SPECIAL ARTICLE.

Press, Volume LV, Issue 16418, 11 January 1919, Page 7

SPECIAL ARTICLE.

** FOUR DAYS WOUNDED ON THE BATTLE-FIELD." (Translated Specially for "The Press" from the Russian of V. M. Garshni by J. W. Joynt, M.A.) (Trinela tor's Kote.—Gaishin's "Four Days" is one of the most poignant pieces of tho psychology of suffering to be found in literature. It is th® imaginary record of a wounded man who, in the Rosso-Turkish w&r 0 f 1877, had been overlooked and left lying on the field, for four days, with no other companion than the dead body of a Turk, whom he himeeU had killed. It is the first literary effort of a man who, during his brief life j of thirty-three years, had eaveral periods ' of mental derangement, in on© of which he threw himself over the stairs and was killed. Garish in waa born in 1855, of good family. He waa an idealist, of high nervous tension, to whom tho evil and suffering of tho world were a perpetual agony. The "Fonr Dstyn" took Russia by storm, and has been translated into many languages. I believe there is an English version buried m; in tho English aino literature of tho 'nineties. I have never eeon it; and in any case the present time seems appropriate tor a ireeh version of portions, at least. I have tried to convey something of the thrill and sob . of the original. Owing to limitations of v space soma paragraphs have been omitted.) I recall how we ran along the forest, how the ballets hummed, how the branches, lopped off by them, fell, how we forred our way through the shrubs of hawthorn. The shots came thicker than ever. Through the fringe of the forest appeared something red, darting hither and thithor. Sidorov, a young soldier-chap of the first company, suctdenly crouched down on the ground, and silently looked round at me with his big terror-stricken eyes. From his month flowed a stream of blood. Yes, I recall this well. I recall also bow, on the fringe of the forest, in the thick shrubbeiy, I caught sight of —him. He was a big, stout Turk; but I ran straight for him, although I was weak and this. Something cracked; something big, as it appeared to me, flew past. There was a ringing in my eara. "This was lie shooting at me," I reflected. But he, with a scream of tight, leaned with his back against a thick shrub of hawthorn. , He could hay® gone round the shrub; but through his terror he remembered nothing, and' fell, against the prickly branches. With ope blow I knocked his rifle out of his hands; with another I drove the bayonet home. Something - between the roar of a beast and the groan of a man was heard. Then I ran on further. Oar men-shouted "hurrah!" dropped, or shots. I rdmember ( that I did same vshooting, .: too, coming out of'. the forest,' on to an operi~*glade. Suddenly blonder sound arose, andWe all. moved forward together: that is, nob' .we, but our:, men: for I remained behind. This x seemed,.- to me strange. /Still more strangerwaa the fact that suddenly etverythingvanished; all the shouts and shots silent. I heard nothing, ond!'Saw only something, blue. That, xrf j course, wa6 the sky. Then it also van- * ished; I havenevei*>found myself in such an • extraordinary situation, y I am . lying, it seems, .on my stomach," and-.Bee in front of,:me only a small piece, of'ground. ■ Some blades -of grass; an ant creeping along, with one of them : under its head some-pieces of rubbish from last year's grass: there is my whole world. Arid I see it with only one eye, for the other, iscloscd ,-vrith .'something'hard—it must be* the "branch ; on'whichmy bead is! leaning. I am'"iombly uncomfortable; i to move, but .decidedly do not understand why I; cannot. Thus the -;timer. passes. I listen to the chirping of the humming of -a , .bee. •There is-nothing further. -At; "last I make an effort, I liberate my right arm from»under me, and, leaning with both hands on the ground, I try to get up on -my knees. Something swift and" •harp, like lightning, darts through my jvJiole frame, from knees to breast and jejad, and -I: fall down again. Again darkness; again nothing. •— *1 have woken up. Why do I see - ; stars, which shine so brightly in the dark-blue Bulgarian sky? Am I not in->.a tent? Why did I creep forth •from <-itP . I make <a movement, and . v feel a .torturing pain in my legs. \ j .Yes, I was wounded in the battle. Dangerously, or notP ■ I clutch at my legß,' 'at the place where the pain is. Both >right and left legs are covered- . With dried blood. When I touch, them Wth my hands, the pain' becomesjstill more intense. ''It.iV a ia&ie:. persisent, tugging-at the soul; There is a ringing in my ears, my head his grown s heavy. ; Confessedly. I understand that I am wounded "in both legß,' Whatever does it mean? Why did. they not pick me up"? Is it possibleshat the Turks have beaten us? /' • x : I 'begin 1 ' to recall what has happened to 'me, at first, oonfusedly, then more clearly; and I come to the. conclusion that we have certainly not "been beaten. • Because I fell (this, however, I do not:remember; but I.remember how all i ran forward, bat I was not able to run, only something blue remained before my eyes)—l fell on a grassy glade on; the top of a / mound. Our little ' colonel pointed us to this glade. '/Children," he cried in his ringing voice, "we shall be there!" And we got there^—that meansj we were not ' ; beaten. . . . ... Why. ever did they f'.\ notpick me. up You see, here on the gjade was an . exposed patch. Pro- ■; : bably J am' not the only one lying here. ' Tiieyiring was so thick. I must turn y my.head and look. I can do that more W j ' now,'- because lat the time * ClMtaVl" woke jnp the Igrass paßd.'itiie'anti I, endeavouring.to-raise \ -Tiot .my former on "my back; m r/Itoi ! ,is why-.these stArs were visible to ■%: v sit up. • It is a | fo do when; both" one's legs f • ';:jßte^broken." Several' times I . think V l gw>®S\up;.tliei' attempt ;in despair. |.j with v tears.;in .my -eyes, forced . p; ; X. •• ' .; .is of dark-blue , bilrnsi<» e big . star,. as several small 1 ones.- Around- me sr- arid- high. That is ||?) .- I: amin them;they did >. me. I feel a movement in Brit how did l l y .the, when they , shot °p«i''g}adeP- It; must be wbundeii I- crawled ; hither, irom pain, r . 'Only ifc ;.43iatr I cannot

more, but then I was able to drag myself to these shrub*. Possibly at that time I had only one wound, and the sccond bullet struck me when already here. Tho big star has paled, and the small ones have disappeared. That is the moon rising. How good to be at home'now I

Strange sounds reach my ears, like somebody groaning. Yes, that was a groan Is there somebody lying near me, also forgotten, with his legs broken, or a bullet in his stomach? No the groans are close by, but there i' s no one near me. My God; it was myself! Is it possible that I am in such pain" It must be; so Only I do not realise these pains, because my head is befogged. It is better to lie down again, and go to sleep, sleep, sleep; Only —shall I ever wake again? But that does not matter. At this moment, when I am preparing to lie down a broad belt of moonlight clearly illumines the place where I lie, and I see something dark and big. It is a corpse or a wounded man. It does not matl ter; J will lie down. No; it" cannot be Our men have not- gone. They are here; they have driven out the Turks and occupied this position. YiTiy is there no talking or gleam of camp-fires ? But, of course, it -is my weakness that prevents my hearing. "Help! Help!" "Wild-, hoarse, senseless screams burst forth from my brenst, and there is no answer to them. They resound on the air of nitrht. All remnins still. Only the grasshoppers continue their indefj»ti?ahlo chirping* The moon looks pityinely at me. If he were oniy wounded, he would have been awakened by 6uch a shriek. It is a corpse.

I lie with closed eyes, though I have already been awake some time. I do not want to open my eyes, because I feel the sun's rays through the lids. Twenty-four hours have now passed since I was wounded. If twenty-four more pass, I die. That does not matter. It is better to keep my body motionless; how good if only I could also stop the working of my brain. But'* it cannot be held in check. Thoughts and memories, throng in my head; However, it won't last Jong; the end comes soon. Just a few lines in the /newspaper, that "our losses were inconsiderable ; such and such _ a number wounded; one nrivate soldier of the volunteers killed." Just ''Ivanov"; not even his family name; as if we were little dogs. Will somebody take me away? No; I lie here and die. But how good life isl "I have been happy- Occasionally my happiness, was a kind of intoxication. %u, memories, do not torture me! Leave me! Past happiness, present tortures . ' . . . lot not the memories remain; they involuntarily compel one to make comparisons. The sun, scorches. I open my eyes, and sep the same shrubs, the same sky, only, this time, by the light of day. Why, there is my companion. Aye, a Turk, a corpse. What a huge feEow! I recognise him; it's the very man. Before me lies'the man whom I killed. ■ What did I kill him for? Why. did his fate drive him here? Who was he? Possibly he, like myself, has an old mother. Many an evening she will sit at the door of jier miserable mud cabin, her eyes fixed on the far away north. No, he does not- come; her darfing son, her bread-winner, her toiler. Aud I? Why, I would change places with . him. How happy he is*! He hears nothing; feels no pain of wounds, no deatli ly sorrow, no burningHhirst. I stabbed him. I had no desire to do so. I desired no ill to anybody when I came to fight. The thought of it being my lot to kill people escaped me somehow. I merely pictured to myself how I shall expose my own breast to bullets. And I came and did so. ■, Well, what of it? I was a fool, of course. But this unfortunate Egyptian was still less to blame.. Up to the time that he and- the rest, were brought to *Constantinpple, packed on a steamer like herrings in a barrel, he had never heard of either Russia or Bulgaria. They ordered him to go,. and he went. If ie had not gone.' he would have been shot by some Pasha. When he wanted to get aw s ay again, a little person, whom he could have - killed with one blow of his.big black fist, drove his bayonet into his heart. In what was'he to blame? ; And in what-was I to blame, although I*killed him? .. Is it for this that thirst is. torturing:me?, - -. x : . ;My : God 1 In ;,tliis :.big ; by his : side probably,there is But there • is the : getting4o hiinv ? Think what that will cost met!'rAll'the. same,.l will reach him. I. drag my legs ; along; my enfeebled arms-scarcely-move my inert body. To the. corpse it is only a matter of. about four-yards J but for ine it is a big distance, worse than .six or seven miles. Anyhow, I must crawL The float scorches like, a. furnace. Without water you die sooner.. I crawl. My legs seem chained; to the ground, and .every" 4 • m'ovement, causes' intolerable pain. J cry and shriek, but ..all the while I crawl on. .. At last I reach him. Here is the flask, arid half-full of water. Oh, water enough to last a long time! Till death! ' My victim, you . are my saviour.. \I began : to untie the flask, leaning on; one elbow, when suddenly,. losing my balance, I fall* face down on tho breast of my deliverer. I take a> deep draught. The water was warm, but not spoiled; and there was a lot of it. It will prolong my life several days. What of that? Instead, of three days' agony, I have ma'de for myself a week of it. Is it not better to make an end? Near my companion lies his rifle, an excellent English production.. It only involves stretching oiit my! hand: one second, and all is over. There are plenty of cartridges lying* about. ' Make, an end, or wait? Wait for what? Deliverance?/ Wait till the Turks come and tear'the skin from my wounded; limbs? It is better to do it myself. Nor I must not lose heart; I must- endure to the last ounce of my strength. .Perhaps the bones are not broken, and I can be cured. Then I live to see my country, my mother, and Mary. ■ Lord, lot them never know tho truth, that I have been tortured for two, three, four days! My head : is turning. ' The journey to my dead friend has exhausted ri>e. . The .odour is now horrible; but I . lie here because I have not strength to-drag-myself away again.. I rest, and then creep back to my old position. I slept a long time, because, when I woke up, it. was already night: my second night, I believe. Everything is as before; woundi paining, companion lying 'thero, just as big and motionless. I cannot bear to think of him. Is it possible that I flung aside everything Kind and friendly, marched six hundred miles, starved, froze, was tortured with heat, and now lie in these pains—all for one object, that this unfortunate wretch might cease to live? Have I rendered any other service to the objects of the war, except his murder? The sharp, fresh breeze of morning has sprung up. The shrubs are in motion. A sleepy bird has started up. The stars have grown dim. The darkblue sky has grown grey, covered with soft feathery clouds. The grey semidarkness has risen from the earth. fc>o . opens the third day of my—what am 1 ~ to call it? Life? . Agony? The third: 'how many still remain. in j any issue, not many, 1 _ have grown . very weak. I must drink. I will i drink: three times a day: morning, j ■ noon, and .evening. . , •The sun has risen. His huge disk, intersected and scored by the ~ j branches of the shrubs, -is red as b'9°d. It seems lie day will be hot. . Neighhour, how.fares it with you. loujare now horrible:' Yes, he ! rible.. I really must drag mysdf , away, cost what it. may. . But ? have I .the strength? I can still raise my . hand, open the flask, but, to shift my heavy, mert £)dyr' _ let,, move I must, if only halt a yar Hour.| My'whole morning passes in . this ~

transit. The pain is intense; bnt what is that to me now ? Ino longer recall, I cannot present to my wind, the feeling of a healthy man. Well, on this morning I creep my fewyards, and find myself in my old position. But I have not long enjoyed the fresh air—if one can 6peak of fresh air at a few paces from a decomposing °orpsQ. jiy empty stomach contracts painfully and convulsively. I have a sensation of sickness and despair; and I weep. He now hears voices, and the trampling of horses. They approach nearer, and then die away. In deadly dread that they may be Turks, he remains still; and only discovers that they are a squadron of Cossacks when they have got beyond the reach of his enfeebled cries. Then the horror of despair settles down on him. Ho upsets his water-flask burns with thirst, and becomes weaker and weaker. "The day passes, the night passes. It is all alike. Morning breaks again. It is all alike." The rustling of the shrubbery ho imagines to be a conversation. One group of shrubs says:—"There yon are, dying, dying, dying." Another group responds:—"But you do not see; yon do not' see, you do not see." Ho sfiudders, and retrains full consciousness. From the shrubs he sees gazing at him the fine blue eyes of his corporal. He hears a call for spades, and in his excessive feebleness he narrowly escapes being tajsen for dead. At "the elo=o his treatment and recovery are rapidly touched on.