“No. We reached Moscow, turned right round and walked right out again. I’ve been with the Czechs at Kolybelsk. I’m on my way out—to Harbin or Vladivostok—to see if I can’t hustle along some supplies. Medical supplies. They’re chopping off arms and legs down there with butcher knives and no anesthetics.”
Ten minutes had elapsed before more was spoken. The sudden introduction of food into the man’s weakened vitals distressed him. He drank cup after cup of the vile coffee. But it was hot. Heat was what counted. Then more cigarettes. Eleven of them.
“I know my clothes must smell like hell, boys, but if you’d seen what I’ve been thrown among, coming across from——”
“I’ve got an extra outfit you can change into,” offered the man from Scranton. “Jake, turn some fresh water into that kettle and put it on. Forge’ll want to shave.”
“Yes,” said Nat, with a choke of emotion at being among his countrymen again. “And which of you boys is a barber? Some one’s got to harvest this hair. Nothing fancy. Anything to get it off.”
Nat took a sponge bath, nude at one side before them, at the huge samovar. He changed into clean garments. He removed his stringy beard with scissors and shaved his face. His hair was sheared. He came back and sat down at the stove.
“When did they shoot Wiley? What for?”
“They shot him at Krasnoyek. We got there in the rainy dark. We were on our way back toward Ekaterinburg. Something was the matter with his papers—a ‘t’ wasn’t crossed or an ‘i’ dotted somewhere. He was standing within three feet of me—without a word they asked him to step aside—an official pumped four bullets from an automatic into his chest and stomach before he knew what it was all about—he looked at me in surprise—sort of sickly—he just sank down to a sitting posture on the ground, holding himself up on a stiffened arm, his other hand at his stomach—then he laid his forehead down on his wrist—he never spoke a word—just died. God damn this bloody country and all the low-browed fiends in it! It’s getting just what it deserves—my papers happened to be all right—thank the Lord for tobacco—how long you fellows been here, anyhow—and for the love of Mike, tell me what’s happening in France?”
III
The Americans were “doing things” in France. The German steam-roller had smashed head-on into another steam-roller and the second steam-roller had not been the one reduced to pig iron.