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Prince Andrew's regiment was among the reserves which till
after one o'clock were stationed inactive behind Semenovsk, under
heavy artillery fire. Toward two o'clock the regiment, having
already lost more than two hundred men, was moved forward into
a trampled oatfield in the gap between Semenovsk and the Knoll
Battery, where thousands of men perished that day and on which
an intense, concentrated fire from several hundred enemy guns
was directed between one and two o'clock.
Without moving from that spot or firing a single shot the
regiment here lost another third of its men. From in front and
especially from the right, in the unlifting smoke the guns boomed,
and out of the mysterious domain of smoke that overlay the whole
space in front, quick hissing cannon balls and slow whistling
shells flew unceasingly. At times, as if to allow them a respite,
a quarter of an hour passed during which the cannon balls and
shells all flew overhead, but sometimes several men were torn
from the regiment in a minute and the slain were continually being
dragged away and the wounded carried off.
With each fresh blow less and less chance of life remained
for those not yet killed. The regiment stood in columns of battalion,
three hundred paces apart, but nevertheless the men were always
in one and the same mood. All alike were taciturn and morose.
Talk was rarely heard in the ranks, and it ceased altogether every
time the thud of a successful shot and the cry of "stretchers!"
was heard. Most of the time, by their officers' order, the men
sat on the ground. One, having taken off his shako, carefully
loosened the gathers of its lining and drew them tight again;
another, rubbing some dry clay between his palms, polished his
bayonet; another fingered the strap and pulled the buckle of his
bandolier, while another smoothed and refolded his leg bands and
put his boots on again. Some built little houses of the tufts
in the plowed ground, or plaited baskets from the straw in the
cornfield. All seemed fully absorbed in these pursuits. When men
were killed or wounded, when rows of stretchers went past, when
some troops retreated, and when great masses of the enemy came
into view through the smoke, no one paid any attention to these
things. But when our artillery or cavalry advanced or some of
our infantry were seen to move forward, words of approval were
heard on all sides. But the liveliest attention was attracted
by occurrences quite apart from, and unconnected with, the battle.
It was as if the minds of these morally exhausted men found relief
in everyday, commonplace occurrences. A battery of artillery was
passing in front of the regiment. The horse of an ammunition cart
put its leg over a trace. "Hey, look at the trace horse!...
Get her leg out! She'll fall.... Ah, they don't see it!"
came identical shouts from the ranks all along the regiment. Another
time, general attention was attracted by a small brown dog, coming
heaven knows whence, which trotted in a preoccupied manner in
front of the ranks with tail stiffly erect till suddenly a shell
fell close by, when it yelped, tucked its tail between its legs,
and darted aside. Yells and shrieks of laughter rose from the
whole regiment. But such distractions lasted only a moment, and
for eight hours the men had been inactive, without food, in constant
fear of death, and their pale and gloomy faces grew ever paler
and gloomier.
Prince Andrew, pale and gloomy like everyone in the regiment,
paced up and down from the border of one patch to another, at
the edge of the meadow beside an oatfield, with head bowed and
arms behind his back. There was nothing for him to do and no orders
to be given. Everything went on of itself. The killed were dragged
from the front, the wounded carried away, and the ranks closed
up. If any soldiers ran to the rear they returned immediately
and hastily. At first Prince Andrew, considering it his duty to
rouse the courage of the men and to set them an example, walked
about among the ranks, but he soon became convinced that this
was unnecessary and that there was nothing he could teach them.
All the powers of his soul, as of every soldier there, were unconsciously
bent on avoiding the contemplation of the horrors of their situation.
He walked along the meadow, dragging his feet, rustling the grass,
and gazing at the dust that covered his boots; now he took big
strides trying to keep to the footprints left on the meadow by
the mowers, then he counted his steps, calculating how often he
must walk from one strip to another to walk a mile, then he stripped
the flowers from the wormwood that grew along a boundary rut,
rubbed them in his palms, and smelled their pungent, sweetly bitter
scent. Nothing remained of the previous day's thoughts. He thought
of nothing. He listened with weary ears to the ever-recurring
sounds, distinguishing the whistle of flying projectiles from
the booming of the reports, glanced at the tiresomely familiar
faces of the men of the first battalion, and waited. "Here
it comes... this one is coming our way again!" he thought,
listening to an approaching whistle in the hidden region of smoke.
"One, another! Again! It has hit...." He stopped and
looked at the ranks. "No, it has gone over. But this one
has hit!" And again he started trying to reach the boundary
strip in sixteen paces. A whizz and a thud! Five paces from him,
a cannon ball tore up the dry earth and disappeared. A chill ran
down his back. Again he glanced at the ranks. Probably many had
been hit- a large crowd had gathered near the second battalion.
"Adjutant!" he shouted. "Order them not to
crowd together."
The adjutant, having obeyed this instruction, approached Prince
Andrew. From the other side a battalion commander rode up.
"Look out!" came a frightened cry from a soldier
and, like a bird whirring in rapid flight and alighting on the
ground, a shell dropped with little noise within two steps of
Prince Andrew and close to the battalion commander's horse. The
horse first, regardless of whether it was right or wrong to show
fear, snorted, reared almost throwing the major, and galloped
aside. The horse's terror infected the men.
"Lie down!" cried the adjutant, throwing himself
flat on the ground.
Prince Andrew hesitated. The smoking shell spun like a top
between him and the prostrate adjutant, near a wormwood plant
between the field and the meadow.
"Can this be death?" thought Prince Andrew, looking
with a quite new, envious glance at the grass, the wormwood, and
the streamlet of smoke that curled up from the rotating black
ball. "I cannot, I do not wish to die. I love life- I love
this grass, this earth, this air...." He thought this, and
at the same time remembered that people were looking at him.
"It's shameful, sir!" he said to the adjutant. "What..."
He did not finish speaking. At one and the same moment came
the sound of an explosion, a whistle of splinters as from a breaking
window frame, a suffocating smell of powder, and Prince Andrew
started to one side, raising his arm, and fell on his chest. Several
officers ran up to him. From the right side of his abdomen, blood
was welling out making a large stain on the grass.
The militiamen with stretchers who were called up stood behind
the officers. Prince Andrew lay on his chest with his face in
the grass, breathing heavily and noisily.
"What are you waiting for? Come along!"
The peasants went up and took him by his shoulders and legs,
but he moaned piteously and, exchanging looks, they set him down
again.
"Pick him up, lift him, it's all the same!" cried
someone.
They again took him by the shoulders and laid him on the stretcher.
"Ah, God! My God! What is it? The stomach? That means
death! My God!"- voices among the officers were heard saying.
"It flew a hair's breadth past my ear," said the
adjutant.
The peasants, adjusting the stretcher to their shoulders,
started hurriedly along the path they had trodden down, to the
dressing station.
"Keep in step! Ah... those peasants!" shouted an
officer, seizing by their shoulders and checking the peasants,
who were walking unevenly and jolting the stretcher.
"Get into step, Fedor... I say, Fedor!" said the
foremost peasant.
"Now that's right!" said the one behind joyfully,
when he had got into step.
"Your excellency! Eh, Prince!" said the trembling
voice of Timokhin, who had run up and was looking down on the
stretcher.
Prince Andrew opened his eyes and looked up at the speaker
from the stretcher into which his head had sunk deep and again
his eyelids drooped.
The militiamen carried Prince Andrew to dressing station by
the wood, where wagons were stationed. The dressing station consisted
of three tents with flaps turned back, pitched at the edge of
a birch wood. In the wood, wagons and horses were standing. The
horses were eating oats from their movable troughs and sparrows
flew down and pecked the grains that fell. Some crows, scenting
blood, flew among the birch trees cawing impatiently. Around the
tents, over more than five acres, bloodstained men in various
garbs stood, sat, or lay. Around the wounded stood crowds of soldier
stretcher-bearers with dismal and attentive faces, whom the officers
keeping order tried in vain to drive from the spot. Disregarding
the officers' orders, the soldiers stood leaning against their
stretchers and gazing intently, as if trying to comprehend the
difficult problem of what was taking place before them. From the
tents came now loud angry cries and now plaintive groans. Occasionally
dressers ran out to fetch water, or to point out those who were
to be brought in next. The wounded men awaiting their turn outside
the tents groaned, sighed, wept, screamed, swore, or asked for
vodka. Some were delirious. Prince Andrew's bearers, stepping
over the wounded who had not yet been bandaged, took him, as a
regimental commander, close up to one of the tents and there stopped,
awaiting instructions. Prince Andrew opened his eyes and for a
long time could not make out what was going on around him. He
remembered the meadow, the wormwood, the field, the whirling black
ball, and his sudden rush of passionate love of life. Two steps
from him, leaning against a branch and talking loudly and attracting
general attention, stood a tall, handsome, black-haired noncommissioned
officer with a bandaged head. He had been wounded in the head
and leg by bullets. Around him, eagerly listening to his talk,
a crowd of wounded and stretcher-bearers was gathered.
"We kicked him out from there so that he chucked everything,
we grabbed the King himself!" cried he, looking around him
with eyes that glittered with fever. "If only reserves had
come up just then, lads, there wouldn't have been nothing left
of him! I tell you surely..."
Like all the others near the speaker, Prince Andrew looked
at him with shining eyes and experienced a sense of comfort. "But
isn't it all the same now?" thought he. "And what will
be there, and what has there been here? Why was I so reluctant
to part with life? There was something in this life I did not
and do not understand."
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