'Quite right, sir. I'm sorry.'
'Well, that's in order.
Let's not waste time, otherwise it will be bad for their morale.
Everything depends on what happens tomorrow, because by then the situation will be somewhat clearer.
However, I may as well tell you now that there's not much prospect of using the mortars: there are no horses to pull them and no ammunition to fire.
So as of tomorrow morning it's to be rifle and shooting practice, shooting practice and more shooting practice.
By noon tomorrow I want this battery to be able to shoot like a Guards regiment.
And issue hand-grenades to all the more experienced cadets.
Understood?'
Studzinsky looked grim as he listened tensely.
'May I ask a question, sir?'
'I know what you're going to ask, and you needn't bother.
I'll tell you the answer straight away-it's sickening. It could be worse - but not much.
Get me?'
'Yes, sir!'
'Right then.' Malyshev raised his voice: 'So you see I don't want them to spend the night in this great stone rat-trap, at an uncertain time like this, when there's a good chance that by doing so I would be signing the death warrant of two hundred boys, eighty of whom can't even shoot.'
Studzinsky said nothing.
'So that's it.
I'll tell you the rest later on this evening.
We'll pull through somehow.
Let's go and have a look at 'em.'
They marched into the hall.
'Atten-shun!' shouted Studzinsky.
'Good day, gentlemen!'
Behind Malyshev's back Studzinsky waved his arm like an anxious stage director and with a roar that shook the windowpanes the bristling gray wall sang out the Russian soldier's traditional response to their commanding officer's greeting.
Malyshev swept the ranks with a cheerful glance, snapped his hand down from the salute and said:
'Splendid! . . .
Now gentlemen, I'm not going to waste words. You won't find me at political meetings, because I'm no speaker, so I shall be very brief.
We're going to fight that son of a bitch Petlyura and you may rest assured that we shall beat him.
There are cadets among you from the Vladimir, Constantine and Alexeyevsky military academies and no officer from any of these institutions has ever yet disgraced the colors.
Many of you, too, were once at this famous school.
Its old walls are watching you: I hope you won't make them redden with shame on your account.
Gentlemen of the Mortar Regiment!
We shall defend this great city in the hour of its assault by a bandit.
As soon as we get Petlyura in range of our six-inchers, there won't be much left of him except a pair of very dirty underpants, God rot his stinking little soul!'
When the laugh from the ranks had died down the colonel finished:
'Gentlemen - do your best!'
Again, like a director off-stage, Studzinsky nervously raised his arm and once more the Mortar Regiment blew away several layers of dust all around the assembly hall as they gave three cheers for their commanding officer. *
Ten minutes later the assembly hall, just like the battlefield of Borodino, was dotted with hundreds of rifles piled in threes, bayonet upwards.
Two sentries stood at either end of the dusty parquet floor sprouting its dragon's teeth.
From the distance came the sound of vanishing footsteps as the new recruits hastily dispersed according to instructions.
From along the corridors came the crash of hobnailed boots and an officer's words of command -Studzinsky himself was posting the sentries.
Then came the unexpected sound of a bugle-call.
There was no menace in the ragged, jerky sound as it echoed around the school buildings, but merely an anxious splutter of sour notes.
On the landing bounded by the railings of the double staircase leading from the first floor up to the assembly hall, a cadet was standing with distended cheeks.
The faded ribbons of the Order of St George dangled from the tarnished brass of the bugle.
His legs spread wide like a pair of compasses, Myshlaevsky was standing in front of the bugler and instructing him.
'Don't blow too hard . . . look - like this.
Fill your cheeks with air and blow out.
No, no, hopeless.