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

The bullets continued to fly around us. The company kept silent. The tense feeling which involuntarily showed itself at the sound of these heralds of death relaxed. All began to imagine that the bullets were merely flying over us or dropping harmlessly to earth. Some of the men, having taken off their greatcoats, settled themselves down to sleep more comfortably, if it is possible to sleep comfortably under a shower of bullets, on ruts of dried mud, and holding a rifle in one’s hands. I, too, dozed. It was a heavy, torturing slumber. Not far from us⁠—I think in the 7th company⁠—there was a sudden commotion. “Take him away,” I heard. “Where can we take him?⁠ ⁠…” broke in someone. I did not hear the end of the remark. Ivan Nicolaievitch sent to find out what had happened. It appeared that a bullet which had “come to die” did not wish to die alone, and had actually buried itself in the heart of a soldier. This death caused a painful depressing impression. To be killed without seeing the enemy by a bullet which has travelled three thousand paces (two versts) seemed to all as something fateful, awful. However, little by little all became quiet, the men calmed down again, and began to doze. A not loud, harsh sound awoke everyone. A bullet had gone clean through the side of the big drum. Somebody was found even to make a joke about it, which met, however, with general disapproval. “This is no time to play the fool,” growled the men.

Everyone was rather on the alert, everyone was waiting for something. A bullet found its way into the cartridge pouch of one of the men, who, pale and trembling, carried it off to show the company commander. Ivan Nicolaievitch examined the bullet attentively, and noting from its calibre that it had been fired from a Peabody and Martini rifle, moved the company into a kind of bend in the road.

Here we, notwithstanding the whistling and hissing, became calmer. Shouts of “Hurrah!” resounded on the mountain. It was the Sofia Regiment storming the position.

I awoke when it was still almost dark. My sides ached unendurably. The bullets were flying as before, but now very high in the air above us. There were no flashes to be seen on the mountain, but a frequent cannonade could be heard. “It means that the mountain has been taken and the Sofia Regiment is holding the crest,” I reflected.

The sun had scarcely risen when they roused us. The men got up, yawning and stretching themselves. It was cold. The majority of us were shivering and shaking as if in a fever. The companies mustered at the spring, and both our battalions (2nd and 3rd) moved off towards the mountain.

Immediately after crossing the Lom by a small bridge the road led up the mountain. At first the ascent, although all covered with bushes, was bearable, but the higher we got the steeper became the slope and the narrower the road. Finally we were compelled to clamber up one by one, sometimes helping ourselves up with our rifles. The companies got mixed together with officers of another battalion; our Colonel appeared amongst us, having clambered with difficulty on to the heights. “What a brute of a mountain!” he exclaimed to his Adjutant. “How did the Sofia Regiment manage to take it?”

“It was difficult, sir,” said some tiny little soldier of the 8th company.

The Sofia Regiment came down as we went forward to relieve them. Worn out by a sleepless night, by thirst and nervous excitement, they were somewhat unstrung, and made no reply to our questions as to whether there were many Turks and whether the fire was hot. Only a few said quietly, “God help you!”

At length we got to the summit of the mountain. At the last the ascent lay up an absolutely overhanging crag. Beneath it was a small ledge where the companies could reform without danger from the fire. Although the difficult ascent, the bushes, and the narrow track had absolutely mixed us up, the men reformed and fell into their proper places extraordinarily quickly. The bullets as they flew past the ledge caterwauled above us in a piercing and extremely unpleasant manner. Here beneath the crag it was safe, but what was it like on it? Branches of the bushes growing on the crest cracked as they were smashed by the bullets, sometimes a few leaves came twirling down. We moved to the right, at first under the ledge, then little by little began to clamber up one by one from boulder to boulder. Having got round the crag, we crawled out on to the extreme summit and moved between the dense high bushes. I don’t know who was leading us. All moved in the direction of the firing, pushing along with difficulty between the bushes. At last we came upon a narrow track. “Forward! Double!” Here there were lying fresh corpses, both of ours and of Turks. The wounded were already being carried along toward us. The little man of the 8th company who had so boldly entered into conversation with the regimental Colonel was now half delirious, wailing pitifully, and with one hand supporting the other, from which a stream of blood was flowing. We continued to rush forward, and at length arrived at an open space. Major F. was already there, walking unconcernedly up and down the firing-line. “Where shall I go, Major?” I asked. He made no reply, but pointed to the left with his sword. I ran forward, throwing myself once to the ground to avoid a bursting shell. Ivan Nicolaievitch was slowly pacing up and down, tugging at his straggly hairs.

“Ivan Nicolaievitch,” I called out. “I don’t know where our half section is. May I join the first?”

“Go along, go along quickly!” he said, looking beyond at the Turkish line.

However, it was impossible to find either the first or second half section.