The General acted in an odd fashion. He would stop at points where the barbed wire was torn open or where the fortifications were weak and wipe his face with his handkerchief. There was a general murmur among the men. The word “treason!” was uttered by many lips in suppressed tones. The officers were indignant and called the General’s attention to the unnecessary danger to which he exposed himself. But the General ignored their warnings, remarking, “Nitchevo!” (That’s nothing).
The discipline was so rigorous that no one dared to argue the matter with the General. The officers cursed when he left. The men muttered:
“He is selling us to the enemy!”
Half an hour after his departure the Germans opened a tremendous fire. It was particularly directed against those points at which the General had stopped, reducing their faulty defences to ruins. We thought at first that the enemy intended to launch an offensive, but our expectations were not realized. He merely continued his violent bombardment, wounding and burying alive hundreds of men. The cries of the men were such that the work of rescue could not be delayed. While the shelling was still going on I took charge and dressed some hundred and fifty wounds. If General Walter had appeared in our midst at that moment the men would never have let him get away alive, so intense was their feeling.
For two weeks we worked at the reconstruction of our demolished trenches and altogether extracted about five hundred corpses. I was recommended for and received a gold medal of the 2nd Degree for “saving wounded from the trenches under violent fire.” Usually a medical assistant received a medal of the 4th Degree, but I was given one of the 2nd Degree because of the special conditions under which I had done my work.
We were then relieved for a month and sent ten miles to the rear, to the village of Senky, on a stream called Uzlianka. An artillery base was located there, and when we finally reached our destination, our life was easier. But getting there was no easy task, for the road was in a frightful condition. We were utterly exhausted, and most of us fell asleep without even eating the supper that had been prepared for us.
There was no work for a medical assistant in the rear, and besides my arm had fully recovered, so I applied to the Commander for permission to return to the ranks. He granted it, promoting me to the rank of Corporal, which placed me in charge of eleven men.
Here I received two letters, one from Yasha, in reply to mine, written from Yakutsk, in which I spoke of returning to him at the conclusion of the war. I sent a letter in answer to his repeating my promise, on condition that he would change his behaviour towards me and treat me with consideration and love. The other letter was from home. My mother wanted me to come back, telling me of her hardships and sufferings.
It was October. This month, spent at the artillery base, was a merry one. We were billeted in the village huts, and engaged almost daily in sports and games. It was here that I was first taught how to sign my name and copy the alphabet. I had learned to read previously, Yasha having been my first teacher. The literature that was allowed to circulate at the front was largely made up of lurid detective stories, and the name of “Nick Carter” was not unfamiliar even to me.
There were other amusements, also. I remember one day, during a downpour of rain, I sought shelter in a barn, where I found about forty officers and men, who were also sheltering there from the rain. The owner of the barn, a middle-aged baba, was there with her cow. I was in a mischievous mood and began to flirt with her, to the general merriment of the men. I paid her some flattering compliments and declared that she had captivated me. The woman did not recognize my sex and professed to be insulted. Encouraged by the uproar of the men, I persisted in my advances, and finally made an attempt to kiss her. The baba, infuriated by the laughter of the soldiers, seized a large piece of firewood, and with curses threatened me and the men.
“Get out of here, you tormentors of a poor baba!” she cried.
I did not want to provoke a fight and cried to her:
“Why, you foolish woman, I am a peasant girl myself.”
This only further inflamed our hostess. She took it for more ridicule and became more menacing. The officers and soldiers interfered, trying to persuade her of the truth of my words, as none of us wanted to be put out into the rain. However, it required more than words to convince her, so I was compelled to unbutton my coat.
“Holy Jesus!” the woman crossed herself. “A baba, indeed.” And immediately her heart softened, and her tone changed into one of tenderness. She burst into tears. Her husband and son were in the army, she told me, and she hadn’t heard from them for a long time. She gathered me into her arms, and gave me food and some milk, inquiring about my mother and mourning over her lot. We parted affectionately, and she followed me with her blessings.
It was snowing when we returned to the front line. Our position was now at Ferdinandovi Nos, between Lake Naroch and Baranovitchi. The first night the Commander of the Company issued a call for thirty volunteers to go scouting and investigate the strength and position of the enemy. I was
