CRIM BEAUTY OF BATTLE.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XL, Issue 12537, 7 May 1915, Page 3

CRIM BEAUTY OF BATTLE.

The following is a translation of a vivid sketch which recently appeared in the .Russian newspaper "Riisskoe Slovo." and is characteristic of the unique manner in which the Russian writer views everything. even war.

'l'hc master —a small, shrivelled old man —can hardly get tip from his filthy bed; and the mistress—a wrinkled, ill old woman— weeps unceasingly. Somewhere far away are her children—for she does not know where are. There is nothing to eat, and she is ashamed to have to beg from the soldiers, who are so willing to share with her. Besides this, there is the ever-present terror . that from the trenches, which are so very, very close, there may appear a Herman, to fire the last remainders of her once prosperous farm.

And with these two, in their half of the Jint, there are billeted eight orderlies: in the other half, in which there are two low, minute bunks, like those in a ship's cabin, there are living five doctors and fhree 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 the evening it becomes hot and stuffy in the hut from the number of persons gathered in it. the tobacco ntnoke, and the istove on which the evening meal is being cooked. So everyone goes out for a walk in the road by the woods.

There .is a moon. and the evening is bright an q-cluiet. From here can be seen troops advancing, orderlies galloping to and fro. and a lotm line of field-kitchens on its way to ' the front stretched over the surface, of the sparkling snow. Now is a strange time, when everything along the front is quiet. and the. war ceases for an hour or two. for the men must rest and eat to lie able afterwards to carry on as. before. At 9 o'clock everything is as it was; shrapnel bunst close bv. and the heavy boom of artillery can once more be heard. Sometimes rifle-firing will start, to continue. intermittently throughout the night.

Having returned" to the farm, where a lamp is burning, and newly-arrived papers are lying on tlic table, we drink tea with lemon-juice. A young Cucasian doctor smokes now and then to lessen the. numerous smells. Then we rill begin to get ready to go to sleep. Some lie on their narrow folding- camp-feds, some on crates which once hold provisions, and the rest simply on the beaten earthern floor. The conversation is of the war, of our birthplaces. and of the possibility of a night attack by the enemy. Soon all are asleep. In the* little hut it is warm, quiet, and snug, and cnlv occasionally it shakes from the force of the exploding shells. It seems that here there is and can he no danger.

Close Oil 3 o'clock we arc awakened by a scries of shocks which, l>y 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? Ii must he a night attack. 7 ' An incessant artillery hattl'e now begins. The bursts of'shells come one on top of another : they are quite close, next to us. almost upon us, right under the walls of the hut—surely it must fall. And now we can hear a sound as of a person tapping persistently, untiringly, irritably at the wall with an enormous, dry, hard fist. This is the rifle firing beginning. We hurriedly, dress and go out. It is terrible, but wonderfully beautiful.

Short red flames burst out one after another, the searchlight throws its strange, long pale beams as far as the horizon, and the screaming shrapnel falls on the ground in bright, meteorlike sparks, and in the air there is the ceaseless crack of rifle fire, bursting of shells, and clatter of shrapnel, the constant, untiring business of a battle. Then everything begins to quieten down, like a storm that "has exhausted its fury. But hardly have we started towards the hut when again ... It starts slowly, quietly, far away. Then nearer, clearer, more persistently, shriller. Rifles, quick-firers, howitzers, all once more enter the lists. The farther away the fiercer it seems. Now it becomes hard to distinguish one sotind from 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 verst- or two awav, where the battle is being fought. But from the peat bog on which the hut stands, a fog has. risen, and, in spite of

11 to bright memo, it is impossible In see anything in the damp mist.

And then suddenly ;t drawling. low. distant roar arises, grows, approaches. I rati clearly hear, amidst, this tornado of sounds, the; tones of many men's voices. Afar away. "A —! a-—! a—!" getting louder every moment. "Again, again!'' Here it is rittite close to me. then farther off again, from this side, then from the other.

My heart beats with excitement and agitation. 1 imagine—as 1 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 !>v a blanket of fon. 1 imagine 1 can see something. .But- (hat is impossible.

Then again the long-drawn-out "Ah!— a! —a!" Now something louder, more convincing, more triumphant. Bui suddenly everything almost at the same moment grows calm. One or two more shots are fired by rifles and guns. . . . And by 7 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 way along the road, orderlies hurry hither and thither. On the plain and in the woods the artillery fire at intervals. Some wounded are being brought ill to the bandaging point, and someone says that- last night- there was a night attack on otir trenches, but by the strong, well-aimed thrusts of our brave men's bayonets it was repulsed.