We started out in single file, moving forward stealthily and as noiselessly as possible. We passed by some woods, in which an enemy patrol had hidden upon hearing the crackling of the snow beneath some of our soldiers’ boots. We crawled on to the enemy trenches and lay in front of his barbed wire. Our chests were flattened against the snowdrifts. We were rather uneasy, as our presence seemed strangely unnoticed. Our officer, Lieutenant Borbov, a former school teacher, but a fighting man of the first order, suddenly caught a noise in our rear.
“There is something happening,” he whispered to us.
We strained our ears, but we had scarcely had time to look round when we found ourselves surrounded by an enemy force, larger than our own. It was too late to shoot. We resorted to our bayonets, and it was a brief but savage fight.
I found myself confronted by a German, who towered far above me. There was not an instant to lose. Life or death hung in the balance.
I rushed at the German before he had time to move and ran him through the stomach with the bayonet. The bayonet stuck, and the man fell. A stream of blood gushed forth. I made an effort to pull out the bayonet, but failed. It was the first man that I had bayoneted; and it all happened with lightning-speed.
I fled toward our trenches, pursued by a German, falling several times, but always rising again and pressing on. Our wire entanglements were in a zigzag, and I had difficulty in finding our positions. My situation was getting critical, when I discovered that I had some hand grenades with me. I threw them at my pursuer, falling to the ground to avoid the shock of the explosion, and at length I reached our trenches.
Only ten of our party of thirty returned. The Commander thanked me personally, expressing his astonishment that I should have been able to bayonet a German. Deep in my soul I also wondered.
The year 1915 was nearing its end. The winter was severe, and life in the trenches almost unbearable. Death was a welcome visitor. Even more welcome was a wound that enabled one to be sent to hospital. There were many cases of men snowed under and frozen to death. There were many more cases of frozen feet that had to be amputated. Our equipment was getting very deficient. Our supply organization was already breaking down. It was difficult to replace a worn pair of boots. Not infrequently something went wrong in the kitchen, and we were forced to suffer hunger as well as cold. But we were patient, like true children of Mother Russia. It was dreadfully monotonous, this inactivity, this mere holding of frozen ditches. We longed for battles, for one mighty battle, to win the victory and end the war.
One bitter night I was detailed to a listening post with three men. My boots were worn out. One has to keep absolutely still while on such duty. A movement may mean death. So there we lay on the white ground, exposed to the attacks of King Frost. He went about his work without delay, and thoroughly. My right foot was undergoing strange sensations. It began to freeze. I longed to sit up and rub it. But sitting up was not to be thought of. Was that a noise? I ceased to trouble about my foot; I had to strain all my nerves to catch that peculiar sound. Or was it a mere freak of the wind? My foot grew numb. It was going to sleep.
“Holy Mother, what’s to be done?” I thought to myself. “My right foot is gone. The feet of the other three men are freezing, too. They just whispered that to me. If only the Commander would relieve us now! But the two hours are not yet up.”
Suddenly we perceived two figures in white crawling toward us, Germans provided with appropriate costumes for a deadly mission. We fired, and they replied. A bullet pierced my coat, just scratching the skin. Then everything quieted down again; and we were soon relieved. I had barely strength to reach my trench. There, I fell exhausted, crying, “My foot! my foot!”
I was taken to the hospital, and there the horrible condition of my foot was revealed. It was as white as snow, covered with frost. The pains were agonizing, but nothing terrified me as much as the physician’s talk of the probable necessity of amputating it. But I made a stubborn fight, and I saved my right limb. The doctors soon put me on the road to recovery, and by persistent care succeeded in restoring my foot to its normal state.
The opening of the year 1916 found me still in hospital. Almost immediately upon my discharge our Company was sent to the rear for a month’s rest in Beloye, a village some distance behind the fighting line. We were billeted with the peasants in their homes; and we enjoyed the use of a bathhouse and slept on the peasants’ ovens, in true homely fashion. We even had the opportunity of seeing moving pictures, the apparatus being carried from base to base on a motor belonging to the Union of Zemstvos. We also established our own theatre and acted a play, written by one of our artillery officers. There were two women characters in the drama, and I was chosen for the leading role. The other feminine role was played by a young officer. It was with great reluctance that I consented to take the part, and only after the urgent appeals of the Commander. I did not believe myself capable of acting, and even the thunderous applause that I won on that occasion has not changed my belief.
At Beloye many of the soldiers and officers were visited by their wives. I made many acquaintances there and some fast friendships. One of the latter was with the wife of a stretcher-bearer with whom I had worked.
