They were mounted on dark bay horses. For some reason I let my glance wander to the bank of the ditch and noticed a small emerald-green beetle. It grew larger and larger before my eyes until it seemed enormous. Brushing aside the blades of grass like a giant, it lumbered towards my elbow that I had propped on the dry crumbling clay of the bank; it climbed the sleeve of my tunic and crawled quickly on to the rifle, then from the rifle, on to the sling. I was still watching it on its journey when I heard the Teaser's voice bawling: "Fire, what's the matter with you?!"
I settled my elbow more firmly, screwed up my left eye and felt my heart swelling till it was as huge as that emerald beetle. My sights trembled against a background of grey-green
uniform. I pressed the trigger and heard the moaning flight of my bullet. Next to me the Teaser fired. I must have had my sights too low because the bullet ricochet-ted off a tussock and kicked up a spurt of dust. It was the first shot I had ever fired at a man. I emptied the magazine without aiming. And it was only when I pulled the trigger and got no response that I had a look at the Germans. They were galloping back in the same good order as before, with the officer bringing up the rear. There were nine of them and I could see the dark bay croupe of the officer's horse and the metal plate on the top of his uhlan's helmet.
September 2nd
In War and Peace Tolstoi has a passage in which he speaks of the line between opposing armies, the line of the unknown that seems to divide the living from the dead. The squadron in which Nikolai Rostov is serving goes into the attack and Rostov sees that line in his mind's eye. I remember that passage particularly vividly today, because today at dawn we attacked a unit of Germ.an hussars. Ever since early morning their troops, with excellent artillery support, had been harrassing our infantry. I saw some of our men-the 241st and 273rd
infantry regiments, I think-fleeing in panic. They had been literally demoralized after being thrown into an attack with no artillery support. Enemy fire had accounted for nearly a third of their number and they were being pursued by German hussars. Then our regiment, which had been standing in reserve in a forest clearing, was thrown into action. This is how I remember the affair.
We left the village of Tishvichi between two and three in the morning. Dawn was coming and it was very dark. The air was heavy with the smell of oats and pine needles. The regiment proceeded in squadrons. We turned off the road and struck across the fields. The horses snorted as they sprinkled the heavy dew off the oats with their hoofs.
It was chilly even in a greatcoat. They kept the regiment tracking across the fields for a long time and an hour passed before an officer rode up and handed an order to the regimental commander. Our old man passed on the order in a dissatisfied tone and the regiment turned at right angles into the woods. Our columns were bunched closely on the narrow path. Fighting was going on somewhere to the left. Judging by the noise a large number of German batteries were in action. The sound of the gunfire vibrated in the air and it felt as if all that
scented pinewood was on fire above us. Until sunrise we could only listen. A cheer went up, a limp, ragged sort of cheer, and then-stillness threaded with the clean hammering of machine-guns. At that moment my head was in a whirl; the only thing I could think of, and that picture* was utterly and painfully clear, were the faces of our infantry as they advanced.
In my mind's eye I could see the baggy grey figures in their flat army caps and clumsy soldier's top-boots pounding over the autumn earth, and I could hear the sharp hoarse chuckle of the German machine-guns as they set to work transforming those living sweating human bodies into corpses. The two regiments were mown down and fled, abandoning their arms. Then a regiment of German hussars charged down on them. We came out on their flank at a distance of about seven hundred yards or less. An order was given. We formed up instantly. I heard a single cold command. "Forward!" It seemed to hold us back for a moment like a bit, then we were flying ahead. My horse's ears were pressed so flat against its head you couldn't have prised them up with your fingers. I glanced round-behind me were the regimental commander and two officers. Yes, this was it, this was the line dividing the
living from the dead. Here it was, the great moment of insanity!
The hussars wavered and turned back. Before my eyes our squadron commander Cheme-tsov cut down a German hussar. I saw a Cossack of the Sixth Squadron overtake a German and hack madly at his horse's croup. Ribbons of skin streamed from the sabre as it rose and fell. It was inconceivable! There was no name for it! On the way back I saw Chernetsov's face, intent and controlledly cheerful-he might have been sitting at the card table, instead of in the saddle, having just murdered a man, Squadron-Commander Chernetsov will go far. A capable fellow!
September 4th
We are resting. The Fourth Division of the Second Army Corps is being brought up to the front. We are stationed at the small town of Kobylino. This morning units of the 11th Cavalry Division and the Urals Cossacks went through the town at a fast pace. Fighting continues in the west. A constant rumble. After dinner I went to the field hospital. A train of wounded had just arrived. Stretcher-bearers were unloading a big wagon and laughing. I went up to them. A tall ginger-haired soldier had just climbed down with the help of an or-
derly, "What do you think of that, Cossack," he said, addressing me. "They've given me a load of peas in the behind. It's full of grape-shot." The orderly asked him if the shell had burst behind him. "Behind me be damned, I was advancing behind-first myself." A nurse came out of one of the cottages. I glanced at her and suddenly felt so weak I had to lean against a cart. Her resemblance to Liza was extraordinary. The same eyes, the same oval face, nose, hair. Even her voice was similar. Or was I imagining things? Now, I suppose, I shall see a resemblance to her in every woman I meet.
September 5th
The horses have had a day's feeding in the stalls and we are off to the front again. Physically I am a wreck. The bugler is playing the order to mount. There's a man I should love to put a bullet through!
The squadron commander had sent Grigory Melekhov with a message to regimental headquarters. As he rode through the district where the recent fighting had taken place Grigory noticed a dead Cossack lying at the side of the highway. He lay with his fair curly head close to the hoof-pitted road. Grigory dismounted and, holding his nose (the dead man already
reeked of decay), searched the body. In the trousers pocket he found this notebook, a stub of mdelible pencil and a purse. He removed the cartridge belt and glanced at the pale, moist face that was already beginning to decompose. The temples and the bridge of the nose were turning black, on the forehead a slantwise furrow fixed in mortal concentration was grimed with dust.
Grigory covered the face with a cambric handkerchief that he found in the dead man's pocket and rode on to headquarters, pausing now and then to glance round. He handed in the notebook to the headquarters clerks, who gathered round to read it and laugh over this other man's brief life and its earthly desires.
XII
During August the 11th Cavalry Division took town after town by storm, and by the end of the month they were deployed around the town of Kamenka-Strumilovo. Behind them came the army; infantry units massed on important strategic sectors, staff units and baggage trains gathered at the railway junctions. The front stretched from the Baltic like a death-dealing whiplash. At staff headquarters a big offensive was being planned; generals
pored over their maps, dispatch riders dashed to and fro with battle orders, hundreds of thousands of soldiers marched to their death.
The reconnaissance patrols reported that considerable forces of enemy cavalry were approaching the town. In the wooids along the roads skirmishes were fought between Cossack detachments and the enemy advance guards.
Ever since seeing his brother, Grigory Me-lekhov had sought to put an end to his painful thoughts, and to recover his former tranquillity of spirit. But it was no use. Among the last reinforcements from the second line of reservists a Cossack, Alexei
Uryupin, had been drafted into Grigoiy's troop. Uryupin was tall, rather round-shouldered with an aggressive lower jaw and drooping Kalmyk whiskers. His merry, fearless eyes were always smiling, and he was bald, with only scanty ruddy hair around the edges of his angular scull. On the very first day of his arrival he was nicknamed "Tufty."
After fighting around Brodi the regiment had a day's respite. Grigory and Uryupin were quartered in the same hut. They soon fell into conversation.
"You know, Melekhov, you must be moulting or something."
"What do you mean-moulting?" Grigory asked with a frown.
"You're all limp, as though you were ill," Uryupiii explained.
They had been feeding their horses and they stood smoking with their backs against a rickety moss-grown fence. Hussars were riding four abreast down the road; dead bodies were lying about by the fences, for there had been fighting in the streets when the Austrians withdrew; a charred smell rose from the ruins of a gutted synagogue. In the rich colours of early evening the town was one immense picture of destruction and repelling emptiness.
"I'm all right," Grigory spat out, not looking at the other.
"You're lying! I've got eyes to see!"
"Well, and what can you see?"
"You're scared! Is it death you're scared of?"
"You're a fool!" Grigory said contemptuously, staring narrowly at his finger-nails.
"Tell me, have you killed anyone?" Uryupin went on with his probing.
"Yes. What of it?"
"Does it weigh on your mind?"
"Weigh on my mind?" Grigory smiled bitter-
ly.
Uryupin drew his sabre from its scabbard. "Would you like me to slash your head off?" "And then?" "I'll kill you without a sigh of regret. I have
no pity." Uryupin's eyes were smiling, but by his voice and the rapacious quiver of his nostrils Grigory realized that he meant what he said.
"You're queer-you're a savage," said Grigory, studying Uryupin's face intently.
"Bah, your heart's made of water. Do you know this stroke? Watch!" Uryupin selected an old birch-tree in the hedge and went straight towards it, measuring the distance with his eyes. His long, sinewy arms with their unusually broad wrists hung motionless.
"Watch!"
He slowly raised his sabre, and suddenly swung it slantwise with terrible force. Completely severed four feet from the ground, the birch toppled over, its branches scraping at the window and clawing the walls of the hut.
"Did you see that? Learn it. There was an ataman called Baklanov, ever heard of him? The blade of his sabre was filled with quick silver. It was heavy to lift, but he could cut a horse in two with it. Like that!"
It took Grigory a long time to master the difficult technique of the new stroke. "You're strong, but you're a fool with your sabre. This is the way!" Uryupin instructed him, wielding his sabre slantwise with terrific force. "Cut a man down boldly! Man is as soft as dough." A smile came into his eyes. "Don't think about
the why and wherefore. You're a Cossack, and it's your business to cut down without asking questions. To kill your enemy in battle is a holy work. For every man you kill G'od will wipe out one of your sins, just as he does for killing a serpent. You mustn't kill an animal unless it's necessary, but destroy man! He's a heathen, unclean; he poisons the earth, he lives like a toadstool!"
When Grigory raised objections he only frowned and lapsed into an obstinate silence.
Grigory noticed with surprise that all horses were afraid of Uryupin. When he went near them they would prick up their ears and bunch together as though an animal were approaching, and not a man. On one occasion the squadron had to attack on foot over a wooded and swampy district. The horses were led aside into a dell. Uryupin was among those assigned to take charge of the horses, but he flatly refused.
"Uryupin, why the devil don't you lead away your horses?" the troop sergeant barked at him.
"They're afraid of me. God's truth, they are!" he replied with the usual twinkle in his eyes.
He never took his turn at minding the horses. He was kind to his own mount, but Grigory observed that whenever he went up to it a shiver ran down the animal's back, and it fidgeted uneasily.
"Tell me, why are the horses afraid of you?" Grigory once asked him.
"I don't know," he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. "I'm kind enough to them."
"They know a drunken man and are afraid of him, but you're always sober."
"I've a hard heart, and they seem to feel it."
"You have a wolf's heart. Or maybe it's just a stone you've got and not a heart at all."
"Maybe!" Uryupin willingly agreed.
The troop was dispatched on reconnaissance work. The previous evening a Czech deserter from the Austrian army had informed the Russian command of a change in the disposition of the enemy forces and a proposed counterattack, and there was need for continual observation over the road along which the hostile regiments must pass.
The troop officer left four Cossacks with the sergeant at the edge of a wood, and rode with the others towards a town lying beyond the next rise. Grigory, Uryupin, Misha Koshevoi and another Cossack were left with the sergeant.
The sergeant ordered them to dismount and told Koshevoi to take the horses behind a thick bunch of pine-trees and mind them.
The Cossacks lay smoking by a fallen pine, while the sergeant watched the country through his binoculars. Half an hour they lay there, ex-
changing lazy remarks. From somewhere to the right came the incessant roar of gunfire. A few paces away a field of ungathered rye, its ears emptied of grain, was waving in the wind. Gri-gory crawled into the rye, selected some still full ears, husked them, and chewed the grain.
A group of horsemen rode out of a distant plantation and halted, surveying the open country, then set off again in the direction of the Cossacks.
"They must be Austrians," the sergeant exclaimed under his "breath. "We'll let them get closer and send them a volley. Have your rifles ready, boys," he added feverishly.
The riders steadily drew closer. They were six Hungarian hussars, in handsome tunics ornamented with white braid and piping. The leader, on a big black horse, held his carbine in his hands and was quietly laughing.
"Fire!" the sergeant ordered. The volley went echoing through the trees.
"What's up?" Koshevoi's startled shout came from behind the pines. "Whoa, you devil! Keep still there!" His voice sounded prosaically loud. The hussars galloped in single file into the grain. One of them, the leader, fired into the air. The last hussar dropped behind, clinging to his horse's neck and holding his cap on with his left hand.
S30
Uryupin was the first to leap to his feet. He sped off, stumbling through the rye, holding his rifle at the trail. Some hundred yards away he found a fallen horse kicking and struggling, and a Hungarian hussar standing close by, rubbing his knee, which he had hurt in the fall. He shouted something to Uryupin and raised his hands in token of surrender, staring after his retreating comrades.
All this happened so quickly that Grigory hardly had time to take in what was occurring before Uryupin had brought back his prisoner.
"Off with it!" Uryupin shouted at the Hungarian, roughly tearing at the hussar's sword.
The prisoner smiled apprehensively and fumbled with his belt, only too willing to hand over his sword. But his hands trembled, and he could not manage to unfasten the clasp. Grigory cautiously assisted him, and the hussar, a young, fat-cheeked boy with a tiny mole in the corner of his shaven upper lip, thanked him with a smile and a nod of the head. He seemed glad to be deprived of the weapon and, fumbling in his pocket, pulled out a leather pouch and muttered something, offering the Cossacks tobacco.
"He's treating us!" the sergeant smiled, and felt for his cigarette papers.
"Have a smoke on foreign baccy," Silantyev chuckled.
The Cossacks rolled cigarettes from the hussar's tobacco and smoked. The strong, black tobacco quickly went to th
eir heads.
"Where's his rifle?" the sergeant asked, drawing greedily at his cigarette.
"Here it is," Uryupin showed the stitched yellow sling from behind his back.
"He'd better be taken to the squadron. They'll want to hear what he's got to say."
"Who'll take him, boys?" the sergeant asked, passing his eyes over his men.
"I will," Uryupin replied quickly.
"All right, off with you!"
The prisoner evidently realized what was to happen to him, for he smiled wryly, turned out his pockets, and offered the Cossacks some soft broken chocolate.
"Rusin ich . . . Rusin . . . nein Austrische . .." he stammered, gesticulating absurdly and holding out the chocolate.
"Any weapons?" the sergeant asked. "Don't rattle away like that, we can't understand you. Got a revolver? A bang-bang?" The sergeant pulled an imaginary trigger. The prisoner shook his head furiously.
He willingly allowed himself to be searched, his fat cheeks quivering. Blood was streaming
from his torn knee. Talking incessantly, he dabbed it with his handkerchief. He had left his cap by his horse, and he asked permission to go and fetch it and his blanket and notebook, in which were photographs of his family. The sergeant tried hard to understand what he wanted but at last waved his hand in despair:
"Off with him!"
Uryupin took his horse and mounted it. Adjusting his rifle across his back, he motioned to the prisoner. Encouraged by his smile, the Hungarian also smiled and set off at the horse's side. With an attempt at familiarity he patted Uryupin's knee, but the Cossack harshly flung off his hand and pulled on the reins.
"Get along. None of your tricks!"
The prisoner guiltily drew away from the horse and strode along with a serious face, frequently looking back at the other Cossacks. His fair hair stuck up gaily on the crown of his head. So he remained in Grigory's memory: his tunic flung over his shoulders, his flaxen tuft of hair, and his confident, debonair walk.
And quiet flows the Don; a novel Page 33