We had lost in this way many huts, which were happily cut off from the others, and it had been a useful warning to us when, one night, about one o’clock, a fire—a terrible fire—broke out in Hut 521, which could be seen on the plain three or four miles away from us.
We had just put on our boots and had gone out to watch it. What a sight it was! The huge furnace with its tongues of flame, the bluish country benumbed with frost, the wind which seemed to ripple like water in the moonlight, and the reflections of the fire on the Siberian landscape, honeycombed with the old trenches of 1915.
We were horrified at the thought of what was happening there; but we did not dare to leave our post.
And we did right; for towards 3 A.M. a long line of motors came hooting before the door—some of the wounded rescued from the fire were being brought to us.
We got them out of the cars. How patient they were, poor things! Two with fractured skulls, one with an amputated leg, and another with a broken leg, and several less seriously wounded. They had lost in the fire all the possessions which, as soldiers, they were allowed to have—the linen bag you see hanging on the bed, containing a knife, a box of matches, three or four old letters, and a small lead pencil. I repeat, they did behave well; but they were pitiful to look at. They really looked like people who for one awful moment had lain helpless in their beds while the flames surrounded them, and who were conscious of only one agonising thought: “If help doesn’t come at once, in five minutes it will be too late.”
We put them into bed, and got them warm again: they needed it. I well remember seeing icicles glistening on the bandages of the man with the broken leg. It was a sorry business. The whole night long we looked after them; and only in the morning were we able to chat round the coffee-pot. The wounded were dozing. The hut was almost warm. We had made them wear cotton caps and woollen vests, and drink a cupful of boiling milk. They were in a half-dozing, half-waking state and seemed to be thinking: “Lord! what a narrow shave! And it’s the second one too. We had better look out for the third.”
It was then, old fellow, that M. Perrier-Langlade arrived on the scene.
I had gone out—I don’t remember why—and I was kicking my heels on the frosty ground, when I saw a sumptuous motor-car come to a stop on the road. The door clicked open, and M. Perrier-Langlade came out, staggering under a heavy, luxurious fur cloak.
I at once thought: “Ah, good! Here’s M. Perrier-Langlade coming to cheer up my poor patients.”
I had a hundred yards to cover. I leaped over some dizzy gratings, and I arrived, rather out of breath, just in time to spring to attention before the door. M. Perrier-Langlade stamped with annoyance.