"That can't be true, because Australia belongs to Germany. It's a part of America, I believe."
"Nu! America belongs to England, so I dare say I was right after all. Anyway, the Japanese walk on their feet like us, and they fight well. I wonder what made them so angry with us?"
"I don't know. What do we get angry about when we're at home? Perhaps the Little Father called the Emperor of Japan a sheep; if you called me a sheep I should fight you; but emperors can't fight; of course not, for they've no one to give them orders except the Lord God, and He couldn't give orders to both at once."
"But if they quarrel, why should they make us fight in thousands? It would be much better if his excellency the general and the Japanese marshal took off their coats and fought, just they two. That would be a fight worth seeing, eh, comrades?—a fight after the old style, before they did everything by machinery."
"Da! It wouldn't matter so much if they made each other's nose bleed, instead of us shooting at the little Japanese and them shooting at us. Why, think of the thousands of widows there must be in Little Russia—da! and in Japan too, for I expect they have a kind of marriage there."
"True, we haven't any quarrel with the little men; and they're not very angry either. When I was wounded in the bayonet charge, and lay on the ground, a Japanese came up and gave me a cigarette; ach! the sun was hot, and I was fanning myself with my cap, and he made me take a little paper fan he had. Here it is: I shall give it to my little Anna, dushenka! when I get home again."
"Ach! shall we ever get home again? Look at the thousands of versts we are away; and we've got to stay till we beat the Japanese! Sing us your song, Chapkin—you know, the one that always makes me cry."
The big veteran addressed took a sip from his half-empty flask of vodka, and began, in a fine baritone every note of which was charged with pathos—
"No more my eyes will see the land
Where I was born.
I suffer at my lord's command;
My limbs are torn.
Upon my roof the owl will moan;
The pigeon for her mate will yearn;
My heart with grief is broken down:
No, never more shall I return!"
The simple words brought tears to the eyes of all those rough soldiers. Kedril grunted and growled.