The Russian Century: A Hundred Years of Russian Lives

One of the armored cars chased our commanders, Kolzakov and Shapilovskii, round and round a hillock. In firing at the armored car we almost obliterated our commanders. The armored cars left, having failed to dislodge us. An intermission followed. Then dark chains of Reds appeared, one after another marching elbow to elbow. Evidently they were miners because they were in black and not in olive drab. We could see three chains but the infantry said there were nine. We were surprised at the use of such a huge force against our two artillery pieces and some fifty to sixty infantrymen. We opened up and fired fiercely in all directions because the Reds tried to turn our flanks and press the field pieces against the uncrossable, swampy river. We kept a special eye on the bridge, lest the Reds take it and cut off our only means of retreat.

Word came from our commanders that the shrapnel rounds were improperly set. I looked at the soldier setting the timing mechanism. He was wide-eyed with terror and stared at the advancing Reds while mindlessly turning the head of a round with a wrench. I pushed him aside and began setting the necessary distance myself. It was precise and attentive work, hard to do under fire because your hand shook. At that moment the artillery piece was turned ninety degrees and fired right above my head. I received a powerful, deafening shock to my ear. Blood began to flow from it. But there was no time to attend to such trifles. I worked feverishly.

Our thin chain of Markovets infantry did not flinch. Their machine gun was doing a wonderful job. Our shrapnel tore out clusters of men from the Red ranks. The first two chains faltered, but a third came up and the advance continued. They began approaching the bridge. We had to fall back. The infantry crossed on a fallen log and the battery headed for the bridge. One piece would fire point blank while the other galloped low along the river coming up within 150 strides to open fire in turn. Then the other piece would move toward the bridge, stop, and fire. Thus alternating, the battery crossed the river.

So much for the battery. My circumstances were totally different. I had let Dura loose to go graze and paid no attention to her because of the battle. When the battery took off, I ran for Dura. But she wasn’t used to me yet, and ran off toward the Reds. Afraid of losing her, I ran after her in despair. Luckily, the retreating infantry turned Dura, and I caught her through dumb luck. All this took place under heavy fire from the Reds. The battery was firing back by the bridge. The infantry was crossing via the fallen tree. I was at a loss. The river was uncrossable; Dura would founder in the muck. The bridge? Was it too late? Had to try it. “Go, Dura, give it all. Go!” And she

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Chapter Fifteen

flew. First, low along the river, unseen by the Reds. And then up, streaking like an arrow along the Red infantry line which escorted her with a fusillade of rifle fire. At full gallop I turned right and Dura’s hooves clattered on the bridge.

“Phew. A hell of a ride. Thank God we’re out of there. Sweet girl, Dura. Well done. But you’re a bitch for running away from me. I’ll have to work on you, and soon.”

I caught up to the battery. Examined Dura. Shrugged my shoulders in amazement. Neither she nor I had a wound. Lucky. There had been bullets all over the place.

DOLZHIK

We moved north to the village of Dolzhik. Destroyed the railroad line and went to Kazach’ia Lopan where we also did major damage to the rail lines. There were some minor engagements there. The Reds scattered. The division returned to Dolzhik.

No matter how hard we strained our ears, we could not hear any artillery to the south. Either we had gotten very far from our units or the advance of our troops, thanks to our raiding, was proceeding without the use of artillery with the Reds retreating everywhere.

We were surprised that the Reds were not harassing us, and we lived rather peacefully in Dolzhik. We were billeted in a well-kept house where I noticed a book in French in an ancient leather binding. This meant that there was an estate nearby. The woman of the house watched as I picked up the book. In answer to my question as to the existence of the estate, she feigned ignorance.

I went outside and asked the first passerby: “How do I get to the ekono-mia?’” (That is what estates are called in the south.)

“The main entrance is over that way, but there’s a break in the wall over there.”

The estate had been thoroughly looted, with that mindless venom which overcomes looters. Everything that could not be carried away was smashed and broken. If I can’t use it, let no one else have it.