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Before contact with the enemy. Useful encyclopedias

I remember it was a fresh sunny day when we approached the border of East Prussia. I took part in a patrol sent to find General M., whose detachment we were to join. He was on the battle line, but we didn’t know exactly where that line was. We could have attacked the Germans just as easily as on our own. Already very close, the German cannons thundered like large forge hammers, and ours roared back to them in volleys. Somewhere, convincingly quickly, in its childish and terrible language, a machine gun was babbling something incomprehensible.

The enemy airplane, like a hawk over a quail hidden in the grass, stood over our junction and began to slowly descend to the south. I saw his black cross through binoculars.

This day will forever remain sacred in my memory. I was a patrolman and for the first time in the war I felt my will strain, right to the physical sensation of some kind of petrification, when I had to drive alone into the forest, where, perhaps, an enemy chain lay, and gallop across a field that was plowed and therefore precluding the possibility of a quick retreat. , towards a moving column to see if it will fire at you. And on the evening of that day, a clear, gentle evening, for the first time, behind the sparse copse, I heard the growing roar of “Hurray” with which V. was captured. The firebird of victory that day lightly touched me with its huge wing.

The next day we entered a ruined city, from which the Germans were slowly retreating, pursued by our artillery fire. Squelching in the black sticky mud, we approached the river, the border between the states, where the guns were stationed. It turned out that there was no point in pursuing the enemy on horseback: he retreated reorganized, stopping behind every cover and ready to turn every minute - a completely seasoned wolf, accustomed to dangerous fights. It was only necessary to feel for it in order to give instructions where it was. There was quite a lot of traveling for this.

Our platoon crossed the river over a shaking, hastily made pontoon bridge.

We were in Germany.

I have often thought since then about the profound difference between the aggressive and defensive periods of war. Of course, both are necessary only in order to crush the enemy and win the right to lasting peace, but the mood of an individual warrior is influenced not only by general considerations - every trifle, an accidentally obtained glass of milk, an oblique ray of sun illuminating a group of trees, and one’s own successful shot is sometimes more pleasing than the news of a battle won on another front. These highways running in different directions, these groves cleared like parks, these stone houses with red tiled roofs filled my soul with a sweet thirst for striving forward, and the dreams of Ermak, Perovsky and other representatives of Russia, conquering and triumphant, seemed so close to me. Isn’t this also the road to Berlin, the magnificent city of soldier’s culture, which one must enter not with a student’s staff in his hands, but on horseback and with a rifle over his shoulders?

We went through the lava, and I was again the lookout. I drove past trenches abandoned by the enemy, where a broken rifle, tattered cartridge belts and whole piles of cartridges lay scattered. Here and there red spots were visible, but they did not cause that feeling of awkwardness that covers us when we see blood in peacetime.

There was a farm on a low hill in front of me. The enemy could be hiding there, and I, taking the rifle off my shoulder, carefully approached it.

An old man, long past the age of a Landsturmist, timidly looked at me from the window. I asked him where the soldiers were. Quickly, as if repeating a lesson he had learned, he replied that they had passed half an hour ago and indicated the direction. He was red-eyed, with an unshaven chin and gnarled hands. Probably, during our campaign in East Prussia, such people shot at our soldiers from Montecristo. I didn’t believe him and drove on. About five hundred paces behind the farm, a forest began, into which I needed to enter, but my attention was attracted by a pile of straw, in which, with the instinct of a hunter, I guessed something interesting for me. The Germans could be hiding in it. If they get out before I notice them, they'll shoot me. If I notice them crawling out, then I will shoot them. I began to drive around the straw, listening carefully and holding the rifle in the air. The horse snorted, moved its ears and obeyed reluctantly. I was so absorbed in my research that I did not immediately pay attention to the rare chattering sounds coming from the direction of the forest. A light cloud of white dust, whirling about five steps away from me, attracted my attention. But only when, singing pitifully, the bullet flew over my head, did I realize that I was being fired upon, and, moreover, from the forest. I turned around to the siding to find out what to do. He galloped back. I had to leave too. My horse immediately began to gallop, and as the last impression I remembered a large figure in a black overcoat, with a helmet on his head, on all fours, crawling out of the straw with a bear hug.

The firing had already died down when I joined the patrol. Cornet was pleased. He discovered the enemy without losing a single man. In ten minutes our artillery will get to work. But I was only painfully offended that some people shot at me, challenged me with this, but I did not accept it and turned around. Even the joy of getting rid of danger did not at all soften this suddenly boiling thirst for battle and revenge. Now I understand why cavalrymen dream so much about attacks. To swoop down on people who, hidden in bushes and trenches, are safely shooting prominent horsemen from afar, to make them turn pale from the ever-increasing clatter of hooves, from the sparkle of naked sabers and the menacing appearance of inclined pikes, with your swiftness it is easy to overturn, as if blowing away, three times the strongest enemy, this - the only justification for the entire life of a cavalryman.

The next day I experienced shrapnel fire. Our squadron occupied V., which was fiercely fired upon by the Germans. We stood in case of their attack, which never happened. Only until the evening, all the time, shrapnel sang protractedly and not without pleasantness, plaster fell from the walls, and here and there houses caught fire. We entered the devastated apartments and boiled tea. Someone even found a frightened resident in the basement who, with the greatest willingness, sold us a recently slaughtered pig. The house in which we ate it was hit by a heavy shell half an hour after we left. So I learned not to be afraid of artillery fire.

Every morning, while it was still dark, we, getting confused among the ditches and hedges, got into position and spent the whole day behind some hillock, either covering the artillery, or simply maintaining contact with the enemy. It was deep autumn, a cold blue sky, golden scraps of brocade on the sharply blackening branches, but a piercing wind was blowing from the sea, and we, with blue faces and reddened eyelids, danced around the horses and stuck our stiff fingers under the saddles. Strangely, time did not drag on as long as one might have expected. Sometimes, to keep warm, they went platoon to platoon and, silently, floundered on the ground in whole heaps. Sometimes we were entertained by the shrapnel exploding nearby, some were timid, others laughed at him and argued whether the Germans were shooting at us or not. The real languor set in only when the lodgers left for the bivouac allotted to us, and we waited until dusk to follow them.

Oh, low, stuffy huts, where chickens cluck under the bed and a ram has taken up residence under the table; oh, tea! which can only be drunk with a bit of sugar, but no less than six glasses; oh, fresh straw! spread all over the floor for sleeping - I never dream of any comfort as greedily as I dream of you! And insanely daring dreams that, when asked about milk and eggs, instead of the traditional answer: “They took away the lousy germany,” the hostess will put a jug with a thick coating of cream on the table and that a large scrambled egg with lard will happily sizzle on the stove! And bitter disappointments when you have to spend the night in the haylofts or on sheaves of unmilked bread, with tenacious, prickly ears, shivering from the cold, jumping up and taking off from the bivouac in alarm!

We turned and began to gallop away.

A new shell exploded right above us, wounded two horses and shot through my neighbor’s overcoat. We no longer saw where the next ones were torn. We galloped along the paths of a well-groomed grove along the river under the cover of its steep bank. The Germans did not think of shelling the ford, and we were safe without losses. Even the wounded horses did not have to be shot; they were sent for treatment.

The next day the enemy retreated somewhat, and we again found ourselves on the other side, this time in the role of outpost.

The three-story brick structure, an absurd cross between a medieval castle and a modern apartment building, was almost destroyed by shells.

We took shelter on the lower floor on broken chairs and couches. At first it was decided not to stick out, so as not to give away his presence. We calmly looked at the German books we found there and wrote letters home on postcards with Wilhelm’s image.

A time when you are breathless with happiness, a time of burning eyes and unconscious smiles.

On the right, three at a time, stretched out like a long snake, we set off along the white roads of Germany lined with hundred-year-old trees. Residents took off their hats, women carried out milk with hasty obsequiousness. But there were few of them, most fled, fearing retribution for the betrayed outposts and the poisoned scouts.

I especially remember an important old gentleman sitting in front of the open window of a large manor house.

He was smoking a cigar, but his eyebrows were furrowed, his fingers nervously tugged at his gray mustache, and there was a look of woeful amazement in his eyes. The soldiers, driving by, timidly glanced at him and exchanged impressions in a whisper: “A serious gentleman, probably a general... well, he must be mischievous when he swears...”

Just beyond the forest, gunfire was heard - a party of backward German scouts. The squadron rushed there, and everything fell silent. Several shrapnel burst over us over and over again. We fell apart, but continued to move forward. The fire stopped. It was clear that the Germans were retreating decisively and irrevocably. No signal fires were visible anywhere, and the wings of the mills hung in the position that the wind, and not the German headquarters, gave them. Therefore, we were extremely surprised when we heard frequent, frequent exchange of fire not far away, as if two large detachments had entered into battle with each other. We climbed the hill and saw a funny sight. There was a burning carriage on the rails of the narrow-gauge railway, and these sounds came from it. It turned out that it was filled with rifle cartridges, the Germans abandoned it in their retreat, and ours set it on fire. We burst out laughing when we found out what was going on, but the retreating enemies probably spent a long time wondering who was bravely fighting the advancing Russians.

Soon, batches of freshly captured prisoners began to come our way.

One Prussian lancer was very funny, he was always surprised at how well our cavalrymen rode. He galloped around every bush, every ditch, slowing down his gait when descending; ours galloped straight and, of course, easily caught him. By the way, many of our residents claim that German cavalrymen cannot mount a horse themselves. For example, if there are ten people on the road, then one person first sits down nine, and then sits down from a fence or stump. Of course, this is a legend, but the legend is very characteristic. I myself once saw how a German, flying out of the saddle, began to run, instead of jumping back onto his horse.

I easily won myself a separate room, which, judging by the abandoned women’s dresses, pulp novels and sugary postcards, belonged to some housekeeper or chambermaid, chopped some wood, lit the stove and, as I was, in my overcoat, threw myself on the bed and immediately fell asleep. I woke up after midnight from the freezing cold. My stove went out, the window opened, and I went to the kitchen, dreaming of warming myself by the glowing coals.

And to top it off, I received very valuable practical advice. In order not to get cold, never go to bed in an overcoat, but only cover yourself with it.

The next day I was on patrol. The detachment was moving along the highway, I was driving through a field, three hundred paces from it, and I was charged with inspecting numerous farms and villages to see if there were any German soldiers or even Landsturmists there, that is, simply men from seventeen to forty-three years old. It was quite dangerous, somewhat difficult, but very exciting. In the first house I met an idiotic-looking boy, his mother assured me that he was sixteen years old, but he could just as easily be eighteen or even twenty. Still, I left him, and in the next house, when I was drinking milk, a bullet stuck into the doorframe about two inches from my head.

In the pastor's house I found only a Litvinka maid who spoke Polish; she explained to me that the owners fled an hour ago, leaving a ready-made breakfast on the stove, and very much persuaded me to take part in its destruction. In general, I often had to enter completely deserted houses, where coffee was boiling on the stove, there was knitting started on the table, an open book; I remembered the girl who went into the bears’ house, and kept waiting to hear the menacing: “Who ate my soup? Who was lying on my bed?”

The ruins of the city of Sh were wild. Not a single living soul. My horse shuddered fearfully as it made its way through the brick-strewn streets, past buildings with their insides turned out, past walls with gaping holes, past pipes that were ready to collapse at any moment. The only surviving sign, “Restaurant,” was visible on the shapeless pile of rubble. What a joy it was to escape again into the vastness of the fields, to see the trees, to hear the sweet smell of the earth.

In the evening we learned that the offensive would continue, but our regiment was being transferred to another front. Novelty always captivates soldiers... but when I looked at the stars and breathed in the night wind, I suddenly became very sad to part with the sky, under which I, after all, received my baptism of fire.

Southern Poland is one of the most beautiful places in Russia. We drove about eighty versts from the railway station to contact with the enemy, and I had time to admire it enough. There are no mountains, the delight of tourists, but what does a plains dweller need mountains for? There are forests, there are waters, and that’s enough.

The forests are pine, planted, and, driving through them, you suddenly see narrow, straight, like arrows, alleys, full of green dusk with a shining opening in the distance - like temples of the gentle and thoughtful gods of ancient, still pagan Poland. There are deer and roe deer, golden pheasants scurry about with a chicken-like habit, and on quiet nights you can hear a wild boar slurping and breaking bushes.

Among the wide shallows of eroded banks, rivers meander lazily; wide, with narrow isthmuses between them, the lakes sparkle and reflect the sky, like mirrors made of polished metal; near old mossy mills there are quiet dams with gently murmuring streams of water and some kind of pink-red bushes that strangely remind a person of his childhood.

In such places, no matter what you do - love or fight - everything seems significant and wonderful.

These were the days of great battles. From morning until late at night we heard the roar of cannons, the ruins were still smoking, and here and there groups of residents buried the corpses of people and horses. I was assigned to the flying post office at station K. Trains were already passing by, although most often under fire. The only residents left there were railway employees; they greeted us with amazing cordiality. Four drivers argued for the honor of sheltering our small detachment. When one finally gained the upper hand, the others came to visit him and began to exchange impressions. You should have seen how their eyes lit up with delight when they said that near their train shrapnel exploded and a zero hit the locomotive. It was felt that only a lack of initiative prevented them from signing up as volunteers. We parted as friends, promised to write to each other, but are such promises ever kept?

The next day, amid the pleasant idleness of the late bivouac, when you were reading the yellow books of the Universal Library, cleaning your rifle, or simply chatting with the pretty ladies, we were suddenly ordered to saddle, and just as suddenly, at an alternating gait, we immediately walked about fifty miles. Sleepy towns, quiet and majestic estates flashed by one after another; on the thresholds of houses, old women with scarves hastily thrown over their heads sighed, muttering: “Oh, Matka Bozka.” And, from time to time, driving out onto the highway, we listened to the sound of countless hooves, as dull as the surf, and guessed that other cavalry units were ahead and behind us and that we had a big job ahead of us.

It was well past midnight when we set up bivouac. In the morning our supply of ammunition was replenished, and we moved on. The area was deserted: some gullies, low-growing spruce trees, hills. We lined up in a battle line, decided who should dismount and who should be the horse guide, sent out patrols ahead and began to wait. Having climbed a hillock hidden by trees, I saw a space of about a mile in front of me. Our outposts were scattered here and there along it. They were so well hidden that I saw most of them only when, after firing back, they began to leave. The Germans appeared almost behind them. Three columns came into my field of vision, moving about five hundred paces from each other.

They walked in thick crowds and sang. It was not any particular song, or even our friendly “hurray,” but two or three notes, alternating with ferocious and sullen energy. I didn’t immediately realize that the singers were dead drunk. It was so strange to hear this singing that I did not notice either the roar of our guns, or rifle fire, or the frequent, rattling knock of machine guns. The wild “a...a...a...” powerfully conquered my consciousness. I only saw how clouds of shrapnel soared over the very heads of the enemies, how the front ranks fell, how others took their place and moved a few steps to lie down and make room for the next. It looked like the flood of spring waters - the same slowness and steadyness.

But now it was my turn to join the battle. The command was heard: “Get down... sight eight hundred... squadron, fire,” and I no longer thought about anything, but just shot and loaded, shot and loaded. Only somewhere in the depths of consciousness lived the confidence that everything would be as it should be, that at the right moment we would be ordered to go on the attack or mount our horses, and in one way or another we would bring the dazzling joy of the final victory closer.

Late at night we went to bivouac... to a large estate.

In the gardener’s room, his wife boiled a quart of milk for me, I fried sausage in lard, and my dinner was shared with me by my guests: a volunteer whose leg had just been crushed under him by a horse that had just been killed, and a sergeant with a fresh abrasion on his nose, so scratched by a bullet. We had already lit a cigarette and were talking peacefully when a non-commissioned officer who happened to wander in to us reported that our squadron was sending out a patrol. I carefully examined myself and saw that I had slept, or rather, took a nap in the snow, that I was full, warm, and that there was no reason for me not to go. True, at first it was unpleasant to leave the warm, cozy room into the cold and deserted courtyard, but this feeling gave way to cheerful revival as soon as we dived along an invisible road into the darkness, towards the unknown and danger.

The patrol was long, and so the officer let us take a nap, about three hours, in some hayloft. Nothing is more refreshing than a short sleep, and the next morning we drove off completely refreshed, illuminated by the pale, but still lovely sun. We were instructed to observe an area of about four miles and report everything we noticed. The terrain was completely flat, and three villages were clearly visible in front of us. One was occupied by us, nothing was known about the other two.

Holding rifles in our hands, we carefully drove into the nearest village, drove through it to the end and, not finding the enemy, with a feeling of complete satisfaction, drank the fresh milk brought to us by a beautiful, talkative old woman. Then the officer, calling me aside, said that he wanted to give me an independent assignment to go as a senior officer over two sentinels to the next village. The assignment was trivial, but still serious, considering my inexperience in the art of war, and most importantly, the first in which I could show my initiative. Who doesn’t know that in any business the initial steps are more pleasant than all the rest.

I decided to walk not in a lava, that is, in a row, at some distance from each other, but in a chain, that is, one after another. Thus, I exposed people to less danger and had the opportunity to quickly tell the patrol something new. The patrol followed us. We entered the village and from there we noticed a large column of Germans moving about two miles away from us. The officer stopped to write a report, I drove on to clear my conscience. A steeply curving road led to the mill. I saw a group of residents standing calmly near it and, knowing that they always run away, anticipating a clash in which they might also get a stray bullet, I rode up at a trot to ask about the Germans. But as soon as we exchanged greetings, they rushed away with distorted faces, and a cloud of dust rose in front of me, and from behind I heard the characteristic crack of a rifle. I looked back.

On the road along which I had just passed, a bunch of horsemen and pedestrians in black, terribly alien-colored overcoats looked at me in amazement. Apparently I had just been spotted. They were about thirty paces away.

I realized that this time the danger was really great. The road to the junction was cut off for me; enemy columns were moving from the other two sides. All that remained was to gallop straight away from the Germans, but there was a plowed field stretching far away, along which it was impossible to gallop, and I would have been shot at ten times before I would have left the sphere of fire. I chose the middle one and, skirting the enemy, rushed ahead of his front to the road along which our patrol had gone. It was a difficult moment in my life. The horse stumbled over frozen clods, bullets whistled past my ears, exploded the ground in front of me and next to me, one scratched the pommel of my saddle. I looked at my enemies without stopping. I could clearly see their faces, confused at the moment of loading, concentrated at the moment of the shot. A short elderly officer, with his arm strangely outstretched, shot at me with a revolver. This sound stood out with some treble from the rest. Two horsemen jumped out to block my path. I grabbed my saber and they hesitated. Maybe they were simply afraid that they would be shot by their own comrades.

I remembered all this at that moment only through visual and auditory memory, but I realized it much later. Then I just held the horse and muttered a prayer to the Mother of God, which I immediately composed and immediately forgot after the danger had passed.

But this is the end of the arable field - and why did people come up with agriculture?! - here is the ditch, which I take almost unconsciously, here is the smooth road along which I, at full speed, catch up with my siding. Behind him, oblivious to the bullets, an officer holds back his horse. Having waited for me, he also goes into the quarry and says with a sigh of relief: “Well, thank God! It would be terribly stupid if they killed you.” I completely agreed with him.

We spent the rest of the day on the roof of a lonely hut, chatting and looking through binoculars. The German column, which we had noticed earlier, was hit by shrapnel and turned back. But the patrols darted in different directions. Sometimes they collided with ours, and then the sound of shots reached us. We ate boiled potatoes and took turns smoking the same pipe.

The German offensive was stopped. It was necessary to investigate what points the enemy had occupied, where he was digging in, and where he was simply setting up outposts. For this purpose, a number of patrols were sent out, and I was included in one of them.

On a gray morning we trotted along the high road. Entire convoys of refugees were reaching towards us. The men looked at us with curiosity and hope, the children reached out to us, the women, sobbing, wailed: “Oh, gentlemen, don’t go there, the Germans will kill you there.”

In one village the patrol stopped. I and two soldiers had to drive further and discover the enemy. Now, behind the outskirts, our infantrymen were digging in, then there was a field over which shrapnel was exploding, there was a battle there at dawn and the Germans retreated, and beyond that there was a small farm. We trotted towards him.

To the right and to the left, German corpses were lying on almost every square fathom. One minute I counted forty of them, but there were many more. There were also wounded. They somehow suddenly began to move, crawled a few steps and froze again. One sat at the very edge of the road and, holding his head, swayed and moaned. We wanted to pick it up, but decided to do it on the way back.

We reached the farm safely. No one fired at us. But immediately behind the farm they heard the blows of a spade on the frozen ground and some unfamiliar talking. We dismounted, and I, holding the rifle in my hands, crept forward to look around the corner of the outer barn. A small hillock rose in front of me, and on its ridge the Germans were digging trenches. They could be seen stopping to rub their hands and smoke, and the angry voice of a non-commissioned officer or officer could be heard. To the left was a dark grove, from behind which came gunfire. It was from there that they fired at the field I had just passed through. I still don’t understand why the Germans didn’t set up any picket in the farm itself. However, in war there are not such miracles.

I kept peeking around the corner of the barn, taking off my cap so that they would take me for just a curious “free man,” when I felt someone’s light touch from behind. I quickly turned around. In front of me stood a Polish woman who had appeared out of nowhere with a haggard, mournful face. She handed me a handful of small, wrinkled apples: “Take it, sir, soldier, that is, better, better.” Every minute I could be noticed and fired at; bullets would fly at her too. It is clear that it was impossible to refuse such a gift.

We got out of the farm. The shrapnel exploded more and more often on the road itself, so we decided to ride back alone. I hoped to pick up a wounded German, but before my eyes a shell exploded low, low above him, and it was all over.

The next day it was already getting dark and everyone had scattered into the haylofts and cells of the large estate, when our platoon was suddenly ordered to gather. The hunters were called to go on night reconnaissance on foot, which was very dangerous, as the officer insisted. About ten people came out quickly; the rest, trampling around, announced that they also wanted to go and were only ashamed to ask for it. Then they decided that the platoon commander would appoint hunters. And thus eight people were chosen, again the smartest ones. I was among them.

We rode on horseback to the hussar outpost. They dismounted behind the trees, left three as horse guides and went to ask the hussars how things were going. The mustachioed sergeant, hidden in a crater from a heavy shell, said that enemy scouts came out from the nearest village several times, crept across the field to our positions, and he had already fired twice. We decided to get into this village and, if possible, take some scout alive.

The full moon was shining, but, fortunately for us, it was constantly hidden behind the clouds. Having waited for one of these eclipses, we, bent over, ran in single file to the village, but not along the road, but in the ditch running along it. They stopped at the outskirts. The detachment had to stay here and wait, two hunters were asked to walk through the village and see what was happening behind it. I and one reserve non-commissioned officer went, formerly a polite servant in some government institution, now one of the bravest soldiers of what is considered a combat squadron. He is on one side of the street, I am on the other. When the whistle blew, we had to go back.

Here I am, all alone in the middle of a silent, seemingly hidden village, running from around the corner of one house to the corner of the next. Fifteen paces to the side a creeping figure flashes. This is my friend. Out of pride, I try to go ahead of him, but it’s still scary to rush too much. I remember the game of stick-thief, which I always play in the village in the summer. There is the same bated breath, the same cheerful awareness of danger, the same instinctive ability to sneak up and hide. And you almost forget that here, instead of the laughing eyes of a pretty girl, a playmate, you can only meet a sharp and cold bayonet pointed at you. This is the end of the village. It’s getting a little lighter, the moon is breaking through the thin edge of the cloud; I see the low, dark tubercles of trenches in front of me and immediately remember, as if I were photographing in memory, their length and direction. After all, this is what I came here for. At that same moment a human figure appears in front of me. She peers at me and quietly whistles with some special, obviously conditional, whistle. This is the enemy, a clash is inevitable.

There is only one thought in me, alive and powerful, like passion, like madness, like ecstasy: I am him or he is me! He hesitantly raises his rifle, I know that I can’t shoot, there are many enemies nearby, and I rush forward with my bayonet lowered. A moment, and there is no one in front of me. Maybe the enemy crouched on the ground, maybe he jumped back. I stop and begin to peer. Something is turning black. I approach and touch it with a bayonet - no, it’s a log. Something is turning black again. Suddenly an unusually loud shot is heard from the side of me, and a bullet howls offensively close in front of my face. I turn around, I have a few seconds at my disposal while the enemy changes the cartridge in the rifle magazine. But already from the trenches you can hear the disgusting coughing of shots - tra, tra, tra - and the bullets whistle, whine, squeal.

I ran to my squad. I didn’t feel any particular fear, I knew that night shooting was invalid, and I just wanted to do everything as correctly and as best as possible. Therefore, when the moon illuminated the field, I threw myself on my face and crawled into the shadow of the houses; it was almost safe to walk there. My comrade, a non-commissioned officer, returned at the same time as me. He had not yet reached the edge of the village when the shooting began. We returned to the horses. In a lonely hut we exchanged impressions, dined on bread and lard, the officer wrote and sent a report, and we went out again to see if something could be arranged. But, alas! - the night wind tore the clouds to shreds, the round, reddish moon sank over the enemy positions and blinded our eyes. We were clearly visible, we saw nothing. We were ready to cry out of frustration and, in spite of fate, we nevertheless crawled towards the enemy. The moon could disappear again, or we could meet some crazy scout! However, none of this happened, we were only fired upon, and we crawled back, cursing the lunar effects and the caution of the Germans. Nevertheless, the information we obtained was useful, they thanked us, and I received the St. George Cross for that night.

The next week was relatively quiet. We saddled up in the dark, and on the way to the position I admired every day the same wise and bright death of the morning star against the background of a watercolor-gentle dawn. During the day we lay on the edge of a large pine forest and listened to distant cannon fire. The pale sun was slightly warming, the ground was thickly covered with soft, strange-smelling needles. As always in winter, I yearned for the life of summer nature, and it was so sweet, peering very closely into the bark of trees, to notice in its rough folds some nimble worms and microscopic flies. They were in a hurry somewhere, doing something, despite the fact that it was December. Life glimmered in the forest, like a timid smoldering flame glimmers inside a black, almost cold firebrand. Looking at her, I joyfully felt with my whole being that large strange birds and small birds would return here again, but with crystal, silver and crimson voices, stuffy-smelling flowers would bloom, the world would be filled with plenty of stormy beauty for the solemn celebration of the witchcraft and sacred Midsummer night.

Sometimes we stayed in the forest all night. Then, lying on my back, I spent hours looking at the countless frost-clear stars and amused myself by connecting them in my imagination with golden threads. At first it was a series of geometric drawings, similar to an unrolled Cabal scroll. Then I began to discern, as if on a woven golden carpet, various emblems, swords, crosses, cups in combinations that were incomprehensible to me, but full of inhuman meaning. Finally, the heavenly beasts loomed clearly. I saw how the Big Dipper, lowering its muzzle, sniffs at someone’s footprint, how the Scorpio moves its tail, looking for someone to sting. For a moment I was overcome with an unspeakable fear that they would look down and notice our land there. After all, then it will immediately turn into an ugly piece of matte white ice and rush out of all orbits, infecting other worlds with its horror. Here I usually asked my neighbor in a whisper for shag, rolled up a cigarette and smoked it in my hands with pleasure - smoking otherwise meant betraying our location to the enemy.

At the end of the week we were in for joy. We were taken to the army reserve, and the regimental priest performed the service. They were not forced to go to him, but in the entire regiment there was not a single person who would not go. In an open field, a thousand people lined up in a slender quadrangle; in the center of it, a priest in a golden robe spoke eternal and sweet words, serving a prayer service. It was like field prayers for rain in remote, remote Russian villages. The same vast sky instead of a dome, the same simple and familiar, concentrated faces. We prayed well that day.

It was decided to level the front by retreating about thirty versts, and the cavalry was supposed to cover this retreat. Late in the evening we approached the position, and immediately from the enemy’s side the light of a searchlight descended on us and slowly froze, like the gaze of an arrogant man. We drove off, and he, sliding along the ground and through the trees, followed us. Then we galloped around in loops and stood behind the village, and for a long time he poked here and there, hopelessly looking for us.

My platoon was sent to the headquarters of the Cossack division to serve as a link between it and our division. Leo Tolstoy in War and Peace laughs at staff officers and gives preference to combat officers. But I have not seen a single headquarters that would leave before the shells began to explode above its premises. The Cossack headquarters was located in the large town of R. The residents had fled the day before, the convoy had left, and the infantry too, but we sat for more than a day, listening to the slowly approaching shooting - the Cossacks were holding up the enemy chains. The tall and broad-shouldered colonel ran up to the phone every minute and cheerfully shouted into the receiver: “Great... great... stay a little longer... everything is going well...” And from these words, all the farms, ditches and copses occupied Cossacks, confidence and calm, so necessary in battle, spilled out. The young division chief, bearer of one of the most famous names in Russia, from time to time went out onto the porch to listen to the machine guns and smiled at the fact that everything was going as it should.

We, the Lancers, talked with the sedate, bearded Cossacks, showing at the same time that exquisite courtesy with which cavalrymen of different units treat each other.

By lunchtime we heard a rumor that five people from our squadron had been captured. By evening I had already seen one of these prisoners; the rest were sleeping out in the hayloft. This is what happened to them. There were six of them on guard duty. Two stood guard, four sat in the hut. The night was dark and windy, the enemies crept up to the sentry and knocked him over. Suddenly he fired a shot and rushed to the horses; he was also knocked over. Immediately about fifty people burst into the yard and began shooting at the windows of the house where our picket was located. One of our men jumped out and, working with a bayonet, broke through to the forest, the rest followed him, but the first one fell, stumbling on the threshold, and his comrades also fell on him. The enemies, they were Austrians, disarmed them and, under escort, also sent five people to Headquarters. Ten people found themselves alone, without a map, in complete darkness, among a tangle of roads and paths.

On the way, the Austrian non-commissioned officer kept asking our people in broken Russian where the “kozi”, that is, the Cossacks, were. Ours remained silent with annoyance and finally announced that the “goats” were exactly where they were being led, towards the enemy positions. This had an extraordinary effect. The Austrians stopped and began to argue animatedly about something. It was clear that they did not know the way. Then our non-commissioned officer pulled the Austrian’s sleeve and said encouragingly: “Nothing, let’s go, I know where to go.” Let's go, slowly turning towards the Russian positions.

In the whitish twilight of the morning, gray horses flashed among the trees - a hussar patrol. "Here comes the goat!" - exclaimed our non-commissioned officer, snatching the rifle from the Austrian. His comrades disarmed the others. The hussars laughed a lot when lancers armed with Austrian rifles approached them, escorting their newly captured prisoners. We went to headquarters again, but this time it was Russian. On the way I met a Cossack. “Come on, uncle, show yourself,” our people asked. He pulled his hat over his eyes, ruffled his beard with his fingers, squealed and set off his horse at a gallop. Long after this we had to encourage and reassure the Austrians.

The next day, the headquarters of the Cossack division and we moved away about four miles, so that we could only see the factory chimneys of the town of R. I was sent with a report to the headquarters of our division. The road lay through R., but the Germans were already approaching it. I stuck my head in anyway, in case I managed to get through. The officers of the last Cossack detachments coming towards me stopped me with a question: volunteer, where? - and, having learned, they shook their heads doubtfully. Behind the wall of the last house stood a dozen dismounted Cossacks with rifles at the ready. “You can’t pass,” they said, “they’re already firing over there.” As soon as I moved forward, shots clicked and bullets jumped. Crowds of Germans were moving towards me along the main street, and the noise of others was heard in the alleys. I turned, and the Cossacks followed me, firing several volleys.

On the road, the artillery colonel, who had already stopped me, asked: “Well, didn’t we pass?” - “No way, the enemy is already there.” - “Have you seen him yourself?” - “That’s right, myself.” He turned to his orderlies: “Firing from all guns at the town.” I moved on.

However, I still had to get to the headquarters. Looking at an old map of this district that happened to be in my possession, consulting with a friend - they always send two with a report - and asking local residents, I took a roundabout route through forests and swamps to the village assigned to me. We had to move along the front of the advancing enemy, so it was not surprising that when leaving some village, where we had just drunk milk without getting out of our saddles, our path was cut off at a right angle by an enemy patrol. He obviously mistook us for patrolmen, because instead of attacking us on horseback, he began to quickly dismount to shoot. There were eight of them, and we turned behind the houses and began to leave. When the shooting died down, I turned around and saw galloping horsemen behind me on the top of the hill - we were being pursued; they realized that there were only two of us.

At this time, shots were again heard from the side, and three Cossacks flew straight at us - two young, high-cheeked guys and one bearded man. We collided and held our horses. "What do you have there?" - I asked the bearded man. “On foot scouts, about fifty. What about you?” - "Eight horsemen." He looked at me, I looked at him, and we understood each other. There was silence for a few seconds. “Well, let’s go, shall we?” - he suddenly said as if reluctantly, and his own eyes lit up. The high-cheekboned guys, looking at him with alarm, shook their heads contentedly and immediately began to turn in their horses. We had barely climbed the hill we had just left when we saw enemies descending from the opposite hill. My ears were burned by either a squeal or a whistle, simultaneously reminiscent of a motor horn and the hiss of a large snake; the backs of rushing Cossacks flashed in front of me, and I myself threw down the reins, frantically worked with my spurs, only remembering with the utmost effort of will that I had to draw my saber. We must have looked very determined, because the Germans took off running without any hesitation. They drove desperately, and the distance between us almost did not decrease. Then the bearded Cossack sheathed his saber, raised his rifle, fired, missed, fired again, and one of the Germans raised both arms, swayed and, as if thrown, flew out of the saddle. A minute later we were already rushing past him.

But everything has an end! The Germans turned sharply to the left, and bullets rained down towards us. We ran into an enemy chain. However, the Cossacks turned back no sooner than they caught the randomly running horse of the killed German. They chased after her, not paying attention to the bullets, as if in their native steppe. “Baturin will come in handy,” they said, “his good horse was killed yesterday.” We parted over the hill, shaking hands in a friendly manner.

I found my headquarters only about five hours later, and not in the village, but in the middle of a forest clearing on low stumps and fallen tree trunks. He also retreated under enemy fire.

I returned to the headquarters of the Cossack division at midnight. I ate cold chicken and went to bed, when suddenly there was a fuss, the order to saddle was heard, and we left the bivouac on alarm. It was pitch black. Fences and ditches appeared only when the horse bumped into them or fell through. Woke up, I couldn’t even make out the directions. When the branches hit my face painfully, I knew that we were driving through the forest, when water splashed at my very feet, I knew that I was fording a river. Finally we stopped at a large house. We parked the horses in the yard, entered the hallway ourselves, lit the cinders... and recoiled when we heard the thunderous voice of a fat old priest who came out to meet us in only his underwear and with a copper candlestick in his hand. “What is this,” he shouted, “they don’t give me peace even at night! I didn’t get enough sleep, I still want to sleep!”

We muttered a timid apology, but he jumped forward and grabbed the senior officer by the sleeve. “Here, here, here is the dining room, here is the living room, let your soldiers bring straw. Yuzya, Zosya, Panama pillows, and get clean pillowcases.” When I woke up, it was already light. The headquarters in the next room was busy with business, receiving reports and sending out orders, and the owner was raging in front of me: “Get up quickly, the coffee is getting cold, everyone has been drunk for a long time!” I washed my face and sat down to have coffee. The priest sat opposite me and sternly interrogated me. "Are you a volunteer?" - "Volunteer." - “What did you do before?” - “He was a writer.” - "For real?" - “I cannot judge this. Still, he was published in newspapers and magazines, published books.” - “Are you writing any notes now?” - "Writing". His eyebrows parted, his voice became soft and almost pleading: “So, please, write about me, how I live here, how you met me.” I sincerely promised him this. “No, you’ll forget. Yuzya, Zosya, pencil and paper!” And he wrote down for me the name of the county and village, his first and last name.

But is there really anything behind the cuff of the sleeve, where cavalrymen usually hide various notes, business, love, or just for fun? Three days later I had already lost everything, including this one. And now I am deprived of the opportunity to thank the venerable priest (I don’t know his last name) from the village (I forgot its name) not for a pillow in a clean pillowcase, not for coffee with delicious crumpets, but for his deep affection under stern manners and for the fact that he reminded me so vividly of those amazing old hermits who also quarrel and make friends with night travelers in the long-forgotten, but once beloved novels of Walter Scott.

The front was leveled. In some places the infantry repelled the enemy, who imagined that he was advancing on his own initiative, and the cavalry was engaged in intensified reconnaissance. Our patrol was tasked with observing one of these battles and reporting its development and incidents to headquarters. We caught up with the infantry in the forest. Little gray soldiers with their huge bags walked randomly, getting lost against the background of bushes and pine trunks. Some were snacking as they walked, others were smoking, and the young ensign was cheerfully swinging his cane. This was a proven, glorious regiment that went into battle as if it were ordinary field work; and it was felt that at the right moment everyone would be in their places without confusion, without fuss, and everyone knew perfectly well where he should be and what to do.

The battalion commander, riding a shaggy Cossack horse, greeted our officer and asked him to find out if there were enemy trenches in front of the village he was attacking. We were very glad to help the infantry, and immediately a non-commissioned officer patrol was sent out, which I led. The terrain was surprisingly convenient for cavalry, hills from behind which one could suddenly appear, and ravines along which it was easy to escape.

As soon as I climbed the first hill, a shot clicked - it was only the enemy’s secret. I turned right and drove on. Through binoculars the entire field to the village was visible; it was empty. I sent one person with a report, and I myself and the other three were tempted to scare the secret that bombarded us. In order to find out more precisely where he lay down, I leaned out of the bushes again, heard another shot and then, identifying a small hillock, I rushed straight towards him, trying to remain invisible from the village. We galloped to the hill - no one. Was I wrong? No, one of my men, dismounting, picked up a brand new Austrian rifle, another noticed freshly cut branches on which the Austrian secret had just been lying. We climbed the hill and saw three people running at full speed. Apparently, they were mortally frightened by our unexpected cavalry attack, because they did not shoot and did not even turn around. It was impossible to pursue them; we would have been fired upon from the village; besides, our infantry had already left the forest and we could not hang around in front of its front. We returned to the siding and, sitting on the roof and spreading elms of the old mill, began to watch the battle.

A marvelous sight - the advance of our infantry. It seemed that the gray field came to life, began to wrinkle, throwing armed people from its depths onto the doomed village. Wherever his gaze turned, he saw gray figures everywhere, running, crawling, lying. It was impossible to count them. I couldn’t believe that these were separate people; rather, it was a whole organism, a creature infinitely stronger and more terrible than dinotheriums and plesiosaurs. And for this creature the majestic horror of cosmic upheavals and catastrophes was reborn. Like the roar of earthquakes, gun salvos roared and the incessant crack of rifles, like fireballs, grenades flew and shrapnel exploded. Indeed, according to the poet, we were called by the all-good as interlocutors to a feast, and we were spectators of their high spectacles. And I, and an elegant lieutenant with a bracelet on his hands, and a polite non-commissioned officer, and a pockmarked reserve, a former janitor, we witnessed a scene that most closely resembled the Tertiary period of the earth. I thought that only in Wells' novels there were such paradoxes.

But we did not rise to the occasion and were not at all like the Olympians. When the battle flared up, we worried about the flank of our infantry, loudly rejoiced at its deft maneuvers, in a moment of calm we begged each other for cigarettes, shared bread and lard, and looked for hay for the horses. However, perhaps such behavior was the only worthy one under the circumstances.

We entered the village while the battle was still raging at the other end. Our infantry moved from hut to hut, shooting all the time, sometimes with bayonets. The Austrians also shot, but avoided bayonet combat, escaping under the protection of machine guns. We entered the outer hut where the wounded were gathered. There were about ten of them. They were busy with work. Those wounded in the arm dragged poles, boards and ropes, those wounded in the leg quickly made a stretcher out of all this for their comrade with a bullet through the chest. A gloomy Austrian, with his throat pierced by a bayonet, sat in the corner, coughing and incessantly smoking cigarettes that our soldiers played for him. When the stretcher was ready, he stood up, grabbed one of the handles and made signs - he could not speak - that he wanted to help carry them. They didn’t argue with him and just rolled him two cigarettes at once. We returned back a little disappointed. Our hope of pursuing the fleeing enemy on horseback was not justified. The Austrians settled in trenches outside the village, and the battle ended there.

These days we had to work a lot with the infantry, and we fully appreciated their unshakable stamina and ability to make a mad dash. For two days I witnessed the battle... A small detachment of cavalry, sent to communicate with the infantry, stopped in the forester's house, two miles from the battlefield, and the battle raged on both sides of the river. It was necessary to descend to it from a completely open, sloping hillock, and the German artillery was so rich in shells that it fired at every single horseman. It was no better at night. The village was on fire, and the glow was as bright as on the clearest, moonlit nights, when silhouettes are so clearly drawn. Having galloped over this dangerous hillock, we immediately found ourselves in the sphere of rifle fire, and for the rider, who is an excellent target, this is very inconvenient. We had to huddle behind huts that were already starting to catch fire.

The infantry crossed the river on pontoons, and the Germans did the same in another place. Two of our companies were surrounded on the other side; they made their way to the water with bayonets and swam to join their regiment. The Germans piled machine guns on the church, which did us a lot of harm. A small party of our scouts approached the church along the roofs and through the windows of the houses, broke into it, threw down machine guns and held out until reinforcements arrived. In the center there was a continuous bayonet battle, and the German artillery bombarded both ours and their own with shells. On the outskirts, where there was no such turmoil, scenes of truly miraculous heroism took place. The Germans recaptured two of our machine guns and solemnly took them home. One of our non-commissioned officers, a machine gunner, grabbed two hand bombs and rushed to cross them. He ran up about twenty steps and shouted: “Bring the machine guns back, or I’ll kill you and myself.” Several Germans raised their rifles to their shoulders. Then he threw a bomb that killed three and wounded himself. With a bloody face, he jumped up close to the enemies and, shaking the remaining bomb, repeated his order. This time the Germans obeyed and brought machine guns in our direction. And he followed them, shouting incoherent curses and hitting the Germans on the back with a bomb. I met this strange procession already within our location. The hero did not allow anyone to touch either the machine guns or the prisoners, he led them to his commander. As if in delirium, without looking at anyone, he spoke about his feat: “I see machine guns being dragged away. Well, I think I’ll be lost, I’ll return the machine guns. I threw one bomb, here’s another. It’ll come in handy. It’s a pity the machine guns - and now again began to shout at the deathly pale Germans: “Well, well, go, don’t be late!”

It's always nice to move to a new front. At large stations you replenish your supplies of chocolate, cigarettes, books, wonder where you will arrive - the secret of your route is strictly maintained - you dream about the special advantages of the new area, about fruits, about panenkas, about spacious houses, you relax, lying on the straw of spacious heated houses. Having landed, you are amazed at the landscapes, get acquainted with the character of the inhabitants - the main thing is to find out whether they have lard and whether they sell milk - you eagerly memorize the words of a language you have not yet heard. It’s a whole sport; you’ll learn to chat in Polish, Little Russian or Lithuanian faster than anyone else.

But returning to the old front is even more pleasant. Because they incorrectly imagine soldiers as homeless, they get used to the barn, where they spent the night several times, and to the affectionate hostess, and to the grave of a comrade. We had just returned to our homes and were reveling in the memories.

Our regiment was given the task of finding the enemy. While retreating, we inflicted such blows on the Germans that in some places they fell behind by an entire march, and in some places they even retreated themselves. Now the front was leveled, the retreat was over, it was necessary, technically speaking, to get into contact with the enemy.

Our patrol, one of a chain of patrols, galloped merrily along the washed-out spring road, under the brilliant spring sun, as if it had just been washed. For three weeks we did not hear the whistle of bullets or music, which you get used to, like wine - the horses had eaten, rested, and it was so joyful to try our luck again among the red pines and low hills. Shots were already heard on the right and left: our patrols were bumping into German outposts. So far everything was calm in front of us: birds were fluttering, a dog was barking in the village. However, it was too dangerous to move forward. We had both flanks open. The patrol stopped, and I (who had just been promoted to non-commissioned officer) and four soldiers were tasked with inspecting the wood that turned black to the right. This was my first independent trip - it would be a pity not to use it. We crumbled into lava and entered the forest at a leisurely pace. Loaded rifles lay across the saddles, sabers were pulled out of their scabbards, every minute the intense gaze mistook large snags and stumps for hidden people, the wind in the branches rustled just like a human conversation, and in German, too. We drove through one ravine, then another - no one. Suddenly, at the very edge, already outside the area assigned to me, I noticed a house, either a very poor farm, or a forester’s lodge.

If the Germans were around at all, they settled there. I quickly came up with a plan to go around the house with a quarry and, in case of danger, go back into the forest. I placed people along the edge of the forest, ordering them to support me with fire. My excitement rubbed off on the horse. As soon as I touched her with my spurs, she rushed off, spreading out on the ground and at the same time sensitively obeying every movement of the reins.

The first thing I noticed when I jumped behind the house was three Germans sitting on the ground in the most relaxed poses; then several saddled horses; then another German, frozen astride the fence; he was obviously about to climb over it when he noticed me. I shot at random and rushed on. My people, as soon as I joined them, also fired a volley. But in response, another, much more impressive, at least twenty rifles rang out at us. Bullets whistled overhead and clicked against tree trunks. We had nothing else to do in the forest, so we left. When we climbed the hill behind the forest, we saw our Germans, one by one, galloping in the opposite direction. They knocked us out of the forest, we knocked them out of the farm. But since there were four times more of them than us, our victory was more brilliant.

In two days we had sufficiently illuminated the situation at the front that the infantry could launch an offensive. We were on her flank and took turns guarding the outpost. The weather has deteriorated greatly. A strong wind blew and it was frosty, but I don’t know anything worse than the combination of these two climatic phenomena. It was especially bad that night when it was our squadron’s turn. Before I even reached the place, I was blue all over from the cold and began to intrigue so that they would not send me to the post, but would leave me at the main outpost at the disposal of the captain. I succeeded. In the spacious hut with tightly curtained windows and a heated stove, it was light, warm and cozy. But as soon as I received a glass of tea and began to voluptuously warm my fingers on it, the captain said: “It seems that there is too much distance between the second and third posts. Gumilyov, go and see if this is so, and, if necessary, set up an intermediate post.” I put down my tea and went out. It seemed to me that I had plunged into icy ink, it was so dark and cold.

I groped my way to my horse, took a guide, a soldier who had already been at the posts, and rode out of the yard. It was a little lighter in the field. On the way, my companion informed me that some German patrol had slipped through the guard line during the day and was now getting confused nearby, trying to break through back. As soon as he finished his story, the clatter of hooves was heard in front of us in the darkness and the figure of a horseman emerged. "Who goes?" - I shouted and increased my trot. The stranger silently turned his horse and rushed away from us. We follow him, snatching our checkers and anticipating the pleasure of bringing a prisoner. It's easier to chase than to run away. You don’t think about the road, you gallop along in the footsteps... I had almost overtaken the fugitive when he suddenly reined in his horse, and I saw that he was wearing an ordinary cap instead of a helmet. It was our uhlan, passing from post to post; and he, just like we him, mistook us for Germans. I visited a post, eight half-frozen people on the top of a forested hill, and set up an intermediate post in a ravine. When I entered the hut again and began to drink another glass of hot tea, I thought that this was the happiest moment of my life. But, alas, it did not last long. Three times that damned night I had to go around the posts, and in addition I was fired upon - I don’t know whether the German patrol got lost or just foot scouts. And every time I really didn’t want to leave the bright hut, from hot tea and conversations about Petrograd and Petrograd acquaintances, into the cold, into the darkness, under gunfire. The night was restless. We killed a man and two horses. Therefore, everyone breathed more freely when it was dawn and it was possible to withdraw the posts back.

The entire outpost, with the captain at its head, we rode towards the returning posts. I was in front, showing the way, and had almost moved in with the last of them, when the lieutenant riding towards me opened his mouth to say something, when a volley was heard from the forest, then separate shots, a machine gun rattled - and all this was towards us. We turned at a right angle and rushed over the first hill. The command was heard: “To the foot formation... come out...” - and we lay down along the ridge, vigilantly watching the edge of the forest. A group of people in bluish-gray overcoats flashed behind the bushes. We fired a salvo. Several people fell. The machine gun crackled again, shots rang out, and the Germans crawled towards us. The outpost deployed for the entire battle. Here and there a bent figure in a helmet advanced from the forest, quickly slid between the hummocks to the first cover and from there, waiting for his comrades, opened fire. Perhaps a whole company had already moved three hundred steps towards us. We were threatened with an attack, and we decided to launch a counterattack on horseback. But at this time our other two squadrons galloped from the reserve and, dismounting, entered the battle. The Germans were driven back into the forest by our fire. Our machine gun was placed on their flank, and it probably caused them a lot of trouble. But they also intensified. Their shooting increased like a growing fire. Our chains went on the offensive, but they had to be returned.

Then, like theologians from Viy entering the battle for a decisive blow, our battery spoke. The guns barked hastily, shrapnel rushed over our heads with a squeal and roar and exploded in the forest. Russian artillerymen shoot well. Twenty minutes later, when we went on the offensive again, we found only a few dozen dead and wounded, a bunch of abandoned rifles and one completely intact machine gun. I have often noticed that the Germans, who endure rifle fire so steadfastly, are quickly lost to gunfire.

Our infantry was advancing somewhere, and the Germans in front of us were retreating, leveling the front. Sometimes we pushed on them in order to speed up the cleansing of some farm or village that was important to us, but more often we just had to mark where they had gone. The time was easy and fun. Every day there were travels, every evening there was a quiet bivouac - the retreating Germans did not dare to disturb us at night. Once even the patrol in which I participated decided to drive the Germans out of one farm at their own risk and fear. All non-commissioned officers took part in the military council. Reconnaissance discovered convenient approaches. Some old man, whose cow the Germans had stolen and even pulled off his boots - he was now wearing torn galoshes - was undertaking to lead us through the swamp to the flank. We thought it over, calculated it, and it would have been an exemplary battle if the Germans had not left after the first shot. Obviously, they did not have an outpost, but simply an observation post. Another time, driving through the forest, we saw five incredibly dirty figures with rifles emerging from the dense thicket. These were our infantrymen, who had broken away from their unit more than a month ago and found themselves within enemy lines. They were not lost: they found a denser thicket, dug a hole there, covered it with brushwood, with the help of the last match lit a slightly smoldering fire to heat their home and melt the snow in the pots, and began to live like Robinsons, waiting for the Russian offensive. At night, we went alone to the nearest village, where at that time there was some kind of German headquarters. Residents gave them bread, baked potatoes, and sometimes lard. One day one did not return. They spent the whole day hungry, expecting that the missing man would reveal their hiding place under torture and that the enemies were about to come. However, nothing happened: whether the Germans were conscientious or our soldier turned out to be a hero is unknown. We were the first Russians they saw. First of all they asked for tobacco. Until now, they had smoked crushed bark and complained that it burned their mouth and throat too much.

In general, such cases are not uncommon: one Cossack swore to me that he played with the Germans at twenty-one. He was alone in the village when a strong enemy patrol came there. It was too late to escape. He quickly unsaddled his horse, hid the saddle in the straw, put on the coat he had taken from the owner, and the Germans who entered found him diligently threshing bread in the barn. A post of three people was left in his yard. The Cossack wanted to take a closer look at the Germans. He entered the hut and found them playing cards. He joined the players and won about ten rubles in an hour. Then, when the post was lifted and the patrol left, he returned to his own people. I asked him how he liked the Germans. “Nothing,” he said, “they just play badly, they shout, they swear, they think they’ll get over everything. When I won, they wanted to beat me, but I didn’t give in.” I didn’t have to find out how it didn’t work out: we were both in a hurry.

The last trip was especially rich in adventures. We drove through the forest for a long time, turning from path to path, drove around a large lake and were not at all sure that there was no enemy outpost left in our rear. The forest ended with bushes, then there was a village. We deployed patrols to the right and left and began to observe the village ourselves. Are there Germans there or not, that is the question. Little by little we began to move out of the bushes - everything was calm. The village was no more than two hundred paces away when a resident jumped out without a hat and rushed towards us, shouting: “Germani, germani, there are many of them... run!” And now a volley was heard. The resident fell and rolled over several times, we returned to the forest. Now the entire field in front of the village was swarming with Germans. There were at least a hundred of them. We had to leave, but our patrols had not returned yet. Shooting was also heard from the left flank, and suddenly several shots were heard in our rear. This was the worst! We decided that we were surrounded and drew our sabers so that as soon as the patrol arrived, we could fight our way through the cavalry formation. But, fortunately, we soon realized that there was no one in the rear - it was just explosive bullets exploding, hitting tree trunks. The watchmen on the right have already returned. They delayed because they wanted to pick up the resident who had warned us, but they saw that he was killed - shot with three bullets in the head and back. Finally the left watchman galloped up. He put his hand to the visor and bravely reported to the officer: “Your Excellency, the German is advancing from the left... and I am wounded.” There was blood on his thigh. "Can you sit in the saddle?" - asked the officer. “That’s right, as long as I can!” - “Where is the other watchman?” - “I don’t know, it seems he fell.” The officer turned to me: “Gumilyov, go and see what’s wrong with him?” I saluted and drove straight towards the shots.

Strictly speaking, I was exposed to no greater danger than by remaining in place: the forest was dense, the Germans were shooting without seeing us, and bullets were flying everywhere; at most I could run into their front line. I knew all this, but it was still very unpleasant to travel. The shots became more and more audible, I could even hear the screams of the enemies. Every minute I expected to see the corpse of the unfortunate patrolman, mutilated by an explosive bullet, and, perhaps, just as mutilated, to remain next to him - frequent travel had already frayed my nerves. Therefore, it is easy to imagine my rage when I saw the missing lancer on his haunches, calmly swarming around the dead horse.

"What are you doing here?" - “The horse was killed... I’m taking off the saddle.” - “Hurry up, so and so, the whole patrol is waiting for you under bullets.” - “Now, now, I’ll just get the linen.” He came up to me, holding a small bundle in his hands. “Here, hold it until I jump on your horse, you can’t leave on foot, the German is close.” We galloped off, followed by bullets, and he kept sighing behind me: “Oh, I forgot the tea! Oh, it’s a pity, there’s some bread left!”

We got back without incident. The wounded man returned to duty after bandaging, hoping to get George. But we all often remembered the Pole who was killed for us, and when we occupied this area, we erected a large wooden cross at the site of his death.

Late at night or early in the morning - in any case, it was still completely dark - there was a knock on the window of the hut where I was sleeping: there was an alarm. My first move was to pull on my boots, the second was to fasten my saber and put on my cap. My arichmed - in the cavalry messengers are called arichmeds, obviously a spoiled ritknecht - has already saddled our horses. I went out into the yard and listened. Neither gunfire nor the indispensable companion of night alarms - the knock of a machine gun - was heard. A concerned sergeant, running, shouted to me that the Germans had just been knocked out of the town of S. and they were hastily retreating along the highway; we will pursue them. Out of joy, I did several pirouettes, which, by the way, warmed me up.

But, alas, the pursuit did not turn out quite as I thought. As soon as we got out on the highway, we were stopped and forced to wait for an hour - the regiments operating together with us had not yet assembled. Then they advanced about five miles and stopped again. Our artillery began to operate. How angry we were that she was blocking our way. Only later did we learn that our division chief had come up with a cunning plan - instead of the usual pursuit and capture of several lagging carts, we would drive like a wedge into the line of the retreating enemy and thereby force him to a more hasty retreat. The prisoners later said that we did a lot of harm to the Germans and forced them to roll back thirty miles further than expected, because in a retreating army it is easy to confuse not only the soldiers, but even the higher authorities. But we didn’t know this then and moved slowly, resenting ourselves for this slowness.

Prisoners were brought to us from forward patrols. They were gloomy, apparently shocked by their retreat. It seems they thought they were going straight to Petrograd. However, honor was clearly given not only to officers, but also to non-commissioned officers and, when responding, they stood to attention.

In one hut near which we stood, the owner spoke with pleasure, although apparently for the twentieth time, about the Germans: the same German sergeant-major stayed with him both during the advance and during the retreat. The first time he kept bragging about his victory and repeating: “Russ kaput, Russ kaput!” The second time he appeared in one boot, pulled the missing one right off the owner’s foot and answered his question: “Well, is the Russian kaput?” - answered with purely German conscientiousness: “No, no, no! Not kaput!”

Late in the evening we turned off the highway to go to the bivouac in the area assigned to us. The lodgers set off ahead, as always. How we dreamed of a bivouac! Even in the afternoon we learned that the residents managed to hide butter and lard and, to celebrate, willingly sold it to Russian soldiers. Suddenly, shooting was heard ahead. What's happened? This is not from an airplane - airplanes don’t fly at night, it’s obviously the enemy. We carefully entered the village assigned to us, and before we had entered singing, we dismounted, and suddenly a figure in incredibly dirty rags rushed towards us from the darkness. We recognized her as one of our lodgers. They gave him a sip of Madeira, and he, having calmed down a little, told us the following: about a mile from the village there is a large manorial estate. The tenants calmly moved in and were already starting conversations with the manager about oats and barns when a salvo rang out. The Germans, shooting, jumped out of the house, leaned out of the windows, and ran up to the horses. Our people rushed to the gate, the gate was already slammed. Then the survivors, some of whom were already caught, left their horses and ran into the garden. The narrator came across a stone wall a fathom high, with the top strewn with broken glass. When he almost climbed onto it, a German grabbed him by the leg. With his free foot, shod in a heavy boot, and with a spur in addition, he hit the enemy right in the face, he fell like a sheaf. Jumping to the other side, the tattered, battered lancer lost direction and ran straight ahead. He was in the very center of the enemy's disposition. The cavalry rode past him, the infantry settled down for the night. He was saved only by darkness and the usual confusion during a retreat, a consequence of our clever maneuver, which I wrote about above. He was, by his own admission, as if he were drunk and realized his position only when, approaching the fire, he saw about twenty Germans near it. One of them even approached him with a question. Then he turned around and walked in the opposite direction and thus came across us.

After listening to this story, we became thoughtful. Sleep was out of the question, and besides, the best part of our bivouac was occupied by the Germans. The situation was further complicated by the fact that our artillery also entered the village to bivouac after us. We could not drive her back into the field, and we did not have the right. Not a single knight is so worried about the fate of his lady as a cavalryman is about the safety of the artillery under his cover. The fact that he can gallop away every minute forces him to remain at his post until the end.

We still had a faint hope that there was only a small German patrol on the estate in front of us. We dismounted and went at him in a chain. But we were met with such heavy rifle and machine-gun fire as at least several companies of infantry could muster. Then we lay down in front of the village so as not to let through any scouts who could detect our artillery.

Lying there was boring, cold and scary. The Germans, angry at their retreat, constantly fired in our direction, and it is known that stray bullets are the most dangerous. Before dawn everything was quiet, and when at dawn our patrol entered the estate, there was no one there. During the night, almost all the lodgers returned. Three were missing, two were apparently captured, and the body of the third was found in the courtyard of the estate. Poor fellow, he had just arrived at the position from the reserve regiment and kept saying that he would be killed. He was handsome, slender, and an excellent rider. His revolver was lying near him, and on his body, in addition to the gunshot wound, there were several bayonet wounds. It was clear that he defended himself for a long time until he was pinned. Peace to your ashes, dear comrade! All of us who could came to your funeral!

On this day, our squadron was the leading squadron of the column and our platoon was the forward patrol. I didn’t sleep all night, but the excitement of the offensive was so great that I felt completely invigorated. I think that at the dawn of humanity, people also lived by nerves, created a lot and died early. I find it hard to believe that a man who dines every day and sleeps every night could contribute anything to the treasury of the culture of the spirit. Only fasting and vigil, even if they are involuntary, awaken in a person special, previously dormant powers.

Our path lay through the estate, where the day before our lodgers had been fired upon. There, an officer, the head of another patrol, interrogated about yesterday's manager, red-haired, with shifty eyes, of unknown nationality. The manager folded his hands and swore that he did not know how and when the Germans ended up with him, the officer got excited and pressed his horse on him. Our commander resolved the issue by telling the interrogator: “Well, to hell with it, they’ll sort it out at headquarters. Let’s move on!” Next we explored the forest; There was no one in it, they climbed up the hill, and the lookouts reported that there was an enemy in the farmstead opposite. There is no need to attack farms on horseback: they will shoot; We dismounted and were just about to start running when we heard frequent gunfire. Folwark had already been attacked before us by a hussar patrol that had arrived in time. Our intervention would have been tactless; we could only watch the battle and regret that we were late.

The fight did not last long. The hussars quickly made a dash and had already entered the farm. Some of the Germans surrendered, some fled, they were caught in the bushes. A hussar, a huge fellow, who was escorting about ten timidly huddled prisoners, saw us and prayed to our officer: “Your Honor, accept the prisoners, and I’ll run back, there are still Germans there.” The officer agreed. “And keep the rifles, your honor, so that no one steals them,” the hussar asked. He was promised, and this is because in small cavalry skirmishes the medieval custom is preserved that the weapon of the vanquished belongs to his conqueror.

Soon they brought us more prisoners, then more and more. In total, sixty-seven real Prussians were taken from this farm, active service in addition, and there were no more than twenty who took them.

When the path was clear, we moved on. In the nearest village we were met by Old Believers and colonists. We were the first Russians they saw after a month and a half of German captivity. Old men tried to kiss our hands, women brought out jars of milk, eggs, bread and indignantly refused money, fair-haired children stared at us with such interest as they hardly stared at the Germans. And the most pleasant thing was that everyone spoke purely Russian, which we had not heard for a long time.

We asked how long the Germans had been there. It turned out that just half an hour ago the German convoy had left and it would have been possible to catch up with it. But as soon as we decided to do this, a messenger from our column galloped up to us with an order to stop. We began to beg the officer to pretend that he had not heard this order, but at that time the second messenger rushed in to confirm the categorical order not to move further under any circumstances.

I had to submit. We chopped fir branches into swords and, lying down on them, began to wait for the tea to boil in the pots. Soon the entire column pulled up to us, and with it the prisoners, of whom there were already about nine hundred people. And suddenly, over this gathering of the entire division, when everyone was exchanging impressions and sharing bread and tobacco, suddenly there was a characteristic howl of shrapnel, and an unexploded shell crashed right among us. The command was heard: “On your horses! Sit down,” and just as in the fall a flock of blackbirds suddenly breaks away from the dense branches of a rowan tree and flies, making noise and chirping, so we rushed off, most of all afraid of being separated from our unit. And the shrapnel kept rushing and rushing. Luckily for us, almost not a single shell exploded (and German factories sometimes work poorly), but they flew so low that they actually cut through our ranks. For several minutes we galloped across a fairly large lake, the ice cracked and spread like stars, and I think everyone had only one prayer that it would not break.

When we rode across the lake, the shooting died down. We formed platoons and returned back. A squadron was waiting for us there, tasked with guarding the prisoners. It turns out that he never moved, fearing that the prisoners would run away, and rightly calculating that they would shoot at a larger mass rather than at a smaller one. We began to count the losses - there were none. Only one prisoner was killed and a horse was slightly wounded. However, we had to think about it. After all, we were fired at from the flank. And if we had enemy artillery on our flank, then that means the bag we got into was very deep. We had a chance that the Germans would not be able to use it, because they had to retreat under pressure from the infantry. In any case, we had to find out if there was a way out for us, and if so, then secure it for ourselves. For this purpose, patrols were sent, and I went with one of them.

The night was dark, and the road was only dimly white in the thicket of the forest. It was restless all around. Horses without riders were shaking, gunfire could be heard in the distance, someone was moaning in the bushes, but we had no time to pick him up. An unpleasant thing is night reconnaissance in the forest. It seems as if from behind every tree a wide bayonet is pointed at you and is about to hit you. Quite unexpectedly and immediately destroying the anxiety of anticipation, a cry was heard: “Wer ist da?” - and several shots rang out. My rifle was in my hands, I shot without aiming, still nothing was visible, my comrades did the same. Then we turned and galloped back twenty yards.

"Is everyone here?" - I asked. Voices were heard: “I’m here”; “I’m here too, I don’t know the rest.” I took a roll call and they were all there. Then we began to think about what to do. True, we were fired upon, but it could easily have turned out not to be an outpost, but simply a party of backward infantrymen who were now running headlong to escape us. This assumption was further strengthened by the fact that I heard the cracking of branches in the forest: the posts would not have made so much noise.

We turned and went in the old direction. At the place where we had a shootout, my horse began to snore and cower away from the road. I jumped off and, after walking a few steps, came across a lying body. Flashing an electric flashlight, I noticed a helmet split by a bullet under a face covered in blood, and then a bluish-gray overcoat. Everything was quiet. We were right in our assumption.

We drove another five miles, as instructed, and, returning, reported that the road was clear. Then we were put in a bivouac, but what a bivouac it was! The horses were not unsaddled, only the girths were loosened, and people slept in overcoats and boots. And the next morning the patrols reported that the Germans had retreated and we had our infantry on our flanks.

The third day of the offensive began dimly. Shooting was heard all the time ahead, the columns stopped every now and then, patrols were sent everywhere. And therefore we were especially happy to see infantry emerging from the forest, which we had not seen for several days. It turned out that we, coming from the north, joined forces with troops advancing from the south. Countless gray companies appeared one after another, only to disappear within a few minutes among the copses and hillocks. And their presence proved that the pursuit was over, that the enemy was stopping and the battle was approaching.

Our patrol was supposed to scout out the path for one of the advancing companies and then guard its flank. On the way we met a dragoon patrol, which was given almost the same task as us. The dragoon officer had a torn boot - the mark of a German pike - he had gone on the attack the day before. However, this was the only damage our people received, and about eight Germans were cut down. We quickly established the enemy's position, that is, we poked here and there and were fired upon, and then calmly drove to the flank, thinking about boiled potatoes and tea.

But as soon as we left the forest, as soon as our lookout climbed the hill, a shot rang out from behind the opposite hill. We returned to the forest, everything was quiet. The lookout again appeared from behind the hill, a shot was heard again, this time the bullet grazed the horse’s ear. We dismounted, went out to the edge and began to observe. Little by little, a German helmet began to appear from behind the hill, then the figure of a horseman - through binoculars I saw a large light mustache. “Here he is, here he is, the devil with the horn,” the soldiers whispered. But the officer waited for more Germans to think that there was no point in shooting one at a time. We took aim at him, looked at him through binoculars, and wondered about his social status.

Meanwhile, a lancer arrived, left to communicate with the infantry, and reported that it was leaving. The officer himself went to her, and left us to deal with the Germans at our own discretion. Left alone, we took aim, some from our knees, some with our rifles on the branches, and I commanded: “Platoon, fire!” At the same moment the German disappeared, apparently falling over a hill. No one else showed up. Five minutes later I sent two lancers to see if he was killed, and suddenly we saw a whole German squadron approaching us under the cover of the hillocks. Here, without any command, rifle chatter arose. People jumped out onto a hillock, where they had a better view, lay down and shot non-stop. It’s strange, it never even occurred to us that the Germans might attack.

And indeed, they turned and rushed back in all directions. We escorted them with fire and, when they rose to the hill, fired regular volleys. It was joyful to watch how people and horses fell then, and those who remained went into the quarry in order to quickly get to the nearest ravine. Meanwhile, two lancers brought the helmet and rifle of the German at whom we fired our first volley. He was killed outright.

Behind us the battle was heating up. Rifles crackled, gun explosions thundered, it was clear that there was a hot issue there. Therefore, we were not surprised when a grenade burst to our left, throwing up a cloud of snow and dirt, like a bull slamming its horns into the ground. We just thought that our infantry chain was lying nearby. The shells were exploding closer and closer, more and more often, we were not at all worried, and only the officer who drove up to take us away said that the infantry had already retreated and it was us who were being fired upon. The soldiers' faces immediately brightened. It is very flattering for a small patrol when heavy shells are spent on it.

On the way, we saw our infantrymen sullenly emerging from the forest and gathering in groups. "What, fellow countrymen, are you leaving?" - I asked them. “They’re ordering us, but what should we do? At least we shouldn’t retreat... what have we lost behind,” they grumbled dissatisfiedly. But the bearded non-commissioned officer said judiciously: “No, the authorities judged correctly. There are a lot of Germans. We can’t hold back without trenches. But let’s go to the trenches, so we’ll see there.” At this time, another company appeared from our side. “Brothers, the reserve is approaching us, we’ll hold out a little longer!” - shouted the infantry officer. “And that,” the non-commissioned officer said still judiciously and, throwing the rifle off his shoulder, walked back into the forest. The others started walking too.

Reports of such cases say: under pressure from superior enemy forces, our troops had to retreat. Those in the far rear are scared when they read it, but I know, I saw with my own eyes how simply and calmly such waste is carried out.

A little further we met the commander of the infantry division, surrounded by his headquarters, a handsome, gray-haired old man with a pale, tired face. The lancers sighed: “What a grey-haired guy, he’s good enough to be our grandfather. For us young people, war is like a game, but for the old ones it’s bad.”

The assembly point was appointed in the town of S. Shells were raining down on it, but the Germans, as always, chose the church as a target, and they only had to gather at the other end for the danger to be minimized.

Patrols arrived from all sides and squadrons approached from positions. Those who came earlier were boiling potatoes and boiling tea.

But we didn’t have to take advantage of this, because they lined us up in a column and took us out onto the road. Night fell, quiet, blue, frosty. The snow shimmered unsteadily. The stars seemed to shine through glass. We received an order to stop and wait for further orders. And we stood on the road for five hours. Yes, this night was one of the most difficult of my life. I ate bread with snow, dry and it would not go down my throat; he ran along his squadron dozens of times, but this was more tiring than warming; I tried to warm myself near the horse, but its fur was covered with icicles, and its breath froze, not leaving its nostrils. Finally I stopped fighting the cold, stopped, put my hands in my pockets, turned up my collar and with dull intensity began to look at the blackening hedge and the dead horse, clearly aware that I was freezing. Already in my sleep I heard the long-awaited command: “Get on your horses... sit down.” We drove about two miles and entered a small village. Here you could finally warm up. As soon as I found myself in the hut, I lay down without taking off my rifle or even my cap, and fell asleep instantly, as if dropped to the bottom of the deepest, blackest sleep.

I woke up with terrible pain in my eyes and a noise in my head, because my comrades, fastening a saber, were pushing me with their feet: “Alarm! We’re leaving now.” Like a sleepwalker, not realizing anything, I got up and went out into the street. There machine guns were crackling, people were mounting their horses. We got back onto the road and started trotting. My sleep lasted exactly half an hour.

We rode all night at a trot, because we had to travel fifty miles before dawn to defend the town of K. at a highway junction. What a night it was! People fell asleep in their saddles, and horses uncontrolled by anyone ran ahead, so that quite often they had to wake up in someone else's squadron.

Low-hanging branches lashed his eyes and knocked his cap off his head. Sometimes hallucinations occurred. So, during one of the stops, looking at a steep slope covered with snow, for ten whole minutes I was sure that we had entered some big city, that in front of me was a three-story house with windows, balconies, and shops below. We rode through the forest for several hours in a row. In the silence, broken only by the clatter of hooves and the snoring of horses, a distant howl of a wolf could be clearly heard. Sometimes, sensing a wolf, the horses began to tremble all over and reared up. This night, this forest, this endless white road seemed to me like a dream from which it was impossible to wake up. And yet a feeling of strange triumph filled my mind. Here we are, so hungry, exhausted, freezing, having just left the battle, we are riding towards a new battle, because we are forced to this by the spirit, which is as real as our body, only infinitely stronger than it. And to the rhythm of the horse's trot, rhythmic lines danced in my mind:

The spirit blossoms like the rose of May,
Like fire it rips through the darkness
The body, not understanding anything,
Blindly obeys him.

It seemed to me that I felt the sultry aroma of this rose, I saw red tongues of fire.

At about ten o'clock in the morning we arrived in the town of K. At first we took up position, but soon, leaving the guards and patrols, we settled in huts. I drank a glass of tea, ate some potatoes and, since I still couldn’t get warm, I climbed onto the stove, covered myself with a torn overcoat lying there and, shuddering with pleasure, immediately fell asleep. I don’t remember what I dreamed about; it must have been something very chaotic, because I wasn’t too surprised when I woke up from a terrible roar and a heap of lime falling on me. The hut was full of smoke, which came out into a large hole in the ceiling right above my head. The pale sky was visible through the hole. “Aha, artillery shelling,” I thought, and suddenly a terrible thought pierced my brain and in an instant threw me off the stove. The hut was empty, the lancers had left.

This is where I really got scared. I didn’t know since when I was alone, where my comrades went, obviously not noticing how I climbed onto the stove, and in whose hands there was a place. I grabbed the rifle, made sure it was loaded, and ran out the door. The place was burning, shells were exploding here and there. Every minute I expected to see wide bayonets pointed at me and to hear a menacing shout: “Halt!” But then I heard stomping and, before I had time to prepare, I saw red horses and a Uhlan patrol. I ran to him and asked him to take me to the regiment. It was difficult to jump onto the horse’s croup in full armor; it did not stand, frightened by artillery explosions, but what a joy it was to realize that I was no longer an unfortunate lost person, but again part of the Uhlan regiment, and, consequently, of the entire Russian army.

An hour later I was already in my squadron, sitting on my horse, telling my neighbors in the ranks my adventure. It turned out that unexpectedly an order came to clear the place and retreat about twenty miles to a bivouac. Our infantry entered the flank of the advancing Germans, and the further they advanced, the worse it would be for them. The bivouac was excellent, the huts were spacious, and for the first time in many days we saw our kitchen and ate hot soup.

One morning the sergeant told me: “Lieutenant Ch. is going on a long journey, ask to go with him.”

I obeyed, received consent, and half an hour later I was galloping along the road next to the officer.

In response to my question, he told me that the patrol was indeed long, but that, in all likelihood, we would soon stumble upon a German outpost and would be forced to stop. And so it happened. Having traveled about five versts, the head patrols noticed German helmets and, creeping up on foot, counted about thirty people.

Now behind us there was a village, quite comfortable, even with inhabitants. We returned to it, leaving observation, entered the outer hut and, of course, set the chicken, traditional in all travels, to cook. This usually takes about two hours, but I was in a fighting mood. Therefore, I asked the officer for five people to try to get to the rear of the German outpost, scare it, maybe capture prisoners.

The enterprise was unsafe, because if I found myself in the rear of the Germans, then other Germans found themselves in my rear... But two young residents became interested in the enterprise, and they promised to take us by a roundabout road to the Germans themselves.

We thought it all over and drove first through the backyards, then through the lowlands through the dirty, melted snow. Residents walked alongside us... We passed a row of empty trenches, magnificent, deep, lined with sandbags.

In a lonely farm, an old man kept calling us to eat scrambled eggs, he was moving out and liquidating his farm, and when asked about the Germans, he answered that there were a lot of cavalry behind the lake a mile away, obviously several squadrons.

Further we saw a wire fence, with one end resting on the lake and the other going away... I left a man at the passage through the wire fence, ordered him to shoot in case of alarm, and with the others I went further.

It was hard to drive, leaving behind such a barrier with only one passage, which could so easily be blocked with slingshots. Any German patrol could have done this, and they were hanging around nearby, this was also said by the residents who saw them half an hour ago. But we were too eager to fire at the German outpost.

So we drove into the forest, we knew that it was not wide and that the Germans were now behind it. They are not waiting for us on this side; our appearance will cause panic. We had already taken off our rifles, and suddenly, in complete silence, the distant sound of a shot was heard. A thunderous volley would have frightened us less. We... looked at each other. “It’s by the wire,” someone said, we guessed it without him. “Well, brothers, fire a volley into the forest and go back... maybe we’ll be in time!” - I said. We fired a volley and turned our horses.

What a leap it was. Trees and bushes rushed in front of us, lumps of snow flew from under their hooves, a woman with a bucket in her hand by the river looked at us with her mouth open in surprise. If we had found the passage closed, we would have died. The German cavalry would have caught us in half a day. The boat and the wire fence - we saw it from the hill. The passage is open, but our lancer is already on the other side and is shooting somewhere to the left. We looked there and immediately spurred our horses. About two dozen Germans were galloping across us. They were at the same distance from the wire as we were. They realized what our salvation was and decided to block our path.

"Spades for battle, checkers out!" - I commanded, and we continued to rush. The Germans shouted and twirled their pikes over their heads. Ulan, who was on the other side, picked up a slingshot to block the passage as soon as we passed. And we really rode. I heard the heavy snoring and clatter of the hooves of the leading German horse, saw the unkempt beard and the menacingly raised pike of its rider. If I had been five seconds late, we would have collided. But I jumped over the wire, and he rushed past with a flourish.

The slingshot thrown by our lancer landed crookedly, but the Germans still did not dare to jump out behind the wire fence and began to dismount to open fire on us. We, of course, did not wait for them and returned back through the lowlands. The chicken was already cooked and was very tasty.

In the evening the captain and the entire squadron arrived at us. Our observation patrol was deployed into a guard guard, and we, having worked all day, remained at the main outpost.

The night passed peacefully. The next morning the telephone began to sing, and we were informed from headquarters that a German patrol had been spotted from an observation post heading in our direction. It was worth looking at our faces when the telephone operator told us about this. Not a muscle moved on them. Finally the captain remarked: “We should have boiled some more tea.” And only then did we laugh, realizing the unnaturalness of our indifference.

However, the German patrol made itself felt. We heard frequent gunfire on the left, and a lancer arrived from one of the posts with a report that they had to retreat. “Let them try to return to their old place,” the captain ordered, “if they fail, I will send reinforcements.” The shooting intensified, and after an hour or two the messenger reported that the Germans had been repulsed and the post had returned. “Well, thank God, there was no need to raise such a fuss!” - followed the resolution.

I took part in many trips, but I don’t remember such a difficult one as the trip of Prince K.’s cornet on one of the coldest March days. There was a snowstorm and the wind was blowing directly at us. Frozen snow flakes cut my face like glass and did not allow me to open my eyes. We drove blindly into a destroyed wire fence, and the horses began to jump and rush, feeling the pricks. There were no roads, there was a continuous white veil everywhere. The horses walked almost up to their bellies in the snow, falling into holes and bumping into fences. And in addition, the Germans could fire at us every minute. We drove about twenty miles in this way.

At the end they stopped. The platoon remained in the village; two non-commissioned officer patrols were sent forward to inspect the neighboring farms. I led one of them. The residents definitely said that there were Germans in my farm, but I had to make sure of this. The area was completely open, there were no approaches, and so we slowly headed straight to the farm in a wide chain. About eight hundred paces away they stopped and fired a volley, then another. The Germans stood firm and did not shoot, apparently hoping that we would come closer. Then I decided on the last experiment - simulating escape. At my command, we immediately turned around and rushed back, as if having noticed the enemy. If we had not been fired upon, we would have gone to the farm without fear. Fortunately, we were fired upon.

Another patrol was less fortunate. He ran into an ambush and his horse was killed. The loss is small, but not when you are twenty miles from the regiment. We rode back at a pace so that those on foot could keep up with us.

The snowstorm subsided, and severe frost set in. I didn’t think to get off and walk, I dozed off and began to freeze, and then freeze. It felt like I was sitting naked in icy water. I no longer trembled, did not chatter my teeth, but only moaned quietly and incessantly...

But we didn’t immediately find our bivouac and stood for an hour, frozen, in front of the huts, where other lancers were drinking hot tea - we could see it through the windows.

From this night my misadventures began. We advanced, knocked the Germans out of villages, went on trips, I also did all this, but just like in this, now shivering with chills, now burning in the heat. Finally, after one night, during which I made at least twenty rounds and fifteen escapes from captivity without leaving the hut, I decided to take my temperature. The thermometer showed 38.7º C.

I went to the regimental doctor. The doctor ordered to take the temperature every two hours and lie down, while the regiment marched. I lay down in a hut where two telephone operators remained, but they were located with the telephone in the next room, and I was alone. In the afternoon, the headquarters of the Cossack regiment came into the hut, and the commander treated me to Madeira and biscuits. He left after half an hour, and I dozed off again. One of the telephone operators woke me up: “The Germans are advancing, we are leaving now!” I asked where our regiment was, they didn’t know.

I went out into the yard. The German machine gun, which can always be recognized by its sound, was already very close. I mounted my horse and rode straight away from him,

It was getting dark. Soon I came across a hussar bivouac and decided to spend the night here. The hussars gave me tea, brought me straw to sleep on, and even lent me some kind of blanket. I fell asleep, but woke up at midnight, took my temperature, found it was 39.1º C and for some reason decided that I definitely needed to find my regiment. He quietly got up, went out without waking anyone, found his horse and galloped along the road, not knowing where.

It was a fantastic night. I sang, shouted, dangled absurdly in the saddle, and took ditches and barriers for fun. Once he ran into our outpost and ardently persuaded the soldiers of the post to attack the Germans. I met two horse artillerymen who had strayed from their unit. They didn’t realize that I was in the heat, they were infected by my joy and jumped around next to me for half an hour, filling the air with screams. Then they fell behind. The next morning I completely unexpectedly returned to the hussars. They took great part in me and really reprimanded me for my nightly escapade.

I spent the entire next day wandering around the headquarters: first - divisions, then brigades and, finally, regiments. And a day later I was already lying on a cart that was taking me to the nearest railway station. I was going to Petrograd for treatment.

I had to lie in bed for a whole month after that.

Now I want to talk about the most significant day of my life, about the battle on July 6, 1915. This happened on another, completely new front for us. Before that, we had both shootouts and patrols, but the memory of them fades in comparison with that day.

The day before there was heavy rain. Every time we had to leave our houses, it intensified. So it intensified when, late in the evening, we were taken to relieve the army cavalry sitting in the trenches.

The road went through the forest, the path was narrow, the darkness was complete, you couldn’t see an outstretched hand. If you fell behind even for a minute, you had to gallop and bump into sagging branches and trunks until you finally ran into the croup of the leading horses. More than one eye was blackened and more than one face was scratched into blood.

In the clearing - we only determined by touch that it was a clearing - we dismounted. The horse guides were supposed to stay here, the rest were to go to the trench. Let's go, but how? Stretched out in single file and tightly clutching each other's shoulders. Sometimes someone, having stumbled upon a stump or fallen into a ditch, broke away, then those behind him fiercely pushed him forward, and he ran and called out to those in front, helplessly grasping the darkness with his hands. We walked through the swamp and scolded the guide for this, but it was not his fault, our path really lay through the swamp. Finally, after walking about three miles, we ran into a hillock, from which, to our surprise, people began to crawl out. These were the cavalrymen whom we came to replace.

We asked them what it was like to sit there. Embittered by the rain, they were silent, and only one grumbled under his breath: “But you’ll see for yourself, the German is shooting, he’ll probably go on the attack in the morning.” “Tip your tongue,” we thought, “in this weather, and even an attack!”

Strictly speaking, there was no trench. A sharp ridge of a low hill stretched along the front, and a number of cells for one or two people with loopholes for firing were punched into it. We climbed into these cells, fired several volleys towards the enemy and, having established observation, settled down to take a nap until dawn. It was just getting light, we were woken up: the enemy was making a dash and digging in, opening rapid fire.

I looked into the loophole. It was gray and still raining. Two or three steps in front of me, the Austrian was scurrying around, like a mole, sinking into the ground before my eyes. I fired. He sat down in the hole that had already been dug and waved his shovel to show that I had missed. A minute later he leaned out, I shot again and saw another swing of the shovel. But after the third shot, neither he nor his shovel appeared again.

Meanwhile, other Austrians had already dug in and were firing at us fiercely. I crawled into the cell where our cornet was sitting. We began to discuss the current situation. There were one and a half squadrons of us, that is, eighty people, five times more Austrians. It is unknown whether we could hold out in the event of an attack.

So we chatted, trying in vain to light soaked cigarettes, when our attention was attracted by some strange sound, from which our hill trembled, as if a giant hammer was hitting the ground. I began to look into the loophole, not too freely, because bullets were flying into it every now and then, and finally I noticed the explosions of heavy shells halfway between us and the Austrians. “Hurray!” I shouted, “our artillery is covering their trenches.”

At the same moment, the captain’s frowning face appeared towards us. “Nothing of the kind,” he said, “it’s their undershooting, they’re firing at us. Now they’ll rush to attack. We’ve been bypassed from the left flank. Get back to your horses!”

Cornet and I, as if hit by a spring, flew out of the trench. We had a minute or two at our disposal, but we had to warn all the people about the departure and send them to the neighboring squadron. I ran along the trenches, shouting: “Get to your horses... quickly! They are going around us!” People jumped out, unbuttoned, stunned, carrying shovels and sabers under their arms that they had dropped in the trench. When everyone left, I looked out into the loophole and, absurdly close, saw in front of me the preoccupied face of a mustachioed Austrian, and behind him others. I fired without aiming and rushed as fast as I could to catch up with my comrades.

We had to run about a mile across a completely open field that had turned into a swamp from the continuous rain.

Further on there was a hillock, some sheds, and a sparse forest began. It would be possible to shoot back there; and continue to retreat, judging by the circumstances. Now, in view of the enemy constantly shooting, all that remained was to run, and as quickly as possible.

I caught up with my comrades immediately over the hill. They could no longer run and, under a hail of bullets and shells, walked at a quiet pace, as if walking. It was especially scary to see the captain, who every minute, with his usual gesture, took off his pince-nez and carefully wiped the damp glass with a completely wet handkerchief.

Behind the barn I noticed a lancer writhing on the ground. "Are you hurt?" - I asked him. "I'm sick... I'm sick to my stomach!" - he groaned in response.

“Hey, I found time to be sick!” I shouted in a bossy tone. “Run quickly, the Austrians will pierce you!” He took off and ran; afterwards he thanked me very much, but two days later he was taken away with cholera.

Soon the Austrians appeared on the hill. They walked behind us about two hundred paces and either shot or waved their hands at us, inviting us to surrender. They were afraid to come closer because their artillery shells were exploding among us. We fired over our shoulders without slowing down.

From the bushes to my left I heard a crying cry: “Lancers, brothers, help!” I turned around and saw a stuck machine gun, with only one man from the team and an officer left. “Someone take a machine gun,” the captain ordered. The end of his words was muffled by the thunderous explosion of a shell that fell among us. Everyone involuntarily increased their pace.

However, the machine-gun officer’s complaint was still in my ears, and I, stamping my foot and cursing myself for cowardice, quickly returned and grabbed the strap. I did not have to repent of this, because in a moment of great danger, what is most needed is some kind of activity. The machine gunner turned out to be very thorough. He chatted non-stop as he picked his way, pulling his car out of holes and unhooking it from tree roots. I chirped no less animatedly. Once a shell crashed about five steps from us. We involuntarily stopped, expecting a break. For some reason I started counting - one, two, three. When I got to five, I realized that there would be no gap. “Nothing this time, we’ll move on... why delay?” - the machine gunner joyfully announced to me, - and we continued on our way.

Things weren't so good all around. People fell, some crawled, others froze in place. I noticed a group of soldiers about a hundred paces away, dragging someone, but I could not throw a machine gun to rush to their aid. Later they told me that it was a wounded officer of our squadron. He was shot in the legs and head. When he was picked up, the Austrians opened particularly fierce fire and wounded several of the carriers. Then the officer demanded to be laid on the ground, kissed and crossed the soldiers who were with him, and resolutely ordered them to save themselves. We all felt sorry for him to the point of tears. He and his platoon were the last to cover the general retreat. Fortunately, we now know that he is in captivity and is recovering.

Finally we reached the forest and saw our horses. Bullets flew here too; one of the horse guides was even wounded, but we all breathed freely, lay in the chain for about ten minutes, waiting for the other squadrons to leave, and only then got on our horses.

They retreated at a small trot, threatening to attack the advancing enemy. Our rear patrolman even managed to bring a prisoner. He rode turning around, as he was supposed to, and, noticing an Austrian with a rifle at the ready between the trunks, rushed at him with a drawn saber. The Austrian dropped his weapon and raised his hands. Ulan forced him to pick up the rifle - it wouldn't go to waste, it was worth money - and, grabbing him by the collar and lower back, he threw him across the saddle like a sheep. He proudly announced to those he met:

“Here, I’ve captured the Knight of St. George, and I’m taking him to headquarters.” Indeed, the Austrian was decorated with some kind of cross.

Only when we approached the village of Z. did we get out of the Austrian forest and resume contact with our neighbors. They sent word to the infantry that the enemy was advancing with superior forces, and decided to hold on at all costs until reinforcements arrived. The chain was located along the cemetery, in front of a rye field, we perched the machine gun on a tree. We saw no one and fired directly in front of us into the swaying rye, setting the sight at two thousand steps and gradually lowering it, but our patrols, who saw the Austrians emerging from the forest, claimed that our fire inflicted heavy losses on them. The bullets kept landing near us and behind us, throwing out columns of earth. One of these columns clogged my eye, which I had to wipe for a long time afterwards.

It was getting dark. We ate nothing all day and waited with anguish for a new attack by an enemy five times stronger. The command that was repeated from time to time was especially depressing: “Lower the sight to one hundred!” This meant that the enemy had approached us by the same number of steps.

Turning around, behind me, through the net of fine rain and the approaching dusk, I noticed something strange, as if a cloud was spreading low on the ground. Or was it a bush, but then why did it get closer and closer? I shared my discovery with my neighbors. They were also perplexed. Finally, one far-sighted man shouted: “This is our infantry coming!” - and even jumped up with joyful excitement. We also jumped up, now doubting, now believing, and completely forgetting about the bullets.

Soon there was no room for doubt. We were overwhelmed by a crowd of short, stocky bearded men, and we heard encouraging words: “What, brothers, or was it tough? Never mind, we’ll arrange everything now!” They ran at a measured pace (they ran for ten miles) and were not at all out of breath; as they ran they rolled cigarettes, shared bread, and chatted. It was felt that walking was a natural state for them. How I loved them at that moment, how I admired their formidable power.

Now they disappeared into the rye, and I heard someone’s clear voice shouting: “Myron, bend the Austrians’ flank!” “Okay, we’ll bend it,” was the answer. And immediately the firing of five hundred rifles rang out. They saw the enemy.

We sent for the horse guides and were about to leave, but I was assigned to be in contact with the infantry. As I approached their line, I heard a thunderous "hurray." But somehow it suddenly broke off, and separate cries were heard: “Catch it, hold it! Ay, he’ll leave!” - just like in a street scandal. Myron, unknown to me, rose to the occasion. Half of our infantry, under cover of fire from the rest, entered the Austrians' flank and cut off one and a half of their battalions. Hundreds of them dropped their weapons and obediently walked to the place indicated to them, to a group of old oak trees. In total, eight hundred people were captured that evening and, in addition, the positions lost at the beginning were returned.

In the evening, after cleaning up the horses, we met with the returning infantrymen. “Thank you, brothers,” we said, “without you we would be dead!” “Nothing,” they answered, “how did you hold on before us? Look, there were so many of them! It’s your luck that they were not Germans, but Austrians.” We agreed that it really was happiness.

In those days our summer retreat was ending. We retreated no longer from the impossibility of holding on, but according to orders received from headquarters. Sometimes it happened that after a day of fierce battle both sides retreated and the cavalry then had to restore contact with the enemy.

This is what happened on that magnificent, slightly cloudy, but warm and fragrant evening, when we saddled up due to the alarm of work. For a moment the thought flashed through me of taking this and other paintings with me. Without stretchers they would take up little space. But I could not guess the plans of the higher authorities; maybe it was decided not to give up this area to the enemy under any circumstances.

What would the returning owner think of the lancers then? I went out, picked an apple from the garden and, chewing it, drove on.

We were not fired upon, and we returned back. And a few hours later I saw a big pink glow and found out what it was. They set fire to that same landowner's house because it blocked the fire from our trenches. That's when I bitterly regretted my scrupulousness regarding the paintings.

The night was alarming - there were shots all the time, sometimes the crackle of a machine gun. At about two o'clock they pulled me out of the barn, where I was sleeping buried in sheaves, and said that it was time to go to the trench. There were twelve people in our shift under the command of a lieutenant. The trench was located on the lower slope of a hill leading down to the river. It was well made, but there was no retreat; we had to run uphill across an open area. The whole question was whether the Germans would attack that night or the next. The captain we met advised us not to accept bayonet fighting, but to ourselves we decided the opposite. There was no way to leave anyway.

When dawn broke, we were already sitting in the trench. We could clearly see how the Germans were making a dash on the other side, but were not advancing, but were only digging in. We shot, but rather sluggishly, because they were very far away. Suddenly a cannon roared behind us - we even flinched in surprise - and a shell, flying over our heads, exploded in the enemy’s trench itself. The Germans held firm. Only after the tenth shell, fired with the same accuracy, did we see gray figures running as fast as they could towards the nearby forest, and the white haze of shrapnel above them. There were about a hundred of them, but barely twenty were saved.

We whiled away the time with such activities before our shift and left cheerfully, at a trot and one at a time, because some cunning German, obviously an excellent shooter, climbed into our flank and, unseen by us, fired as soon as someone came out into the open place. One was shot through the cape, another was scratched in the neck. "Look, clever!" - the soldiers spoke about him without any malice. And the elderly, respectable ensign said as he ran: “What a cheerful Germans! They even stirred up the old man and made him run.”

At night we went into the trenches again. The Germans learned that there was only cavalry here, and decided at all costs to force the crossing before our infantry arrived. We each took our place and, in anticipation of the morning attack, dozed off, some standing, some squatting.

Sand from the wall of the trench poured down our collars, our legs went numb, bullets that flew towards us from time to time buzzed like large, dangerous insects, and we slept, slept sweeter and more soundly than on the softest beds. And I remembered all the lovely things - books I read in childhood, sea beaches with humming shells, blue hyacinths. The most touching and happiest hours are the hours before the battle.

The guard ran along the trench, deliberately over the legs of the sleeping men, and, to be sure, pushing them with his butt, repeated: “Alarm, alarm.” A few moments later, as if to finally awaken the sleeping people, a whisper rang out: “The secrets are running away.” For several minutes it was difficult to understand anything. The machine guns were banging, we were firing without interruption at the light strip of water, and the sound of our shots merged with the terribly increasing buzz of German bullets. Little by little everything began to calm down, the command was heard: “Don’t shoot,” and we realized that we had repulsed the first attack.

After the first minute of celebration, we wondered what would happen next. The first attack is usually a test attack; based on the strength of our fire, the Germans determined how many there are of us, and the second attack, of course, will be decisive; they can put five people against one. There is no retreat, we are ordered to hold on, will there be anything left of the squadron?

Absorbed in these thoughts, I suddenly noticed a small figure in a gray overcoat leaning over the trench and then easily jumping down. In one minute the trench was already swarming with people, like a town square on market day.

Infantry? - I asked.

Infantry. “Replace you,” answered two dozen voices at once.

How many of you are there?

Division.

I couldn’t stand it and started laughing for real, from the bottom of my heart. So this is what awaits the Germans, who are now going on the attack to crush one single unfortunate squadron. After all, they will now be caught with bare hands. I would give a year of my life to stay and watch everything that happens. But I had to leave.

We were already mounting our horses when we heard frequent German firing, heralding an attack. There was an ominous silence on our part, and we only looked at each other meaningfully.

The corps to which we were assigned was withdrawing. Our regiment was sent to see if the Germans wanted to cut the road, and if so, to prevent them from doing so. The work is purely cavalry.

We came at a trot to a village located on the only passable road in that area, and stopped because the lead patrol discovered Germans accumulating in the forest. Our squadron dismounted and lay down in a ditch on both sides of the road.

Several horsemen in helmets rode out from the blackened forest in the distance. We decided to let them get very close, but our secret, pushed forward, was the first to open fire on them, knocked down one man with a horse, and the others galloped away. It became quiet and calm again, as only happens on the warm days of early autumn.

Before this, we were in reserve for more than a week, and it is not surprising that our bones were playing. Four non-commissioned officers, including myself, asked the lieutenant for permission to go into the swamp, and then through the edge of the forest into the flank of the Germans and, if possible, scare them a little. We received a warning not to drown in the swamp and set off.

From hummock to hummock, from bush to bush, from ditch to ditch, we finally, unnoticed by the Germans, reached a copse, about fifty paces from the edge. Further on, like a wide, bright corridor, stretched a low-mown clearing. For our reasons, there certainly should have been German posts in the copse, but we relied on military luck and, bending over, quickly ran across the clearing one by one.

Having climbed into the thicket, we took a break and listened. The forest was full of unclear rustling sounds. Leaves rustled, birds chirped, water flowed somewhere. Little by little other sounds began to stand out, the sound of a hoof digging the ground, the ringing of a saber, human voices. We crept along like boys playing the heroes of Mine Reed or Gustav Emar, one after another, on all fours, stopping every ten steps. Now we were already completely in the enemy's position. Voices were heard not only in front, but also behind us. But we haven't seen anyone yet.

I will not hide that I was afraid of the kind of fear that can only be overcome with difficulty by the will. The worst thing was that I could not imagine the Germans in their natural form. It seemed to me that they were either like dwarfs, peeking out from under the bushes with evil rat eyes, or huge, like bell towers, and terrible, like Polynesian gods, silently parting the tops of the trees and watching us with an unkind grin. And at the last moment they will shout: “Ah, ah, ah!” - like adults frightening children. I looked at my bayonet with hope, as if it were a talisman against witchcraft, and thought that first I would stick it in a dwarf or a giant, and then let it happen.

Suddenly the one crawling in front of me stopped, and I slammed my face into the wide and dirty soles of his boots. From his feverish movements I realized that he was freeing his rifle from the branches. And behind his shoulder in a small dark clearing, about fifteen paces, no further, I saw the Germans. There were two of them, apparently accidentally leaving their group: one in a soft hat, the other in a helmet covered with a cloth cover. They were looking at some little thing, a coin or a watch, holding it in their hands. The one in the helmet was facing me, and I remembered his red beard and the wrinkled face of a Prussian peasant. The other stood with his back to me, showing his hunched shoulders. Both held rifles with fixed bayonets at their shoulders.

Only when hunting for large animals, leopards, buffaloes, did I experience the same feeling when anxiety for oneself suddenly gives way to the fear of missing out on magnificent prey. Lying down, I pulled up my rifle, released the safety, aimed at the very middle of the torso of the one who was wearing a helmet, and pulled the trigger. The shot echoed deafeningly through the forest. The German fell over on his back, as if from a strong push in the chest, without shouting or waving his arms, and his comrade, as if he had been waiting for this, immediately bent over and, like a cat, rushed into the forest. Two more shots rang out over my ear, and he fell into the bushes, so that only his legs were visible.

"Now let's go!" - the platoon commander whispered with a cheerful and excited face, and we ran. The forest around us came to life. Shots rang out, horses galloped, commands were heard in German. We reached the edge of the forest, but not in the place from which we had come, but much closer to the enemy. It was necessary to run across to the copse, where, in all likelihood, there were enemy posts.

After a short meeting, it was decided that I would go first, and if I was wounded, my comrades, who ran much better than me, would pick me up and carry me away. I marked out a haystack halfway and reached it without hindrance. Then we had to go straight to the supposed enemy. I went, bent over and expecting every minute to receive a bullet like the one I had just sent to the unlucky German. And right in front of me in the copse I saw a fox. The fluffy reddish-brown animal gracefully and leisurely glided between the trunks. Not often in my life have I experienced such pure, simple and intense joy. Where there is a fox, there are probably no people. The path to our retreat is clear.

When we returned to ours, it turned out that we had been away for no more than two hours. The summer days are long, and after we had rested and talked about our adventures, we decided to go remove the saddle from the dead German horse.

She was lying on the road just before the edge of the forest. On our side the bushes came quite close to it. Thus, both we and the enemy had cover.

As soon as we emerged from the bushes, we saw a German bending over the corpse of a horse. He had almost unhooked the saddle we came for. We fired a volley at him, and he, abandoning everything, hastily disappeared into the forest. Shots rang out from there too.

We lay down and began to fire at the edge. If the Germans had left there, the saddle and everything in the holsters under the saddle, cheap cigars and cognac, everything would have been ours. But the Germans did not leave. On the contrary, they obviously decided that we had launched a general offensive and fired without a break. We tried to enter their flank to divert their attention from the road, they sent reserves there and continued to fire. I think that if they knew that we only came for the saddle, they would gladly give it to us, so as not to start such a story. Finally we gave up and left.

However, our boyhood turned out to be very beneficial for us. At dawn the next day, when it was possible to wait for an attack and when the entire regiment had left, leaving one of our platoons to cover the general retreat, the Germans did not move, perhaps expecting our attack, and we, right in front of their noses, freely set fire to a village, about eighty houses away. at least. And then they retreated merrily, setting fire to villages, haystacks and bridges, occasionally exchanging fire with the enemies who were pressing on us and driving ahead of them the cattle that had strayed from the herds. In the blessed cavalry service, even retreat can be fun.

This time we did not retreat for long. Suddenly the order came to stop, and we tore apart more than one presumptuous German patrol with rifle fire. Meanwhile, our infantry, steadily advancing, cut off the advanced German units. They realized it too late. Some jumped out, abandoning their guns and machine guns, others surrendered, and two companies, unnoticed by anyone, wandered in the forest, dreaming of getting out of our ring alone at least at night.

That's how we discovered them. We were scattered in squadrons in the forest as an infantry reserve. Our squadron stood in a large clearing near the forester's house. The officers were sitting in the house, the soldiers were boiling potatoes and boiling tea. Everyone was in the most idyllic mood.

I was holding a glass of tea in my hands and watching them uncork a box of canned food, when suddenly I heard a deafening cannon shot. “Just like in war,” I joked, thinking that it was our battery that had left for the position. And the Little Russian, the squadron's funny man - every unit has its own funny men - threw himself on his back and swung his arms and legs, representing an extreme degree of fright. However, after the shot, a rattling squeal was heard, like a sleigh rolling in the snow, and shrapnel exploded thirty steps away from us, in the forest. Another shot, and the shell flew over our heads.

And at the same time, rifles crackled in the forest and bullets whistled around us. The officer commanded: “To the horses,” but the frightened horses were already rushing across the clearing or racing along the road. I caught mine with difficulty, but for a long time I could not climb onto it, because it was on a hillock, and I was in a ravine. She trembled all over, but stood still, knowing that I would not let her go before I jumped into the saddle. These minutes seem like a bad dream to me. Bullets whistle, shrapnel bursts, my comrades rush by one after another, hiding around the bend, the clearing is almost empty, and I still jump on one leg, trying in vain to put the other in the stirrup. Finally I made up my mind, let go of the reins and, when the horse rushed, I was on its back in one giant leap.

As I galloped, I kept looking out for the squadron commander. He was absent. Here are the front rows, here is the lieutenant shouting: “Okay, okay.” I jump up and report: “There is no headquarters captain, your honor!” He stops and replies: “Go find him.”

As soon as I rode a few steps back, I saw our huge and heavy headquarters captain riding on a small bay trumpeter’s horse, which buckled under his weight and trotted like a rat. The trumpeter ran alongside, holding the stirrup. It turns out that the headquarters captain's horse ran away at the very first shots and he mounted the first one offered to him.

We drove a mile away, stopped and began to guess what was going on. It is unlikely that we would have been able to guess if the officer who arrived from the brigade headquarters had not said the following: they were standing in the forest without any cover when a company of Germans unexpectedly passed in front of them. Both of them saw each other perfectly well, but did not open hostile actions: ours - because there were too few of them, while the Germans were completely depressed by their difficult situation. The artillery was immediately ordered to fire into the forest. And since the Germans were hiding only a hundred paces from us, it is not surprising that shells also flew at us.

Now patrols were sent to catch the Germans who had wandered into the forest. They surrendered without a fight, and only the bravest tried to escape and got stuck in the swamp. By evening we had completely cleared the forest of them and went to bed with a clear conscience, without fear of any surprises.

A few days later we had great joy. Two lancers arrived, captured six months ago. They were held in a camp inside Germany. Having decided to escape, they pretended to be sick, ended up in a hospital, and there a doctor, a German citizen, but of foreign origin, got them a map and a compass. They went down the pipe, climbed over the wall and fought for forty days across Germany.

Yes, with a fight. Near the border, a friendly resident pointed out to them where the Russians had buried a large supply of rifles and ammunition during their retreat. By this time there were already about twelve of them. From deep ditches, abandoned barns, and forest holes, they were joined by a dozen more nocturnal inhabitants of modern Germany - escaped prisoners. They dug up weapons and felt like soldiers again. We chose a platoon leader, our lancer, a senior non-commissioned officer, and went in order, sending out patrols and engaging in battle with German convoys and patrols.

Near the Neman, a marching German battalion came across them and, after a fierce firefight, almost surrounded them. Then they rushed into the river and swam across it, only they lost eight rifles and were very ashamed of it. Nevertheless, approaching our positions, they overthrew the German outpost that was blocking their path, and made their way in full force.

While listening, I kept my eyes on the narrator. He was tall, slender and strong, with gentle and regular features, a firm gaze and a curling brown mustache. He spoke calmly, without affectation, in Pushkin’s clear language, answering questions with soldierly politeness: “That’s right, no way.” And I thought how wild it would be to see this man behind a plow or at the lever of a factory machine. There are people born only for war, and in Russia there are no fewer such people than anywhere else. And if they have nothing to do “in the citizenship of the northern power,” then they are irreplaceable “in its warlike destiny,” and the poet knew that this was one and the same thing.

First published: Chapter I - "Exchange Gazette", No. 14648 dated February 3, 1915.
Chapter II - "Exchange Gazette", No. 14821 dated May 3, 1915
Chapter III - "Exchange Gazette", No. 14851 dated May 19, 1915
Chapter IV - "Exchange Gazette", No. 14881 dated June 3, 1915
Chapter V - "Exchange Gazette", No. 14887 dated June 6, 1915
Chapter VI - "Exchange Gazette", No. 15137 dated October 9, 1915
Chapter VII - "Exchange Gazette", No. 15155 dated October 18, 1915
Chapter VIII - "Exchange Gazette", No. 15183 dated November 1, 1915
Chapter IX - "Exchange Gazette", No. 15189 dated November 4, 1915
Chapter X - "Exchange Gazette", No. 15225 dated November 22, 1915
Chapter XI - "Exchange Gazette", No. 15253 dated December 6, 1915
Chapter XII and XIII - "Exchange Gazette", No. 15267 and 15269 dated December 13 and 14, 1915
Chapter XIV - "Exchange Gazette", No. 15279 dated December 19, 1915
Chapter XV - "Exchange Gazette", No. 15285 dated December 22, 1915
Chapters XVI and XVII - "Exchange Gazette", No. 15316 dated January 11, 1916

Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev (1886-1921) Russian poet of the Silver Age, creator of the school of Acmeism, translator, literary critic, traveler.

Around the “Notes of a Cavalryman” - 1914-1915.

Poland, defense of Petrokov and the first "George".

As stated in the previous issue, the Life Guards Uhlan Regiment spent the beginning of November on vacation in Kovno, about which Gumilyov managed to write to Lozinsky, briefly talking about his “baptism of fire” 1 . On November 8, the division received an order 2 begin hasty loading for transfer to another front and, as part of the 2nd Army, proceed to Ivangorod. Loading was scheduled for the next day and began at 7 pm on November 9. The echelon, having proceeded through Grodno, Bialystok, Malkin, Minsk, Pilyava, arrived on November 12 in Ivangorod located in southern Poland (now Demblin in Poland) 3. On November 13, the unloading of the train was completed 4, after which each detachment was ordered to move on its own to the combat area near the city of Petrokov. The Uhlan regiment was first transferred to Radom, from where it was sent in marching formation to the area of the Kolyushki railway station and the city of Petrokova, around which fierce battles were taking place. Chapter III of the “Cavalryman’s Notes” begins with a description of this transition.

In such places, no matter what you do - love or fight - everything seems significant and wonderful.

Having unloaded on November 13 at the Ivangorod station, the Uhlan regiment immediately proceeded to the city of Radom. The regiment was supposed to take part in the so-called “Petrokovsky operation” 5 .

Poland, the valley of the Pilica River, along which the lancers passed

An ancient military fort in the vicinity of Ivangorod. Modern Radom

Then, in battle order, a march maneuver was carried out from Radom to the area of the Kolyushki railway station and the city of Petrokova 6. The Uhlans were initially assigned the Kolyushki railway station (station K.) as their final destination. These 80 miles of road along the picturesque plains of Southern Poland are described by Gumilyov at the beginning of the chapter. Unfortunately, the author himself was not able to visit these picturesque places of Southern Poland described by Gumilyov, but he did not want to give up the idea of accompanying his story with photographs of the places described. Fortunately, the capabilities of the network provided invaluable assistance in this; most of the photographs given were taken from various sites 7. From Radom on the first day, November 13, the regiment reached the region of the village of Odrzhivol and stopped for the night on the Potvorovo estate, 8 versts east of Odrzhivol.

Poland, church in Potworow, where the Ulan Regiment had its first overnight stay .

On November 14, having passed through Podchascha Wola, Klvow, Odrzyvol, Novo Miasto, the Uhlan Regiment reached the Rzheczycy area. Basically, the entire road, as well as all subsequent events, took place in the valley of the Pilica River and on its banks.

Church in Odrywola, area of Nowo Miasto, Pilica.

On November 15, moving from Rzhechitsa through Lubochnia, towards the Kolyushki station, the lancers reached the master's courtyard of Yankov and Uyazd, located several miles north of the station, where they stopped for the night. The road passed through forests, along the valleys of the lowland rivers Radomka, Drzhevica, and Pilica.

A manor house in Ujazd, where there may have been an overnight stay.

From November 15, 2nd Guards. Cav. the division became part of Gillenschmidt's temporarily formed cavalry corps (together with the 1st Guards Cavalry Division, 13th Cavalry Division, 5th Don Cossack Division, Ural Cossack Division and 2nd Brigade of the Transbaikal Cossack Division) 8 . The corps was tasked with: filling the gap between the V Army located to the north and the IV Army belonging to the southwestern front, which included Gillenschmidt’s cavalry corps; reconnaissance on the Rosenberg-Kalisz front; damage to railway tracks; assistance to our troops in capturing the Czestochowa position 9 .

On November 16, the Uhlan regiment, after preliminary reconnaissance, since the location of the enemy was unknown, arrived at the Kolyushki station described by Gumilyov and settled down for the night in the nearest village of Katarzhinov.

... I was assigned to the flying post office at station K. Trains were already passing by, although most often under fire. The only residents left there were railway employees; they greeted us with amazing cordiality. Four drivers argued for the honor of sheltering our small detachment. When one finally gained the upper hand, the others came to visit him and began to exchange impressions. You should have seen how their eyes lit up with delight when they said that shrapnel exploded near their train and a bullet hit the locomotive. It was felt that only a lack of initiative prevented them from signing up as volunteers. We parted as friends, promised to write to each other, but are such promises ever kept?

Kolyushki station and local church - modern view .

The enemy slowly retreated from the station, Knyazhevich’s reports say: “I’m moving to the Kolyushki district today. Enemy units are wandering in the forests near Kolyushki, there are many prisoners." 10 . On November 17-18, the regiment stood in the neighboring village of Katarzhinov, sending out reconnaissance patrols, and on November 18 an urgent telegram was received: “Today Gillenschmidt’s corps arrives in Petrokov. From that time on, it came under direct subordination to the IV Army. November 19 will have a day. Probably the lancers and horse grenadiers will receive orders this evening or at night. Gillenschmidt was ordered to get in touch with the 5th Army through the 5th Don Cossack Division." eleven . The regiment covered the distance from Kolyushki station to Petrokov, about 50 versts, in one night. This transition on the night of November 18-19, Gumilyov describes in “Notes of a Cavalryman”. A short bivouac that night was in the villages of Kamotsyn and Litoslav 12 .

It was well past midnight when we set up bivouac. In the morning our supply of ammunition was replenished, and we moved on.

The next day, November 19, the movement of the lancers towards Petrokov continued. Horse artillery joined the Uhlan regiment near the village of Grabitsa 13 . On the same day, the enemy began an offensive on Belkhatov, towards Petrokov. The lancers were warned of a possible collision with the enemy. The next two days were sleepless and passed in continuous battles, with the main blow falling on the Uhlan Regiment. In “Notes,” Gumilyov describes the first clash with the Germans near Petrokov on November 19.

The city of Petrokov, now the Polish city of Piotrkow Tribunalski.
In the right corner is Petrokov during the war, at the end of 1914.

The area was deserted: some gullies, low-growing spruce trees, hills. We lined up in a battle line, decided who should dismount and who should be the horse guide, sent out patrols ahead and began to wait. Having climbed a hillock and hidden by trees, I saw a space of about a mile in front of me. Our outposts were scattered here and there along it. They were so well hidden that I saw most of them only when, after firing back, they began to leave. The Germans appeared almost behind them. Three columns came into my field of vision, moving about five hundred paces from each other.

In this part of “Notes of a Cavalryman” I am forced to deviate from the order of the chapters in the newspaper publication (and, consequently, in all other publications). The ending of Chapter III belongs to a later period and will be given below. Next Chapter IV(and the ending of Chapter III) covers events from November 20 to 30, 1914. At the end of the previous Chapter III and at the beginning of Chapter IV there is a clear, but apparently accidental, violation of the chronological sequence. Perhaps this happened after censorship cuts, but it is also possible that Gumilev himself, when recording and restoring the events of the extremely eventful day and night of November 20-21, unconsciously stretched out the episodes of one day over a number of subsequent days. This is not surprising if you take into account the fact that for several days no one in the regiment slept. The notes were probably made after some time, since the next week was extremely tense, with continuous travel and clashes with the enemy. The detachment was given its next short rest only a week later, after November 28. And even then it is not at all obvious that Gumilyov had time to “put pen to paper” by continuing his diary entries.

Based on combat documents, you can try to reconstruct the following sequence of events (by rearranging the fragments of the “Notes” accordingly). Following the description of the battle in Chapter III, before the phrase highlighted on all sides by censorship: "<...> Late at night we went to bivouac<...>to a big estate <...>" - you should read episode “2” in Chapter IV. This episode describes the night from November 20 to 21, when the squadron of lancers, in which Gumilyov was a member, was sent on reconnaissance to find out the location of the enemy after the battle. The platoon commander mentioned in this chapter is Lieutenant Mikhail Mikhailovich Chichagov, who was mentioned in note “25” of the previous issue in connection with the poem “War” dedicated to him. Chichagov (without indicating his name) is regularly mentioned in other chapters of the “Notes”, but more often his name appears in military documents. Including Among them, many reports signed by him have been preserved, sent directly from military patrols, written on scraps of paper; most likely, Gumilyov also took a direct part in their writing (and delivery). Mzurki - Budkov - Pekari - Monkolice The hussars’ report about this night says: “At night, an order was received to immediately move out and delay the enemy’s advance on the town of Petrov until our infantry arrived. Already at the Belkhatov borough there was a battle, where the Ural division delayed the enemy advance, which appeared on the Belkhatov-Petrokov highway.<...>To the right of us at the village. Velepole - Sukhnitsa There was an Uhlan regiment that withstood the entire onslaught. <...>Sentry security on the dd line. Mzurki - Budkov - Pekari - Monkolice. The outpost was shelled and Monkolitz was occupied. All night there was a skirmish between the enemy and our field guards. During the night, 1 hussar was killed, sent to communicate with the Uhlans of the E.V. regiment...” 14 .

The “artistic” details of this night are from Gumilyov.

About ten people came out quickly; the rest, trampling around, announced that they also wanted to go and were only ashamed to ask for it. Then they decided that the platoon commander would appoint hunters. And thus eight people were chosen, again the smartest ones. I was among them.

I ran to my squad. I didn’t feel any particular fear, I knew that night shooting was invalid, and I just wanted to do everything as correctly and as best as possible. Therefore, when the moon illuminated the field, I threw myself on my face and crawled into the shadow of the houses; it was almost safe to walk there. My comrade, a non-commissioned officer, returned at the same time as me. He had not yet reached the edge of the village when the shooting began. We returned to the horses. In a lonely hut we exchanged impressions, dined on bread and lard, the officer wrote and sent a report, and we went out again to see if something could be arranged. But, alas! — the night wind tore the clouds to shreds, the round, reddish moon sank over the enemy positions and blinded our eyes. We were clearly visible, we saw nothing. We were ready to cry out of frustration and, in spite of fate, we nevertheless crawled towards the enemy. The moon could disappear again, or we could meet some crazy scout! However, none of this happened, we were only fired upon, and we crawled back, cursing the lunar effects and the caution of the Germans. Nevertheless, the information we obtained was useful, they thanked us, and I received the St. George Cross for that night.

Modern Belkhatov, for battles and reconnaissance around which Gumilyov received his first St. George Cross

For reconnaissance on the night of November 20-21, Gumilyov received his first St. George Cross. In order No. 181 for the Uhlan Regiment dated January 13, 1915, it was announced 15: “By order of the Guards Cavalry Corps of December 24, 1914, No. 30, the following are awarded for distinction in cases against the Germans:<...>St. George's Crosses, 4th degree: squadron E.V. non-commissioned officer Nikolai Gumilyov, paragraph 18 No. 134060...” In the order, Gumilyov is listed as a non-commissioned officer, although in fact this rank was assigned to him by order of regiment No. 183 dated January 15, 1915 year: “Ulan from the hunters of Her Majesty’s squadron Nikolai Gumilyov is promoted to non-commissioned officer for distinction.” In the order for regiment No. 286 dated April 28, 1915, “in addition to the order for the regiment<...>dated January 13 for No. 181<...>I announce a list of lower ranks awarded for distinction in cases against the enemy with St. George’s crosses and medals, indicating the time of their feats.” In the summary table, under number 59, non-commissioned officer hunter of the EV squadron Nikolai Gumilyov, awarded for the cause November 20, 1914 cross 4th degree No. 134060 16 .

Two days passed in continuous clashes with the enemy. Gumilyov's squadron constantly participated in reconnaissance missions. The seriousness of the hostilities is evidenced by the fact that for the battle on November 20, the commander of the Ulan regiment, Knyazhevich, was presented to the St. George’s Arms. The submissions say: “...On November 20, 1914, at about 12 noon, the commander of the Guards Cavalry Detachment of His Majesty’s Retinue, Major General Gillenschmidt, ordered the commander of the L.-Gv. Ulansky E.V. Regiment Colonel Knyazhevich to take a dismounted lancers position near the highway to the city of Petrokov, three hundred steps east of the edge of the forest, which is between Belkhatov and Velepole, in order to stubbornly delay the further advance of the Germans threatening Petrokov. At 3 o'clock in the afternoon the enemy began artillery preparation, and at about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, under the cover of strong artillery. fire launched an energetic offensive against the lancers and the neighboring section of the horse grenadier. From my observation post in front of the village of Guta, I heard horn signals and shouts of German infantry (by far the strongest Guards reserve division) preparing to attack. Soon a hot battle ensued, during which the commander of the 1st brigade, Major General Lopukhin, was seriously wounded, and command of the 1st brigade passed to Colonel Knyazhevich. The latter, despite the losses, being exposed to serious personal danger, held out until seven o'clock in the evening, after which he took his brigade in order to the 2nd position near the village of Mzurki, where he firmly occupied a number of villages of the planned offensive, which was stopped. The servants with the machine guns suffered greatly, which is why, by order of the regiment. Knyazhevich's lancers carried them out in their arms. When it was ordered to withdraw, he himself until the last minute, remaining with the rearguard and being in great danger, with his example of calm and orderliness, instilled in people complete confidence, why the withdrawal was carried out without fuss and without any special losses in people and property (the machine guns were carried out brilliantly ). The significance of Colonel Knyazhevich’s stubborn defense at the Velepol position was expressed in the fact that thanks to it we managed to firmly establish ourselves in the positions of Mzurka - Rokshitsa, which Petrokov defended until December 2, that we did not allow the enemy to wedge ourselves into the gap between our two armies...” 17

During this battle, several lancers were killed and many were wounded. The losses in personnel are stated in the order for the Uhlan Regiment No. 127 dated November 20, 1914 18 . The squadron in which Gumilev served, judging by the documents, on that day conducted reconnaissance before the battle, participated in the battle and conducted reconnaissance after the battle, for which the poet earned his first St. George Cross. A few days later, on November 25, the commander of the 1st brigade and the Cavalry Grenadier Regiment, Major General Lopukhin, died of wounds. 19 . Chapter III contains many censored notes, which apparently included the description of the battle itself; Only a small fragment remains in the text. After the battle, the Uhlan regiment retreated to bivouac in Mzurki. A description of this bivouac and the next long-distance journey on November 21 is at the end of Chapter III.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Late at night we went to bivouac. . . . . . . . to a large estate.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . In the gardener’s room, his wife boiled a quart of milk for me, I fried sausage in lard, and my dinner was shared with me by my guests: a volunteer whose leg had just been crushed under him by a horse that had just been killed, and a sergeant with a fresh abrasion on his nose, so scratched by a bullet. We had already lit a cigarette and were talking peacefully when a non-commissioned officer who happened to wander in to us reported that our squadron was sending out a patrol. I carefully examined myself and saw that I had slept, or rather, took a nap in the snow, that I was full, warm, and that there was no reason for me not to go. True, at first it was unpleasant to leave the warm, cozy room into the cold and deserted courtyard, but this feeling gave way to cheerful revival as soon as we dived along an invisible road into the darkness, towards the unknown and danger.

Winter surroundings of Petrokov, bivouac area in Mzurki

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . On the road along which I had just passed, a bunch of horsemen and pedestrians in black, terribly alien-colored overcoats looked at me in amazement. Apparently I had just been spotted. They were about thirty paces away.

On November 21-23, the German offensive was suspended. The 1st brigade with the Uhlan Regiment moved south and set up bivouac in Krizhanov. During these days there was heavy firefight, reconnaissance patrols were constantly sent out to find out the location of the enemy. One of these trips is described in episode “1” of Chapter IV.

Subsequently, Gumilyov strictly observed the chronological sequence in “Notes of a Cavalryman,” so there will be no more rearrangements. The “relatively quiet” week described in episode “3” of Chapter IV is from November 24 to November 30, 1914. At the beginning of this week, the regiment remained in its previous positions in the Krizhanov area. But before continuing to read “Notes of a Cavalryman”, a few words about one “lost” letter from Gumilyov to Akhmatova, undated, but written, almost certainly, in this “relatively quiet week” 20 .

This is the letter.

<Польша, конец ноября 1914>

My dear Anechka,

I can finally write to you quite coherently. I’m sitting in a Polish hut in front of the table on a stool, very comfortable and even cozy. In general, the war reminds me very much of my Abyssinian travels. The analogy is almost complete: the lack of exoticism is covered by stronger sensations. The only sad thing is that the initiative here is not in my hands, but you know how accustomed I am to this. However, it is not difficult for me to obey, especially with such nice immediate superiors as mine. I met all the officers of my squadron and visit them often. Ca me pose parmi les soldats (This makes me stand out among the soldiers - French - S.E.), although they already treat me well and respectfully. If only there were more fights, I would be quite satisfied with my fate. And there is still such a brilliant day ahead, like the day of entry into Berlin! It seems that only the “free”, that is, not the military, doubt that it will come. The messages from the main headquarters are striking in their restraint and it is difficult to judge all our successes from them. The Austrians are almost no longer considered enemies, to that extent they are not warriors. As for the Germans, their cavalry runs away in front of ours, our artillery always silences them, our infantry shoots twice as well and is infinitely stronger in the attack, just because our bayonet screwed on from the beginning of the battle and the soldier shoots with it, but for the Germans and Austrians the bayonet covers the barrel and therefore it must be put on at the last minute, which is psychologically impossible.

I said that only the free ones doubt victory; isn’t this where there is such anger against the Germans, such streams of slander against them in newspapers and magazines? Neither in Lithuania nor in Poland did I hear about German atrocities, not a single killed resident, or raped woman. They really take the cattle and grain, but, firstly, they need provisions, and secondly, they need to deprive us of provisions; We do the same, and therefore the reproaches against them indirectly fall on us - and this is unfair. When we enter a German house, we say “gut” and give sugar to the children, they do the same, saying “karosh”. The army respects the enemy, it seems to me, and the newspapermen could do the same. And discord is born between the army and the country. And this is not my personal opinion, this is what officers and soldiers think, exceptions are rare and difficult to explain, or, rather, they are explained by the fact that the “German-eater” was all the time in the rear and read a lot of magazines and newspapers.

We will probably soon find ourselves in battle again, and the most interesting one, with cavalry. So don’t worry if you don’t receive letters from me for a while, they won’t kill me (you know that poets are prophets), but there will be no time to write. If possible, after the battle I will send a telegram, don’t be alarmed, every telegram is certainly reassuring.

Now about my affairs: I sent you several poems, but they need to be replaced in “War”, stanzas 4 and 5 about the spirit with the following 21:

Workers walking slowly

In fields drenched in blood,

The feat of those who sow and the glory of those who reap,

Now, Lord, bless.

Like those who bend over the plow,

Like those who pray and mourn,

Their hearts burn before You,

They burn with wax candles.

But to him, O Lord, and strength... etc.

Man proposes, but God disposes. I have to finish writing the letter standing and using a pencil.

Here is my address: 102 field office. Everything else is as before.

Always yours Kolya.

This letter was written in parallel with the continuation of “Notes of a Cavalryman,” also written in a “relatively quiet” week at the end of November 1914. The Notes mention "December". I assume that the local “new style” was meant.

Part one
Chapter I

To me, a volunteer hunter of one of the cavalry regiments, the work of our cavalry appears as a series of separate, completely completed tasks, followed by rest, full of the most fantastic dreams about the future. If infantrymen are day laborers of war, bearing the entire burden of war on their shoulders, then cavalrymen are a cheerful traveling artel, finishing previously long and difficult work with songs in a few days. There is no envy, no competition. “You are our fathers,” says the cavalryman to the infantryman, “behind you like a stone wall.”
[...]
I remember it was a fresh sunny day when we approached the border of East Prussia. I took part in a patrol sent to find General M., whose detachment we were to join. He was on the battle line, but we didn’t know exactly where that line was. We could have attacked the Germans just as easily as on our own. Already very close, the German cannons thundered like large forge hammers, and ours roared back to them in volleys. Somewhere, convincingly quickly, in its childish and terrible language, a machine gun was babbling something incomprehensible.
The enemy airplane, like a hawk over a quail hidden in the grass, stood over our junction and began to slowly descend to the south. I saw his black cross through binoculars.
This day will forever remain sacred in my memory. I was a patrolman and for the first time in the war I felt my will strain, right to the physical sensation of some kind of petrification, when I had to drive alone into the forest, where, perhaps, an enemy chain lay, and gallop across a field that was plowed and therefore precluding the possibility of a quick retreat. , towards a moving column to see if it will fire at you. And on the evening of that day, a clear, gentle evening, for the first time, behind the sparse copse, I heard the growing roar of “Hurray” with which V. was captured. The firebird of victory that day lightly touched me with its huge wing.
The next day we entered a ruined city, from which the Germans were slowly retreating, pursued by our artillery fire. Squelching in the black sticky mud, we approached the river, the border between the states, where the guns were stationed. It turned out that there was no point in pursuing the enemy on horseback: he retreated undisturbed, stopping behind every cover and ready to turn every minute - a completely seasoned wolf, accustomed to dangerous fights. It was only necessary to feel for it in order to give instructions where it was. There was quite a lot of traveling for this.
Our platoon crossed the river over a shaking, hastily made pontoon bridge.
[...]
We were in Germany.
I have often thought since then about the profound difference between the aggressive and defensive periods of war. Of course, both of them are necessary only in order to crush the enemy and win the right to lasting peace, but the mood of an individual warrior is influenced not only by general considerations - every trifle, an accidentally obtained glass of milk, an oblique ray of sun illuminating a group of trees, and one’s own successful shot is sometimes more pleasing than the news of a battle won on another front. These highways running in different directions, these groves cleared like parks, these stone houses with red tiled roofs filled my soul with a sweet thirst for striving forward, and the dreams of Ermak, Perovsky and other representatives of Russia, conquering and triumphant, seemed so close to me. Isn’t this also the road to Berlin, the magnificent city of soldier’s culture, which one must enter not with a student’s staff in his hands, but on horseback and with a rifle over his shoulders?
We went through the lava, and I was again the lookout. I drove past trenches abandoned by the enemy, where a broken rifle, tattered cartridge belts and whole piles of cartridges lay scattered. Here and there red spots were visible, but they did not cause that feeling of awkwardness that covers us when we see blood in peacetime.
[...]
There was a farm on a low hill in front of me. The enemy could be hiding there, and I, taking the rifle off my shoulder, carefully approached it.
An old man, long past the age of a Landsturmist, timidly looked at me from the window. I asked him where the soldiers were. Quickly, as if repeating a lesson he had learned, he replied that they had passed half an hour ago and indicated the direction. He was red-eyed, with an unshaven chin and gnarled hands. Probably, during our campaign in East Prussia, such people shot at our soldiers from Montecristo. I didn’t believe him and drove on. About five hundred paces behind the farm, a forest began, into which I needed to enter, but my attention was attracted by a pile of straw, in which, with the instinct of a hunter, I guessed something interesting for me. The Germans could be hiding in it. If they get out before I notice them, they'll shoot me. If I notice them crawling out, then I will shoot them. I began to drive around the straw, listening carefully and holding the rifle in the air. The horse snorted, moved its ears and obeyed reluctantly. I was so absorbed in my research that I did not immediately pay attention to the rare chattering sounds coming from the direction of the forest. A light cloud of white dust, whirling about five steps away from me, attracted my attention. But only when, whining pitifully, the bullet flew over my head, did I realize that I was being fired upon, and, moreover, from the forest. I turned around to the siding to find out what to do. He galloped back. I had to leave too. My horse immediately began to gallop, and as the last impression I remembered a large figure in a black overcoat, with a helmet on his head, on all fours, crawling out of the straw with a bear hug.
The firing had already died down when I joined the patrol. Cornet was pleased. He discovered the enemy without losing a single man. In ten minutes our artillery will get to work. But I was only painfully offended that some people shot at me, challenged me with this, but I did not accept it and turned around. Even the joy of getting rid of danger did not at all soften this suddenly boiling thirst for battle and revenge. Now I understand why cavalrymen dream so much about attacks. To swoop down on people who, hidden in bushes and trenches, are safely shooting prominent horsemen from afar, to make them turn pale from the ever-increasing clatter of hooves, from the sparkle of naked sabers and the menacing appearance of inclined pikes, with your swiftness it is easy to overturn, as if blowing away, three times the strongest enemy, this - the only justification for the entire life of a cavalryman.
[...]
The next day I experienced shrapnel fire. Our squadron occupied V., which was fiercely fired upon by the Germans. We stood in case of their attack, which never happened. Only until the evening, all the time, shrapnel sang protractedly and not without pleasantness, plaster fell from the walls, and here and there houses caught fire. We entered the devastated apartments and boiled tea. Someone even found a frightened resident in the basement who, with the greatest willingness, sold us a recently slaughtered pig. The house in which we ate it was hit by a heavy shell half an hour after we left. So I learned not to be afraid of artillery fire.

Chapter II
1

The hardest thing for a cavalryman in war is the waiting. He knows that it costs him nothing to enter the flank of a moving enemy, even to find himself in his rear, and that no one will surround him, will not cut off his path to retreat, that there will always be a saving path along which an entire cavalry division will gallop away from under the very nose of the fooled enemy.
[...]
Every morning, while it was still dark, we, getting confused among the ditches and hedges, got into position and spent the whole day behind some hillock, either covering the artillery, or simply maintaining contact with the enemy. It was deep autumn, a cold blue sky, golden scraps of brocade on the sharply blackening branches, but a piercing wind was blowing from the sea, and we, with blue faces and reddened eyelids, danced around the horses and stuck our stiff fingers under the saddles. Strangely, time did not drag on as long as one might have expected. Sometimes, to keep warm, they went platoon to platoon and, silently, floundered on the ground in whole heaps. Sometimes we were entertained by the shrapnel exploding nearby, some were timid, others laughed at him and argued whether the Germans were shooting at us or not. The real languor set in only when the lodgers left for the bivouac allotted to us, and we waited until dusk to follow them.
Oh, low, stuffy huts, where chickens cluck under the bed and a ram has taken up residence under the table; oh, tea! which can only be drunk with a bit of sugar, but no less than six glasses; oh, fresh straw! spread all over the floor for sleeping - I never dream of any comfort as greedily as I dream of you!!. And insanely daring dreams that, when asked about milk and eggs, instead of the traditional answer: “They took the crap out of Germany,” the hostess will put a jug with a thick coating of cream on the table and that a large scrambled egg with lard will happily sizzle on the stove! And bitter disappointments when you have to spend the night in the haylofts or on sheaves of unmilked bread, with tenacious, prickly ears, shivering from the cold, jumping up and taking off from the bivouac in alarm!

We once launched a reconnaissance attack, crossed to the other side of the Sh. River and moved across the plain to a distant forest. Our goal was to make the artillery speak, and it really did speak. There was a dull shot, a prolonged howl, and shrapnel exploded like a white cloud about a hundred paces away from us. The second exploded already fifty paces away, the third - twenty. It was clear that some chief lieutenant, sitting on a roof or in a tree to adjust the shooting, was shouting into the telephone receiver: “More right, more right!”
[...]
We turned and began to gallop away.
[...]
A new shell exploded right above us, wounded two horses and shot through my neighbor’s overcoat. We no longer saw where the next ones were torn. We galloped along the paths of a well-groomed grove along the river under the cover of its steep bank. The Germans did not think of shelling the ford, and we were safe without losses. Even the wounded horses did not have to be shot; they were sent for treatment.
The next day the enemy retreated somewhat and we again found ourselves on the other bank, this time in the role of outpost.
The three-story brick structure, an absurd cross between a medieval castle and a modern apartment building, was almost destroyed by shells.
[...]
We took shelter on the lower floor on broken chairs and couches. At first it was decided not to stick out, so as not to give away his presence. We calmly looked at the German books we found there and wrote letters home on postcards with Wilhelm’s image.
[...]

A few days later, on one beautiful, not even cold morning, the long-awaited thing happened. The squadron commander gathered the non-commissioned officers and read the order for our attack along the entire front. Advancing is always a joy, but attacking on enemy soil is a joy multiplied tenfold by pride, curiosity and some kind of immutable feeling of victory. People bravely sit in their saddles. The horses quicken their pace.
[...]
[...] A time when you are breathless with happiness, a time of burning eyes and unconscious smiles.
On the right, three at a time, stretched out like a long snake, we set off along the white roads of Germany lined with hundred-year-old trees. Residents took off their hats, women carried out milk with hasty obsequiousness. But there were few of them, most fled, fearing retribution for the betrayed outposts and the poisoned scouts.
[...]
[...] I especially remember an important old gentleman sitting in front of the open window of a large manor house.
He was smoking a cigar, but his eyebrows were furrowed, his fingers nervously tugged at his gray mustache, and there was a look of woeful amazement in his eyes. The soldiers, driving by, timidly glanced at him and exchanged impressions in a whisper: “A serious gentleman, probably a general... well, he must be mischievous when he swears...”
[...]
[...] Gunfire was heard behind the forest - a party of backward German scouts. The squadron rushed there, and everything fell silent. Several shrapnel burst over us over and over again. We fell apart, but continued to move forward. The fire stopped. It was clear that the Germans were retreating decisively and irrevocably. No signal fires were visible anywhere, and the wings of the mills hung in the position that the wind, and not the German headquarters, gave them. Therefore, we were extremely surprised when we heard frequent, frequent exchange of fire not far away, as if two large detachments had entered into battle with each other. We climbed the hill and saw a funny sight. There was a burning carriage on the rails of the narrow-gauge railway, and these sounds came from it. It turned out that it was filled with rifle cartridges, the Germans abandoned it in their retreat, and ours set it on fire. We burst out laughing when we found out what was going on, but the retreating enemies probably spent a long time wondering who was bravely fighting the advancing Russians.
Soon, batches of freshly captured prisoners began to come our way.
[...]
[...] One Prussian lancer was very funny, he was always surprised at how well our cavalrymen rode. He galloped around every bush, every ditch, slowing down his gait when descending; ours galloped straight and, of course, easily caught him. By the way, many of our residents claim that German cavalrymen cannot mount a horse themselves. For example, if there are ten people on the road, then one person first sits down nine, and then sits down from a fence or stump. Of course, this is a legend, but the legend is very characteristic. I myself once saw how a German, flying out of the saddle, began to run, instead of jumping back onto his horse.

It was getting dark. The stars had already pierced the light darkness in some places, and we, having set up a guard, set off for the night. Our bivouac was a vast, well-appointed estate with cheese factories, an apiary, and exemplary stables, where there were very good horses. Chickens and geese walked around the yard, cows mooed in enclosed spaces, there were only people, no one at all, not even a cowgirl to give the tied animals a drink. But we didn't complain about it. The officers occupied several front rooms in the house, the lower ranks got everything else.
I easily won myself a separate room, which, judging by the abandoned women’s dresses, pulp novels and sugary postcards, belonged to some housekeeper or chambermaid, chopped some wood, lit the stove and, as I was, in my overcoat, threw myself on the bed and immediately fell asleep. I woke up after midnight from the freezing cold. My stove went out, the window opened, and I went to the kitchen, dreaming of warming myself by the glowing coals.
[...]
[...] And to top it off, I received very valuable practical advice. In order not to get cold, never go to bed in an overcoat, but only cover yourself with it.
The next day I was on patrol. The detachment was moving along the highway, I was driving through a field, three hundred paces from it, and I was charged with inspecting numerous farms and villages to see if there were any German soldiers or even Landsturmists there, that is, simply men from seventeen to forty-three years old. It was quite dangerous, somewhat difficult, but very exciting. In the first house I met an idiotic-looking boy, his mother assured me that he was sixteen years old, but he could just as easily be eighteen or even twenty. Still, I left him, and in the next house, when I was drinking milk, a bullet stuck into the doorframe about two inches from my head.
In the pastor's house I found only a Litvinka maid who spoke Polish; she explained to me that the owners fled an hour ago, leaving a ready-made breakfast on the stove, and very much persuaded me to take part in its destruction. In general, I often had to enter completely deserted houses, where coffee was boiling on the stove, there was knitting started on the table, an open book; I remembered the girl who went into the bears’ house, and kept waiting to hear the menacing: “Who ate my soup? Who was lying on my bed?
[...]
The ruins of the city of Sh were wild. Not a single living soul. My horse shuddered fearfully as it made its way through the brick-strewn streets, past buildings with their insides turned out, past walls with gaping holes, past pipes that were ready to collapse at any moment. The only surviving sign, “Restaurant,” was visible on the shapeless pile of rubble. What a joy it was to escape again into the vastness of the fields, to see the trees, to hear the sweet smell of the earth.
[...]
In the evening we learned that the offensive would continue, but our regiment was being transferred to another front. Novelty always captivates soldiers, but when I looked at the stars and breathed in the night wind, I suddenly felt very sad to part with the sky, under which I had, after all, received my baptism of fire.

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Nikolay Gumilyov
NOTES OF A CAVALRYIST
I
To me, a volunteer hunter of one of the cavalry regiments, the work of our cavalry seems to be a series of separate, completely completed tasks, followed by rest, full of the most fantastic dreams about the future. If infantrymen are day laborers of war, bearing the entire burden of war on their shoulders, then cavalrymen are a cheerful traveling artel, finishing a previously long and difficult work with songs in a few days. There is no envy, no competition. “You will find your fathers,” says the cavalryman to the infantryman, “behind you, like behind a stone wall.”
I remember it was a fresh sunny day when we approached the border of East Prussia. I took part in a patrol sent to find General M., whose detachment we were to join. He was on the battle line, but we didn’t know exactly where that line was. We could have attacked the Germans just as easily as on our own. Already very close, the German cannons thundered like large forge hammers, and ours roared back to them in volleys. Somewhere, convincingly quickly, in its childish and strange language, the machine gun was babbling something incomprehensible. The enemy airplane, like a hawk over a quail hidden in the grass, stood over our junction and began to slowly descend to the south. I saw his black cross through binoculars. This day will forever remain sacred in my memory. I was a patrolman and for the first time in the war I felt my will strain, right to the physical sensation of some kind of petrification, when I had to drive alone into the forest, where, perhaps, an enemy chain lay, and gallop across a field that was plowed and therefore precluding the possibility of a quick retreat. , towards a moving column to see if it will fire at you. And on the evening of that day, a clear, gentle evening, for the first time I heard behind the sparse copse the growing roar of “Hurray” with which V. was captured. The firebird of victory that day lightly touched me with its huge wing. The next day we entered a ruined city, from which the Germans were slowly retreating, pursued by our artillery fire. Squelching in the black sticky mud, we approached the river, the border between the states, where the guns were stationed. It turned out that there was no point in pursuing the enemy on horseback: he retreated unfazed, stopping behind every cover and ready to turn every minute - a completely seasoned wolf, accustomed to dangerous fights. It was only necessary to feel for it in order to give instructions where it was. There was quite a lot of traveling for this. Our platoon crossed the river over a shaking, hastily made pontoon bridge.
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We were in Germany. I have often thought since then about the profound difference between the aggressive and defensive periods of war. Of course, both of them are necessary only in order to crush the enemy and win the right to lasting peace, but the mood of an individual warrior is influenced not only by general considerations - every trifle, an accidentally obtained glass of milk, an oblique ray of sun illuminating a group of trees , and one’s own successful shot is sometimes more pleasing than the news of a battle won on another front. These highways, running in different directions, these groves cleared like parks, these stone houses with red tiled roofs, filled my soul with a sweet thirst for striving forward, and the dreams of Ermak, Perovsky and other representatives of Russia, conquering and triumphant, seemed so close to me . Isn’t this also the road to Berlin, the magnificent city of soldier’s culture, which one must enter not with a student’s staff in his hands, but on horseback and with a rifle over his shoulders? We went through the lava, and I was again the lookout. I drove past trenches abandoned by the enemy, where a broken rifle, tattered cartridge belts and whole piles of cartridges lay scattered. Here and there red spots were visible, but they did not cause that feeling of awkwardness that covers us when we see blood in peacetime.
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There was a farm on a low hill in front of me. The enemy could be hiding there, and I, taking the rifle off my shoulder, carefully approached it.
An old man, long past the age of a Landsturmist, timidly looked at me from the window. I asked him where the soldiers were. Quickly, as if repeating a lesson he had learned, he replied that they had passed half an hour ago and indicated the direction. He was red-eyed, with an unshaven chin and gnarled hands. Probably, during our campaign in East Prussia, such people shot at our soldiers from Montecristo. I didn’t believe him and drove on. About five hundred paces behind the farm, a forest began, into which I needed to enter, but my attention was attracted by a pile of straw, in which, with the instinct of a hunter, I guessed something interesting for me. The Germans could be hiding in it. If they get out before I notice them, they'll shoot me. If I notice them crawling out, then I will shoot them. I began to drive around the straw, listening carefully and holding the rifle in the air. The horse snorted, moved its ears and obeyed reluctantly. I was so absorbed in my research that I did not immediately pay attention to the rare chattering noise that came from the direction of the forest. A light cloud of white dust, rising about five steps from me, attracted my attention. But only when, whining pitifully, the bullet flew over my head, did I realize that I was being fired upon, and, moreover, from the forest. I turned around to the siding to find out what to do. He galloped back. I had to leave too. My horse immediately began to gallop, and as a last impression, I remembered a large figure in a black overcoat with a helmet on his head, crawling out of the straw on all fours with a bear hug. The firing had already died down when I joined the patrol. Cornet was pleased. He discovered the enemy without losing a single man. In ten minutes our artillery will get to work. But I was only painfully offended that some people shot at me, challenged me with this, but I did not accept it and turned around. Even the joy of getting rid of danger did not at all soften this suddenly boiling thirst for battle and revenge. Now I understand why cavalrymen dream so much about attacks. To swoop down on people who, hidden in bushes and trenches, are safely shooting prominent horsemen from afar, to make them turn pale from the ever-increasing clatter of hooves, from the sparkle of naked sabers and the menacing appearance of inclined pikes, with your swiftness it is easy to overturn, as if blowing away, three times the strongest enemy, this - the only justification for the entire life of a cavalryman.
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The next day I experienced shrapnel fire. Our squadron occupied V., which was fiercely fired upon by the Germans. We stood in case of their attack, which never happened. Only until the evening, all the time, shrapnel sang protractedly and not without pleasantness, plaster fell from the walls, and here and there houses caught fire. We entered the devastated apartments and boiled tea. Someone even found a frightened resident in the basement who, with the greatest willingness, sold us a recently slaughtered pig. The house in which we ate it was hit by a heavy shell half an hour after we left. So I learned not to be afraid of artillery fire. II
1
The hardest thing for a cavalryman in war is the waiting. He knows that it costs him nothing to enter the flank of a moving enemy, even to find himself in his rear, and that no one will surround him, will not cut off his routes to retreat, that there will always be a saving path along which an entire cavalry division can gallop away from the enemy. under the very nose of the fooled enemy. Every morning, while it was still dark, we, getting confused among the ditches and hedges, got into position and spent the whole day behind some hillock, either covering the artillery, or simply maintaining contact with the enemy. It was deep autumn, a cold blue sky, golden scraps of brocade on the sharply blackened branches, but a piercing wind was blowing from the sea, and we, with blue faces and reddened eyelids, danced around the horses and stuck our stiff fingers under the saddles. Strangely, time did not drag on as long as one might have expected. Sometimes, to keep warm, they went platoon to platoon, and, silently, floundered on the ground in whole heaps. Sometimes we were entertained by the shrapnel exploding nearby, some were timid, others laughed at him and argued whether the Germans were shooting at us or not. The real languor set in only when the lodgers left for the bivouac allotted to us, and we waited until dusk to follow them. Oh, low, stuffy huts, where chickens cluck under the bed, and a ram has taken up residence under the table; .oh, tea! which can only be drunk with a bite of sugar, but no less than six glasses; oh, fresh straw! spread all over the floor for sleeping - never dreams of any comfort as greedily as about you!!. And crazy, daring dreams that when asked about milk and eggs, instead of the traditional answer: “They took the crap out of Germany,” the hostess will put a jug with a thick coating of cream on the table, and that a large scrambled egg with lard will happily sizzle on the stove! And bitter disappointments when you have to spend the night in haylofts or on sheaves of unmilked bread, with tenacious, prickly ears of corn, shivering from the cold, jumping up and getting out of bivouac in alarm! 2
We once launched a reconnaissance attack, crossed to the other side of the Sh. River and moved across the plain to a distant forest. Our goal was to make the artillery speak, and it really did speak. There was a dull shot, a prolonged howl, and shrapnel exploded like a white cloud about a hundred paces away from us. The second exploded already fifty paces away, the third - twenty. It was clear that some Oberleutnant, sitting on a roof or in a tree to adjust the shooting, was shouting into the telephone receiver: “More to the right, more to the right!” We turned and began to gallop away. A new shell exploded right above us, wounded two horses and shot through my neighbor’s overcoat. We no longer saw where the next ones were torn. We galloped along the paths of a well-groomed grove along the river under the cover of its steep bank. The Germans did not think of shelling the ford, and we were safe without losses. Even the wounded horses did not have to be shot; they were sent for treatment. The next day the enemy retreated somewhat, and we again found ourselves on the other side, this time in the role of outpost. The three-story brick structure, an absurd cross between a medieval castle and a modern apartment building, was almost destroyed by shells. We took shelter on the lower floor on broken chairs and couches. At first it was decided not to stick out, so as not to give away his presence. We calmly looked at the German books we found there and wrote letters home on postcards with Wilhelm’s image. 3
A few days later, one fine, not even cold, morning the long-awaited reality happened. The squadron commander gathered the non-commissioned officers and read the order for our attack along the entire front. Advancing is always a joy, but attacking on enemy soil is a joy multiplied tenfold by pride, curiosity and some kind of immutable feeling of victory. People are getting more confident in their saddles. The horses quicken their pace.
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A time when you are breathless with happiness, a time of burning eyes and unconscious smiles. On the right, in threes, stretched out like a long snake, we set off along the white roads of Germany, lined with hundred-year-old trees. Residents took off their hats, women carried out milk with hasty obsequiousness. But there were few of them, most fled, fearing retribution for the betrayed outposts and the poisoned scouts.
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I especially remember an important old gentleman sitting in front of the open window of a large manor house. He was smoking a cigar, but his eyebrows were furrowed, his fingers nervously tugged at his gray mustache, and there was a look of woeful amazement in his eyes. The soldiers, driving by, timidly glanced at him and exchanged impressions in a whisper: “A serious gentleman, probably a general... well, he must be mischievous when he swears.”...
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Just beyond the forest, gunfire was heard - a party of backward German scouts. The squadron rushed there, and everything fell silent. Several shrapnel burst over us over and over again. We fell apart, but continued to move forward. The fire stopped. It was clear that the Germans were retreating decisively and irrevocably. No signal fires were visible anywhere, and the wings of the mills hung in the position that the wind, and not the German headquarters, gave them. Therefore, we were extremely surprised when we heard frequent, frequent exchange of fire not far away, as if two large detachments had entered into battle with each other. We climbed the hill and saw a funny sight. There was a burning carriage on the rails of a narrow-gauge railway, and these sounds came from it. It turned out that it was filled with rifle cartridges, the Germans abandoned it in their retreat, and ours set it on fire. We burst out laughing when we found out what was going on, but the retreating enemies must have been racking their brains for a long time and intensely about who was there bravely fighting the advancing Russians. Soon, batches of freshly captured prisoners began to come our way.
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One Prussian lancer was very funny, he was always surprised at how well our cavalrymen rode. He galloped around every bush, every ditch, and when going downhill he slowed down his gait; ours galloped straight ahead and, of course, easily caught him. By the way, many of our residents claim that German cavalrymen cannot mount a horse themselves. For example, if there are ten people on the road, then one person first sits down nine, and then sits down from a fence or stump. Of course, this is a legend, but the legend is very characteristic. I myself once saw how a German flew out of the saddle and began to run, instead of jumping back onto his horse. 4
It was getting dark. The stars had already pierced the light darkness in some places, and we, having set up a guard, set off for the night. Our bivouac was a vast, well-appointed estate with cheese factories, an apiary, and exemplary stables, where there were very good horses. Chickens and geese walked around the yard, cows mooed in enclosed spaces, there were only people, no one at all, not even a cowgirl to give the tied animals a drink. But we didn't complain about it. The officers occupied several front rooms in the house, the lower ranks got everything else. I easily won myself a separate room, which, judging by the abandoned women's dresses, pulp novels and sugary postcards, belonged to some housekeeper or chambermaid, chopped some wood, lit the stove and, as if in my overcoat, threw myself on the bed and immediately fell asleep. I woke up already after midnight from the freezing cold. My stove went out, the window opened, and I went into the kitchen, dreaming of warming myself by the glowing coals.
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And to top it off, I received very valuable practical advice. In order not to get cold, never go to bed in an overcoat, but only cover yourself with it. The next day I was on patrol. The detachment was moving along the highway, I was driving through a field, three hundred paces from it, and I was charged with inspecting numerous farms and villages to see if there were any German soldiers there, or even Landsturmists, that is, simply men from seventeen to forty-three years old. It was quite dangerous, somewhat difficult, but very exciting. In the first house I met an idiotic-looking boy; his mother assured him that he was sixteen years old, but he could just as easily be eighteen or even twenty. Still, I left him, and in the next house, when I was drinking milk, a bullet stuck into the doorframe about two inches from my head. In the pastor's house I found only a Litvinka maid who spoke Polish; she explained to me that the owners fled an hour ago, leaving a ready-made breakfast on the stove, and very much persuaded me to take part in its destruction. In general, I often had to enter completely deserted houses, where coffee was boiling on the stove, there was knitting started on the table, an open book; I remembered. about a girl who went into the bears' house, and kept waiting to hear a loud: “Who ate my soup? Who was lying on my bed?”
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The ruins of the city of Sh were wild. Not a single living soul. My horse shuddered fearfully as it made its way through the brick-strewn streets, past buildings with their insides turned out, past walls with gaping holes, past roofs that were ready to collapse every minute. The only surviving sign, “Restaurant,” was visible on the shapeless pile of rubble. What a joy it was to escape again into the vastness of the fields, to see the trees, to hear the sweet smell of the earth.
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In the evening we learned that the offensive would continue, but our regiment was being transferred to another front. Novelty always captivates soldiers, but when I looked at the stars and breathed in the night wind, I suddenly felt very sad to part with the sky, under which I had, after all, received my baptism of fire. III
Southern Poland is one of the most beautiful places in Russia. We drove about eighty versts from the railway station to contact with the enemy, and I had time to admire it enough. There are no mountains, the delight of tourists, but what does a plains dweller need mountains for? There are forests, there are waters, and that’s enough. The forests are pine, planted and, driving through them, you suddenly see narrow, straight as arrows, alleys, full of green dusk with a shining opening in the distance - like temples of the gentle and thoughtful gods of ancient, still pagan Poland. There are deer and roe deer, golden pheasants scurry about with a chicken-like habit, and on quiet nights you can hear a wild boar slurping and breaking bushes. Among the wide shallows of eroded banks, rivers meander lazily; wide, with narrow isthmuses between them, the lakes sparkle and reflect the sky, like mirrors made of polished metal; near old mossy mills there are quiet dams with gently murmuring streams of water and some kind of pink-red bushes that strangely remind a person of his childhood. In such places, no matter what you do - love or fight - everything seems significant and wonderful. These were the days of great battles. From morning until late at night we heard the roar of cannons, the ruins were still smoking, and here and there groups of residents buried the corpses of people and horses. I was assigned to the flying post office at station K. Trains were already passing by, although most often under fire. The only residents left there were railway employees; they greeted us with amazing cordiality. Four drivers argued for the honor of sheltering our small detachment. When, finally, one prevailed, the others came to visit him and began to exchange impressions. You should have seen how their eyes lit up with delight when they said that shrapnel exploded near their train and a bullet hit the locomotive. It was felt that only a lack of initiative prevented them from signing up as volunteers. We parted as friends, promised to write to each other, but are such promises ever kept?
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The next day, amid the sweet idleness of the late bivouac, when you were reading the yellow books of the Universal Library, cleaning your rifle, or simply chatting with the pretty ladies, we were suddenly ordered to saddle up and just as suddenly, at an alternating gait, we immediately walked about fifty miles. Sleepy towns, quiet and majestic estates flashed by one after another; on the thresholds of houses, old women with scarves hastily thrown over their heads sighed, muttering: “Oh, Matka Bozka.” And, from time to time, driving out onto the highway, we listened to the sound of countless hooves, as dull as the sea surf, and guessed that there were other cavalry units ahead and behind us, and that we had a big job ahead of us. It was well past midnight when we set up bivouac. In the morning our supply of ammunition was replenished, and we moved on. The area was deserted: some gullies, low-growing spruce trees, hills. We lined up in a battle line, decided who should dismount and who should be the horse guide, sent out patrols ahead and began to wait. Having climbed a hillock and hidden by trees, I saw a space of about a mile in front of me. Our outposts were scattered here and there along it. They were so well hidden that I saw most of them only when, after firing back, they began to leave. The Germans appeared almost behind them. Three columns came into my field of vision, moving about five hundred paces from each other. They walked in thick crowds and sang. It was not any particular song, or even our friendly “hurray,” but two or three notes, alternating with ferocious and sullen energy. I didn’t immediately realize that the singers were dead drunk. It was so strange to hear this singing that I did not notice either the roar of our guns, or rifle fire, or the frequent, rattling knock of machine guns. The wild “a... a... a...” powerfully conquered my consciousness. I only saw how clouds of shrapnel soared over the very heads of the enemies, how the front ranks fell, how others took their place and moved a few steps to lie down and make room for the next. It looked like the flood of spring waters - the same slowness and steadyness. But now it’s my turn to join the battle. The command was heard: “lie down... sight eight hundred... squadron, fire,” and I no longer thought about anything, but just shot and loaded, shot and loaded. Only somewhere in the depths of consciousness lived the confidence that everything would be as it should be, that at the right moment we would be ordered to go on the attack, or mount our horses, and in one way or another we would bring the dazzling joy of the final victory closer.
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Late at night we went to bivouac. . . . . . . . . . . . . to a large estate.
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In the gardener’s room, his wife boiled a quart of milk for me, I fried sausage in lard, and my dinner was shared with me by my guests: a volunteer whose leg had just been crushed under him by a horse that had just been killed, and a sergeant with a fresh abrasion on his nose, so scratched by a bullet. We had already lit a cigarette and were talking peacefully when a non-commissioned officer who happened to wander in to us reported that our squadron was sending out a patrol. I carefully examined myself and saw that I had slept, or rather dozed off in the snow, that I was full, warm, and that there was no reason for me not to go. True, at first it was unpleasant to leave the warm, cozy room into the cold and deserted courtyard, but this feeling gave way to cheerful revival as soon as we dived along an invisible road into the darkness, towards the unknown and danger. The patrol was long, and so the officer let us take a nap, about three hours, in some hayloft. Nothing is more refreshing than a short sleep, and in the morning we were already quite refreshed, illuminated by the pale, but still lovely sun. We were instructed to observe an area of about four miles and report everything we noticed. The terrain was completely flat, and three villages were clearly visible in front of us. One was occupied by us, nothing was known about the other two. Holding rifles in our hands, we carefully drove into the nearest village, drove through it to the end, and, not finding the enemy, with a feeling of complete satisfaction, drank the fresh milk brought to us by a beautiful, talkative old woman. Then the officer, calling me aside, said that he wanted to give me an independent assignment to go as a senior officer over two sentinels to the next village. The assignment is trivial, but still serious, if you take into account my inexperience in the art of war, and most importantly - the first one in which I could show my initiative. Who doesn’t know that in any business the initial steps are more pleasant than all the rest. I decided to walk not in a lava, that is, in a row, at some distance from each other, but in a chain, that is, one after another. In this way I exposed people to less danger and had the opportunity to quickly tell the patrol something new. The patrol followed us. We entered the village and from there we noticed a large column of Germans moving about two miles away from us. The officer stopped to write a report; to clear my conscience, I drove on. A steeply curving road led to the mill. I saw a group of residents standing calmly near it and, knowing that they always run away, anticipating a clash in which they might also get a stray bullet, I rode up at a trot to ask about the Germans. But as soon as we exchanged greetings, they rushed away with distorted faces, and a cloud of dust rose in front of me, and from behind I heard the characteristic crack of a rifle. I looked back.
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. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . on the road along which I had just passed, a bunch of horsemen and foot soldiers in black, terribly alien-colored overcoats looked at me in amazement. Apparently I had just been spotted. They were about thirty paces away. I realized that this time the danger was really great. The road to the junction was cut off for me; enemy columns were moving from the other two sides. All that remained was to gallop straight towards the Germans, but there was a plowed field stretching far away, along which one could not gallop, and I would have been shot at ten times before I would have left the sphere of fire. I chose the middle one and, skirting the enemy, rushed ahead of his front to the road along which our patrol had gone. It was a difficult moment in my life. The horse stumbled over frozen clods, bullets whistled past my ears, exploded the ground in front of me and next to me, one scratched the pommel of my saddle.

End of free trial.

MATERIAL FOR THE SECTION “REVIEW AT THE END OF THE YEAR” 5th grade

AFTER THE STORM

The rain becomes finer, and a patch of clear azure can be seen through the edges of the clouds. A minute later, a timid ray of sun is already shining in the puddles of the road and on the shiny greenery of the roadside grass. The black cloud still threateningly covers the opposite side of the sky, but I am no longer afraid of it.

The body of the carriage, the reins, the tires of the wheels, the backs of the horses - everything is wet and sparkles in the sun. The vast winter field stretches like a shady carpet to the very horizon.

The heady smell of the forest after a spring thunderstorm, the smell of violets, birch, bird cherry, is so charming that I can’t sit in the chaise and jump off the steps... (According to L.N. Tolstoy.)

(85 words. Spelling of unstressed vowels at the root of a word, endings of verbs, nouns and adjectives; unverifiable scriptures, roots with alternating vowels, letters o - e after sizzling, consumption ъ. Punctuation marks for homogeneous parts of a sentence, in a complex sentence.)

Tasks.

1. Perform a phonetic analysis of words through(I option), smaller(Option II).

2. Write down words with alternating vowels at the root, explain their spelling.

3. Explain punctuation marks and perform a syntactic analysis of the 1st sentence (I option), the 1st sentence of the 2nd paragraph (II option).

4. What is the meaning of the word scrap in a phrase a piece of azure?

5. Choose synonyms and antonyms for words brighten(I option), wet(Option II).

6. Perform a morphological analysis of nouns (c) running boards(option), (in) puddles(Option II).

The valley through which the river flows is called the “Glass Pad”. At that time there were no glass factories in the Ussuri region, and in remote places glass was highly valued. Lattice windows in Chinese fanzes were covered with thin paper. And here in the window the real world shone

a piece of glass. This piece of glass amazed the first settlers so much that they nicknamed not only the fanza “glass,” but the river and the entire surrounding area. Now the path to the fanza is overgrown with grass. It was obvious that no one walked along it.

On the third day, in the evening, we approached a mountain range. The shooters were busy in the bivouac. I looked around the area. Peaks with yellow leaves stood out against the background of the pale sky. (According to V. Arsenyev.)

(98 words. Spelling of unstressed vowels in the root of a word, roots with alternating vowels, letters O- e after hissing nouns in the roots and suffixes, deafened consonants in the root of the word, endings of nouns and adjectives, prefixes. Punctuation marks in a complex sentence.)

Tasks.

1. Determine whether the meanings of words are different glass And glass(I option), valley And fall(Option II).

2. Choose synonyms and antonyms for the words path(I option), thin(Option II).

3. Perform a phonetic analysis of words ridge(I option), sharp(Option II).

4. Write down the noun formed by the suffix method.

5. Perform a morphological analysis of nouns paper (I option), (in) valley (II option).

6. Highlight the members of the sentence in the 3rd sentence (I option), in the 1st sentence of the last paragraph (II option).

6th grade

At the white stone gate that led from the yard to the field, two girls stood at the old strong gate with lions. One of them, older, thin, pale, very beautiful, with a whole head of brown hair, with a small, stubborn mouth, had a stern expression and barely paid attention to me. The other one, still very young, about seventeen or eighteen years old, with a big mouth and big eyes, looked at me in surprise, said something in English and became embarrassed. It seemed to me that these two sweet faces had been familiar to me for a long time. And I returned home feeling like I had a good dream. (According to A.P. Chekhov.)

(90 words. Spelling of endings of nouns and adjectives, adjective suffixes, compound words, adverbs, indefinite

lenient pronouns, unverified vowels and consonants, unstressed vowels at the root of the word. Punctuation marks for homogeneous parts of a sentence, in a complex sentence.)

Tasks.

1. Write down the derived adjectives, indicate their morphemic composition, analyze the method of formation.

2. Parse the first sentence.

3. Perform a morphological analysis of verbs I looked(I option), she doesn't care(Option II).

4. Write down three qualitative adjectives. Form the comparative degree forms and the short form (I option). Write down three relative adjectives and indicate their suffixes. Find the comparative adjective in the text and indicate its initial form (option II).

AT NIGHT IN A STORM

Grishka and I went to the current. The one and a half kilometers that we had recently covered in a flash now seemed long and dangerous to us. The storm was in full swing; flashed and thundered from all sides! Rare drops of rain flew in and hit my face painfully. It smelled of dust and something burnt - sharp, bitter. This is what it smells like when someone hits a stone with a hammer to start a fire.

When there was a flash of light above, everything on the ground: stacks, trees, sheaves, motionless horses - seemed to hang in the air for a moment, then darkness swallowed everything. It thundered loudly from above, in ledges, as if huge stones were falling from the mountain into the abyss and colliding. (V. Shukshin.)

(88 words. Spelling of unstressed vowels in the root of a word, prefixes, suffixes of adjectives, verbs, particles Not with adjectives and adverbs, spelling of indefinite pronouns. Punctuation marks for homogeneous members with a generalizing word, in a complex sentence.)

Tasks.

1. Parse the sentences The storm has broken out...(I option), Rare drops flew...(Option II).

2. Determine the type of verbs in the 2nd paragraph (I option), determine the transitivity of the verbs in the 2nd paragraph (II option).

3. Write down three adverbs and determine the method of their formation.

4. Perform a morphological analysis of words booming(I option), long(Option II).

7 Class

Before contact with the enemy it was about eighty versts from the railway station, and I had plenty of time to admire southern Poland. There are no mountains, the delight of tourists, but what does a plains dweller need mountains for?

The forests are pine, planted, and, driving through them, you suddenly see narrow alleys, straight as arrows. They are full of green twilight, pheasants run there with a chicken habit, and on quiet nights you can hear a wild boar slurping and breaking bushes.

Among the wide shallows of eroded banks, rivers meander lazily; the lakes sparkle and reflect the sky like polished metal mirrors. Old mossy mills have quiet dams with gently murmuring streams of water and some pink-red bushes that strangely remind a person of his childhood.

In such places, no matter what you do - love or fight - everything seems significant and wonderful. (According to N. Gumilev.)

(116 words. Spelling of roots with alternating vowel sounds, prefixes, endings of different parts of speech, suffixes of adjectives, participles, unverified vowels and consonants, double consonants, function words. Punctuation marks for gerunds, participial phrases, homogeneous members, in complex sentences.)

Tasks.

1. Parse the sentence U old mossy mills...

2. Perform a morphological analysis of words passing by somehow(I option), polished, strange(Option II).

3. Determine what forms of participles and gerunds are formed from verbs run through(I option), admire(Option II).

4. Write out adverbs from the text and comment on the way they are formed.

5. Write out coordinating conjunctions (I option), subordinating conjunctions (P option).

ON THE SHIP

The officers and crew took their places according to the combat schedule. In the conning tower, unlike the cockpit, it was crowded with people. Here, in addition to the commander, there were his assistants: a navigator, an artilleryman, a miner, a helmsman, and messengers.

The people on Ushakov selflessly performed their duties. Never before had a ship lived such a busy life as during these hours. The armored turrets rotated menacingly, raising their ten-inch guns upward, searching for a living target on the horizon. Their shots were measured, strong and deafening.

Everyone was in motion, all the actions of people and machines were so coordinated with each other, as if the ship was a single organism. The battle broke out. (According to A. Novikov-Priboy.)

(92 words. Spelling of prepositions, particles, untested vowels and consonants, endings of adjectives and participles, suffixes of participles and adjectives in short forms. Punctuation marks for isolated additions, definitions, circumstances, and homogeneous members of the sentence.)

Tasks.

1. Write down and characterize the prepositions in the 1st paragraph (I option); write down and characterize the conjunctions (Option II).

2. Parse the sentence They were spinning menacingly...

3. Determine the part of speech and perform a morphological analysis of words agreed upon(I option), measured(Option II).

4. Perform morphemic analysis of words selflessly(I option), tense(Option II).

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