But the sun is now up. With slender, blood-red fingers it grips the
tops of the fir trees and casts warm, shining rays over the brown,
sun-starved land.
The first news comes back. A lance corporal, with a medal for bravery
on his breast, falls flat on the ground before the captain.
"I obediently report: Cossacks. The whole wood is full of Cossacks--all
of them dismounted."
"Good!"
Our commander breathes freely. Now we know where we are. We shall soon
settle accounts with that pack.
The attack on the wood begins. It is not prepared for by fire, since it
is desirable to lose no time. We must strike as quickly as possible,
keeping in contact with the neighboring division. And it is marching
forward abreast of ours.
With long, hard strides we approach the black fir trees at the forest's
edge. A sign from the commandant and the naked bayonets are adjusted to
the gun barrels. Many of them have cast for a moment a reflected ray of
sunlight into the darkened wood.
The soil clings thicker to our shoes and our pace gets hotter. The
faces of the men redden. They know what that means--wood fighting.
Either victory at the first dash or a long hand-to-hand struggle--work
for clubbed muskets and fists. But the wood lies still before us, as if
it is asleep. Only in the tree tops there is a slight rustling.
Our captain goes on ahead. Now the shadow falls like a curtain drawn
behind him. The first company after him. The second in echelon. And
still not a shot. My men rush, with necks bent forward, among the first
trees. Their countenances are hard and merciless and drawn about the
nostrils. Here and there a sharp red spot shows on either cheek.
Suddenly a shot cracks out, and then a volley. And there--opposite the
first company--a second, a third volley.
A few soldiers fall groaning against the trees. Here and there one
hears the last shriek of a dying man. We sink flat on the soft ground
and arrange our front. Before us and both to the right and left of us
is the enemy.
But is it the enemy? There some Cossacks shoot singly or in little
groups behind the tree trunks and stumps. We see a flat, dirty, green
cap appear and vanish again, aimlessly and at random--now very near us
and now deep in the wood or sidewards in the thicket.
Our captain gives the order: "Both wings bend backward. Fire at
will!" And from our skirmish line comes the smothered beating of
the Mannlichers--single and separate at first, then more and more
concerted, and finally becoming one big volume, with a roaring echo,
which envelops the trunks and the tree tops and floats out behind our
back into the open.
The shots of our opponents sing over our heads and strike sharply into
the timber. The enemy is now here, now there.
Our captain lies on the skirmish line. He has taken the gun of a
wounded man and aims long and carefully before he pulls the trigger.
Suddenly he springs up. For a moment we see his square, wrinkled face,
stiff and impassive as ever; then he swings the rifle butt over his
head and shouts: "Forward!"
The companies are in a narrow, closely concentrated line behind him. An
iron rain greets us.
We dash over the first corpses of the enemy. From the soft bed of the
fir needles long, blood-stained arms stretch after us--arms of men with
yellowish, distorted faces.
Again we are forced to seek cover on the ground. Too many of our people
have already fallen. And the enemy, whose front is not yet uncovered,
bends around on both sides of us. We must have regard for the safety
of our rear. Our first skirmish line takes the form of a shallow,
wide-spread curve.