I

We halted two weeks at Kovachitsa. Camp-life is wearisome and monotonous when there is nothing to do, especially in such an out-of-the-way spot; at the same time it would not be just to call Kovachitsa by such a name. The staff of our corps had its quarters in the place and there was a postal section⁠—in a word, the means of finding out what was going on in the world surrounding us, but chiefly at the two theatres of war and in our dear, faraway Homeland. However, it must be said in all justice that we were not spoiled by the freshness and wealth of the news, and it often appeared to us to be mutilated and exaggerated. Sombre rumours of the early failures at Plevna were so exaggerated that only papers two or three weeks old dispersed the gloom reigning amongst the officers. It seemed that the direct road from Plevna was not as close to us as the route via Petersburg and Moscow; however, “the shortest cut is the longest way round,” as the saying goes.

Our brigade began to get bored. It is true that once a portion of the Niejinsky Regiment went out reconnoitring, or, more correctly speaking, to punish the armed inhabitants of Lom, who had risen. Having taught them a lesson, the regiment returned with the loss of one killed. Another soldier escaped by a miracle, as will be seen from the following narrative of his:

“We had begun to turn back, and the Bashi-Bazouks commenced to fire from afar. I lagged behind a little, and turned to fire. I had only just started to overtake them when it hit me in the back. But it was a bad shot⁠—it buried itself in my greatcoat. It went through seven folds and stuck in the eighth.”

“It” was, of course, a bullet. When the soldier opened out his greatcoat there were actually seven holes in it.

“And I had only time to cross myself when⁠—look!⁠—my ration-bag had two holes in the very bottom of it, and biscuit crumbs began to dribble out.”

It had a bite of them and went.

“Our Russian biscuits are not tasty,” said somebody jokingly.

Meanwhile, whilst we were halted in Kovachitsa, and, to use the popular expression, “were going sour,” there were constant skirmishes ahead of us at the front, near Papkio.

On the 9th of August our regimental doctor ordered a “medical inspection” to assemble in the lines of the third battalion (which was camped apart from us). Our company was the first of all to muster, and after they had formed us up, we were marched to the appointed parade-ground. It was not a large piece of ground, but was free of tents and guns. Here we halted. There was no doctor, and we were obliged to wait for him. Having nothing to do I began to gaze at the camp. A camp in time of war presents a strange appearance. The little tents of the soldiers shone brightly white bathed in sunshine. The piles of arms and different coloured figures of soldiers lent a variety to this white background. Lilac-coloured shirts predominated; then came red, yellow, crimson, and green. The black tunics were only worn if on some duty. Everyone preferred the most immoderate dèshabille. Some were barefooted, others with bared chest and back. Boots were not worn because of the heat, besides which a thousand versts’ march had taught the men the necessity of taking care of them.

We waited quite a time. Someone went to inform the doctor that the men were on parade. But it became evident to us that we were not to undergo a “medical inspection.” The regimental Adjutant rushed into the tent of the commandant of the third battalion, and almost instantaneously stout little Major A. ran out of his tent nearly naked, having divested himself of most of his clothing owing to the heat, and gave the order:

“Third battalion, strike tents! Leave knapsacks behind.” He then disappeared into his tent, which was immediately struck, revealing the Major sitting on a folding-chair and being assisted into various necessary articles of clothing by his servant. At the same time there was an immediate change in the appearance of the third battalion. Men came crawling out of every tent like ants, hurriedly putting on their uniforms. Tents disappeared and were folded up, and greatcoats were rolled. Within five minutes of the Major’s command, the variegated, quiet bivouac had become transformed into regular sombre-coloured ranks of men. Here and there the sunlight played on the bayonets and rifle-barrels. Officers came running towards the battalion fastening on their sword-belts as they ran. The Major himself appeared before the battalion, mounted his horse with outside assistance, and gave a command, which was taken up by the company commanders. The mass of humanity stirred, and began, snakelike to draw out into column, of route. Where was it going? The Major, having led the way on to the road, turned to the left and took the column towards Papkio. The battalion had not had time to get on to the road before our own orderly appeared.

“Kuzma Zakharich, call up the company; we are advancing.”

“Without knapsacks?” asked a number of voices at once.

The question was one of the premier importance. Nearly one-third of all a soldier’s discomforts during a campaign arise from the “calf,” as the soldiers nicknamed their clumsy knapsack. Others called it a “chest of drawers.” This “chest of drawers” hurts the shoulders, presses on the chest, tires out the feet, and lessens the stability of the body. Even in cool, fresh weather it makes the back under it wet with perspiration after five minutes’ marching. It is not, therefore, astonishing that the order to leave knapsacks behind was met with general satisfaction.

The company ran to its bivouac. Everyone had already assembled. Knapsacks were thrown into a heap and tents struck. We hurriedly dressed. However much the Russian may like to make a noise on every convenient occasion and when he is in a crowd, there was absolute silence. I have always been struck with this quietness during the mustering of the men whenever the “alarm” sounded.

In a quarter of an hour’s time we moved off. The total distance from Kovachitsa to Papkio is from nine to ten versts, but although we marched “light,” without knapsacks and only with our greatcoats slung bandolier-fashion across our shoulders with our tent-sheets wrapped up in them, these ten versts absolutely knocked us out. The heat was deadly, over 35° Réamur14 in the shade, and not the slightest vestige of a breeze. Everything seemed to have died. The maize did not move its dark-green leaves. The boughs and leaves of the pear-trees which we passed were motionless. Not a solitary bird did we see during the whole of this march. The men were done even after the first four versts. When halfway a halt was called at a well, they were scarcely able to pile arms, and literally fell on to the ground.

“Have you got out of the way of marching, Gabriel Vassilivich?” I said to my neighbour, as he lay with half-closed eyes breathing heavily.

“Yes, if one doesn’t walk for a fortnight it spoils one,” he answered dully. “Let us go for a drink.”

We rose, and went to push our way to the well, or, more correctly speaking, to the spring. From an iron pipe placed in the wall of stone at about the height of a man a clear transparent stream ran into a stone trough. The men pressed each other as they got the water, and soaked each other as they passed their canteens full of water over the heads of their neighbours. We had a good drink and filled our water-bottles.

“Well, that’s a bit better. I can manage another march now,” said Gabriel Vassilivich, wiping his fair moustaches and beard with his sleeve.

He was an extraordinarily good-looking fellow, sturdy, active, with big blue eyes. He now lies on the Aislar heights and nothing is left of his blue eyes and handsome face.

Having given us a half-hour’s spell. Major F. led us further. The nearer we approached Papkio the more and more difficult it became. The sun baked us with such fury that it seemed as if it was hurrying to complete the job before we reached our destination and could take refuge from its heat in our tents. Some of us succumbed. Scarcely moving along, with my head lowered, I almost tripped over an officer who had fallen. He was lying, scarlet in the face and was breathing convulsively and heavily. They placed him in an ambulance-wagon.

The one and a half verst climb out of the valley along which we had marched up its right slope seemed to us the worst part of the whole road. The smells which always notified us of any approaching camp added still further to the suffocating heat. How I “stuck” it I absolutely don’t remember, but nevertheless I did. Others were less fortunate. Scarcely able to drag one foot after another we got into the order in which we were to camp, and, barely able to stand up, awaited the longed-for command from Major F.⁠—“Pile arms!” That is, pile arms and do what you like afterwards.

II

The men were so worn out that even the insufferable heat could not make them go for water. Only after half an hour’s rest did the orderlies assemble with their canteens and set off for the village. On that slope of the valley, on the summit of which we were encamped, was the Mussulman quarter of Papkio⁠—literally deserted since the plague. On the opposite side crowded the Bulgarian kishtas, precisely similar to the Turkish houses, with exactly the same squat tiled roofs. There could be heard the barking of dogs. People could be seen, also sheep and buffaloes, or “bufflös,” as our men called them. To the right was the valley along which we had just come, with a stream in the middle and endless fields of maize, barley, and wheat along its slopes. To the left, at right angles to our valley, was the valley of Lom, fading away on either side into a misty bluish distance, out of which the mountains on the right bank of the river could be seen with decreasing clearness.

Opposite us these heights rose to a great elevation. At one point on them there appeared at intervals a puff of white smoke which, slowly and slowly drifting, melted and disappeared, fused in the air. Half a minute later there would come a dull roar resembling the growl of distant thunder. This was the Morshansk Regiment carrying out a reconnaissance.

We found the springs, got some water, and returned in no particular order to our bivouac. The soldiers, having rested a little, were already more lively. The distant firing undoubtedly helped in this matter.

“Listen! What firing!”

“What do you think, chums? Are they ours or the Turks?” asked someone.

Somebody else replied that the Morshansk Regiment had taken no guns with them, and certainly, judging from the situation and direction of the smoke, they could not be shots from our guns.

More to the right of the village, much nearer than the shellfire, not on the heights, but below it in the Valley of Lom, began the sound of rifle-fire, at first desultory, as if several axes were hewing down trees, then more and more often. Sometimes the sound united in a prolonged crackle.

I went up to the officers of our company. Our company commander was talking to another officer⁠—S.⁠—telling him that he had just been informed that similar “brushes” took place here almost every day.

“Well, it seems we have got into action at last,” said S.

“But what sort of action is this?⁠ ⁠… Surely you cannot call this an action? Some of the local inhabitants have squatted down with their blunderbusses in the woods and are sniping us. All the same, stray bullets may come this way, and I should not like to be killed in such a way.”

“Why, Ivan Nicolaievitch?” I asked.

“Because what sort of action is this?”

Ivan Nicolaievitch was an expert on military matters and a tremendous admirer of strategy and tactics. He frequently expressed the opinion that if he was to be killed it ought to be done in the proper manner in a proper battle, or, better still, in a general action. The present skirmishing was evidently not to his liking. He tugged uneasily at a few straggling hairs on his chin, then suddenly with a good-humoured and serious smile exclaimed:

“Better to come along and have some tea; the samovar is ready.”

We crawled into the tent, and settled down to drink tea. Little by little the firing died down, and we spent the remainder of the day and night in absolute quietness.

By the way, I dreamt all night long of white puffs of smoke and of the rattle of musketry.

When I awoke the sun was already high up. The heat was like yesterday’s. A battalion of the Nevsky Regiment which had passed us going in the direction of yesterday’s cannonading marched along, however, quite spiritedly. The men were infected with the closeness of battle.

However, they soon returned, and, skirting the village, probably made for the scene of the previous day’s rifle-firing. Today it was less distinct, the shots were further from us. The guns, too, roared at first from our side, but soon white puffs of smoke showed themselves on the heights of the opposite bank. The Turks had brought up some artillery.

I proposed to S. going into the village to climb on to some roof and follow the fight. One could see better from this position. Although the minaret was untouched, and of course stood high above any roof, the mosque itself stood low down, almost in the valley, so we clambered on to the gallery of the first Cherkess house we came to which happened to face towards the scene of the action. But although it lay before us, we could see no troops or even any rifle-smoke. There was simply nothing to be seen. We slid down from the gallery into a little garden of white acacias and apricot trees. Everything was in perfect order, as if it was only yesterday the owners had watered the flowerbeds. Pumpkins were winding their clinging stalks along the hedge, whilst a few stalks of maize and high “rat’s-tails” with red ears gave colour to the garden. We entered the house. The walls were smoothly and clearly plastered with a grey clay. All was in perfect repair. Only the hearth, made of pieces of tile, was broken. On the floor were scattered a few leaves of some Mussulman book with decorated headings in gold and paint.

There was nothing more to see, and climbing over the labyrinth of hedges we got out into the street. Here we met S.’s servant, who came running towards us, red as a lobster.

“Please, sir, please! They have already stood to arms!”

We ran to the battalion, and in two minutes’ time I, too, was marching along with my rifle shouldered.

We went towards the scene of yesterday’s rifle skirmish. The soldiers began to cross themselves. A long string of ambulance wagons halted on the road to let us pass and followed on behind us.

III

We skirted round the village, descended, and passed over a small bridge thrown across the stream. The road led lightly to the mountain through a small thicket. Little medlar-trees, all red from the quantity of fruit, mingled with blackthorn. It was a narrow road, and not more than four men could march abreast. To the right of it gun and rifle pits had been dug out amongst the bushes, preparations in case of an attack by the Turks on Papkio.

We halted and allowed some regiment to pass us. It was the Nevsky Regiment, which had been under fire all day and was now returning to camp, as it had expended all its ammunition. So far as I can remember, its casualties that day had not been great. They marched as if worn out and tired, but with an air of gaiety and good spirits.

“What are you coming back for, mates?” we asked them. Some of them said nothing, but merely opened their empty cartridge pouches. Others replied that there were no more cartridges, that the Sofia Regiment, which was in front, had relieved them, and that the Turks had fallen back.

“Oh you!”

“Why ‘Oh you’? You go yourself two days without food. Besides, there are no cartridges. A soldier without cartridges is like a pipe without tobacco,” said one of the Nevsky’s, knocking out his pipe. “Turn back? Yes if they came at us, but when it is a case of they firing and we firing, there’s nothing in it. Chum, give me a draw.”

He had a puff or two, and then ran to catch up his company.

A battery came trotting past, and we followed behind it. The sun was setting and was gilding everything. We went down into a ravine where a small stream was flowing. Ten gigantic black poplars hid the spot like a roof where we again halted. The ambulance wagons were drawn up in several rows. The doctors, dressers, and hospital orderlies were hurrying about and making preparations for bandaging. The guns were booming not far away, and became ever increasingly frequent.

Two more battalions passed us. Evidently we had been left in reserve. We were led to one side, piled arms, and laid down on ground which was covered with soft, fragrant smelling mint.

I lay on my back and gazed through the branches at the darkening sky. The giant trunks, which would have required some half-dozen men to span their girth, had shot up and thrown out branches which had interlaced with each other. Only here and there could there be seen a little star in the now blue-black sky, and far, far away they seemed, as if in the depth of some abyss from which they were peacefully grazing. The booming of guns continued, and the tops of the trees momentarily reflected the red glare which appeared immediately before each report, making them look even more terrible and dismal. There was no sound of rifle-fire. Probably it was what is known in military parlance as an artillery preparation for an attack.

I lay there half dozing; around me the men were talking quietly and with restraint. I remember now a curious circumstance which at the time did not occur to me. No one, by so much as a word, hinted at or recalled the fact that there was another world for him, with home, relatives, and friends. All appeared to have forgotten their former life. They talked about this menacing boom of cannon, why the Nevsky Regiment had gone back, and why they had not had ammunition brought them. They conjectured on the strength of the Turks, and what of our force was engaged. Was it only the three regiments (Nevsky, Sofia, and Bolkhovs), or both divisions?

“But perhaps the Eleventh Brigade will be in time also. We’ll give it hot to them.”

“Don’t say that. Who can tell? Perhaps they have brought all their strength. If only we can hold them it will be all right. They will not ask more from us.”

“Yes, that’s right. Besides, they say we are not allowed to attack.”

“Who told you that?”

“Ivanoff, the staff-clerk. He is a countryman of mine.”

“How can your Ivanoff know?” said the man doubtfully.

The tops of the poplars commenced to pale and the leaves took on a silvery hue as they softly reflected the moonlight. The moon had risen, but we could not see it, as we were lying at the bottom of the ravine. Nevertheless, it became a little lighter. A mounted officer showed up on the brink of the ravine and shouted despairingly: “Send forward the cartridge boxes of the Sofia Regiment.” But the boxes were on the opposite side of the ravine, and in spite of all his shouting his voice did not carry to the ammunition carts. One of our officers called out, “Pass the word along.” Whereupon there commenced something in the nature of what musicians call a fugue. Somebody shouted “Cartridges boxes forward!” another began the same phrase as the first called out “boxes,” and a third took it up when the second finished “cartridges.” At any rate the slumbering ammunition carriers woke up, and, putting their horses at the gallop, crossed over the ravine.

In ten minutes’ time musketry fire commenced. The ear, which at first had listened painfully to each shot, grew tired. Moreover, sleep was calling. Soon the shots became one confused roar, somewhat resembling the noise of a waterfall; then it, too, died down. I dropped asleep.

“Rise!”

The voice of our battalion commander awoke me. All got up, stretched themselves, and threw their greatcoats, which had but just served as pillows, over their shoulders.

“Take up arms!” The guns had not ceased firing. We clambered out of the ravine, and went along a wide road made by the artillery. The flashes of the shots were already nearer, and their sounds became unpleasantly loud. Immediately following the flash, which pierced the air like a needle, came a thunderous roar, after which something rang as it cut its way through the air. These were our shells, which were flying towards the gloomy precipitous heights occupied by the Turks. The gunners worked their guns silently, keeping up a continuous fire. Sometimes two guns united their roar, and two shells flew simultaneously, bursting on the slope of the mountain, right in the Turkish firing-line.

We continued to advance. It was two versts to the summit. The even and wide road had come to an end, and we entered a straggling wood all overgrown with bushes. It was difficult work, especially in the darkness, making our way through the gorse and bushes, but the men conscientiously kept their dressing. Some large stone slabs placed end up came into view. It was a Mussulman cemetery, in which were real Muhammadan monuments⁠—stones roughly hewn at the top in the form of a turban. Here we halted.

The moon lit up strongly the mountain behind which the battle was raging. At the foot of the mountain was a line of flashes⁠—our firing-line⁠—and above it another and thicker line⁠—the Turkish firing-line. These lines kept intermingling. The Sofia Regiment was attacking. The upper flashes kept showing up higher and higher and farther and farther away. But we could not follow the fight very long because they led us off somewhere to the flank and posted each company separately. From these points we could once more see the little flashes of flame, and the sound of these shots, as of something blunt and wooden, fell without ceasing on our ears. But soon it was more than sounds which reached us.

“S-s-s⁠ ⁠… s-s-s⁠ ⁠… s-s-s⁠ ⁠…” resounded in the air above us, left and right.

“Bullets!” cried someone.

“All right! Lie down.⁠ ⁠… They have come to die here.”

It was quite true, the bullets were already spent, as can always be told by their sound. A bullet when fired at close range squeals and whistles, but when it “comes to die” merely hisses like a snake.

The bullets continued to fly around us. The company kept silent. The tense feeling which involuntarily showed itself at the sound of these heralds of death relaxed. All began to imagine that the bullets were merely flying over us or dropping harmlessly to earth. Some of the men, having taken off their greatcoats, settled themselves down to sleep more comfortably, if it is possible to sleep comfortably under a shower of bullets, on ruts of dried mud, and holding a rifle in one’s hands. I, too, dozed. It was a heavy, torturing slumber. Not far from us⁠—I think in the 7th company⁠—there was a sudden commotion. “Take him away,” I heard. “Where can we take him?⁠ ⁠…” broke in someone. I did not hear the end of the remark. Ivan Nicolaievitch sent to find out what had happened. It appeared that a bullet which had “come to die” did not wish to die alone, and had actually buried itself in the heart of a soldier. This death caused a painful depressing impression. To be killed without seeing the enemy by a bullet which has travelled three thousand paces (two versts) seemed to all as something fateful, awful. However, little by little all became quiet, the men calmed down again, and began to doze. A not loud, harsh sound awoke everyone. A bullet had gone clean through the side of the big drum. Somebody was found even to make a joke about it, which met, however, with general disapproval. “This is no time to play the fool,” growled the men.

Everyone was rather on the alert, everyone was waiting for something. A bullet found its way into the cartridge pouch of one of the men, who, pale and trembling, carried it off to show the company commander. Ivan Nicolaievitch examined the bullet attentively, and noting from its calibre that it had been fired from a Peabody and Martini rifle, moved the company into a kind of bend in the road.

Here we, notwithstanding the whistling and hissing, became calmer. Shouts of “Hurrah!” resounded on the mountain. It was the Sofia Regiment storming the position.

IV

I awoke when it was still almost dark. My sides ached unendurably. The bullets were flying as before, but now very high in the air above us. There were no flashes to be seen on the mountain, but a frequent cannonade could be heard. “It means that the mountain has been taken and the Sofia Regiment is holding the crest,” I reflected.

The sun had scarcely risen when they roused us. The men got up, yawning and stretching themselves. It was cold. The majority of us were shivering and shaking as if in a fever. The companies mustered at the spring, and both our battalions (2nd and 3rd) moved off towards the mountain.

Immediately after crossing the Lom by a small bridge the road led up the mountain. At first the ascent, although all covered with bushes, was bearable, but the higher we got the steeper became the slope and the narrower the road. Finally we were compelled to clamber up one by one, sometimes helping ourselves up with our rifles. The companies got mixed together with officers of another battalion; our Colonel appeared amongst us, having clambered with difficulty on to the heights. “What a brute of a mountain!” he exclaimed to his Adjutant. “How did the Sofia Regiment manage to take it?”

“It was difficult, sir,” said some tiny little soldier of the 8th company.

The Sofia Regiment came down as we went forward to relieve them. Worn out by a sleepless night, by thirst and nervous excitement, they were somewhat unstrung, and made no reply to our questions as to whether there were many Turks and whether the fire was hot. Only a few said quietly, “God help you!”

At length we got to the summit of the mountain. At the last the ascent lay up an absolutely overhanging crag. Beneath it was a small ledge where the companies could reform without danger from the fire. Although the difficult ascent, the bushes, and the narrow track had absolutely mixed us up, the men reformed and fell into their proper places extraordinarily quickly. The bullets as they flew past the ledge caterwauled above us in a piercing and extremely unpleasant manner. Here beneath the crag it was safe, but what was it like on it? Branches of the bushes growing on the crest cracked as they were smashed by the bullets, sometimes a few leaves came twirling down. We moved to the right, at first under the ledge, then little by little began to clamber up one by one from boulder to boulder. Having got round the crag, we crawled out on to the extreme summit and moved between the dense high bushes. I don’t know who was leading us. All moved in the direction of the firing, pushing along with difficulty between the bushes. At last we came upon a narrow track. “Forward! Double!” Here there were lying fresh corpses, both of ours and of Turks. The wounded were already being carried along toward us. The little man of the 8th company who had so boldly entered into conversation with the regimental Colonel was now half delirious, wailing pitifully, and with one hand supporting the other, from which a stream of blood was flowing. We continued to rush forward, and at length arrived at an open space. Major F. was already there, walking unconcernedly up and down the firing-line. “Where shall I go, Major?” I asked. He made no reply, but pointed to the left with his sword. I ran forward, throwing myself once to the ground to avoid a bursting shell. Ivan Nicolaievitch was slowly pacing up and down, tugging at his straggly hairs.

“Ivan Nicolaievitch,” I called out. “I don’t know where our half section is. May I join the first?”

“Go along, go along quickly!” he said, looking beyond at the Turkish line.

However, it was impossible to find either the first or second half section. Everyone had become mixed up in the wood, and it was too late to reform under rifle and shell fire. I laid down behind the first hillock I came across and began to fire. On one side of me I found our corporal and on the other side a man of the Sofia Regiment. “You should have gone, chum,” I said to him. “Your lot have gone⁠—left this.”

“Yes, but never mind, I shall stay until the end,” he replied. I do not know what his name was. I do not even know whether he is still alive, but I shall always remember the enthusiastic tone of his voice.

The Turkish sharpshooters were about eight hundred paces from us, so that our rifles scarcely did them much harm. Moreover, a whole row of Turkish guns were in position from twelve hundred to fifteen hundred paces from us, and raining shell on our weak firing-line. Although bullets cause many more deaths and wounds, yet shells have a far greater moral effect. I lay, firing at intervals, and every now and then consulting Paul Ignatich (our corporal) as to the sights and whether it would not be better to fire on chance at the artillery. The bullets began to whistle amongst us oftener and oftener. At last it became impossible to distinguish individual shots. It became one continuous hum. Shells came flying along screaming from afar. As they neared us they no longer screamed, but crashed and bounded along the ground, bursting and smothering us with splinters and earth. I raised myself to see what was happening in our firing-line. From time to time there arose a wild cry from amongst those lying down. Those standing behind trees would fall on to their knees sometimes with a cry, sometimes without a sound. Gabriel Vassilich, who had only just arrived, and was loading his rifle, fell headlong. A shell splinter had struck him in the stomach, tearing out his vitals. Such of the wounded as were able crawled away, for the most part silently, or perhaps it was that their groans could not be heard above the din of battle.

I began to shoot again. The Turks had collected below the deep valley, on the other edge of which was their artillery, and were advancing to attack our firing-line. The range became closer. Paul Ignatiovich kept methodically loading and firing. I, too, did not spare my cartridges, because it was easy to take aim. Dark figures with red heads coming towards us kept falling, but they still advanced. Suddenly the red heads disappeared. I do not know if it was the unevenness of the ground or the bushes which hid the columns. Having lost the near object at which to aim, I commenced once more to fire at long range into the masses standing at the bottom of the valley, and scarcely noticed that both Paul Ignatich and the soldier of the Sofia Regiment and our firing-line had disappeared. I turned round. The men had collected in groups, and were pouring a hot fire into the advancing Turks. I was alone between our men and the Turkish column.

What was I to do? This thought had scarcely flashed into my head when I heard my name called out near me.

I looked down. At my feet lay Feodoroff, the young soldier of our company who, having resided in St. Petersburg, had seized “civilization,” and could express himself in an almost educated manner. Now he was lying white as this sheet of paper. A torrent of blood was flowing from his shoulder. “V. M., old man, give me a drink, carry me off, take me away,” he begged piteously. I forgot everything⁠—both Turks and bullets. For me to lift sturdy Feodoroff unaided was out of the question, and of ours there was no one, in spite of my despairing cries, who could make up his mind to race even those thirty paces to help.

Seeing an officer, the young subaltern S., I began to call out to him: “Ivan Nicolaievitch, help! No one will come! Help me!” Perhaps S. would have come, but a bullet laid him low. I was almost crying.⁠ ⁠… Finally two soldiers⁠—I think of our company⁠—rushed towards me. We seized hold of Feodoroff, who continued ceaselessly to cry out piteously, “Take me away, old man, for Christ’s sake!” I took hold of his legs and the other two his shoulders. At the same moment they dropped him on to the ground. “The Turks, the Turks!” they yelled, bolting. Feodoroff was dead. I turned round. Twenty paces distant from me the Turkish column had halted, surprised, and frightened of our bayonets.⁠ ⁠…

A minute later something like a huge stone struck me. I fell. Blood was flowing like a stream from my leg. I remember that I suddenly recalled everything⁠—home, relatives, and friends, and with joy reflected that I should once more see them.⁠ ⁠…