Knight Without Armour

He felt her hands searching him; he heard her say something, but he could not gather what—he was fast sinking into unconsciousness. Ages seemed to pass; at intervals he opened his eyes and heard great commotion proceeding all around and over him. Successive waves of pain assaulted and left him gasping with weakness. It was dark when he finally awoke. Pain was ebbing by then, and his strength with it. Queer sounds still echoed in his ears—murmurs as of distant shouting, distant rifle-fire. The starlight shone a pale radiance over the earth; he saw that he was lying in a sort of gully and that, a few yards away, there was something that looked like another man. He called ‘Hello!’ but there was no answer. Perhaps the fellow was asleep. He was suddenly anxious to meet somebody, to speak a word to somebody. There had been a battle, he guessed, and it would be interesting to learn whether the Whites or the Reds had been victorious. It hardly seemed to matter very much, but, just out of curiosity, as it were, he would like to know. And Daly, his prisoner, had she by now been safely received and identified by her friends?…God, how thirsty he was—he would offer that man some money in return for a drink of anything but poisoned water. Slowly, and with greater difficulty than he had expected, he crawled along the gully towards the huddled figure. Then he perceived that the man was dead—killed by a smashing blow in the face. That, for all that he had seen so many dead bodies in his time, unnerved him a little; he stared round him a little vaguely, as if uncertain how to interpret the discovery. Then he rose unsteadily to his feet and began to stagger about. He climbed on to the roadway and up the sloping bank on to the pale stubble fields. He walked a little way—a few hundred yards—and then saw another dead man. Then another. A man with his head nearly blown off at close range. A man huddled in the final writhings of a bayonet-thrust through the stomach. A man covered with blood from a drained and severed artery. Most of the dead, from their uniforms, were Reds; a few only could have belonged to the other side. Sickly qualms overspread him as he wandered aimlessly among these huddled figures. Then he suddenly heard a cry. It seemed to come from a distance; he turned slightly and heard it again. “Brother!” it called. He walked towards it. “What is it?” he whispered, and the reply came: “Are you not wounded, brother?”—“No,” he answered, and the voice rejoined: “Neither am I. Come here.”

He approached a prostrate form that proved to be a Red soldier whose face was ghastly with congealed blood. Only, as the man explained with immediate cheerfulness, it was not his own blood. “Brother,” he said, “I am an old soldier and I know from experience what war is like. It is all very fine if you are winning easily, but it is unpleasant when you are being attacked by a much stronger enemy. The best thing to do at such a time, in my opinion, is to fall down and pretend to be dead. Then, if you are lucky, the enemy doesn’t bother about you. I have saved my life three times by this method—twice with the Germans and once again today. I suppose you too, brother, did the same?”

“No,” answered A.J. “I fell ill in the morning and that’s all I remember.”

“Ah, yes, it happened to so many of our poor fellows. Some White spy poisoned the water in Saratursk—a disgusting way of carrying on war, I call it. Not that I’m tremendously against the Whites—I believe they give their soldiers very good pay. For myself, I have a great mind to go into Saratursk to-morrow and join them. Do you feel like coming with me, brother?”

“No, thanks.”

“Mind you, I wouldn’t do it if the Reds were as generous. I really prefer the Reds, really. But a soldier’s job, after all, is to fight, and if he gets good food and pay, why should he bother what side he fights on? It isn’t for him to pick and choose. That’s how I feel about it. Would you like something to eat, brother?”

“I should indeed.”

“Then sit here with me. I have some bread and a sausage. I’m afraid I was rather scared at first when I woke up and saw you walking about. I thought you were a ghost—they say there are ghosts that haunt battlefields, you know. Yes, it was a sharp little fight, but our men stood no chance at all—every man on the other side had a rifle and ammunition. It was ridiculous to make a stand.”

“Where are the Whites now?”

“Still chasing our poor fellows, I expect. Whereas you and I, my friend, have had the sense to let them pass over us. We are all right. Two hours’ walk and we shall be in the woods, and an army corps wouldn’t find us there. Do you know this part of the country?”

“Not very well.”