Yashka · Part II · Chapter 8 (2/3)

The signal to advance was given, and we started, knee-deep in mud, for the enemy. In places the pools reached above our waists. Shells and bullets played havoc among us. Of those who fell wounded, many sank in the mud and were drowned. The German fire was devastating. Our lines grew thinner and thinner, and progress became so slow that our doom was certain in the event of a further advance.

The order to retreat rang out. How can one describe the march back through the inferno of No Man’s Land on that night of March 7th, 1916? There were wounded men submerged all but their heads, calling piteously for help. “Save me, for Christ’s sake!” came from every side. From the trenches there went up a chorus of the same heartrending appeals. So long as we were alive we could not remain deaf to the pleadings of our comrades.

Fifty of us went out to do the work of rescue. Never before had I worked in such harrowing, bloodcurdling circumstances. One man was wounded in the neck or face, and I had to grip him under the arms and drag his body through the mud. Another had his side torn by a shell, and it required many difficult manoeuvres before I could extricate him. Several sank so deep that my own strength was not sufficient to drag them out.

Finally I broke down, just as I reached my trench with a burden. I was so exhausted that all my bones were aching. The soldiers got some drinking water, a very hard thing to get, and made some tea for me. Somehow they obtained for me a dry overcoat and put me to sleep in a sheltered corner. I slept about four hours, and then resumed my search for wounded comrades.

All day the artillery boomed again, as violently as on the previous day. At night, our ranks having been replenished with fresh drafts, we climbed out again and rushed for the enemy. Again we suffered heavily, but our operation this time was more successful. When the Germans saw us pressing forward determinedly in their direction they came out for a counterattack. With bayonets fixed and a tremendous “Hurrah” we hurled ourselves at them.

The Germans never did like the Russian bayonets. As a matter of fact, they dreaded them more than any other arm of warfare, and so they broke down and took to their heels. We pursued them into their trenches, and there followed a fierce scrimmage. Many of the Germans raised their hands in sign of surrender. They realized that we were in a fierce, exasperated mood. Others fought to the end, and all this time German machine guns swept their own trenches, where Teuton and Slav were mixed in combat. Then we flung ourselves upon the machine gun positions.

Our regiment captured in that attack two thousand five hundred Germans and thirty machine guns. I escaped with only a slight wound in the right leg and did not leave the ranks. Elated by our victory over the strong defences of the first line, we swept on toward the enemy’s second line. His fire slackened considerably. A great triumph was in prospect, as behind the weak second and third lines there was an open stretch of undefended territory for many miles.

Our advance line was within seventy feet of the enemy’s trenches when an order came from General Walter to halt and return to our positions. It was a terrible shock to men and officers alike. Our Colonel talked to the General on the field telephone, explaining to him the situation. The General was obdurate. All of us were so incensed at this treacherous order that, had any one of us taken command at the moment, we should undoubtedly have won a great victory, as the breach in the German defences was complete.

The conversation between the Colonel and the General ended in a quarrel. The General had not, apparently, expected us to break through the first German line. So many waves of Russian soldiers had beaten in vain against it, and with such terrific losses. It became evident to our men that it was the General’s treacherous design to have as many of us slaughtered as possible.

But discipline was severe, and orders were orders. We had to go back. We were so exhausted that our bodies welcomed a rest. In those two days, the 7th and 8th of August, our ranks were refilled four times with fresh drafts. Our casualties were enormous. The corpses lay thick everywhere, like mushrooms after rain, and there were innumerable wounded. One could not take a step in No Man’s Land without coming into contact with the corpse of a Russian or a German. Bloody feet, hands, sometimes heads, lay scattered in the mud.

That was the most terrible offensive in which I was engaged. It has come down into history as the Battle of Postovy. We spent the first night in the German trenches we had captured. It was a night of unforgettable horrors. The darkness was impenetrable. The stench was suffocating. The ground was full of mud-holes. Some of us sat on corpses. Other rested their feet on dead men. One could not stretch a hand without touching a lifeless body. We were hungry. We were cold. Our flesh crept in the dreadful surroundings. I wanted to get up. My hand sought support. It fell on the face of a corpse, stuck against the wall. I screamed, slipped and fell. My fingers buried themselves in the torn abdomen of a body.

I was seized with horror such as I had never experienced, and shrieked hysterically. My cries were heard in the officers’ dugout, and a man was sent with an electric torch to rescue Yashka, whom they had supposed to be wounded. It was warm and comfortable in the dugout, as it had previously been used by the enemy’s regimental staff. I was given some tea, and little by little I recovered my self-control.

The entrance of the dugout was of course now facing the enemy. He knew its exact position and concentrated his fire on it. Although bombproof, it soon began to collapse under the rain of shells. Some of these blocked the entrance almost completely with debris. Finally, a shell penetrated the roof, putting out the light, killing five and wounding several. I lay in a corner, buried under wreckage, soldiers and officers, some of whom were wounded and others dead. The groans were indescribable. As the screech of a new shell was heard overhead I believed death to be close at hand. There was no question of making an immediate effort to extricate myself and escape while the bombs were still crashing into the hole. When with the dawn the bombardment finally ceased, and I was saved, I could hardly believe the evidence of my own senses that I was unhurt.

The following day I discovered the body of Lieutenant Bobrov. His presentiment was right, after all. He was an intrepid fighter, and a man of noble impulses. I fulfilled his wish, and had his ring and letter sent through the physician to his wife. Our own Regiment had two thousand wounded. And when the dead were gathered from the field and carried out of the trenches, there were long, long, rows of them stretched out in the sun awaiting eternal rest in the immense common grave that was being dug for them in the rear.

With bowed heads and bleeding hearts we paid last homage to our comrades. They had laid down their lives like true heroes, without suspecting that they were being sacrificed to no purpose by a vile traitor.

On March 10th, still suffering from the effects of my dreadful night among the corpses, I was sent to the Divisional Hospital for a three days’ rest. I was back in the trenches on the 14th, when another advance was ordered. The German positions were not yet strongly fortified, and we captured their first line without serious losses. Then there was another few days’ respite, during which our ranks were reformed.

Early in the morning of March 16th, after an ineffectual bombardment of the enemy’s position by our artillery, the signal to go over the top was given. We advanced in the face of a stubborn German fire, dashing through No Man’s Land only to find the enemy’s wire defences intact. There was nothing to do but retreat. It was while running back that a bullet struck me in the right leg, shattering the bone. I fell. Within a hundred feet of me ran the enemy’s first line. Bullets whizzed over my head, pursuing my fleeing comrades.

I was not alone. Others were groaning not far from me. Some prayed for death.⁠ ⁠… I grew thirsty. I had lost a great deal of blood. But I knew it was useless to move. The sun rose in the east, only to be obscured by grey clouds.

“Shall I be rescued?” I wondered. “Perhaps the enemy’s stretcher-bearer will pick me up soon. But no, he just fired at that soldier yonder who raised himself in an effort to move.”

I pressed myself closer to the ground. I seemed to hear voices coming near. I held my breath in suspense.

“I am a German prisoner!” I thought. Then the voices died away, and again my thirst tortured me.

“Holy Mother, when will help come? Or am I doomed to lie here indefinitely till I fall into unconsciousness and die?⁠ ⁠… The sun is already in mid-heaven. My comrades are having their soup and warm tea. What would I not give for a glass of hot tea! The Germans are eating, too. I can hear the clatter of their pans. Why, I can even smell faintly the steam from their soup.”

“It is calm now. Only rarely a sniper’s bullet crosses the field.⁠ ⁠… Night, night, night.⁠ ⁠… How I wish for night! Certainly our men are not going to let all of us perish here. Besides, they must have missed me by now. They surely won’t let Yashka, dead or alive, lie in the field. So there is hope.”

The thought of my comrades’ discovery of my absence gave me new strength. The seconds seemed hours and the minutes days, but the shadows arrived at last, creeping toward the side where the sun had disappeared. Then came darkness and rescue was not long in coming. Our brave stretcher-bearers, aided by some of the soldiers, were out on their pious mission. Cautiously they moved nearer and nearer to the German line, and finally picked me up. Yes, it was Yashka whom they carried into our trenches.

My comrades were filled with rejoicing. “Yashka, alive! God speed you to recovery, Yashka!” I could only reply in a whisper. They took me to the first-aid station, cleansed my wound and dressed it. I suffered much. Then I was sent on to Moscow, where I lay in the Ekaterina Hospital, ward Number 20.

I was lonely in the hospital, where I spent nearly three months. The other patients would have their visitors or receive parcels from home, but nobody visited me, nobody sent anything to me. March, April, May came and went in the monotony of ward Number 20. Finally, one day in the beginning of June, I was declared fit to return to the fighting line. My regiment was just then being transferred to Lutzk front. On June 20th I caught up with it. The welcome I received surpassed even that of the previous year. Fruit and sweets were showered upon me. The soldiers were in a happy mood. The Germans had just been driven back at this sector by General Brusilov for a great many miles. The country was interspersed with their evacuated positions. Here and there enemy corpses were still unburied. Our men, though overjoyed, were worn out by forced marches and the long pursuit.

It was midsummer, and the heat was prostrating. We marched on June 21st a distance of ten miles and stopped for rest. Many of our number collapsed, and we felt too worn out to go on, but the Commander implored us to keep up, promising a rest in the trenches. It was thirteen miles to the front line, and we reached it on the same day.

As we marched along we observed on both sides of the road that crops which had not been destroyed in the course of the fighting were ripening. The fighting line ran near a village called Dubova Kortchma. We found in its neighbourhood a country seat hastily abandoned by the Germans. The estate was full of cattle, fowl, potatoes and other food. That night we had a royal feast.

We occupied abandoned German trenches. It was not the time for rest. The artillery opened fire early in the evening and boomed ceaselessly throughout the night. It could mean nothing but an immediate attack. We were not mistaken. At four in the morning we received word that the Germans had left their positions and started for our side. At this moment our beloved Commander, Grishaninov, was struck to the ground. He was wounded. We attended to him promptly and despatched him to the rear. There was no time to waste. We met the advancing Germans with repeated volleys, and when they approached our positions we climbed out and charged them with fixed bayonets.

Suddenly a terrific explosion deafened me, and I fell to the ground. A German shell had come my way, a shell I shall never forget, as part of it I still carry in my body.

I felt frightful pains in my back. I had been hit by a fragment at the end of the spinal column. My agony lasted long enough to attract a couple of soldiers. Then I became unconscious. They carried me to a dressing station. The wound was so serious that the physician in charge did not believe that I could survive. I was placed in an ambulance and taken to Lutzk. I required electrical treatment, but the Lutzk Hospitals were not supplied with the necessary apparatus. It was decided to send me to Kiev. My condition, however, was so grave that for three days the doctors considered it dangerous to move me.

In Kiev the stream of wounded was so great that I was compelled to lie in the street on a stretcher for a couple of hours before I was taken to hospital. I was informed, after an X-ray examination, that a fragment of shell was imbedded in my body and asked if I wished an operation to have it removed. I could not imagine living with a piece of shell in my flesh, and so requested its removal. Whether because of my condition or for some other reason, the surgeon finally decided not to operate, and told me that I would have to be sent either to Petrograd or to Moscow for treatment. As I was given the choice, I decided on Moscow, because I had spent the spring months of the year in the Ekaterina Hospital there.

The wound in the spine paralysed me to such an extent that I could not move even a finger. I lay in the Moscow Hospital hovering between life and death for some weeks, resembling a log more than a human body. Only my mind was active and my heart full of pain.

Every day I was massaged, carried on a stretcher and bathed. Then the physician would attend me, probing my wound with iodine, and treating it with electricity, after which I was bathed again and my wound dressed. This daily procedure was inconceivable torture, in spite of the morphine injected into me. There was little peace in the ward in which I was placed. All the beds were occupied by serious cases, and the groans and moans must have reached to Heaven.

Four months I lay paralysed, never expecting to recover. My diet consisted of milk and kasha, with which I was fed by an attendant. On many a dreary day death would have been a welcome visitor. It seemed so futile, so hopeless to remain alive in such a state, but the doctor, who was a Jew, and very kindhearted, would not give up hope. He persisted in his daily treatment, praising my stoicism and encouraging me with kind words. His faith was finally rewarded.

At the end of four months I began to feel life stirring once again in my helpless body. My finger could move! What a joy that was! In a few days I could turn my head a little and stretch my arm. It was a wonderful sensation, this gradual resurrection of my lifeless members. To be able to close my fingers after four months of paralysis! It thrilled me. To be able to bend a knee that had been torpid so long! It seemed like a miracle. And I offered thanks to God with all the fervour that I could command.