"I've been fighting fatigue, tramping thousands of miles, all in order to kill.
That's very important and significant.
I cast Katya off in anger—that's of lesser importance.
Today or the next day I shall go over to the other side and start killing these people, these Russians, in a blizzard just like this, Queer!
Katya always said I was a kind and magnanimous person.
Queer, very queer!"
He took note of his thoughts with curiosity.
Suddenly their thread was broken.
"A-ah!" he thought. "A bad job!
I'm freezing.
The last, the most important thoughts are passing through my mind.
It means I'll soon be lying in the snow."
But the frozen back in front of him swayed and moved forward.
And Roshchin swayed and moved forward behind it.
Now he was knee-deep in mud.
He could hardly drag his boot, which seemed a ton-weight, oat of the clay.
The wind bore a fragmentary cry to his ears:
"A river, lads!" Curses rolled out.
And the wind went on whistling through the bayonets, blowing strange thoughts into men's minds.
Vague bent figures lurched past Roshchin.
He gathered up his remaining strength, dragged out his foot with a groan, and staggered on.
A turbulent stream made a dark line across the snow, further all was veiled by the blizzard.
Feet slipped on the slope of the bank.
The dark water rushed impetuously on.
There were shouts:
"The bridge is flooded....
Shall we go back?"
"Who said—back?
Was it you?
Did you say—back?"
"Let go! Let go, Comrade!"
"Give him one with the butt?"
"Oh-oh-oh!"
On the edge of the bank beneath, a cone of light from an electric torch shone out.
It lighted up the humped bridge, washed by the grey, rushing waters, and a broken-off fragment of railing.
The torch waved high, zigzagging from side to side, and went out.
A voice cried, hoarse, bloodcurdling:
"Squad.... Cross the river.... Rifle and cartridges on your heads.
Don't push—two at a time.... On!"
Raising his rifle, Roshchin waded up to his waist in the water, which was after all not so cold as the wind.
The waves beat powerfully against his right side, almost knocking him down, as if they would carry him into that grey-white darkness, into the deep waters.
His feet slipped on the bridge, he could scarcely feel the broken planks beneath him.
The Varnav Regiment was sent to Novodmitrovskaya to reinforce the local forces.
The whole population was digging trenches, fortifying the village council and other buildings, stationing machine guns.
The heavy artillery was further south, in the village of Grigoryevskaya.
In the same neighbourhood was the Second North Caucasian Regiment under the command of Dmitri She-lest—it had been pursuing the Volunteer Army all the way from Rostov.
To the west, at Afipskaya, was a garrison, with artillery and armoured trains.
Red forces were widely dispersed—which should never have been allowed, with the ground and the roads made impassable by melting snow.
Towards nightfall a Cossack, covered with wet snow and mud, galloped up to the village council.
He drew rein at the porch.