The next train came in. I never before saw one so packed. There could be no thought of getting inside a car. The only space available was on the top of a coach. There were plenty of passengers even there. With the aid of some soldiers I climbed on to the top, where I spent two days and two nights. It was impossible to get off at every station to take a walk. We had to send someone even to fetch the tea, and our food consisted of that and bread.
Accidents were not uncommon. On the very roof on which I travelled a man fell asleep, rolled off, and was killed instantaneously. I narrowly escaped a similar fate. I began to doze and drifted to the edge and had not a soldier caught me in the nick of time I should undoubtedly have fallen off. We finally arrived at Kiev.
That journey on the train was a symbol of the country’s condition in the winter of 1916. The government machinery was breaking down. The soldiers had lost faith in their leaders, and there was a general feeling that they were being sent in thousands merely to be slaughtered. Rumours flew thick and fast. The old soldiers had been killed off and the fresh drafts were impatient for the end of the war. The spirit of 1914 was no more.
In Kiev I had to obtain information as to the position of my regiment. It was now near the town of Berestechko. In my absence the men had advanced ten miles. The train from Kiev was also very crowded and there was only standing room. At the stations we sent some of the soldiers to fill our kettles with hot water. The men could seldom get in and out through the entrances, so they used the windows. The train passed through Zhitomir and Zhimerinka on the way to Lutzk. There I changed to a branch line, going to the station of Verba, within twenty miles of our position.
It was muddy on the road to the front. Overhead flew whole flocks of aeroplanes, raining bombs. I got used to them. In the afternoon there was a downpour, and I was thoroughly soaked. Dead tired, with water streaming from my clothes, I arrived in the evening within three miles of the first line. There was a regimental supply train camping on both sides of the road. I approached a sentry and asked:
“What regiment is billeted here?”
“The Twenty-Eighth Polotsk Regiment.”
My heart leaped for joy. The soldier did not recognize me. He was a new man. But the others must have told him of me.
“I am Yashka,” I said.
That was a password. They all knew the name and had heard from the veterans of the regiment many stories about me. I was taken to the Colonel in command of the supply train, a queer old man who kissed me on both cheeks and jumped about, clapping his hands and shouting, “Yashka! Yashka!”
He was kindhearted and immediately began to look after my comfort. He promptly ordered an orderly to bring a new outfit and gave instructions for the bath used by the officers to be prepared for me. Clean and in the new uniform, I accepted the invitation to sup with the Colonel. There were several other officers at the table and all were glad to see me. The news spread that Yashka had arrived, and some soldiers could not restrain their desire to shake hands with me. Every now and then there would be a meek knock at the door and in answer to the Colonel’s question, “Who’s there?” a plaintive voice would say:
“Excellency, may I be allowed to see Yashka?”
In time quite a number of comrades were admitted into the house. One part of it was occupied by the owner, a widow with a young daughter. I spent the night with the latter and in the morning started out to the front. Some of our companies were in reserve and my progress became a triumphal journey. I was feasted on the way and given several ovations.
I presented myself to the Commander of the Regiment, who invited me to dine that afternoon with the Regimental Staff, certainly the first case of an ordinary soldier receiving such an invitation in the history of the Regiment. At dinner the Commander toasted me, telling the story of my work with the Regiment and wishing me many more years of such service.
At the conclusion he pinned a cross of the 3rd Degree on my breast, and marked with a pencil three stripes on my shoulder, thus promoting me to the grade of senior noncommissioned officer. The Staff crowded round me, pressing my hands, praising me and expressing their good wishes. I was profoundly moved by this display of cordial appreciation and affection on the part of the officers. This was my reward for all the suffering I had undergone.
And it was a reward worth having. What did I care for a wound in the spine and four months’ paralysis if this was the return that I received for my sacrifice? Trenches filled with bloody corpses held no horror for me then. No Man’s Land seemed quite an attractive place in which to spend a day with a bleeding leg. The screech of shells and the whistle of bullets presented themselves like music to my imagination. Ah, life was not so bleak and meaningless, after all. It had its moments of bliss that compensated for years of torment and misery.
The commander had, in his order of the day, stated the fact of my return and promotion. He furnished me with an orderly to show me the way to the trenches. Again I was hailed by everybody as I emerged from the dugout of the Commander of the Company,
