THE GRIM BEAUTY OF BATTLE.

Northern Advocate, 10 May 1915, Page 3

THE GRIM BEAUTY OF BATTLE.

THROUGH RUSSIAN EYES,

: The following is a translation of ' a vivid sketch which recently ap- ■ peared in the Russian newspaper "Russkoe Slovo," and is characteri istic of the unique manner in which I the Russian writer views every- | thing, even war:— I The master —a small, shrivelled I old man —can hardly get up from i his filthy bed; and the mistress —a

I wrinkled, ill old woman—weeps unI ceasingly. Somewhere far away are i her children —for she does not know ' where they are. There is nothing ito eat, and she is ashamed to have Jto beg from the soldiers, who are SO j willing- to share with her. Besides I this, there is the ever-present terror f that from the trenches, which are so ! very, very close, there may appear a German to fire the laet remainders of her once prosperous farm. And with these two, In their half of the hut there arc billeted eight orderlies: in the other half, in which there are two low, minute bunks like those of a snip's cabin, j there are living fiv e doctors and three organisers of an ambulance unit, in these rooms are two offices —a kitchen and a store of provisions—and here is carried on the business interwoven with the life of every day. Towards evening it becomes hot j and stuffy in the hut .from the number of persons gathered in it, the tobacco smoke, and the stove on which j the evening' meal is being cooked. So everyone goes out for a walk in th e road by the woods. There is a moon, and the evening is bright and quiet. Prom here can be seen troops advancing, orderlies galloping to and fro, and a long line of field kitchens on its way to the front stretched over the surface of i the sparkling snow.

THE STRANGE TIME OF QUIET.

Now is a strange time, when everything along the front is quiet ond the war ceases lor an hour of two; for the men must rest and eat to be able afterwards to carry on as before. I I At nine o'clock everything is as i it was; shrapnel bursts close by, and I the heavy boom of artillery can once more be heard. Sometimes riflefiring will start, to continue intermittently throughout the night. i I Having returned to the farm, I where a lamp is burning and newly j arrived papers are lying on the table, we drink tea with lemon juice.. A young Caucasian doctor smokes now and then to lessen the numerous smells. Then we all begin to get ready to go to sleep. Some lie on their narrow folding camp I beds, some on crates which once held i provisions, and the rest simply on I the beaten earthen floor. The

conversation is of the war, of our birthplaces and of the possibility of a night attack by the en»?iy. Soon all are asleep, lv the little hut it is warm, quiet and snug, and only occasionally it shakes from the force of the exploding shells. It seems that there is and can be no danger. Close on three o'clock we are awakened by a series of shocks which by the rattling of the furniture seem to be so great that the flimsy hut is having great difficulty in keeping to one spot. Someone speaks excitedly: "Do you hear it? It must be a night attack." An incessant artillery battle now begins. The bursts of shells come one on top of another;; they are , quite close, next to us, almost upon i us, right under the walls of the hut; J surely it must fall. And now we can j i hear a sound as of a person tapping i persistently, untiringly, irritably at j the wall with an enormous dry hard j fist. This is the rifle firing begin- ! ning. j We hurriedly dress and go out. i It is terrible, but wonderfully beautiful. j Short red flames burst out one ■ after another, the searchlight 1 throws its strange, long pale beams !as far as the horizon, and the 1 screaming shrapnel falls on the ground in bright, meteor-like sparks, and in the air there is the j ceaseless crack of rifle, bursting of j shells, and clatter of shrapnel, the j constant, untiring business of a I battle.

THE BLANKET OF FOG

, Then everything begins to quieten ! down, lik e a storm that has exhausted it's fury. But hardly have we started towards the hut when again . . . It starts slowly, quietly, far away. Then nearer, clearer, more persistently, shriller. Rifles, quickfirers, howitzers ( all once more en- ! ter the lists. The farther away the i fiercer it seems. Now it becomes I hard to distinguish one sound from J the other, for the rifles and the big guns seem to make the same amount of noise.

I have an unconquerable craving to go and see what is happening a j verst or two away, where the battle) is being fought. But from the peat bog on which the hut stands a log has risen, and, in spito of the bright moon, it is impossible to see anything in the damp mist. And then suddenly a drawling, low, distant roar arises, grows, approaches. I can clearly hear amid this tornado of sounds the tonees of many voices. Afar away, "A! a! a!" getting louder every moment, "Again, again!" Here it is quite close to me, then farther off again, from this side, then from the other. My heart beats with excitement and agitation. I imagine—as I cannot see anything in the cold, dank mist—that something is approaching, that in a minute out of that darkness, there may appear foreign, soldiers. And, again, although I am encircled by a blanket of fog, I imagine I can see something. But that is impossible.

Then again the long-drawn-out 'A!—a! —a!" Now somehow loud-

er, more convincing, more triumphant. But suddenly everything almost at the same moment grows calm. One or two more shots are fired by rifles and guns. . . .

And by seven o'clock in the morning, when a slow, dull, drowsy dawn comes up from the north, there is complete silence all along our front.

The day in the trenches begins. Baggage carts make their w r ay along the road, orderlies hurry hither and thither. On the plain and in the woods the artillery fire at intervals. Som e wounded are being brought in to the bandaging point and someone says' that last night there was a night attack on our trenches, but by the strong, well-aimed thrusts of our brave men's bayonets it was repulsed.