# The Russian Review/Volume 1/April 1916/In the Glare of Battle

In The Glare of Battle.
By J. Okunev.
The following sketch is taken from Mr. Okunev's Russian book of impressions of the War. He followed the Russian armies through Galicia and up the Carpathian passes, and his vivid accounts are unusual for their power and skill in characterization.—Ed.
There is nothing more dreadful than the sight of human habitation laid waste by the war. A few shells from a gun of large caliber lay a building in ruins, so that nothing remains but piles of dirt, broken stones, and pieces of wood. And if a town or a village happen to be within the range of the guns, whose hurricane-like cannonade usually precedes an attack, then every building in it is razed to the ground, and on the spots upon which so recently stood the homes of men nothing is now seen except smoke-stacks, which, for some reason or other, shells, shrapnel, and bullets usually miss.
Going in the direction of the town of R., we passed many such spots laid waste by artillery fire. Burnt pillars, bent sheets of iron torn off the roof and scattered on the ground, broken dishes, mutilated utensils, frames with scraps of burnt canvass in the place of paintings, bodies of pianos, blackened by fire,—this is all that is left of the merry Polish estates, which the Austrians had visited, and through which the artillery fire played unhampered.
We have become accustomed to death; the sight of the most terrible wounds frightens us no longer. We have seen cases in which a "dum-dum" bullet would enter the body, and, on coming out, tear a hole as large as a saucer. We have seen dreadful sufferings; a thousand times have we imagined ourselves in the place of our wounded comrades. The fear of pain, which is infinitely more severe and acute than the fear of death, has already burned out in the soul of every one of us. Nothing can make us afraid or desperate; nothing can terrify us. And yet there is something to which we cannot become accustomed: it is the sight of charred roofs, fragments of furniture, broken plate . . .
Plain soldiers, especially peasants, men like Zverev, Lozhkin, Zozulenko, feel even more deeply than we, educated men, the meaning and the horror of this destruction.
"They must have come to the end of the rope," say they, ​seeing the ruins. "Men must be desperate, if they don't spare even houses. That means the end."
In the neighborhood of R., we came across the beautiful old park of the Polish magnate, Branitzky. Splendid, old lindens, hundred-year old oaks, tall acacias, their branches broken off by shells, stood in straight rows, charred and black,—the gloomy sentinels of the devastated castle. Conservatories with broken roofs, filled with dirt and shattered flower-pots, ponds with objects of every description piled into them, tennis-courts and meadows cut by trenches and disfigured by explosions,—this was all that remained of the splendid, rich estate.
A peculiar, complex feeling seemed to stir in our hearts, a feeling of pity and, at the same time, of something that baffled analysis, resembling, perhaps, repentance, or a realization of our own indirect responsibility. This realization caused the soldiers' faces to become harder and sterner, brought curses and imprecations to their lips, made their step more regular, although there was no need for this regularity. Zverev lighted a cigarette, threw it away before it was half consumed, and said, spitting through his teeth:
"When you fight, you break the other fellow's cheek-bones. But what's the use of spoiling property? The devils!"
"Keep still, there," said the officer to him. "It doesn't concern you."
Zverev lit another cigarette, but threw it away also, cursing the tobacco for being wet.
"Tobacco is the thing a military man needs most, and it get wet, the Devil take it! What are you going to do without tobacco in time of war?"
"Stop that, Zverev. Here's a cigarette," said Kostrukov.
Zverev took the cigarette, evidently regretting that there was no longer a pretext for grumbling.
And then, too, there was no time for grumbling. Our orders were to go through the park, and on towards R., where the N. Division had dug itself in.
At the end of the park, on the high road, stood a small brick building, evidently serving the purpose of a watch-house before the War. Only a flue and two walls still remained standing. When we approached the spot, a half-wild, dirty dog ran from behind the flue, and rushed away with a howl.
"It stinks here, boys," said Lozhkin, approaching a pile of broken stone.
And really, a sweetish smell of decay came from the pile, ​amid which something white was visible. It was the body of a dead child. The white dress and the little white shoes trimmed with fur were still intact. But instead of the face, what we saw was a horrible, reddish-purple mass.
The soldiers stooped over the dead body.
"Anything there you haven't seen? Get along, now!" said the officer, looking in a different direction.
Lozhkin moved his head from side to side, as though his collar was too tight, and looked at those about him with a gaze that was full of perplexity.
"Just look at that . . . Eh?"
That was all he said, and was silent until evening, although he was fond of chatting. In the evening, sitting down on the ground in a swamp where we had a short rest, he still remained silent for some time, smoking; later he began to whistle, and then to sing. Finally he said in a low voice:
"And the dress on her was white!"
Then he began to whistle again, and, at last, getting rid of his thoughts, he suddenly hit Zverev on the back with his fist, and shouted out:
"Get along, now, Palasha!"
This was his favorite saying, with which he usually concluded all his conversations, or the course of his thoughts.
I am a peaceful man. I have read many splendid books, in which the questions of good and evil were discussed thoroughly. I cannot kill anybody, cannot steal anything, cannot injure a woman or a child. I know, I am convinced, that war is an evil, that in it is combined everything that I cannot do. And yet the signal horn begins to scatter its disquieting tra-ta-ta through the field. My heart begins to beat rapidly, my throat is compressed, my mind is clouded, stripped entirely of what the books I had read imparted to it, void of any realization of good and evil. The only thing that remains is the inevitable, and what I do with the bayonet or the rifle is not murder, not evil, not horror, but something which is essential and highly important.
There is a mighty force in that tra-ta-ta produced by a piece of steel, a force which is more powerful than I, myself, than my horror of blood. The sound of that imperative summons is right, and not a single argument against it rises within me. Principles? What principle, what conviction is there that can withstand the force of the inevitable? Fear? But war is a state in which fear is conquered by fear. One must possess a ​greater courage to flee than to go forward; for the bullets and the shells are behind, while, as you move ahead, they fly over your head, and when you are close to your enemy, the only question is to break through, i. e., escape danger altogether.
When I hear the signal, I cease to know, to understand what is to be done, to see what I am doing, and yet it seems that I am doing exactly what should be done.
And what I have to do is to run a few steps, lie down, and dig myself in. Then jump up, run a few more steps, lie down again, and again dig myself in as deeply as possible. The little shovel seems to be throwing up the ground of its own accord, the little mound seems to rise up of itself, for my thoughts have nothing to do with war, or with my present occupation; I am thinking about the blue sky, about myself, about everything, except what is going on around me. Of that I must not think.
For I, with all my thoughts, feelings, and fears, and the blue sky I see above me,—all this may die any instant. And then I shall be no more, and the blue sky will cease to exist, and the war, and the little mound that I have just heaped up. And not I alone, but Zverev, and the former lawyer Tomilin, and all others think about this with sinking hearts.
"Oh, may . . ." curses Zverev, as he brushes away with his shovel the bullets that are flying around like flies.
"Why do you swear? Maybe you'll die soon," says Maximov to him.
"Why? Because it makes you feel better. Just see what they're doing there."
"My, what a tongue you've got, Zverev! Can't do without cursing."
"No, I can't; that's the way I was made."
"Well, well, get along, now," breaks in Lozhkin, never missing an opportunity to put in his favorite saying.
And this conversation takes place under a rain of bullets, in the first line of the enemy's trenches that we captured during the night.
We do not know how soon we may be ordered to go into action. Just now artillery is doing its best. In the meantime, we have to remake the captured trenches, "turn them the other way around," as the soldiers say; i. e., remove the earth-bank from one side of the trench to the other.
"THE GERMANS ARE GONE." A Polish village after the Germans left it, as drawn by a war artist. (Lukomorye)
​covered with logs and earth, with openings for rifles and indentations for commanders. The second line is a series of well-protected earth-works for the batteries. The third line is for the reserves. The three lines of trenches are connected by transverse underground passages. When we go into action, the reserves leave the third line of trenches and take our place.
We are really in an underground town, with streets and alleys, and this town constantly changes its outlines as the battle progresses. New saps are made, the network of trenches is extended, new earth-banks are heaped up, false covers are constructed in order to deceive the enemy. And all this work is done while the battle is in progress, while the guns are roaring ceaselessly, while lead and iron are falling as thick as hail. Yet, we experience no fear in performing the work; on the contrary, we are in good spirits, for we forget about everything except the fact that this spot needs straightening out, another place needs deepening, a third, levelling.
And the bullets fall and fall, without end . . .
Towards evening it became known that we were going into action that night. As usual, the soldiers "prepared" for battle: put on clean underwear, if they had any, and washed themselves*.
"You must be clean when you go out to die," they say.
Tomilin, who had entered the army as a volunteer, was sitting in a corner of the trench, deep in thought. Suddenly he rose and approached me.
"I told you once," said he, "that I am an unbeliever. But now I do believe. And do you know? war changes all of us, it seems. That is, your convictions and your point of view may remain the same, but there is something new in your soul."
"'Communion with Are and blood?'" said I, recalling the words he used on a previous occasion.
"No, not that. I cannot express it. Words seem to be pretentious and affected. Zverev or Zozulenko can express it, but I can't. . . It is a kind of an anxious, passionate expectation, before which my own death is but a trifle, a small incident, that has no significance."
"Are you afraid, brother?" suddenly asked somebody in the darkness, a few steps away from us.
"Why should I be afraid? Before others, too?" said the unseen person, to whom the question was addressed. "And even if I am afraid, they won't ask me about it. It must be done, and that's all there is to it."
​"That's right."
Tomilin nodded, as if agreeing with the opinion that "all there was to it" was that "it must be done." After that he walked away.
The order came to leave the trench and begin to approach quietly the enemy's positions. The familiar feeling, half fear, and half apprehension, seized me.
The enemy was alert. They saw us and guessed our intentions. The machines guns began their rapid clicking, and their fans of bullets began to sweep the field.
It seems as though ripe ears of grain flutter over your head. It is the whisper and the hissing of thousands of flying bullets. They fly on and on, and finally fall to the ground, their destructive force already spent.
And again, as a few days ago, during the previous attack, I feel that I must not think about fear, otherwise I am lost. Tomilin and Kirichenko are not far away from me, one to the right and the other to the left All of us are lying flat on the ground. I do not know why we are lying so long, but through my half-closed eyes I see something big and fiery spinning around us, with a hoarse, hissing sound. I ought to creep away, but my body is heavy, and my arms and legs refuse to obey.
"Will 'it' hit me? Me or Tomilin? I guess it'll be Tomilin; 'it' is nearer to him. Oh, I wish it wouldn't be I! How old am I? Only thirty-two. If I reach an even number before it explodes, I'll be saved. One, two, three . . ."
Bach!
Tomilin jumps up to his feet. I get up also. Kirichenko is still prone on the ground.
"Kirichenko!"
"Ah?"
"Are you alive?"
"Yes."
"Is it over?"
"Over"
Kirichenko raises himself to a sitting position, takes off his cap, and makes the sign of the cross.
A narrow strip of red light runs over the field. This is the signal for the attack. We rush forward. I cannot see anything, except gray and blue spots ahead. I cannot hear anything, except a chaos of sounds, that remind one of the noise made by an in-flowing tide, or of a peculiar buzzing.
​It is impossible to describe the impressions of an attack. There are no impressions. There is only a feeling that you overcome an obstacle. Now it gives way before you.
"Come on, boys, we're getting it," is heard from a distance.
Now we are pressed back.
"Hold on, now. The reserves are coming."
"Now, once more, once more!"
"Hurrah!"
The obstacle gives way again. The enemy's reserve is thrown back. Something soft and living stirs and swells under foot.
"Is it over?" ask we, as we did a short time before, when the shell was spinning around so close to us.
"It's over."
The trench is taken. . . The enemy is retreating, hastily drawing in his flanks. . . Beyond the three lines of trenches, the town of Zh. is burning; the Austrians set fire to it before retreating. Dead bodies are lying everywhere. One trench is filled with dead bodies to the brim. . .
A few inhabitants of the vilage, who did not have a chance to escape, gazed at us with eyes full of unspeakable terror. One old man threw himself into a burning building. A woman with a child in her arms ran past. Both the woman and the child were dressed in white. . .
"And the dress on her was white!" Zverev's exclamation involuntarily comes to my mind. . .
. . .The signal horn is heard in the distance.