XIII
When Miháylof saw the bomb and fell down, he too, like Praskoúhin, lived through an infinitude of thoughts and feelings in the two seconds that passed before the bomb burst. He prayed mentally, and repeated, “Thy will be done.” And at the same time he thought, “Why did I enter the army? and why did I join the infantry to take part in the campaign? Would it not have been better to have remained with the Uhlan regiment at T⸺, and spent my time with my friend Natásha? And now here I am,” … and he began to count “one, two, three, four,” deciding that if the bomb burst at an even number he would live, but if at an odd number he would be killed. “It is all over, I’m killed,” he thought when the bomb burst (he did not remember whether at an odd or even number), and he felt a blow and a cruel pain in his head. “Lord, forgive me my trespasses!” he muttered, folding his hands; he rose, but fell on his back senseless.
When he came to, his first sensation was that of the blood trickling down his nose and the pain in his head, which was much less violent. “That’s the soul passing,” he thought. “How will it be there? Lord! receive my soul in peace. … Only it’s strange,” thought he, “that, dying, I should hear so distinctly the steps of the soldiers and the sounds of the firing.”
“Bring stretchers! Eh, the Captain is killed!” shouted a voice above his head, which he involuntarily recognised as the voice of the drummer, Ignátyef.
Someone took him by the shoulders. With an effort he opened his eyes, and saw the sky above him, the groups of stars, and two bombs racing one another as they few above him. He saw Ignátyef, soldiers with stretchers and guns, the embankment, the trenches, and suddenly realised that he was not yet in the other world.
He was slightly wounded in the head by a stone. His first feeling was one almost of regret: he had prepared himself so well and calmly to go there, that the return to reality, with its bombs, stretchers, and blood, seemed unpleasant. The second feeling was unconscious joy at being alive; and the third, a wish to get away from the bastion as quickly as possible. The drummer tied a handkerchief round his Commander’s head, and taking his arm led him towards the Ambulance Station.
“But why, and where, am I going?” thought the Lieutenant-Captain when he had collected his senses. “My duty is to remain with the company, and not to leave it behind, especially,” whispered a voice, “as the company will soon be out of range of the guns.”
“Never mind, my lad,” said he, drawing away his hand from the attentive drummer, “I won’t go to the Ambulance Station, but will stay with the company.”
And he turned back.
“It would be better to have it properly bandaged, your honour,” said Ignátyef. “It’s only the heat of the moment makes it seem nothing; mind it don’t get worse, and just see what warm work it is here. … Really, your honour—”
Miháylof stood for a moment undecided, and would probably have followed Ignátyef’s advice had he not reflected how many severely wounded there must be at the Ambulance Station. “Perhaps the doctors will smile at my scratch,” thought the Lieutenant-Captain, and in spite of the drummer’s arguments he returned to his company.
“And where is Staff-Officer Praskoúhin, who was with me?” he asked, when he met the Ensign who was leading the company.
“I don’t know; killed, I think,” replied the Ensign unwillingly.
“Killed? or wounded? How is it you don’t know? wasn’t he going with us? And why did you not bring him away?”
“How could we under such a fire?”
“Ah! what have you done, Michael Ivánitch?” said Miháylof angrily. “How could you leave him if he’s alive? Even if he’s dead his body ought to have been brought away.”
“Alive indeed, when I tell you I myself went up and saw him!” said the Ensign. “Excuse me, it’s hard enough to collect our own. … There they are, the villains,” added he, “it’s cannonballs they’re sending now!”
Miháylof sat down and held his head, which ached terribly when he moved. “No, it is absolutely necessary to go back and fetch him; he may still be alive,” said Miháylof. “It is our duty, Michael Ivánitch.”
Michael Ivánitch did not answer.
“There now! he did not take him at the time, and now soldiers will have to be sent back by themselves … and how can one send them? Under this terrible fire they may be killed uselessly,” thought Miháylof.
“Lads! someone will have to go back to fetch the officer who was wounded out there in the ditch,” said he, not very loudly or peremptorily, feeling how unpleasant it would be for the soldiers to execute this order. And so it was. As he had not named anyone in particular no one came forward to obey the order.
“And, after all, he may be dead already: it is not worth while exposing men uselessly to such danger. It’s all my fault, I ought to have seen to it. I will go back myself and find out whether he is alive. It is my duty,” said Miháylof to himself.
“Michael Ivánitch! you lead the company, I’ll catch you up,” said he, and lifting his cloak with one hand, while with the other he kept touching a small icon of St. Metrophanes that hung round his neck and in which he had great faith, he ran quickly along the trench.
Having convinced himself that Praskoúhin was dead, Miháylof dragged himself back panting, his hand holding the bandage that had slipped on his head, which now again ached badly. When Miháylof overtook the battalion, it was already at the foot of the hill, and almost beyond the range of the shots. I say “almost,” because a stray bomb now and then came even here.
“Tomorrow I had better go and be entered at the Ambulance Station,” thought the Lieutenant-Captain, while a medical assistant, who had turned up, was bandaging his head.