The Accidental Anarchist by Bryna Kranzler Page B

were empty. Our battalion, it seemed, had been ordered to retreat while we slept, no doubt by the very same officers who had confirmed our “victory,” and no one had bothered to wake us. The wind and sleet had covered all tracks, and it was impossible to tell in which direction they had gone. As it was getting dark, we knew that if we went looking for them we could easily stumble into enemy hands.
     
    There we were, alone on a huge sloping field, surrounded by the twisted bodies of men and horses, piles of empty ammunition boxes, boots, shovels, mess tins, broken carts, fur hats, blankets, and scraps of clothing. To my great disappointment, I saw that Pyotr, my devoted enemy, hadn’t fled and was, in fact, full of vigor. But he had the excellent idea of searching the dead for any hardtack, sugar, or tobacco they might have on them. Soon the rest of us were doing it. We found very little, until we searched the pack of an officer, which yielded a small bottle of vodka. It was quickly shared, no more than a lick for each man, but it left us somewhat more cheerful.
     
    A machine gun suddenly opened up on us and we raced back to our trench, surprising a number of large rats that had been gnawing on a body we had been too tired to bury. One of our men got a bullet through his thigh, but he was so numb with cold he didn't even feel it.
     
    Night fell, and we were not sure of what to do. Stay there, or try to find our battalion? It was a serious question, not only because we might, at any time, be overrun by the Japanese, but also because if we rejoined our unit after we had been officially listed as dead or missing, we would automatically be declared deserters. Which could mean the firing squad.
     
    We decided to stay put, at least for the night. But it wasn’t safe to sleep. I don’t know which we dreaded more, the Japanese or the rats. To keep warm, we huddled together, helping one another stay awake. Sometime during the night, however, sleep won out.
     
    By morning, snow had covered us with such a thick blanket that we might have been in a feather bed at the Hotel Bristol in Petersburg. My first thought was that I had died and been buried; it was a miracle that we hadn’t frozen to death. The only reason I knew I was alive was because I was hungry. And because I heard my comrades’ snoring.
     
    It took all my strength to dig myself out. By now the snow had nearly filled the trenches. Above me, there was no sky, and almost no air. Around me, I saw not another living soul. Where had they all gone?
     
    It was impossible to breathe without inhaling snow. The wind was like a dagger in my lungs.
    I took a little of the crisp, dry snow and washed my eyes. My watch had stopped, and I didn’t know if it was morning or afternoon. Somewhere in the distance, cannons were booming. Apparently not even the Japanese were interested in our little group.
     
    I envied my comrades who were still sleeping, and thought about burying myself once again in the snow. But with bloodstained clothes frozen to my body, I couldn’t loosen anything without tearing off patches of skin.
     
    Fed up with being alone in my misery, I tried to awaken Glasnik. But even after I had removed his heavy covering of snow, he continued to snore. Finally, I had to pull his hair to get his attention.
     
    It took him some time to recall where he was. Then he helped me dig out the others. The boy who had taken a bullet in his thigh absolutely refused to budge. I pressed my ear against his heart; it was silent as a stone. We managed to awaken only three more soldiers. As far as I could tell, the others had died during the night.
     
    One of the live ones was Pyotr. He had a slightly insane glimmer in his eyes, the kind of a look you might see on a man who is ready to kill himself . . . or you. Meanwhile, the storm piled snow into our trench as fast as we could shovel it out. We finally decided to abandon the dead (they were as well protected as if we had buried