Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Story of Receiving a Medal

I

Spring had come.
The second spring of the European War had arrived.
The war that destroyed all things and slaughtered multitudes could do nothing to prevent spring’s return.

A power greater than war’s destructive force had begun to sprout as fragrant green grasses from the cracks between the concrete blocks in trenches shattered by artillery shells.
Even on birch trees whose crowns had been sheared off by artillery shells, fresh young buds had sprouted abundantly on their lower branches.

The gloomy hues of the sky that had rotted the bored hearts of trench warriors throughout winter were transforming day by day into a lively pale green.

The patients at the field hospital near Pulkovo, close to the front lines, devoured the returning spring from within their hearts—each in their own way.
When they reflected on the bleak and agonizing past they had endured on the battlefield, the tranquil spring light filtering through glass windows into the ward seemed more precious than anything in existence.

The wounds of Officer Candidate Ivanovich—he who had made his name thunder across battlefields spanning from Warsaw to Kovno Fortress—had now fully mended.

He awoke earlier than usual on the morning of March 13th by the Russian calendar.

It was a peaceful spring morning.
The lark in the cage hanging in the hospital corridor had been chirping incessantly since early morning, shattering the dreams of the wounded soldiers.
Ivanovich sat up on the bed and tried to take a big stretch, spreading both arms out as far as they would go.
Yet while his right hand moved as his nerves commanded, nothing remained on the left side to obey the orders from his nerve center.
He gave a wry smile.
He still retained only the sensation that his left hand existed.
And he was often deceived by this sensation.
But on this morning alone, not a trace of regret over having become disabled remained.

He had received a notification two or three days prior from General Headquarters that on this day, Grand Duke Nikolai, returning from the front lines, would visit this hospital and award him the Saint George Cross. The medal came with an annuity of three hundred rubles. He had thought to return to his former university student life with this honor and annuity. And he had thought to enjoy a quiet, carefree life.

To the Saint George Cross, he was fully worthy. Stories such as "The Five Heroic Acts of Brave Warrior Ivanovich" had been widely circulated as inspiring war tales. The volunteer nurses who came to this hospital and delegates from various organizations never failed to request a handshake from the famous Brave Warrior Ivanovich.

Ivanovich felt an unclouded, refreshing state of mind this morning. As he listened from his bed to the pleasant song of the lark in the cage hanging in the corridor, he imagined the splendid scene of the Grand Duke awarding him the medal.

Ivanovich was in high spirits. When he got down from the bed in a carefree state of mind, he changed into a brand-new military uniform. He had put on the military uniform for the first time in a long while. The absence of his left arm caused his uniform sleeve to hang limply—a sight that filled him with loneliness. But this was not enough to cloud his carefree state of mind. He began to walk down the hospital corridor with large, slow strides. On the lawn visible through the glass door, the morning sunlight overflowed abundantly. At that moment, he suddenly recalled how Dashikov, the adjutant of his regiment, had once suggested giving him a medal. But in truth, it was not Dashikov who had given it; he was receiving it rightfully through his own military merits. But Ivanovich thought to himself that after all, it was Adjutant Dashikov who had given him the medal. Why had Dashikov given him the medal? There was such a story behind this.

II

Ivanovich, who had volunteered for military service as a university student and been appointed as an officer candidate, arrived in Warsaw in early summer of 1915.

By then, about fifty miles from Warsaw, the Russian and German heavy artillery had been engaged in a fierce duel.
The glass windows of Warsaw’s large buildings would often shake eerily from the reverberations of artillery shells.

But what a sight the city streets of Warsaw must have been!

Ivanovich had initially thought Warsaw to be a city of soot, dust, and soldiers. Yet when he stepped from the station into the city, streets adorned with a brilliant early summer scene began unfolding before his eyes step by step. Groups of noblewomen clad in light summer attire flowed along Ujazdowskie Avenue in multitudes. With all of them holding up parasols of vivid colors, the city bathed in strong sunlight presented a spectacle akin to gazing through a kaleidoscope.

"Where is the war?" Ivanovich wondered.
Even the open-air cafés under the shade of street trees were overflowing with customers drinking iced coffee and such.

There were still many things that surprised Ivanovich.
All theaters and cinemas continued their performances.
At the small theaters staging operettas, officers and soldiers crowded together, showering the young singers with applause.

As the sole sign of war, only a single Red Cross flag fluttered in the early summer wind above Wilanów Palace, the ancient royal palace of King Stanisław of Poland.

When it was finally decided he would depart for the front, Ivanovich had bid farewell to all pleasures in his heart.
Moreover, having volunteered for military service out of patriotic fervor, he could not help feeling considerable resentment toward the officers and soldiers who, while hearing German artillery roar, became engrossed in trivial operettas.
But Ivanovich was a young man.
Above all, through his veins flowed the blood of pleasure-prone South Russians.

Near Łazienki Palace, where the Warsaw garrison-regiment Ivanovich was assigned to was stationed, there was a famous amusement park called Pagatela.
There, rows upon rows of operetta theaters and movie huts stood lined up.
The regiment's officers would each change into their new green uniforms around nine o'clock every evening, as though completely forgetting the fatigue of daytime drills, meticulously groomed their mustaches, and gathered in the box seats of the small theater.
They each prepared bouquets and wreaths to present to their favorite female singers.
Ivanovich, too, quickly grew accustomed to such pleasures.

The woman who first caught Ivanovich’s attention was a singer named Elizaveta Kirillovna.
She was not the star of the troupe.
However, her girlish expression and rich, unmediated voice easily sank deep into Ivanovich’s heart.
Her round facial features and slightly amber-tinted eyes clearly indicated she was Polish.
She carried a melancholic aura about her surroundings, like a lonely flower blooming in the shade.
The somewhat sentimental Ivanovich found himself instead drawn to this very loneliness of hers.

He positioned himself without fail every night in the box seats of the Swan Troupe where Elizaveta performed.
And when she finished performing her rather inconspicuous roles, he would invariably present a bouquet.

Ivanovich required only minimal effort to win over the woman.
Before even twenty days had passed, he found himself riding in a carriage with her through the late-night streets of Warsaw.
However, Ivanovich soon realized there was a fearsome competitor in his own romantic pursuit.
After the curtain fell, when the singers reappeared on stage each holding their gifted bouquets, Elizaveta invariably carried two.
One was a bouquet Ivanovich had sent, but who had sent the other remained unknown.
The unpopular, lonely Elizaveta rarely had more than two bouquets, but she never lacked two.
Ivanovich tried sending a high-quality wreath instead of bouquets.
Then, Elizaveta appeared on stage again holding two wreaths.
When Ivanovich sent a large flower basket, the hidden rival would immediately send another large flower basket to Elizaveta, responding to the challenge.

When Ivanovich asked Elizaveta the rival’s name, she responded with a faint smile but gave no answer whatsoever.

However, before long, what appeared in Ivanovich’s searching gaze was the figure of First Captain Dashikov from the same regiment—a man he often encountered at this theater.
Dashikov was a large-framed man serving as regimental adjutant.
This man would appear alone in the box seats every night without fail.
And he would always prepare just one bouquet without fail.

Ivanovich instinctively felt this man to be his competitor.
Ivanovich’s intuition had not deceived him in the slightest.
One evening, he hired a carriage and waited to meet Elizaveta as she exited the dressing room.

Feeling the radiant joy of love, he helped the petite Elizaveta into the carriage as if cradling her, then gestured to the driver with a signal.
That was when.
He noticed Captain Dashikov—the regimental adjutant with pale cheeks and burning eyes—amidst the chaotic crowd at the stage door after closing.
Ivanovich turned his face away as if seeing something terrifying.
And he ordered the driver to increase their speed.

The following morning, Ivanovich unexpectedly encountered Captain Dashikov in the square of Łazienki Palace. He felt a strange sense of oppression, stopped in his tracks, and snapped to attention with a salute. Then Dashikov, with a malicious smile, approached and lightly tapped Ivanovich on the shoulder while—

“You were an officer candidate in the First Battalion, weren’t you?”
“I am Regimental Adjutant Dashikov.”
“Listen!”
“I’m Regimental Adjutant Dashikov, you know?” he said with an even more sardonic laugh.

Ivanovich vividly sensed the malice of this man who sought to oppress him, his rival in love, through the power of rank.
He felt a rebellious heart overflowing in his chest.
Then Dashikov tapped Ivanovich on the shoulder again while—

“Let’s have a proper talk next time.
Somewhere other than the Swan Troupe,” he added, leaving behind a threatening, malicious smile as he departed.

III

July gradually drew toward its end.
The sunlight bathing Warsaw’s streets grew more intense with each passing day.
Simultaneously, the German military front encircling Warsaw in a semicircle drew closer moment by moment.

Ivanovich waited eagerly for night to come each evening.
During the day, the interior of the barracks sweltered under the intense heat, becoming like a large stove.
And Warsaw’s notorious flies clung in swarms to the ceilings, floors, and walls, their ceaseless motion making the very walls and ceilings seem to shift.

But when night fell, a cold breeze arose across the spring-fed pond of Łazienki Palace.
The moonlight made Warsaw seem to lie in the depths of a blue tidal sea.
Through it, mist rose ceaselessly like smoke, and in the breaks between the mist, the fresh green leaves bathed in moonlight glistened.
On such evenings, he would invariably visit Elizaveta's home.

She lived at Number 12 Brauski Street, not far from Bagatela.
She occupied three rooms on the third floor of a large building and lived modestly with an elderly woman named Lona.
She gladly entertained Ivanovich during the brief time before leaving for the theater.

When he was in Elizaveta's room, the old woman would occasionally come to inform him of Dashikov's visits. But at such times, Elizaveta, somewhat hesitant toward Ivanovich, would decline with, "Tell him I'm ill." After such instances, Ivanovich felt particularly triumphant in his position as the victor.

Amidst all this, July drew on.
Reports came in that the Fortress of Lublin defending Warsaw’s left flank was in danger.
Indeed, from that time onward, Warsaw’s streets were flooded with wounded soldiers.
Open carriages carrying wounded soldiers stretched along Warsaw’s main avenues.
Among them, soldiers stricken by poison gas were particularly numerous.
They had purple-tinged faces and coughed incessantly.

German Taube aircraft would sometimes circle high over Warsaw in the summer sky, their wings marked with black crosses glinting.
But Warsaw’s noblewomen tilted their parasols and calmly gazed up at the sky once more.
At night, both plays and motion pictures continued to be shown as usual.
Of course, Ivanovich and Elizaveta’s meetings continued as well.

However, as July neared its end, Ivanovich was one day summoned by Regimental Adjutant Captain Dashikov.

He had met with Captain Dashikov two or three times since then.
Every time they met thereafter, this captain would habitually wear a strange wry smile.

That day, when Captain Dashikov saw Ivanovich’s face, he gave his usual wry smile, but then immediately leaned back in his chair and—

“Officer Candidate Ivanovich!” he barked in a commanding tone.
“You know Number 12 Brauski Street, don’t you?”
“Listen well—I am now issuing you an order as your superior officer.”

When Ivanovich heard this, he stiffened as though a gauntlet of challenge had been thrown at him.

Number 12 Brauski Street was undoubtedly the location of the building where his new lover Elizaveta resided.

“I am your superior officer.”
“Listen well, Ivanovich!”
“What I say is an order. Listen!”
“Listen carefully.”
“You must never set foot at Number 12 Brauski Street from now on.”
“Listen well—you must not climb those wooden stairs there.”
“Listen well—do you understand?”

Ivanovich’s face turned deathly pale in an instant as he heard this order—so quickly that there was no time to even register it flushing.
And his lips began to tremble convulsively.

But having said this, Captain Dashikov burst into laughter as though everything up to that point had been nothing but a joke. He suddenly softened his tone and,

“But I don’t issue orders for free. This command comes with proper rewards and punishments. Ivanovich, don’t you want the Saint George Cross? The one with an annuity attached. The one with a three hundred ruble annuity per year. I am this regiment’s adjutant. Listen well—the medal application will proceed exactly as I decide. How about it, Ivanovich! How about choosing the Cross medal over some cheap opera singer?” While saying this, Dashikov once again burst into boisterous laughter.

But young Ivanovich had just experienced a terrible upheaval.
In him still remained a sense of justice so clear that nothing could obscure it.
Above all, he could not suppress the hatred surging up fiercely toward Dashikov's attitude of trying to steal his lover Elizaveta through authority and schemes.

“How about it, Ivanovich!”

Dashikov pressed for a reply.
Ivanovich felt as though he had obtained the opportunity to unleash his fury.
Finally restraining the movement of his right hand as it sought to grasp the sword,

“Swine!” he spat out, and with that, he forcefully threw open the door and stormed out.
Dashikov watched his retreating figure,

“So you want punishment instead, then,” he hurled after him like a thrown gauntlet.

Four

A report came that Lublin had fallen.
The days when German Taube aircraft visited Warsaw's skies became increasingly frequent.
One of them, on a summer day, flew low over Warsaw from above the shining flow of the Vistula River, scattering numerous paper fragments.
On those paper fragments,

It read: "Warsaw shall fall on Thursday."
They couldn't tell which Thursday of which week—the exact date remained unclear—but this seemed to faintly seal the fate of Warsaw's streets.
The citizens of Warsaw laughed upon seeing these paper fragments.
Yet it was neither scornful laughter nor bitter smiles—rather, a peculiar sort of ironic mirth.

The citizens of Warsaw, where many were Polish, would say such things about the war.

“If only the Russian soldiers would drive the German troops far away.
“And if only they would stay far away from Warsaw.”
This “they” of theirs encompassed both German and Russian troops.

For those who had submitted to Russian sovereignty as people of a vanquished nation, the news that German forces would now occupy Warsaw carried no greater surprise than a tenant discovering their home had been listed for sale without their knowledge.

They were calmly drinking iced coffee and soda water under skies where Taubes flew.

Ivanovich’s regiment, which had been serving as Warsaw’s garrison, waited for its day to be dispatched to the battlefield. From their position, less than thirty miles from where enemy and allied illumination flares arced through combat zones, these pyrotechnic signals could be seen with stark clarity.

Suddenly, various duties began being assigned to Ivanovich—strangely concentrated in the hours between dusk and nightfall.

Unconsciously, Ivanovich found himself adhering to Dashikov’s orders. Four days had now passed without him seeing Elizaveta.

It was August 3rd.
The regiment was finally issued deployment orders.
The order was to withdraw from Warsaw on the following fourth day and advance toward the front near Zyrardów Station to join forces with the field army.

Ivanovich had to enter the maelstrom of battle for the first time to receive his baptism of fire. He could not forget about Elizaveta after all. Going to the battlefield meant death to some degree, so he thought of telling Elizaveta a final farewell. As part of the retreat preparations, most of Warsaw's factories had already been set on fire. Combined with the fires caused by German planes' bombs, the streets of Warsaw were ablaze with light. Ivanovich evaded the company commander's notice and secretly slipped out of the Wazhenki barracks.

On the road, he occasionally encountered refugee carriages.
They loaded their carriages with household goods and tools piled high enough to collapse, hurrying in the direction of the station.

However, even that night, the majority of Warsaw’s citizens remained calm.
The theaters and makeshift cinemas continued their performances.
Those now occupying Warsaw were strangers to them.
Those who would occupy Warsaw in two or three days were also strangers to them.

That night, Elizaveta did not perform, fearing the city’s chaos and disturbances.
She was extremely agitated.
Wearing a pale blue dress suited to a summer night and leaning against the sofa, her eyes shining with anxious turmoil, she trembled at the cacophony rising from the city.

When Ivanovich opened the door, she immediately rushed toward him,

“Will Warsaw fall?” she asked, trembling with deep apprehension.

"Of course," Ivanovich replied with a calmness that even he himself found excessive.
Then,
"This will be our last night," he added.
But Elizaveta only managed a lonely smile before quickly sinking into despondency.

"Won't you escape somewhere?
To Moscow or Petrograd?" Ivanovich asked her with deep affection.

“Moscow! Petrograd!
“My homeland is nowhere but Warsaw,” she answered, then suddenly overcome by deep emotional turmoil, tried to press her head against Ivanovich’s chest.

At that moment.
A light knock sounded on the door of the room from outside.
She, casually,

“Lona?” she called out.
Her elderly servant had been out since that evening.

“No—it’s Dashikov,” came the voice, and in the next instant, the unlocked door was violently thrust open. Before the astonished Ivanovich and Elizaveta, Captain Dashikov revealed his towering frame.
Seeing this, Elizaveta let out a faint cry, staggered backward, and collapsed onto the sofa.

Ivanovich and Dashikov stood glaring at each other as enemies forever beyond reconciliation.

“Ivanovich!
“I will say nothing for now.
“I’m giving an order!
“Return to your barracks!
“Your duty demands it—return!” Dashikov shouted, his lips trembling.

Ivanovich’s face too looked ready to burst with rage.
His face began rapidly paling, but within his heart, the demand to secure the woman from his rival for just this final night blazed up like fire.
He gripped his sword hilt as though commanding it to shatter, and—

“Your duty also demands it—go back!”

“You’re the one!”

“You’re the one!”

There, rank no longer existed.
Only their desperate competitive hostility—each seeking to monopolize his last meeting with Elizaveta before departing for the battlefield, truly their final encounter—existed there.

Dashikov seemed to believe in his own physical strength.
He suddenly lunged at Ivanovich, grabbing him by the neck as he tried to drag him toward the door.
A terrible struggle broke out.
Outmatched in strength, Ivanovich was strangled with full force by the enemy while being relentlessly pressed against the door.
Dashikov already believed in his complete victory.

“How’s this?!”
“I possess the power to fully carry out my own commands.”
“I possess true power!”
He shouted, slightly out of breath.
And he was making a final effort to completely expel Ivanovich from the room.
At that very moment, Ivanovich’s right hand—now accidentally freed—was searching for the pistol holster dangling at his waist.

Just as Dashikov was dragging Ivanovich out of the room, a strangely muffled pistol shot rang out, and in the next instant, Dashikov’s large body staggered back into the room before collapsing in a heap with a violent crash.
And immediately following that, Ivanovich’s pale face appeared, likewise unsteady.
Ivanovich stood blankly for a while, staring at Dashikov’s twitching limbs.
As he watched the bloodstain on Dashikov’s coat rapidly spread wider and the captain’s face grow paler, deep remorse gradually eroded Ivanovich’s heart.

Ivanovich began to feel a slight shudder with a sensation that there was nothing within him but remorse.

When he suddenly noticed, Elizaveta—her nerves already frayed by the earlier excitement and seemingly dealt the final blow by the gunshot—lay collapsed with her pale face exposed to the electric light.

The roots of remorse sank ever deeper into Ivanovich’s heart.
He recalled being a good student and how he had once been filled with patriotic fervor.
Moreover, that he himself had killed a superior officer on the eve of departing for war now began pressing upon his heart as a terrible sin.

He firmly regripped the pistol in his slightly trembling right hand and aimed it at his own throat.

But upon reflection，throwing away his life there seemed rather foolish.
The heavy artillery shells of the German forces were already fiercely bombarding the outskirts of Warsaw.
When dawn broke，I would head to the battlefield to undergo the baptism of slaughterous artillery shells.
Compared to a pistol，the enemy’s massive artillery might prove a far more dependable instrument of suicide.
Moreover，dying by German artillery shells or bayonets instead of killing myself by my own hand was，even when viewed as suicide，nothing more than a slight change in form.

When he thought this, it seemed a vast unobstructed path had opened before him. He regained his composure. To battle—he thought there remained nothing but to fight, both to atone for his sins and to accompany his final patriotic fervor.

Having resolved himself thus, he approached Elizaveta where she lay collapsed on the sofa and pressed a light parting kiss to her cold forehead. She was now clearly no longer Captain Dashikov’s. As he stood there with triumphant satisfaction, gazing at Elizaveta who lay corpse-like, a strange demonic impulse welled in his chest. Indeed Elizaveta had not been Captain Dashikov’s—but was she truly his own? Just as Dashikov had been torn from Elizaveta and forcibly sent to death’s realm, I too was being forcibly dispatched to the battlefield. Just as Dashikov’s corpse could not claim ownership of Elizaveta, neither could he claim her as his own. Should they depart, German officers would soon receive Warsaw’s entertainers’ hospitality. You’re about to hand your woman over to German officers—once you leave here, you’ll never return. Do you mean to abandon her like this? You defended your prey completely from Dashikov—why not secure it? Don’t you know how to make her yours? That would mean killing her here too. No—no need to kill her—simply let that woman remain in her unconscious state as she is. Only never let her wake again. Won’t you die soon anyway? What difference whether those killed before number one or two? Make Elizaveta completely yours!

All I needed was to keep Elizaveta’s unconscious state going indefinitely.
Everything was chaos.
Who killed? Who was killed? Who could possibly know?
Right now, on the outskirts of this city, tens upon tens of thousands of people were being slaughtered.

Are you going to leave your woman behind you?
This woman had given herself to Dashikov just as she had to you.
A woman who surrenders herself to anyone will become the property of the first German officer entering Warsaw.
Even if the Germans occupy Warsaw, she’ll still be singing alto.
And countless German officers will throw wreaths like you did.
To make her completely yours, you need only keep her unconscious like this.
Never let her return to the world of awareness.
That’s all it required.

His mind was in a storm of confusion.
He once again regripped the pistol and moved closer to Elizaveta.

Five

When he stepped outside, the world beyond had grown even more chaotic than at nightfall. Moreover, from time to time, the sound of bombs dropped by Taubes exploding added terror and unease to the intense turmoil. Large buildings were burning fiercely here and there throughout the city. In the sky reddened and raw by those flames, slender spires and round domes flickered in and out of view.

He was once again immersed in deep remorse.
He was steeped in a profound, all-consuming remorse that left him utterly displaced in this world.

×

On the night of August 5th, Warsaw fell.
The Second Regiment of the 55th Division to which Ivanovich belonged had also withdrawn from Warsaw and taken up positions on the battlefront along the right bank of the Vistula River.

It was a time of immense chaos.
In the Second Regiment, the disappearance of Adjutant Dashikov did not warrant anyone’s deep attention.
The regimental commander tilted his head slightly and promptly appointed a successor.

Ivanovich, while joining the ranks, was bearing great pangs of conscience.
He fought bravely and thought of selling his life as dearly as possible.

His face had taken on a slightly pale hue since that time, and his eyes were like those of a rabid dog.
His comrades tried to interpret this as cowardice, but he did not even protest against it.
However, his comrades’ misunderstanding was quickly dispelled.
His brave manner of fighting astonished his comrades.
By fighting, he thought he could forget everything and atone for everything.

The miracle of the Russian army that occurred during their retreat from Warsaw to Kovno was the five meritorious deeds of Brave Warrior Ivanovich.

At that time, the Ruskoe Slovo newspaper carried the following article about him.
“Officer Candidate Ivanovich demonstrated the utmost courage a human being can exhibit.
He risked all dangers five times as a scout, prevented Russian heavy artillery from falling into enemy hands, and rescued and brought back five wounded comrades.
In any situation he gave no thought to death—no, he frequently displayed actions as if charging toward death with a battle cry.
Moreover, he has sustained not even a minor injury and continues to fight bravely; the military authorities have recommended that he be awarded the Saint George Cross.”

This newspaper article still did not fully capture his heroic exploits.
He took the lead in undertaking all dangers.
Whenever an allied scouting party fell between enemy and friendly positions, he would invariably rush out to recover them, risking his own life.
Particularly, the story of how he rescued allied wounded soldiers and heavy artillery pieces at the Rauka battlefront became known throughout nearly the entire army.

But no matter how bravely he fought, he did not sustain even a minor injury. He intended to turn his suicide pistol into German artillery shells. But those artillery shells proved to be utterly unreliable weapons. He pursued death himself. But death did not easily grant his request.

In time, he thought he had finally found a place to die.
The Russian army, pressed by German forces, was driven from the Vistula front and gradually retreated into the Russian interior while forming a curved line.
It was when they had approached to within twenty miles of the Kovno Fortress.

His battalion had set up camp on a hill of yellow-ripened rye.
To the right of that hill, about six hundred meters away, there was another hill sparsely dotted with cypress trees.
There, the field artillery unit of the same 55th Division had made camp.
The next morning, when dawn broke over the vast plain, a thick white fog pressed down upon the land.
The retreat order that was supposed to reach his unit at daybreak never arrived.
The battalion commander, growing somewhat impatient, sent messenger after messenger to the rear division headquarters.

The sun had climbed over the coniferous forest behind them and began piercing through the thick fog when, on the left hill, the shadowy forms of an artillery unit finally came dimly into view.
The battalion commander felt relieved.
He thought their artillery had not yet retreated, but that relief was immediately betrayed.
As one of those artillery units suddenly spat crimson tongues—in the blink of an eye—cannon fire resounded thunderously through the tranquil morning world, and five or six high-explosive shells abruptly burst above their own forces.
Their artillery had retreated unnoticed, replaced by that of the German forces.

The battalion commander remained gripped by disappointment for some time.
However, in this situation, retreating would mean sacrificing every man to enemy artillery fire.
He immediately ordered his battalion to form into combat formation.
Ivanovich thought that now was truly the time to die.
The allies scattered while trampling through the rye fields.
At that very moment, howitzer shells came roaring in and burst twelve or thirteen times in rapid succession above them, claiming one-third of their number.

The three machine guns attached to the battalion began a weak, yet tense resistance against the enemy.

However, the enemy’s nearly ten field guns were effortlessly carrying out their slaughterous business.
At a close firing range of six hundred meters, they spared not even insects crawling on the ground.

Each time a howitzer shell exploded, it shattered twenty or thirty soldiers.
The skirmish line, less than 109 meters long, thinned out in under ten minutes.
The battalion commander was the first to fall.
Of the three company commanders, one was killed in action and two were wounded.

Ivanovich was positioned on the far left flank, commanding the machine gun unit. After the enemy artillery shells had ravaged the battle line, they made the machine gun unit their final target. The gunners collapsed one after another. Ivanovich resolutely took over operating the machine gun himself.

He thought that today, he would sell his life at the highest price. He himself carried the bullets, himself loaded them, himself took aim. When he looked, the gunfire from their front lines had almost entirely ceased. Only the machine gun he was operating continued its scream of resistance. Artillery shells exploded in rapid succession around him.

But he was already frantically pulling the machine gun's trigger like a man possessed.
At this moment, there was neither remorse over killing his superior officer nor loyalty to his country—nothing at all.
There was only frenzied combat.
There was only a violent fit.
Just when it seemed the enemy artillery shells had ceased for a moment, before he could register the violent shockwave that struck him, a tremendous blast hurled him to the ground, and he lost consciousness.

But at that moment, the Russian field artillery unit, having learned of their allies' crisis and rushed to the scene, opened retaliatory fire.
Above Ivanovich, whose left arm had been severed, right thigh shattered, and who lay like a corpse, the fierce artillery fire of Russian and German forces was exchanged.

VI

Ivanovich, revived on his field hospital bed, possessed a pure and calm state of mind like one awakening from a severe fever.

He felt no remorse whatsoever.
He felt no excitement whatsoever.
The moments when he had experienced joy, the moments of guilt, the moments he had fought desperately on the front lines—all were recalled without any accompanying emotion, as mere facts.
Everything now seemed to be recalled as irreversible events from a past life.
He felt a carefree state of mind as though all of it had been forgiven and all of it approved.
It was a serene state of mind, as though he had passed through purgatory.

At times, the fact that he had killed people would threaten to cast a shadow over his mind.
But at such times, when hundreds of thousands were being slaughtered like pigs, it seemed to him that even if one or two among them were killed from some other motive, it was nothing so significant.
Perhaps having witnessed too many people killing and being killed before his eyes, Ivanovich’s sensitivity to murder may have become dulled.
Moreover, he himself had been operating a machine gun and killing many other people.

×

It was a pleasant morning.

Ivanovich, wearing a new military uniform, was now walking triumphantly down the hospital corridor.
Everything had gone well.
He harbored nothing in his heart but this feeling resembling satisfaction.

"In the end, it was Dashikov who gave me the medal," he repeated once more.
And he gave a bitter smile at that irony.
But such recollections did not in the least diminish the joy of receiving the Saint George Cross from Grand Duke Nikolai today.

He was triumphantly striding down the hospital corridor.
The caged Japanese robin sang out clearly two or three more times.