The Doll - Bolesaw Prus [77]
‘Just fancy,’ I replied, ‘I can’t hear anything…’
‘Fool, you can hear me, can’t you?’
‘Yes, but I can’t hear the cannons. Or rather—of course I can,’ I added, concentrating. The roar of the cannons and rattling of rifles had merged into one huge rumbling, no longer deafening, but stupefying. Apathy overcame me. In front, perhaps half a kilometre away, a broad column of smoke was surging, which the wind sometimes broke up. Then it was possible to catch sight of a long row of legs or of helmets, with bayonets gleaming. Shells were whistling over that column and over ours, being exchanged between the Hungarian battery firing from our rear and the Austrians, replying from the opposite hills. The river of smoke stretching along the valley to the south billowed more and more violently, and was very much curved to the left where the Austrians were gaining ground, and to the right where the Hungarians were winning. On the whole the river of smoke curved more to the right, as if our men were already driving the Austrians back. A delicate blue mist was spreading along the entire valley. It was odd that the roaring, though now stronger than before, no longer made any impression on me; I had to listen intently in order to hear it. However, the clash of rifles being loaded, or the crash of cocks reached me clearly.
The adjutant ran up, bugles sounded, officers began shouting.
‘Lads!’ our lieutenant cried at the top of his voice (he had run away not long before from a seminary), ‘we retreated because there were more Huns but now we will have a go at that column on the flank, d’you see?…The third battalion and the reserves will support us…Long live Hungary!…’
‘I’d like to live a bit, too!’ Kratochwil muttered.
‘Half turn to the right—forward!’
We went on like this for several minutes, then made a half-turn to the left and began descending into the valley, trying to gain the right flank of the column that was fighting in front of us. The area was rocky: through the mist ahead we could see fields overgrown with stalks and a small wood beyond them. Suddenly I caught sight of a dozen or so small bursts of smoke among these stalks, as if men were lighting pipes at various points: simultaneously bullets began whistling overhead. I thought that the whistling of bullets, which poets have sung the praises of, was not at all poetic, but rather vulgar. One could sense the malice of inanimate objects in it.
A string of men in scattered battle array broke from our column and ran towards the stalks. We kept on marching as though the bullets flying from the flank were not meant for us at all. At this moment the old corporal marching on the right flank whistling the Rakoczy march dropped his rifle, threw up his hands and staggered as though tipsy. I saw his face for a moment: on the left side was the shattered visor of his helmet, and there was a red stain on his forehead. We went on marching: another corporal, a young, fair-haired fellow, appeared on the right flank.
We were now coming up level with the fighting column and could see the empty gap between the smoke of infantry and that of the Austrians, when a long row of white uniforms appeared. This row moved up and down and very quickly, their legs twinkled as if they were on parade. The row halted. Above it, gleamed a band of steel glistening like brand-new needles, which was then lowered, and I saw about a hundred rifles aimed at us. Then it grew smoky, there was a rattling noise like a chain being dragged along iron bars, and a storm of bullets flew past us. ‘Halt!…Fire!…’ I fired as fast as I could, wanting to shield myself if only in the smoke. Despite the uproar, I heard something like the blow of a stick striking a man behind me: someone fell, clutching at my pack. Anger and desepration overwhelmed