because the ground was soft and muddy. But, for the same reason, the sides of the trenches kept caving in.
Before sunset, we were summoned together at the foot of the hill, where our commanding general delivered a talk. He was unquestionably a talented orator, at least as measured by his effect on the Russian and Ukrainian boys. He recounted the greatness of Holy Mother Russia, of how we had never lost a war, and of how devoted our Little Father, the Czar, was to the welfare of his people, regardless of their nationality or religion. Therefore, each man, whatever his origins, should consider it an honor to give his life for the Czar. After the war, things would be different: peasants would receive more land, workers would get higher wages, and even the Jews would have the right to own land wherever they wished to live.
Glasnik was the first to grasp that there was a small catch to these wonderful promises: to see them carried out, one merely had to get killed, first.
Our general had reassurances for skeptics like Glasnik. Our enemy, he said, was more monkey than man, so puny and primitive and so laughably unaccustomed to modern warfare or true Russian patriotic fervor that all we needed to do was scarcely more than throw our caps into the air to send him into headlong flight. I thought of the men who had passed us earlier today and wondered why they hadn’t thought of that.
With evening, it grew piercingly cold. We lined up at our soup wagons. The food did little more than warm our stomachs for a moment. The real hardship was that we couldn’t smoke because our lit matches might reveal our location to the enemy. I suspected, however, that the Japanese knew exactly where we were, probably better than we did.
Presently, we were issued bales of straw to spread on the muddy floor of the trench where we lay down to sleep.
By morning, all of us were furiously hungry, but nowhere was there so much as a glimpse of food. What I did see were hundreds of soldiers, roaming around in defiance of orders, collecting clean snow to boil for tea and to wash themselves. I ordered my men not to leave the trench, and to take just enough water from their canteens to rinse their mouths and eyes. So we waited and yawned and scratched ourselves, and cursed the bitter cold that knifed right through to our bones. By now the frost was so sharp that spittle turned to ice even before it dribbled down your chin.
After lying all night on the damp, muddy straw, my uniform and even my underwear were frozen stiff, as though they’d been heavily starched. I jumped around and thrashed my arms to work up some body heat. If the Japanese had attacked at that moment, I'm quite sure I would not have been able to hook a finger around the trigger. I could only hope that they were as uncomfortable as we were.
Toward noon, as an emaciated ray of sun broke through the grey, we heard shouts of joy. The soup wagons had arrived. Wild with eagerness, the men started to dance around in total abandonment. But, just as we lined up for the soup, without a thought for cover or concealment, our uncivilized enemy decided to open up with his heaviest artillery. In spite of General Zasulich’s aristocratic contempt for geography and terrain maps, the accommodating Japanese, whether out of Oriental courtesy or simple impatience, had come looking for us.
Before we knew it, we were in the midst of a formidably accurate barrage. I saw horses, wagons, and men flung through the air like toys. All around me, soldiers, torn by shrapnel, were screaming. We rushed back to our trenches, full of hatred for the Japanese. But they were too far away for us to reach with our rifles.
We were, however, consoled by the promise of an opportunity to make a bayonet charge on the enemy’s trenches, as soon as we knew where his main strength was concentrated. Meanwhile, far behind us, dispatch riders were hurrying in all directions to call for
Before sunset, we were summoned together at the foot of the hill, where our commanding general delivered a talk. He was unquestionably a talented orator, at least as measured by his effect on the Russian and Ukrainian boys. He recounted the greatness of Holy Mother Russia, of how we had never lost a war, and of how devoted our Little Father, the Czar, was to the welfare of his people, regardless of their nationality or religion. Therefore, each man, whatever his origins, should consider it an honor to give his life for the Czar. After the war, things would be different: peasants would receive more land, workers would get higher wages, and even the Jews would have the right to own land wherever they wished to live.
Glasnik was the first to grasp that there was a small catch to these wonderful promises: to see them carried out, one merely had to get killed, first.
Our general had reassurances for skeptics like Glasnik. Our enemy, he said, was more monkey than man, so puny and primitive and so laughably unaccustomed to modern warfare or true Russian patriotic fervor that all we needed to do was scarcely more than throw our caps into the air to send him into headlong flight. I thought of the men who had passed us earlier today and wondered why they hadn’t thought of that.
With evening, it grew piercingly cold. We lined up at our soup wagons. The food did little more than warm our stomachs for a moment. The real hardship was that we couldn’t smoke because our lit matches might reveal our location to the enemy. I suspected, however, that the Japanese knew exactly where we were, probably better than we did.
Presently, we were issued bales of straw to spread on the muddy floor of the trench where we lay down to sleep.
By morning, all of us were furiously hungry, but nowhere was there so much as a glimpse of food. What I did see were hundreds of soldiers, roaming around in defiance of orders, collecting clean snow to boil for tea and to wash themselves. I ordered my men not to leave the trench, and to take just enough water from their canteens to rinse their mouths and eyes. So we waited and yawned and scratched ourselves, and cursed the bitter cold that knifed right through to our bones. By now the frost was so sharp that spittle turned to ice even before it dribbled down your chin.
After lying all night on the damp, muddy straw, my uniform and even my underwear were frozen stiff, as though they’d been heavily starched. I jumped around and thrashed my arms to work up some body heat. If the Japanese had attacked at that moment, I'm quite sure I would not have been able to hook a finger around the trigger. I could only hope that they were as uncomfortable as we were.
Toward noon, as an emaciated ray of sun broke through the grey, we heard shouts of joy. The soup wagons had arrived. Wild with eagerness, the men started to dance around in total abandonment. But, just as we lined up for the soup, without a thought for cover or concealment, our uncivilized enemy decided to open up with his heaviest artillery. In spite of General Zasulich’s aristocratic contempt for geography and terrain maps, the accommodating Japanese, whether out of Oriental courtesy or simple impatience, had come looking for us.
Before we knew it, we were in the midst of a formidably accurate barrage. I saw horses, wagons, and men flung through the air like toys. All around me, soldiers, torn by shrapnel, were screaming. We rushed back to our trenches, full of hatred for the Japanese. But they were too far away for us to reach with our rifles.
We were, however, consoled by the promise of an opportunity to make a bayonet charge on the enemy’s trenches, as soon as we knew where his main strength was concentrated. Meanwhile, far behind us, dispatch riders were hurrying in all directions to call for
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