“Suppose someone else puts it out,” he thought with odd regret.
When the booming ceased and he heard that the light had disappeared, Bologa felt pleased. He remembered that Klapka had spoken of a decoration for whoever destroyed the search-light.
“In any case, the lucky man who hits it is sure to be mentioned in dispatches,” he thought, turning his back on the telephone. “I wonder who it will be.”
Within him a voice answered that it must be he. He tried to stifle it, but the voice became commanding. Then there flashed through his mind the thought that if he should have the good luck to destroy the Russian search-light, and if, as a reward, he should be mentioned in dispatches or decorated, how easily and with what good chances of success would he then be able to go to General Karg!
This idea seemed to him so wonderful that he was amazed that it had not occurred to him immediately he had made up his mind to go to the general. All thoughts of sleep left him; he rushed to the map and began to calculate and to mark until daylight with untiring energy and with a sure confidence that his life depended on what he would do in this connection.
He spent the whole day looking through his field-glasses, examining the sector with attention and comparing in his mind the points marked on the map. Towards evening he began to worry in case the search-light, which was to be his means of salvation, should not appear that night. Nevertheless, he was quite prepared to watch for it for a whole week if need be in order to destroy it. If only the order for exchanging did not come before! No, that could not happen; it must appear, it simply must …
That evening at ten o’clock he gave his orders, and made his way to the observation post in the front line. A cold, slow, monotonous rain was falling. Arrows of water, glinting like steel, spurted through the dark sky. The clay, moistened by the autumn rains, clung to the lieutenant’s boots and squelched at each step. The canopy of clouds seemed as if about to fall on the earth, dizzied by the endless darkness. Apostol Bologa, with his steel helmet pulled right over his eyes, wrapped in his fur-lined trench-coat with collar turned up, went forward cautiously, avoiding puddles, his chin sunk on his breast. His heart throbbed so violently that he did not even feel the beating rain.
He knew the way and the ground well. During the last three months, since this front had become fixed, he had covered this ground hundreds of times. He entered the labyrinth of communication trenches, where the water had gathered as in irrigation canals. His high Hessian boots sank up to the ankles in the clayey mud.
He was wet with perspiration by the time he reached the observation post, hidden in the front line of the trenches. He exchanged a few words with the wizened sergeant-major, and then sent him back to the battery.
Bologa felt his way gropingly and perched himself behind the theodolite. He could see nothing. The instrument was sheltered from the rain, but, on the other hand, the rain poured in through the holes in the roof at the back of the observation post. He tried to get his bearings, but the darkness was so thick that his eyes could make out no variation in the pitchy blackness. And in his ears the exasperatingly uniform patter of the rain which successfully drowned all sounds of life. He could feel the beating of his heart, but his brain seemed numb from too much thinking.
An hour later the patter died down a little and simultaneously Bologa realized that his mind had begun again to make plans and calculations. Then he found himself thinking:
“In weather like this I can cross over to the enemy without fear.”
As soon as he took in the import of his thoughts he curbed them with disgust. From the moment when he had become convinced that by destroying the worrying search-light he would win his salvation from General Karg, he had regretted and been ashamed that he had even contemplated deserting to the enemy. In two years of war he had become so deeply imbued with the military spirit that desertion, from whatever motive, seemed to him an unpardonable crime.
“All the same, if you want to get away more safely, you’ll have to go either at nightfall or at dawn,” came again into his mind, the same thought pursuing him persistently, like a fly which one attempts in vain to chase away.
Gradually the rain stopped and a strong wind began to blow with sinister howlings, unravelling the darkness a little and rushing violently through Bologa’s observation post. Before long he felt on his back a damp and icy patch. He cowered down, trying to protect his back, but the wind got through his clothes, through his skin, and clutched at his heart.
“And that search-light isn’t coming!” he murmured trembling.
His eyes darted with impatient fury through the thinning darkness. Humble signs of life began to be visible in the dead stillness. To the right and left stretched the infantry trenches, crooked and capricious, like coarse lines on a crumpled sheet of paper. Here and there, in front of the trenches, like mushrooms grown rigid or frozen, he saw or divined the listening posts. About thirty metres to the right Captain Cervenco’s sector began. “I wonder what Cervenco is doing? Dear old Cervenco!” Before him the plain stretched flat, lost in the darkness and whipped by the wind which now and again shook big drops of water out of the sky.
Apostol Bologa knew that exactly five hundred and eighty-three metres away lay the first line of the Russian trenches, and it seemed to him that he could distinguish the zigzags which meant the earthworks. His imagination travelled farther, and groping through the darkness found the second line, the third, the enemy’s batteries, the place where the search-light had last appeared.
Bologa did not dare to look at his watch for fear he should lose his hope of the search-light appearing. He was sure, however, that it was past midnight. “There is still time,” he said, more and more worried. His loneliness oppressed him. He felt a painful need of exchanging a word with someone, no matter whom, so long as he were not left alone to wait. The search-light had never shown itself before midnight. As a rule, it came at about two o’clock, so there was plenty of time; he could still hope. But suppose it did not come at all, then …
“It would be entirely their fault if I should ruin myself!” he thought with fury, shaking his fist at the invisible Russian lines.
And then suddenly, when he least expected it, right in front of him, in the battery’s own sector, as if brought to life by his defiance, flashed a blinding, arrogant light, throwing first its rays towards the sky lined with clouds and then dropping to earth quickly, with feverish tremors. Apostol closed his eyes, as startled as if he were face to face with a ghost, forgetting his guns and his anger, forgetting everything, as if he were in a dream.
“Hi! Are you asleep over there? The guns! Can’t you see the search-light?” growled a deep, mocking voice suddenly a few steps away in the infantry trench.
Bologa came to with a start. He knew that voice; it belonged to a very tall and thin infantry lieutenant, who ostensibly looked down on all gunners. He surveyed with the theodolite the source of the light and then barked a curt order into the mouthpiece of the telephone. A few seconds later the boomings began, slow and deliberate. But still the white rays glided on slowly, indifferent to the angry shells, cleaving the darkness and, as if defiantly, drawing nearer to Bologa. Then, as if they had not actually discovered him cowering in his damp observation post, they strayed over him, enveloping him in their cold magic, penetrating through his stricken eyes into all the hidden places of his heart, upsetting and confusing his thoughts like an unexpected sunrise. At first Apostol felt nothing but an immense hatred for the light which took him into its embrace without his leave. But when he tried to utter two words into the telephone to correct the aim of the guns, he found he could not tear his gaze away from it. The blandishments of the tremulous rays began to appear to him as sweet as the kisses of a maiden in love. Their spell was so strong that he no longer even heard the booming of the guns. Unconsciously, like a passionate child, he stretched out both hands towards the light, murmuring with parched throat:
“The light! The light!”
But at that
very second, as if chopped off by the sword of an executioner, the rays went out and Bologa’s eyes were filled with darkness. He didn’t know what had happened. The guns continued to shoot at slow intervals as he had ordered.
“I think I’ve smashed that search-light,” he thought, wondering how he could have brought himself to do such a blackguardly action and rejoicing that he had done it.
He remained dazed for a while, feeling that there was something he still had to do, and unable to remember what it was. Then suddenly, dismayed, he felt for the receiver and shouted:
“The rockets! The rockets!”
On the sullen sky there rose, hissing angrily, a globe of light like a spying eye. At the spot where the search-light had been Bologa, through his field-glasses, saw a quantity of little black worms rolling about helplessly. The light in the sky soon went out and simultaneously the guns became dumb of their own accord, without order from him, as if they had become satiated and were now satisfied. The darkness enwrapped Apostol like a rough shroud, and his eyes, with enlarged pupils, strained in aimless expectancy. In his innermost being, however, he yearned for the light—the kind, caressing light.
Then he heard again, this time just behind him, the voice of the infantry lieutenant:
“At last! Well, it’s a good job you’ve finished with that search-light, for it had become a real disgrace! As likely as not you’ll be presented with a medal for bravery, because that’s how decorations are given in our Army.… In any case, I congratulate you.… Good night!”
Without waiting for an answer, the lieutenant, muttering to himself, went off through the puddles of the communication trench.
“God! What has happened?” Bologa asked himself apprehensively, trying to rouse himself from the numbness which had paralysed his thoughts.
The wind blew colder now, scattering again the thin, enervating drizzle. The drops rolled down his back like a thin trickle of sand. “That’s how the thoughts in my brain are—weak, undecided, groping.” Little by little, however, he managed to straighten them out. So he had attained his aim and he would now be able to go to the general. There would be no need now for him to go with his division to the Rumanian front, that was almost certain. Then, why did he not rejoice as he had rejoiced when the idea had come to him to destroy the search-light? Instead of an answer the white light which he had strangled just now flashed up in his soul, shining like a distant beacon. And the radiance resembled now Svoboda’s countenance under the halter, now the vision which he had had as a child in the church before the altar, after his special prayer to God. The light put an end to his doubts and set his heart at rest as if it had opened out a straight, smooth road for him in a wild untrodden jungle. An hour ago all his hopes had been centred in others, and he had had no confidence in himself. Now he knew that he would sooner cross Fate than pollute his soul—for in his soul, in the light, lay his salvation.
The darkness thinned gradually. The wind blew unceasingly, and sometimes it sent out a call, long drawn out, troubled, with a note of shame and warning in it. Then, like a temptation, the thought that this was the hour for deserters slipped again into Bologa’s mind. And the thought no longer seemed to him repulsive, just as if all his former convictions had been wiped off his brain.
A sergeant came to take his place, although Apostol had forgotten to give the order. He felt sorry to leave the loneliness, which now seemed precious to him. He made his way along the zigzagged trenches, behind the sentries standing rigid with their rifles at their side. As he was making his way towards the communication trench, he ran into Captain Cervenco.
“I haven’t been able to close my eyes all night,” murmured the captain dejectedly. “I am sorry that you have destroyed the search-light, I don’t know why … You’ve killed the light, Bologa!”
“The light is here!” answered Bologa triumphantly, beating his breast with his hand.
“Yes, yes, you are right! The light is there, and the suffering, too! The whole world is there!” added Cervenco with a glint in his eyes.
Apostol went on through the twisting trenches, his back bent, his eyes shining, his soul full of confidence, reconciled and contented as if he had been purified in a bath of virtue.
IX
Towards midday, whilst Bologa was still asleep, a shrill buzzing at the head of his bed startled him and made him jump to his feet, under the impression that the dug-out was being blown up. The adjutant was roaring into the telephone:
“Lieutenant Bologa? Hallo! Himself speaking? Oh, is it you, old chap? Colonel’s orders you are to leave immediately and report yourself to his Excellency. His Excellency wishes to see you. Very urgent! Of course, you’ll call on us on your way, for the colonel also wants to speak to you. At the same time I want to congratulate you! You’ve saved the honour of the whole division. The colonel phoned to headquarters right away during the night. The fourth one is on the way, Bologa, bravo!”
An hour later Apostol was in a motor-car, sitting next to a staff captain whom he had met at the command post of the regiment and who had offered to take him to headquarters, as he himself was just due to leave. On the way the captain told him that the destruction of the search-light deserved a special reward—all his comrades, including the colonel, had told him so. Bologa listened thoughtfully and silently. Several times his eyes travelled down to his breast, where the three medals for bravery shone, and he remembered his emotion when the first one had been pinned on. How he had longed for it, and how small he had felt until he had received it! It had seemed to him as if he were the only one who had none, and he had felt unhappy and dishonoured. He had hurled himself where lurked the greatest danger, where death reaped oftenest, without fear, with no other thought in his mind but that medal! And when the colonel had pinned it on his breast in the presence of the troops, his heart had wept tears of joy. Not until then had he thought himself worthy to live.
In the courtyard of the divisional headquarters he met Lieutenant Gross, who, being a sapper, constantly had work to do at headquarters. Gross greeted him with an ironical grimace.
“Bravo, philosopher! You’ve killed a few more people for a bit of tin.”
“Listen, Gross,” answered Bologa, suddenly annoyed, “when you cease to carry out orders, then you may make imputations against others! Until then, be a little more modest, please!”
“I execute orders, it is true,” said the sapper, still in a bantering tone. “I commit or help barbarities, but with nausea, friend! Not with enthusiasm, like others! I do not seek to distinguish myself!”
“It would be better if you practised what you preached,” murmured Bologa, looking him straight in the eye. “To talk is easy, but …”
“Well, we’ll see what you’ll do to-morrow or the day after on the Rumanian front,” interrupted Gross with a sour smile. “We’ll see what you’ll do there.…”
“I’ll never go there!” said Bologa with a start and flushing deeply.
Gross was about to say something else, but just then there appeared on the doorstep a smart sergeant, who called importantly:
“Lieutenant Bologa! Please to come in, his Excellency is expecting you, sir.”
A few seconds later Apostol Bologa was standing stiffly before General Karg, who was short and squat, with an ugly, harsh face, darkened by a bristling moustache and pierced by round eyes whose gaze, darting from under very thick, frowning eyebrows, made one think of two venomous daggers.
The lieutenant’s heart contracted when he saw him rise heavily from the table laden with bundles of paper and maps. The recollection flashed through him that each time he had set eyes on the general he had felt a strange fear, as if he were in face of a merciless enemy or of a terrible and unexpected danger which he could not avoid.
The general, with chin uplifted, held out his hand and said heartily:
“Well done, Bologa! Your action has been reported to me, and I wished particularly to congratulate you in person. Yes, I wished … absolutely …”
&nb
sp; His voice was rasping and penetrating, and he seemed to be scolding even when he joked.
Apostol bowed slightly, pressing the general’s hand. Then he gave him a detailed account, using short, dry, military sentences, of how he had destroyed the search-light. While he was speaking, however, he noticed that the general’s nostrils had hair growing out of them, and he thought that very probably he snored horribly at night; also he remembered that he had not seen him since the execution of the Czech. Karg listened to his account attentively, now and again nodding and darting pleased looks at him. Then, when Bologa had finished, he slapped him amicably on the back, murmuring:
“I have proposed you for the Gold Medal. You may be sure you will get it. We need soldiers like you, and they deserve all distinctions. Well done, Bologa! I am proud to have the honour of commanding brave officers such as you.”
The general stopped, racking his mind to find one or two more suitable words to say. But he could not think of anything else, and, after a short pause, repeated more mildly:
“I am proud … very proud …” and again he stretched out his hand, ready to dismiss him. Then Bologa, completely self-possessed, his voice clear, and looking straight into the general’s grey eyes, said:
“Excellency, I beg you to give me leave to make a request!”
General Karg, unpleasantly surprised that the lieutenant, especially after he had shown him such marked favour, should dare to speak without being addressed and to ask a favour without first having put his name down at orderly hour in the hierarchical manner required by the regulations, took two steps backward with knitted brow. Nevertheless, wishing to show every indulgence to a good soldier, he answered in a friendly tone:
“Yes, yes, I am listening. A good soldier … naturally … willingly …”
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