Then came the war in Manchuria; active service; hopes for the regeneration of the Army. Then an open struggle, in a stifled Press, with the higher command of the Army, against stagnation, ignorance, privileges and licence—a struggle for the welfare of the officer and the soldier. The times were stern—all my service, all my military career was at stake. Then came my command of a regiment, constant care for the improvement of the condition of the soldiers, after my Pultussk experience—strict service demands, but also respect for the human dignity of the soldier. At that time we seemed to understand one another and were not strangers. Then came war again, the “Iron” Division, nearer relations with the rifleman and work with him in common. The staff was always near the positions, so as to share mud, want of space, and dangers with the men. Then a long, laborious path, full of glorious battles, in which a common life, common sufferings and common fame brought us still closer together, and created a mutual faith and a touching proximity.
No, I have never been an enemy to the soldier.
I threw off my cloak, and, jumping from the wooden bed, went up to the window, where the figure of a soldier clung to the grating, belching forth curses.
“You lie, soldier! It is not your own words that you are speaking. If you are not a coward, hiding in the rear, if you have been in action, you have seen how your officers could die. You have seen that they....”
His hands loosened their grip and the figure disappeared. I think it was simply because of my stern address, which, despite the impotence of a prisoner, produced its usual effect.
Fresh faces appeared at the window and at the peep-hole in the door.
It was not always, however, that we met with insolence alone. Sometimes, through the assumed rudeness of our gaolers we could see a feeling of awkwardness, confusion and even commiseration. But of these feelings they were ashamed. On the first cold night, when we had none of our things, a guard brought Markov, who had forgotten his overcoat, a soldier’s overcoat, but half an hour later—whether he had grown ashamed of his good action, or whether his comrades had shamed him—he took it back. In Markov’s cursory notes we find: “We are looked after by two Austrian prisoners.... Besides them, we have as our caterer a soldier, formerly of the Finland Rifles (a Russian), a very kind and thoughtful man. During our first days he, too, had a hard time of it—his comrades gave him no peace; now, however, matters are all right; they have quieted down. His care for our food is simply touching, while the news he brings is delightful in its simplicity. Yesterday, he told me that he would miss us when we are taken away.
“I soothed him by saying that our places would soon be filled by new generals—that all had not yet been destroyed.”
My heart is heavy. My feelings seem to be split in two: I hate and despise the savage, cruel, senseless mob, but still I feel the old pity for the soldier: an ignorant, illiterate man, who has been led astray, and is capable both of abominable crimes and of lofty sacrifices!