"They are very many, the Russians," Tzschirner was saying. "They never ride a patrol under twenty men. It is dangerous," continues Tzschirner with the air of one doing his duty by saying that, although I knew he was spoiling for a scrap.
"We may be surrounded; but I do not think. Naturlich, there is the chance. You wish?"
"Rittmeister, these Russians would have to use the road and we could see them coming in time."
"Oh, no," Tzschirner says quickly. "They often ride over the fields; it is very good for patrol, the country here."
"What grand little comforter," I murmur.
Tzschirner looks around and grins. "I will protect you."
I feel he has been quietly laughing at me, until from behind a distant snow capped ridge I see a black belch of smoke.
"They have burned a village," exclaims Tzschirner.
Together we run through the snow in the direction of the smoke, until a hillock gives us a vantage point of the surrounding country. We can see the flames now, streaking through the smoke and above the snowy hills, black clouds stain the cold blue sky.
"Remain here," calls Tzschirner, who is fumbling with his map. "It is little more than a kilometer from here to the village." And while he studies his map I watch the flames through my binoculars.