Short Fiction by Vsevolod Garshin (always you kirsty moseley TXT) 📕

nearer than the shellfire, not on the heights, but below it in the Valley of Lom, began the sound of rifle-fire, at first desultory, as if several axes were hewing down trees, then more and more often. Sometimes the sound united in a prolonged crackle.

I went up to the officers of our company. Our company commander was talking to another officer⁠—S.⁠—telling him that he had just been informed that similar “brushes” took place here almost every day.

“Well, it seems we have got into action at last,” said S.

“But what sort of action is this?⁠ ⁠… Surely you cannot call this an action? Some of the local inhabitants have squatted down with their blunderbusses in the woods and are sniping us. All the same, stray bullets may come this way, and I should not like to be killed in such a way.”

“Why, Ivan Nicolaievitch?” I asked.

“Because what sort of action is this?”

Ivan Nicolaievitch was an expert on military matters and a tremendous admirer of strategy and tactics. He frequently expressed the opinion that if he was to be killed it ought to be done in the proper manner in a proper battle, or, better still, in a general action. The present skirmishing was evidently not to his liking. He tugged uneasily at a few straggling hairs on his chin, then suddenly with a good-humoured and serious smile exclaimed:

“Better to come along and have some tea; the samovar is ready.”

We crawled into the tent, and settled down to drink tea. Little by little the firing died down, and we spent the remainder of the day and night in absolute quietness.

By the way, I dreamt all night long of white puffs of smoke and of the rattle of musketry.

When I awoke the sun was already high up. The heat was like yesterday’s. A battalion of the Nevsky Regiment which had passed us going in the direction of yesterday’s cannonading marched along, however, quite spiritedly. The men were infected with the closeness of battle.

However, they soon returned, and, skirting the village, probably made for the scene of the previous day’s rifle-firing. Today it was less distinct, the shots were further from us. The guns, too, roared at first from our side, but soon white puffs of smoke showed themselves on the heights of the opposite bank. The Turks had brought up some artillery.

I proposed to S. going into the village to climb on to some roof and follow the fight. One could see better from this position. Although the minaret was untouched, and of course stood high above any roof, the mosque itself stood low down, almost in the valley, so we clambered on to the gallery of the first Cherkess house we came to which happened to face towards the scene of the action. But although it lay before us, we could see no troops or even any rifle-smoke. There was simply nothing to be seen. We slid down from the gallery into a little garden of white acacias and apricot trees. Everything was in perfect order, as if it was only yesterday the owners had watered the flowerbeds. Pumpkins were winding their clinging stalks along the hedge, whilst a few stalks of maize and high “rat’s-tails” with red ears gave colour to the garden. We entered the house. The walls were smoothly and clearly plastered with a grey clay. All was in perfect repair. Only the hearth, made of pieces of tile, was broken. On the floor were scattered a few leaves of some Mussulman book with decorated headings in gold and paint.

There was nothing more to see, and climbing over the labyrinth of hedges we got out into the street. Here we met S.’s servant, who came running towards us, red as a lobster.

“Please, sir, please! They have already stood to arms!”

We ran to the battalion, and in two minutes’ time I, too, was marching along with my rifle shouldered.

We went towards the scene of yesterday’s rifle skirmish. The soldiers began to cross themselves. A long string of ambulance wagons halted on the road to let us pass and followed on behind us.

III

We skirted round the village, descended, and passed over a small bridge thrown across the stream. The road led lightly to the mountain through a small thicket. Little medlar-trees, all red from the quantity of fruit, mingled with blackthorn. It was a narrow road, and not more than four men could march abreast. To the right of it gun and rifle pits had been dug out amongst the bushes, preparations in case of an attack by the Turks on Papkio.

We halted and allowed some regiment to pass us. It was the Nevsky Regiment, which had been under fire all day and was now returning to camp, as it had expended all its ammunition. So far as I can remember, its casualties that day had not been great. They marched as if worn out and tired, but with an air of gaiety and good spirits.

“What are you coming back for, mates?” we asked them. Some of them said nothing, but merely opened their empty cartridge pouches. Others replied that there were no more cartridges, that the Sofia Regiment, which was in front, had relieved them, and that the Turks had fallen back.

“Oh you!”

“Why ‘Oh you’? You go yourself two days without food. Besides, there are no cartridges. A soldier without cartridges is like a pipe without tobacco,” said one of the Nevsky’s, knocking out his pipe. “Turn back? Yes if they came at us, but when it is a case of they firing and we firing, there’s nothing in it. Chum, give me a draw.”

He had a puff or two, and then ran to catch up his company.

A battery came trotting past, and we followed behind it. The sun was setting and was gilding everything. We went down into a ravine where a small stream was flowing. Ten gigantic black poplars hid the spot like a roof where we again halted. The