IX
They took us across the Danube. For some days we halted near Sistovo awaiting the Turks. Then the troops started off into the heart of the country. We, too, started off. For a long time they sent us first here, then there. We were near Timova and not far from Plevna. Three weeks passed by, and still we had not been in action. At length we were told off to form part of a special division whose duties were to hold the advance of a large Turkish army. Forty thousand were stretched over seventy versts of country. There were about one hundred thousand Turks in front of us, and only the cautious movements of our commander—who would not risk his men but contented himself by opposing the advance of the enemy—and the dilatoriness of the Turkish Pacha enabled us to carry out our task—not to allow the Turks to break through and cut off our main army from the Danube.
We were few and our line was enormous; consequently we were seldom able to have a rest. We marched round numbers of villages, appearing first in one place, then in another, in order to meet the anticipated attack. We penetrated into such remote parts of Bulgaria that the transport with food did not find us, and we were obliged to starve, making our two days’ ration of biscuit last over five and more days. The hungry men used to thresh unripe wheat with sticks on outstretched sheets of our tents, and made a disgusting soup from it and sour wild apples, without salt (because we could not get any), and got sick from it. Battalions faded away, although not in action.
In the middle of June our brigade, with several squadrons of cavalry and two batteries of artillery, arrived at a ruined and half-burned Turkish village which had been abandoned by its inhabitants. Our camp was situated on a high, precipitous mountain. The village was below, in the depth of the valley along which a little river wound its course. Steep, high cliffs rose on the other side of the valley. It was, as we imagined, the Turkish side, but no Turks were, as a matter of fact, near us. We camped several days on our mountain, almost without bread, only obtaining with great difficulty any water, as it was necessary to descend far below for it to a spring which came out at the bottom of the cliff. We were absolutely detached from the army, and did not know in the least what was going on in the world. Fifteen versts in front of us were Cossack patrols. Two or three sotnias of them were distributed over a distance of twenty versts. There were no Turks there either.
Notwithstanding the fact that we could not find the enemy, our little column took every precautionary measure. Day and night a strong chain of advanced posts surrounded the camp. Owing to the nature of the ground its line was a long one, and every day several companies were told off for this inactive but very tiring work. Inaction, almost constant starvation, and ignorance of the state of affairs acted prejudicially on the men.
The regimental hospitals became overflowing. Each day men, weakened and tortured by fever and dysentery, were sent to the divisional hospital. The companies were only one-half or two-thirds of their proper strength. All were gloomy, and everyone longed to come to grips. Anyhow, it would have been a change.
At length it came. A Cossack orderly came galloping in from the commander of a Cossack squadron with the information that the Turks had begun to advance and that he had been compelled to call in his men and fall back five versts. Afterwards it appeared that the Turks went back without thinking of continuing the attack, and we could have quietly remained on the spot, the more so as nobody had ordered us to advance. But the General commanding us then, who had but recently arrived from St. Petersburg, felt, as did all of us in the column, that it was insufferable to the men to sit with folded arms or stand for whole days on guard against an invisible and, as all were convinced, nonexistent enemy, to eat horrible food, and await their turn to fall sick. All were eager for the fray; and the General ordered an attack.
We left half the column in camp. The situation was so little known that there was a possibility of being attacked from both sides. Fourteen companies, the Hussars, and four guns moved out after midday. Never had we marched so fast and light-heartedly, with the exception of the day on which we marched past the Emperor.
We marched along the valley, passing, one after another, deserted Turkish and Bulgarian villages. In the narrow thoroughfares bordered by hedges higher than a man nothing was to be met—neither human beings, cattle, nor dogs. Only clucking hens flew away on our approach, on to the hedges and roofs, and geese, with a cry, raised themselves ponderously in the air and endeavoured to fly away. In the gardens could be seen plum-trees of every description, the branches of which were literally obscured by ripe fruit. In the last village, five versts from the spot we imagined the Turks to be in, we halted for half an hour. During this spell the half-starved men shook down quantities of plums, ate them, and crammed their ration bags with them. A few would catch and kill the hens and geese, pluck them, and bring them along in their knapsacks. I remembered how the same soldiers before the crossing at Sistovo, in anticipation of a fight, had thrown everything out of their knapsacks, and I mentioned it to Jitkoff, who was at the moment busily engaged in plucking an enormous goose.
“Well, Mikhailich, although we have not been in action we have become accustomed to wait. It seems as if you will only march and not take any part in the fighting. And even if you do you need not necessarily be killed.”
“Are you frightened?” I asked him involuntarily.
“But perhaps nothing will happen,” he answered slowly, frowning, and assiduously plucking out the last remnants of white down.
“But if it does?”
“If it does, frightened or not frightened, its all the same, one has to go. They don’t ask us. Go, and God help you. Lend me your knife. It is such a good one.” I gave him my big hunting-knife. He cut the goose in two, and held out one half to me.
“Take it in case. And about being frightened or not frightened, don’t think of it, sir. It is better not to think of it. All rests with God. You cannot get away from what He designs.”
“If a bullet or shell comes at you, where can you go?” added Feodoroff, who was lying near us. “I think this, Vladimir Mikhailich, that it is even more dangerous to run away, because a bullet must travel like that”—he showed with his finger—“and the heaviest fire comes from the rear.”
“Yes,” said I, “especially with the Turks. They say they fire high.”
“Well, clever one,” said Jitkoff to Feodoroff, “go on talking. There they will show you a trajectory. Yes, certainly,” he added, thinking, “it is better to be in front.”
“It depends on our officers,” said Feodoroff, “and our officer will go ahead and not be afraid.”
“Yes, he will go ahead all right. He isn’t afraid. And Niemtseff also.”
“ ‘Uncle’ Jitkoff,” inquired Feodoroff, “what do you say? Will he live through the day or not?”
Jitkoff lowered his eyes.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“Well I never! Have you seen him? Every nerve is on the go.”
Jitkoff became still more surly.
“You are talking rot,” he growled.
“Well. What did they say before we crossed the Danube?” said Feodoroff.
“Before we crossed the Danube! … The men were angry then, and didn’t know what they were saying. It’s a fact that they couldn’t stand him.”
“What do you think? That they are blackguards?” said Jitkoff, turning and looking Feodoroff straight in the face. “Have they no thought of God in them? They do not know where they are going! Perhaps some will today have to answer to the Lord God, and can they think of such a thing at such a moment? Before the crossing of the Danube! Yes, I too then said the same thing to the gentleman” (he nodded his head at me). “I said exactly the same thing because … it was sickening to look at. It’s not worth while remembering what happened before we crossed the Danube.”
He felt in his boot-top for his tobacco-pouch, and, continuing to mutter, filled his pipe and commenced to smoke. Then, replacing the pouch, he settled himself more comfortably, seized his knees with his hands, and became buried in some moody reflections.
Half an hour later we left the village and began to clamber up from the valley into the mountains. The Turks were behind the ridges, over which we were to cross. When we reached the summit there opened out before us a wide, hilly and gradually descending expanse, covered here with fields of wheat and maize, there with overgrown bushes and medlar-trees. In two places glistened the minarets of villages hidden behind the green hills. We were to take the one on the right. Behind it, on the edge of the horizon, could be seen a whitish streak. It was the main road which had been previously held by our Cossacks. Soon all this became lost to sight. We entered into a dense undergrowth intersected at intervals by small fields.
I don’t remember much about the commencement of the battle. When we came out into the open on the summit of a hill the Turks could plainly be seen. As our companies emerged from amongst the bushes they formed up and opened out. A single cannon-shot thundered out. They had fired a shell. The men started, and all eyes were attracted by a white puff of smoke which was already dispersing and slowly rolling down the hill. At the same instant the screeching sound of a shell as it flew, apparently directly, over our heads made everyone duck. The shell, passing over us, struck the ground near the companies in rear of us. I remember the dull thud of its burst was followed by a pitiful cry from someone. A splinter had torn off the company sergeant-major’s foot. I heard of this later. At the time I could not understand the cry; my ears heard it—that was all. Then everything merged into that confused indescribable feeling which takes possession of anyone coming under fire for the first time. They say that there is no one who is not afraid in action. Any modest and truthful man, to the question, “Were you frightened?” replies, “Yes.” But it is not the physical fear which takes hold of a man at night, in some obscure alley, when encountering a footpad. It is the full, clear recognition of the inevitability and proximity of death. And, fantastic and strange as these words may appear, this recognition does not make men stop, does not force them to think of flight, but compels them to go ahead. Bloodthirsty instincts are not awakened; there is no desire to go ahead in order to kill somebody. But there is an irresistible force which drives one forward at all costs. Thoughts as to what must be done during action cannot be expressed in words. It is necessary to kill, or rather—one’s duty to die.
Whilst we were crossing the valley the Turks succeeded in firing several shots. As we slowly climbed up to the village we were separated from the Turks only by the last piece of thick undergrowth. As we entered the bushes everything became quiet.
It was difficult going. The dense, often prickly, bushes grew thickly, and it was necessary either to go round them or to push one’s way through them. The sharpshooters in front of us were already extended, and from time to time called gently to each other so as not to lose touch. Up to the present the whole company was together. A profound silence reigned in the wood.
Then there came the first rifle-shot, not very loud and resembling the thud of a woodman’s axe. The Turks were beginning to fire at random. Bullets whistled high above in the air in varying tones; they flew noisily through the bushes, cutting off branches, but were not touching us. This noise like wood-chopping became more and more frequent, and finally melted into an uniform tapping. The squealing and snarling of single bullets could no longer be heard. The very air itself seemed to be yelping. We hurriedly advanced. I and all around me were whole. This much astonished me.
Suddenly we emerged from the bushes. A deep gully along which ran a little stream intersected the road. The men halted a few minutes and drank.
From here the companies extended on either side so as to outflank the Turks. Our company was left in reserve in the gully. The skirmishers were to go direct through the bushes and rush the village. The Turkish fire was as frequent as formerly, unceasing, but much louder.
Having climbed up to the other side of the gully, Ventzel formed up his company. He said something to the men which I did not hear.
“We will try, we will try!” resounded the voices of the men.
I looked at him from below. He was pale, and it seemed to me, sorrowful, but calm. Seeing Ivan Platonich and Stebelkoff, he waved to them with his handkerchief, and then looked towards us as if in search of something. I guessed that he wished to bid me farewell, and I stood up so that he should notice me. Ventzel smiled, nodded his head several times at me, and ordered his men to go up into the fire. The men extended right and left, forming a long line, and were at once lost to sight in the bushes, with the exception of one man, who suddenly bounded forward, threw up his hands, and fell heavily to the ground. Two of ours jumped out of the gully and brought in his body.
There was a torturing half-hour of suspense.
The fight developed. Rifle-fire became more frequent and became one menacing howl. Guns boomed on our right flank. Blood-bespattered men, some walking, some crawling, commenced to appear from out of the bushes. At first only a few, but their numbers increased every moment. Our company assisted them down into the gully, gave them water, and dressed their wounds waiting the arrival of the stretcher-bearers. A rifleman with a shattered wrist, crying out terribly and rolling his eyes, his face pallid from loss of blood and pain, arrived by himself and sat down by the stream. They tied up his arm and placed him on his great coat. The bleeding stopped. He was in a highly feverish state. His lips trembled, and he was sobbing nervously and convulsively.
“Mates, mates! … dear comrades! …”
“Are many killed?”
“Yes, they are falling.”
“Is the company commander all right?”
“Yes, as yet. But for him we would have been beaten back. We will take it. With him they will take it,” said the wounded man in a weak voice. “Three times he led, and they beat us back. He led for the fourth time. They (the Turks) are sitting in a gully. They have heaps of ammunition, and go on firing and firing. … But no!” the wounded man screamed suddenly, rising and waving his injured hand. “You are joking, it cannot be. … They must …”
Then, rolling his delirious eyes and shouting out the most awful curses, he fell forward senseless.
Lukin appeared on the bank of the gully.
“Ivan Platonich!” he shouted out in an unnatural voice, “Bring them on!”
Smoke, reports, groans, and a mad “hurrah.” A smell of blood and powder. … Strange men with pale faces enveloped in smoke. … A savage, monstrous, inhuman struggle. Thank God that such moments are remembered only as in a dream, mistily.
When we reached them Ventzel had led the remnant of his company for the fifth time at the Turks, who were raining lead on him. This time the riflemen gained the village. The few Turks still defending it succeeded in getting away. (The second rifle company lost in the two hours’ fighting fifty-two men out of a little over one hundred.) Our company, having taken but little part in the action, lost only a few.
We did not remain on the position we had won, although the Turks had been defeated all along the line. When our General saw battalion after battalion take the road out of the village, when he saw masses of cavalry move off and long lines of guns, he was horrified. It was evident the Turks did not know our strength, concealed by the bushes. Had they known that only fourteen companies in all had driven them out of the deep roads, gullies, and hedges surrounding the village, they would have returned and annihilated us. They were three times as many as ourselves.
By the evening we were back again at our old camp. Ivan Platonich called me in to have some tea.
“Have you seen Ventzel?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Go to him. He is in his tent. Tell him we want him. He is killing himself. ‘Fifty-two! fifty-two!’ is all you can hear. Go to him.”
A thin piece of candle was feebly illuminating Ventzel’s tent. He was crouching in one of the corners with his bowed head resting on some boxes, and sobbing bitterly.