OUR SHORT STORY.

Maoriland Worker, Volume 2, Issue 36, 10 November 1911, Page 5

OUR SHORT STORY.

f'Foup Days on the Battlefield/ 9

Specially Translated from the Russian of

Vsevoiod Garshin.

By DORA B.

"" Above mc I can see a patch of dark fcky in which shines one bright* star, Bind several smaller ones. Dark high masses, which appear to be bushes, surround mc; yes, lam lying in-a clump of bushes; that is perhaps why they have not found mc. A feeling of horSror stirs to the very roots of my hair. s . . But how, if I was shot in the fneadow, did I manage to get among these bushes? Probably I crawled here after I was wounded, and had forgotten, everything in my pain. But them it is strange that I cannot move now, and could drag myself all this way then. I had only one wound then, &nd another bullet finished mc off here. 3?he star grows paler and the smaller ones vanish. . . . The moon is ris-

ing. How beautiful it must be now at home I

. Some strange sounds reach my ears, £s if someone were moaning. Yes, it is a cry. Is someone then lying near 3me, forgotten, as I am.; and with his legs broken, or a,bullet in his stomach? ■No, the moans are quite near, but 1 fcan see no one. . . . Good God! It

Is myself who is crying out! But what low, distressful moans! Am I. then in .such frightful pain? Probably; only I do not realise it distinctly, for my head is as heavy as if filled with lead. . . . I would like to lie down and 'sleep. But should I ever wake again? That hardly matters.

Again I sink to the ground, but as I lie there I can see, lit up by a pale ray ;bf moonlight, a large dark object lying about five paces from mc. On this object stray moonbeams flash on some .bright specks which appear to be buttons or some of the decorations of a .soldier's uniform: . . . There must be a .wounded or dead man lying nea** 70.9.. * . . . And I also have to lie here. No,

it cannot be! Our men have not left the spot. They are still here ■ they have 'dislodged the enemy from his post, and they must be within call. . . . - iWhy then do I hear neither voices nor "the cracking of watch fires? It mast be because I am so weak that I can hear iaothing. 0 - . They must surely be here. Help! Help! My voice sounds hoarse and wild, and my cries ring through the stiil night air. The only answer is the ceaseless chirp of the crickets. The imoon stares down at mc with its full, round, impassive face.

If HE were only wounded my cries would surely rouse him; but he must ,l>e dead. Is he one of us, or is he a jTurk? Ah, God! As far as I am concerned,- what does it matter? . . . 'And once more sleep closes my dry, jswollein eyes.

... Again I am conscious ■ but my feyes are closed and I do not feel inclined to open them, for the bright sunlight is on my face. If I open my eyes the sun will make them smart; besides it is better not to move. Yesterday (I think it was yesterday) I was wounded. jOne day has gone by; another will pass, and then death will . . . So it's better not to move. My body, at least, shall have rest. It would be better if I did not think, but I cannot help thinking. Thoughts and memories crowd- in on mc from every side. 13ut it won't last long; the end must oome .soon. The papers will give accounts of our losses, so many wounded, and among the dead. Private Volunteer Ivanov. No, they will not even print thy name ;* they will simply say, "One private killed." One private . . . just like recording the death of a dog!

My mind goes back several years, for "everything seems so long ago since I found myself lying here with my legs broken. ... I was walking down a "street, when I was stopped by a crowd. The people were standing silently gazing down at a little white howling bundle covered with blood. It was a pretty little dog that had been run over by a tram car, and it was dying, just as I km dying now. A porter from a [house close by made his way through the crowd, picked up the dog by its neck and carried it away. The crowd Sispersed.

Will someone carry mc away ? No ; St seems I have to lie here and die. &nd life is so beautiful. . . . How happy I" wriS that day when I saw the ■unlucky dog. I was walking along in a 'dream' of happiness. Ah, memory, do Hot taunt mc! Let mc be. Happiness in the past and suffering in the present. ffhe sufferings I could bear if only. itaemory would not torture mc. Oh, borrow, sorrow, you are worse even Ihan my wounds!

The heat increases. The sun scorches. !_t last I am forced to open my eyes, tonly to see the.. same bushes and the jgame sky. And there in the daylight II can see my neighbour. ... Ah, he is a dead Turk. What a huge body! I can.even recognise him; he is the Jfcaine who . • .

there is. lying close tome a man Ifrhom I have killed 1 Why did I kill SChere he lies in hh blood. Why did

OMTEFIOIRE.

he come here? Who is he? Probably, like mc, he has an aged mother. . . . She will sit during the long evening hours at the door of her humble hut, und look towards the distant north. . .

Will he return, the fondly loved son, who worked for her and cared for her? And I ? I also .1.1 think I would even change places with him. He hears nothing, neither does he feel pain from wounds, nor the pangs of thirst, nor of death. That bayonet thrust went straight to his heart; I can see there on his uniform a great black hole clotted with blood! IT WAS I WHO DID THATI

I had no wish to do it. I had no wish to harm anyone when 1 wont to the* war. My only thought was otfp.ring my own body to a chance 1 i:lJet .. ... So I offered it.

Well, and what then? Oh. you fo-jl-ish, foolish fellow! And this poor wretch! He wears an Egyptian uniform, and his crime is still less than mine. He was one of those crowded on to a ship, like herrings in a barrel, aaid landed in Constantinople, having never perhaps so much as heard either of Russia or of Bulgaria. He was under orders to go, and he went. Very likely he was afraid that if he disobeyed orders he would be beaten, or some Pasha might shoot him with a revolver. Then he made the long and difficult journey from , Stamboul to Roushtiouck. There the attack began, and he and others defended themselves. To him we must have appeared to be a horrible race of people, who, regardless of his Englishmade rifle, rushed straight at him; he grew terrified; and just as he was trying to escape a little man, whom he could have killed with one blow of his black fist, jumped xip and thrust a bayonet into his heart. Yes . . . Wherein lay his crime? And why did I kill him? Why am I tortured with thirst . . . thirst? Who knows? I wonder what that word means? Whilst we were marching through Roumania, making fifty versts a day—even during those frightfully hot and sultry days I did not suffer as lam suffering now. Oh, if only someone would come!

My God! Perhaps there is water in his water bottle! But to get to it I must crawl up to him. What will the effort cost mc ? Anyhow, I must make it. I start to crawl, dragging my legs slowly after mc. My weak arms can scarcely move my inanimate body. The oorpse and I are separated bj; about fourteen feet, but that distance is more to mc now than several miles used to be. My throat is on fire; but I shall live longer if I can get water.

So I drag myself along. My legs seem to be glued to the ground, and every movement produces intolerable pain. I cry out and moan in anguish, but still I .crawl on.

At last I reach the body and feel for the water bottle. Yes, there is water in it, and plenty of it; the flask is more than half full! It will last for a longtime ,• perhaps until my death. He whom I killed has saved mc! I begin, leaning on one elbow, to unfasten the flask; suddenly I lose my balance and fall with my face on my deliverer's breast. . . . The body already gives

out a horrible stench

I drink some water ; it is warm, but fairly pure, and there is plenty of it. I remember having read somewhere that a man can live more than a week without food, provided he has water. Well, and what then ? Supposing I keep life within myself for four or five days, of what avail will that be to mc? Our men have gone, and the Bulgarians have all fled. lam lying some distance from the road, and no help is likely to come; so I must die. Instead, therefore, of two or three days' suffering, I shall have a week's torture. Would it not be better to put an end to it at once ? Near the body there lies a rifle; a fine English rifle. ... I have only to stretch out my hand ... a flash . . . and all will be over. The cartridges are lying near in a little heap. He has not used them all-

Well, am I to put ah end to myself or wait? Wait? What for? For deliverance ? For death ? Wait until the Turks come and flay my wounded legs ? I had much better put an end to the whole business.

No, my spirit shall not quail; I will fight to the bitter end. If only our men find mc I shall be saved. Perhaps the bones of the legs are not broken, and they will be able to put them right. Then I shall once more see my home, my mother, and Masha . . . Oh, God! May they never know the whole truth! Let them believe I was killed on the spot. What will become of them if they ever realise that I lay here suffering, two, three, four daysl

I grow giddy. The journey across, to my neighbour, the corpse, has quite exhausted one. .... And then the smell; . „ . How black he is . . . What state will he be in to-morrow? And it seems I must continue to lie here because I have no strength to move. I will rest awhile, and then crawl back-to my old place. The. wind 'that 1 is "blowing will carry the smell in the other direction. (To be continued.)