At last, thank God! some sailors arrived, and with them a number of officers. I at once sent a detachment into the breastwork under a naval ensign. They reached it without loss, and climbed in over the parapet, the entrance having been destroyed. Suddenly I saw the ensign running out of the work with about twenty sailors and riflemen in his train. My heart sank. While I watched them the ensign lay down, and the sailors, doing the same, began to fire. As, however, they were in the very place where the 11-inch shell constantly fell, I sent the ensign an order to return to the breastwork. I saw the orderly reach him and give him my order, but nevertheless they all remained lying where they were.
My ire rose, and I sent to the ensign to say that if he remained where he was, I would shoot him like a dog. In another moment I felt that I had been too hasty, but the orderly was already gone. About a quarter of an hour later I received in reply the information that a part of the ditch had fallen in and the parapet had been demolished, making it impossible to remain there any longer. So I sent him an apology for my hasty reprimand, and thanked him for his enterprise and bravery. A non-commissioned officer, who had come back for hand grenades, took him this message.
Though many shells fell round the little band of sailors and the naval ensign, who remained on one knee with his drawn sword in his hand, no casualties occurred. Many were wounded, even near the bomb-proof and on the road, but these men seemed to bear charmed lives, and all the officers standing near me marvelled at their extraordinary luck.
Then suddenly there was the scream of an 11-inch shell. With a deafening roar it burst right over them, and thick black smoke shut out the awful picture, while all of us held our breath. The smoke cleared away, and we saw the sailors still lying there and the ensign kneeling as before. Once again we breathed freely. Unfortunately, I forgot to find out this officer’s name.
The firing began to die down—a sure sign of impending attack. Our hand grenades burst over the breastwork in still greater numbers. I sent a party of sailors towards the work and another into the central trench to be ready in case of need to charge with the bayonet from the flank. But no attack came. The Japanese could not, apparently, bring themselves to face the shower of grenades.
Evening came on, and we were still awaiting the attack. Then an alarming incident occurred. A detachment of our 3rd Company, under Acting Ensign Moskvin, was stationed in reserve in a gun emplacement. The men were sitting right at the bottom of the emplacement, but the Acting Ensign’s head could be seen over the top. Suddenly a large shell burst, as it seemed to me, right over him. When the smoke cleared away, he was lying motionless on the steps of the emplacement. He was immediately carried to the road, and found to be stunned, but apparently unwounded; how it was that he was not blown to atoms passes my understanding.
It transpired afterwards that Moskvin had been injured internally in the chest and head, in consequence of which he completely lost his hearing and power of speech, and was paralysed down the right side. He was a brave lad, and I felt very sorry for him. About a month afterwards, he regained his speech and power of movement. Later on he became a prisoner of war, and eventually died here in Kiev. I was unable to attend his funeral in person, but my wife followed his remains to their last resting-place.
The day was now over and there had been no assault. It was almost incredible. Had I indeed made a mistake regarding the intentions of the Japanese?
That evening a great number of units had collected on 203 Metre Hill, and, in order to prevent overcrowding, I sent half of them down to the place where the kitchens were situated.
Any one who carefully reads these lines might very well ask the question “How is this? Men are constantly being sent up to the hill, but none seem to leave it?” But it must be remembered that 203 Metre Hill cost us 4,000 men.[118] Units arrived in good order, but, as soon as heavy losses occurred, they were usually mixed with later comers.