On the wings the tumult breaks out anew. The captain crawls on his
stomach along the front. His people must know that he is with them.
All at once he receives a start. There lies a Russian officer, among
our soldiers. His youthful, handsome face is as white as the snow on
the branches. His eyes roll and the pale lips try to form a word. The
captain bends over him. A file leader says: "Breast and upper leg."
They bandage the badly wounded man and give him something to drink.
Our captain wants to go ahead. Then the Russian says to him softly and
in correct German, "Don't shoot!"
The captain pushes his cap back on his neck and lifts his eyebrows.
"How so? Will you surrender?"
The other tries to smile. His big, fine teeth gleam white.
"We are Don Cossacks. We do not surrender. But we have had nothing to
eat. It is four days already. The horses are dead. And the Russians are
already far away."
"How many are you?" asks the commandant.
"We were strong, six sontnias, perhaps. But the woods, the woods! There
we stick day and night. And fight and fight. Each for himself, each
alone, each without hope."
Our captain presses the wounded man, who seeks to raise his upper body,
softly back on the ground.
And while the wood right and left rings with the echoes of musketry
he kneels hesitatingly beside the Cossack officer. For the first time
something of a soft expression steals over his impassive countenance.
There is a slight quiver about the curves of his mouth.
"You must surrender," he says, after a pause, curtly and decisively.
"It is an unequal combat."
The Russian shakes his head.
"They will not; we will not. We are Don Cossacks."
"But you must."
The captain springs up and gives the battalion bugler the order, "Cease
firing."
The signal is heard with the greatest difficulty amid the
thousand-voiced tumult. But slowly it gets the upper hand.
Suddenly the fire ceases along the entire line. Only in the depths of
the wood a few single shots still ring out.
Again the captain bends over the injured man.
"We will tell them, you and I. You will give the command to your
people. You must give it. And I shall honor your heroes; for they are
heroes."
Four men improvise a litter. The Russian is placed on it. He groans at
every step of the bearers and his eyes wander from one of them to the
other. Our captain goes, head erect, into the darkness of the wood.
Behind him go the two bearers with the officer. We wait and wait,
clinging breathlessly to the ground.
The sun creeps through the branches and spreads its soft, grateful
warmth over us. And of a sudden we are strangely softened, overcome
by the light of the day and by the gleam of humanity which, as from
another world, for once falls into our hard, hard life.
The minutes pass, slow and noiseless, coming and going without
fighting, without bloodshed, without horror.
As the sun mounts higher and higher, the Cossacks gradually gather in
our neighborhood. They stream toward us from all directions. The first
of them are distrustful and sullen, the last of them storming and
hungry.
We are horrified at the nameless suffering in their lean,
misery-smitten faces. Then we turn our bread sacks over--and we shudder
at the bestial ravenousness with which men can eat.
Our captain and the wounded Russian come with the last group. Both
smile a smile such as I have never seen before.
At midday we get in touch with the neighboring division. We bring in
540 Don Cossacks, prisoners.