I wonder if our going past the outposts has brought forth the Russians' nervous fire. That seems also to have occurred to the Ober-Lieutenant.
"They might have thought that we were reconnoitering for a night attack," and then abruptly, "Let us go out."
As we pass between the houses a bullet goes snaggering off a roof. It would seem to be a last wild shot for as we turn up the road to the outpost, everything is still. In the little cemetery to the left of the barricade, I see soldiers, squatting behind the tombstones; the great wooden cross suggests an incongruous peace. Calling the sentries who but a time ago, we heard discussing Wagner and Strauss, the Ober-Lieutenant taxes them with questions. They salute and hurry behind the cart, which they have turned blocking the road. "Any wounded?" calls the Ober-Lieutenant down the trench.
"Nur Russlanders!" The soldiers laugh and slip fresh clips into their guns.
"Alles ruhig," the Ober-Lieutenant is saying as we walk along the line, apparently scornful of the Russians that the pines will not let him see. "Only nervousness, that shooting."
"You do not believe there will be an attack?"
He shakes his head. "I think not."
But across the belt to the woods, I see the black winged birds, slowly flying and waddling over the ground.
7:30 P. M. During dinner the Ober-Lieutenant has avoided all shop talk. No such food as in the West, here—just a stew of white beans and beef and thick bread, carved off a big black loaf. The thoughtful looking Colonel produces a flask of cognac, and we are finishing with cigarettes, when an under officer reports.