supremacy” even though America barely knew or cared about it. Anyone tracking the war in Ukraine has seen this complaint before.
For another example, Galeotti’s summary of Tsar Nicholas II could not be aimed more obviously at Vladimir Putin: “He was weak enough to be dangerous for the regime, foolish enough not to understand the threats facing Russia, stubborn enough not to listen to those who did, and credulous enough to listen to people whom he really shouldn't have paid attention to. This includes those who assured him that...'a nice, victorious little war' would unite and cheer the nation.” Galeotti doesn’t need to come right out and say that Putin risks the disintegration of Russia and a bullet in a basement, and it’s up to the reader to decide whether the author is seeing repetition where there is only rhyme.
For all that, the past does rhyme. Whether tsar, secretary, or president, Russian autocrats all seem to fall into the same patterns of dysfunction, paranoia, repression, and war. Galeotti’s narrative makes it difficult to imagine a Russia that integrates well into a peaceful global order unless its national mythology undergoes a dramatic (and likely traumatic) change. At least since Muscovy’s emergence from its submission to the Mongols, Russia’s elite have cast themselves as the saviors of mankind and last defense against barbarism. This quasi-mystical sense of destiny warps all perceived security threats into demons to be exorcised, whether those supposed demons are steppe nomads, Caucasian hilltop raiders, blitzkrieging Nazis, or libertine Western democracies. Russia will always fight to save first the Motherland and then the rest of the world, whether the rest of the world wants to be saved or not.