... Coiled round like snakes. He saw the wire, chopped through at
one end, cut the air and coil itself round three soldiers. The barbs
tore their uniforms and stuck into their bodies, and, shrieking, the
soldiers spun round in frenzy, two of them dragging the third, who was
already dead, after them. Then only one remained alive, and he tried to
push the two that were dead away from him; but they trailed after him,
whirling and rolling over each other and over him; and suddenly all
three became motionless.
He told me that no less than two thousand men were lost at that one
wire entanglement. While they were hacking at the wire and getting
entangled in its serpentine coils, they were pelted by an incessant
rain of balls and grape-shot. He assured me it was very terrifying, and
if only they had known in which direction to run, that attack would
have ended in a panic flight. But ten or twelve continuous lines of
wire, and the struggle with it, a whole labyrinth of pitfalls with
stakes driven in at the bottom, had muddled them so, that they were
quite incapable of defining the direction of escape.
Some, like men blind, fell into the funnel-shaped pits, and hung upon
the sharp stakes, pierced through the stomach, twitching convulsively
and dancing like toy clowns; they were crushed down by fresh bodies,
and soon the whole pit filled to the edges, and presented a writhing
mass of bleeding bodies, dead and living. Hands thrust themselves out
of it in all directions, the fingers working convulsively, catching at
everything; and those who once got caught in that trap could not get
back again: hundreds of fingers, strong and blind, like the claws of
a lobster, gripped them firmly by the legs, caught at their clothes,
threw them down upon themselves, gouged out their eyes and throttled
them. Many seemed as if they were intoxicated, and ran straight at the
wire, got caught in it, and remained shrieking, until a bullet finished
them.
Generally speaking, they all seemed like people intoxicated: some swore
dreadfully, others laughed when the wire caught them by the arm or leg
and died there and then. He himself, although he had had nothing to eat
or drink since the morning, felt very queer. His head swam, and there
were moments when the feeling of terror in him changed to wild rapture,
and from rapture again to terror. When somebody struck up a song at his
side, he caught up the tune, and soon a whole unanimous chorus broke
forth. He did not remember what they sang, only that it was lively in
a dancing strain. Yes, they sang, while all around them was red with
blood. The very sky seemed to be red, and one could have thought that
a catastrophe had overwhelmed the universe--a strange disappearance of
colours: the light-blue and green and other habitual peaceful colours
had disappeared, while the sun blazed forth in a red flare-light.
"The red laugh," said I.
But he did not understand.
"Yes, and they laughed, as I told you before, like people intoxicated.
Perhaps they even danced. There was something of the sort. At least the
movements of those three resembled dancing."
He remembers distinctly, when he was shot through the chest and fell,
his legs twitched for some time until he lost consciousness, as if he
were dancing to music. And at the present moment, when he thinks of
that attack, a strange feeling comes over him: partly fear and partly
the desire to experience it all over again.
"And get another ball in your chest?" asked I.
"There now, why should I get a ball each time. But it would not be half
bad, old boy to get a medal for bravery."
He was lying on his back with a waxen face, sharp nose, prominent
cheek-bones and sunken eyes. He was lying looking like a corpse and
dreaming of a medal! Mortification had already set in; he had a high
temperature, and in three days' time he was to be thrown into the grave
to join the dead; nevertheless he lay smiling dreamily and talking
about a medal.
"Have you telegraphed to your mother?" I asked.
He glanced at me with terror, animosity and anger, and did not answer.
I was silent, and then the groans and ravings of the wounded became
audible. But when I rose to go, he caught my hand in his hot, but still
strong one, and fixed his sunken burning eyes upon me in a lost and
distressed way.
"What does it all mean, ay? What does it all mean?" asked he in a
frightened and persistent manner, pulling at my hand.
"What?"
"Everything ... in general. Now, she is waiting for me. But I cannot.
My country--is it possible to make her understand, what my country
means."
"The red laugh," answered I.
"Ah! you are always joking, but I am serious. It is indispensable to
explain it; but is it possible to make her understand? If you only
knew what she says in her letters!--what she writes! And you know her
words--are grey-haired. And you--" he looked curiously at my head,
pointed his finger and suddenly breaking into a laugh said: "Why, you
have grown bald. Have you noticed it?"
"There are no looking-glasses here."
"Many have grown bald and grey. Look here, give me a looking-glass.
Give me one! I feel white hair growing out of my head. Give me a
looking-glass!" He became delirious, crying and shouting out, and I
left the hospital.
That same evening we got up an entertainment--a sad and strange
entertainment, at which, amongst the guests, the shadows of the dead
assisted. We decided to gather in the evening and have tea, as if we
were at home, at a picnic. We got a samovar, we even got a lemon and
glasses, and established ourselves under a tree, as if we were at
home, at a picnic. Our companions arrived noisily in twos and threes,
talking, joking and full of gleeful expectation--but soon grew silent,
avoiding to look at each other, for there was something fearful in this
meeting of spared men. In tatters, dirty, itching as if we were covered
by a dreadful ringworm, with hair neglected, thin and worn, having lost
all familiar and habitual aspect, we seemed to see each other for the
first time as we gathered round the samovar, and seeing each other, we
grew terrified. In vain I looked for a familiar face in this group of
disconcerted men--I could not find one. These men, restless, hasty and
jerky in their movements, starting at every sound, constantly looking
for something behind their backs, trying to fill up that mysterious
void into which they were too terrified to look, by superfluous
gesticulations--were new, strange men, whom I did not know. And their
voices sounded different, articulating the words with difficulty in
jerks, easily passing into angry shouts or senseless, irrepressible
laughter at the slightest provocation. And everything around us was
strange to us. The tree was strange, and the sunset strange, and the
water strange, with a peculiar taste and smell, as if we had left the
earth and entered into a new world together with the dead--a world of
mysterious phenomena and ominous sombre shadows. The sunset was yellow
and cold; black, unillumined, motionless clouds hung heavily over it,
while the earth under it was black, and our faces in that ill-omened
light seemed yellow, like the faces of the dead. We all sat watching
the samovar, but it went out, its sides reflecting the yellowishness
and menace of the sunset, and it seemed also an unfamiliar, dead and
incomprehensible object.
"Where are we!" asked somebody, and uneasiness and fear sounded in his
voice. Somebody sighed; somebody convulsively cracked his fingers;
somebody laughed; somebody jumped up and began walking quickly round
the table. These last days one could often meet with such men, that
were always walking hastily, almost running, at times strangely
silent, at times mumbling something in an uncanny way.
"At the war," answered he who had laughed, and again burst into a
hollow, lingering laugh, as if something was choking him.
"What is he laughing at?" asked somebody, indignantly. "Look here, stop
it!"
The other choked once more, gave a titter and stopped obediently.
It was growing dark, the cloud seemed to be settling down on the
earth, and we could with difficulty distinguish each other's yellow
phantom-like faces. Somebody asked,--
"And where is Fatty-legs?"
"Fatty-legs" we called a fellow-officer, who, being short, wore
enormous water-tight boots.
"He was here just now. Fatty-legs, where are you?"
"Fatty-legs, don't hide. We can smell your boots."
Everybody laughed, but their laugh was interrupted by a rough,
indignant voice that sounded out of the darkness,--
"Stop that! Are you not ashamed? Fatty-legs was killed this morning
reconnoitring."
"He was here just now. It must be a mistake."
"You imagined it. Heigh-ho! you there, behind the samovar, cut me a
slice of lemon."
"And me!"
"And me!"
"The lemon is finished."
"How is that, boys?" sounded a gentle, hurt voice, full of distress and
almost crying; "why, I only came for the sake of the lemon."
The other again burst into a hollow and lingering laugh, and nobody
checked him. But he soon stopped. He gave a snigger, and was silent.
Somebody said,--
"To-morrow we begin the advance on the enemy."