Quite near, on the other side, a long tongue of fire came from a gun.
Shrapnel burst over the trench in which Roshchin was crouching.
Figures, some grey, some black, rose from the crest and made for the crossing—running, sliding down on their buttocks, rolling and falling.
Roshchin could already make out the narrow strips of their shoulder straps.
There was another shell-burst, and a jagged roar over the trench.
"Brothers, brothers—oh-h!" a voice sang out.
Amidst the crackling of shots a wail could be heard:
"They're trying to surround us!
Back, lads!"
"Here it comes, the longed-for moment," thought Roshchin.
He flung himself prone, and lay motionless.
Thoughts ran wildly through his brain: "... no handkerchief ... a bit of shirt on my bayonet... and be sure to shout in French...." Then someone fell heavily on to his back, seized him round the neck, grunting and digging his fingers into his throat.
Roshchin started—at his shoulder he saw a face covered with blood, a bulging eye, a toothless, open mouth.
Kvashin again.
He was shouting over and over again, as if in a frenzy:
"Crossing yourself! You've seen your own people!"
Roshchin, shaking him off his back, stood up straight, swaying.
Kvashin's fingers sank into his shoulders like a tick.
Struggling to free himself, Roshchin threw himself against the parapet of the trench, digging his teeth furiously into the stinking sheepskin jacket.
He could feel his elbows and knees beginning to slip on the liquid mud—the edge of a ravine was only a step or two away.
"Let go!" roared Roshchin in desperation.
The ground gave way beneath him and the two of them rolled down the side of the ravine into the river.
All around hummed from the gunfire, the earth trembling from explosions.
The main forces of the army were crossing the river.
The artillery from the village of Grigoryevskaya was firing on the ford.
The snowy field was strewn with hand grenades, and columns of water rose whenever one fell into the river.
The White infantry were fording the river two men on each horse.
The horses reared as they plunged into the rapid river, and had to be urged forward with bayonets.
A horse-drawn gun clattered down the steep slippery bank.
Swaying from side to side it disappeared beneath the water.
Lashed by cavalry whips, the lean horses managed somehow or other to hoist it on to the hump of the half-flooded bridge.
Shells fell on every side, the water hissed.
The horses reared violently, their hind legs entangled in the traces.
Machine-gun carriers rattled downwards, past the bridge, to the river, where they floated and whirled round helplessly.
One overturned, and was swept past together with horses and men, the latter hanging frantically to the wheels.
Into this swirling mass a grenade slid down from the sky, sending fragments of wood and chunks of flesh flying high into the air in a waterspout.
A short man with a clipped beard, wearing a brown flannel jacket and a tall white fur hat pulled well over his eyes, was waltzing about on the bank, seated on a small, shaggy horse.
Brandishing his whip menacingly, he was shouting in a high, affected voice.
This was General Markov, in charge of the fording of the river.
Fantastic tales were told of his courage.
Markov was one of those who had fought in the World War and been poisoned through and through by its sinister breath. On horseback, his field glasses- at his eyes, or commanding the terrible game of war, at the head of his men, sword in hand, he doubtless experienced incomparable ecstasies.
He could have brought himself to fight any foe for any cause.
A few ready-made formulae about God, the tsar, and the native land had found a place in his brain.
These were absolute truths for him, he required nothing more.
Like a chess player for whom nothing but the chess board exists, the whole world for him was narrowed down to a given area over which figures could be moved.
He was ambitious—harsh and overbearing to subordinates.
He was feared in the army, and many cherished rancour against this man who regarded human beings as mere pawns.
But he was brave, and knew well those critical moments of battle when the outcome of the day depends on the commander being able to gamble with his life, heading his troops, whip in hand, beneath a shower of bullets.
The fording took several hours.
The river and its banks were again enveloped in a snow storm.