The daily worker. [volume] (Chicago, Ill.) 1924-1958, 1926-12-04
81 LARIssA RglssNER.

- torpedo boat is astonishingly
similar to the clock in the Peter-Paul
fortress.
But instead of the Neva, instead
of the glistening granite and the
golden spires, her precise accents
play about the unfamiliar banks and
the clear, capricious waters of the
Kama. and in the distance, the for
lorn islands of the small villages.
1t is dark on the bridge deck. The
moon barely Eliminates the long,
slender, eagerly advancing bodies of
the war vessels. The sparks futter
lightly from the smoke stacks, the
milk-white vapor hangs it's curly
name down on the water, and the
ships, with their proudly erected
posts, appear in this primitive space
not as the latest achievement in tech
nique but as war-hke, inconceivable
sea horses.
A queer light. Isolated faces are
pale, and as in day time, plainly Wis
ible. The motions are noiseless, and
yet exact. A sailor draws the heavy
Jacket off the cannon, with a jerk. as
one pulls a veh from an enchanted,
frightful head. His movements are,
from years of training, epical and un-
constrained as in ballet.
Dancing hands of the signalist, with
their little red flags dance laconical-
ly and with conviction the ritual
dance of orders and replies.
And over the restrained commotion
of the ships preparing for battle, over
the reflection of the glowing furnace
hiding its smoke and heat in the
depths of the ship-hull, over the
bridge-deck and the masts, between
softly vibrating yards rises the
green morning star.
The advanced post which we usual
ly occupy lies far back, beyond the
bend of the river. The ship is close
to the bank; its commander, Ovtchin-
nikov, the ever-calm, determined, pre-
else, and silent man, is one from the
glorious ranks of Asin's 18th Division
which has traversed all, Russia, from
the cold Kama to. Baku, the city coy
cred with ashes by the yellow winds.
Somewhere to the right a PREACHER
GUS flame flickered and disappeared
perhaps it is the Whites, but it may
also be division of Koshevnikov,
who is Stirring about in the deep
hinterlands of ths Whites and some
times energies suddenly from the
brush-wood hiding the banks of the
Kama.
Under the first rays Of the morn
ing sun this bank is unusually beau
tifui. AT Sarapul the Kama is broad
and deep, flowing between yellow
clayie slopes, branching off between
islands, and bearing on her smooth,
oily surfaces reflections of the CO.
dars. Kama is free, Kama is quiet.
The noise of the torpedo boats does
not disturb the magic peace of the
river.
On the sand shoals hundreds Of
swans are spreading their white
wings, shining in the October sun. A
flock of little pellets-ducks-glide
smoothly across the water, and above
the white church in the distance an
eagle is sailing about in a circle. And
altho the opposite meadow bank is
occupied by the enemy-not a single
shot is audible in the low brushwood.
Obviously they did not expect US in
this region, and are not ready to en-
counter US.
A pale, undiscovered mechanic
emerges as far as the waist out OF
the machine shop and inhales with
relish the sharp morning air which
overnight has become autumnal and
northerly.
The boatman on the bridge deck,
dishevelled and robust, with his gray
hair and sheepskin not unlike a, syl-
van demons prophesying early
frost.
1T smells like snow, one scents the
snow in the air." and again he ST.
lentlv seeks the narrOw nath 80 tho