'Sir, Butusoff is exhausted, and asked a few days ago for leave to go and rest. I gave it him on the condition that he would at once come if wanted.'
'Tell him that I do not order him to go to 203 Metre Hill, but I would ask him to. We want him there; he is irreplaceable. Say it is my particular request.'
He was at once summoned, and went up to the hill. We knew we should not see him again, and sure enough next day Butusoff, the pride of the Frontier Guards, was mortally wounded in the stomach, and suffered frightful agony till he became unconscious before death.
As the sun rose on December 5 it lit up the two-humped summit of 203 Metre Hill for the last time in the possession of Russian soldiers—a handful of gunners, sappers, and infantry hiding among shapeless mounds of rubbish. This was the last day. On it occurred an incident which might be for ever quoted as an illustration of the 'fog of war.'
That morning Semenoff was watching through a telescope from Obelisk Hill. At ten o'clock he saw that the fighting was at the very top of the hill. At noon he saw our men retiring; the Japanese had gained the top, and our men were dashing down the hill. The enemy did not follow; they did not even open fire, but more and more of them were collecting on top and working as hard as they could, throwing sand-bags together and entrenching themselves. Their flag fluttered in the breeze. A parapet grew up; our men were getting further and further away. It was all quite clear and distinct. Every minute was precious. It was essential to concentrate a heavy fire on the hill and prevent the enemy establishing themselves, or all would be lost. He dashed to the telephone.
'Put me on to the Officer Commanding the Artillery.'
An answer came from the exchange that the line was engaged.
'In General Stössel's name put me on to General Biely.'
He got through.