The carts rolled into the summer and there were poppies and fields of wheat and the stink of gunpowder and the hum of bullets. I had almost recovered but decided it was unwise to leave the wounded. Who would bother the near-dead? We reached a village, half-burned already, and we were left in a Catholic church which had been stripped. We lay amongst refuse not even valuable to peasants, on the stains of horse-droppings; the droppings themselves were worth something. We watched thin rats who, in turn, watched us, wondering who would die first, who would eat whom. The peasants would not release us. Our comrades never returned. The doors were locked and the windows were high. The peasants were too cowardly to kill us.
My cocaine had been stolen, I think by Esmé. It would have given me strength. It would have helped me. In turn I could have helped the others. We called out for mercy. Our weak voices echoed in the empty church. The priest was dead; hanged by some militia or other. The peasants hated us. They listened to our voices. They were probably inspired as others might be by the
There was the firing of machine-guns and artillery. It might be salvation. The starving wounded stirred amongst the corpses. I still had my pistols, but no powder. We heard artillery limbers go through the town. Horses. We heard shouts. The church began to shake. I heard the blessed noise of engines. An argument outside the door. A shot. I cried for joy as a White officer stood in the doorway. He held a smoking revolver at his side. He pressed a handkerchief to his face. He wore the pale grey infantry jerkin, with red and gold epaulettes. He wore a cap with the old Tsarist badge. He wore blue breeches tucked into black boots. There were medal ribbons on his jacket. There was a sword at his side. He had a well-trimmed beard and though his face was filthy and his uniform patched with powder-smoke he represented something I had never expected to see again. He called out to the soldiers in their helmets and khaki. They ran into the church with their rifles. They began to cough. Some of the wounded had been dead for several days. I crawled forward and raised myself to my feet. I was smiling. But I had been deceived once more.
The White officer said: ‘Get those who can walk out. Shoot the rest where they are. It will be a mercy.’ An NCO ordered the men to advance. I was pushed into the sunshine. It was a small unit of infantry. There were some horsemen with the long whips and wide red stripes of regular Don Cossack cavalry. Both riders and horses looked weary. There were two khaki tanks: massive things, with gun-turrets and side-firing Lewises. There were three good-sized artillery-pieces and about ten machine-guns. There was a large, open car. I tried to speak to the officer, but he was striding over to the tanks which were opening their hatches. Behind the tanks, as if worshipping new gods, peasants were on their knees in a line, holding their caps before them. I was pushed. I protested. ‘I am a loyal subject of the Tsar.’
‘Tell him yourself,’ said one of the soldiers, shoving his helmet onto the back of his head. ‘You’re going where he went.’
I was too weak. I waved again at the officer. They were going to rob me. It was of great urgency to me that they did not take my remaining property. My life seemed unimportant. ‘Captain! Captain!’
Four of the wounded men were thrown against the wall and began to slide down it even before the bullets drew their blood. It was a waste of everything. The men would have died in a few hours.
A tall, slender officer, wearing khaki shirt and shorts, with a large nose and long jaw, his cap reversed, goggles on his forehead, moved rapidly in our direction. He was shouting in English. The soldiers were taking me to the wall with three more partisans. ‘Stop! You bloody-handed bastards. Can’t you see he’s a gentleman!’ They hesitated, looking towards the White captain, who had turned. The sun was making me squint. The captain shrugged and said in Russian, ‘We’ll find out who he is.’ He spoke French to a short, broad-faced lieutenant who translated this into bad English. ‘They say to question.’
