, Third Bulgarian Infantry.
, First Turkish Cavalry.
, Second Battery Turkish Horse Gunners.
:—Represents a battlefield in Macedonia. It is the early dawn of morning. The sky is pink and silver and orange, and as far as the eye can see, there are the shadowy, grim outlines of dead soldiers, Turks and Bulgarians, dead horses, broken wheels and dismounted gun-limbers. A thick, humid haze rises from the slimy ground, and there is the acrid smell of battle,—blood and powder and putrescence and dirt. In the far distance are heard the crunching wheels of commissariat wagons, the heavy grumble of artillery, and once in a while the sharp hissing of musketry fire.
:—November, 1912.
:—Plotkine and Touati, both badly wounded.
Oh, Holy Kyrill and all the dear Saints—this is insufferable. I can't stand it.
You'll have to stand it, comrade.
Who's there?—a friend?
No. I am of the First Turkish Cavalry. I am Captain—but never mind my name. I do not suppose a ceremonious introduction is necessary under the circumstances.
Come over and give a chap a bit of help, will you?
I am awfully sorry, but …
Oh, you're wounded yourself, are you?—Can you move?
Not as much as I'd like to. A piece of shrapnel struck me, and one of my legs is shattered—it's only just making a bluff at hanging together by a shred of skin.
I got mine through the chest—right chest. (Short pause.) You talk jolly good Bulgarian. (Another pause.) I say, comrade, there must be a Turkish ambulance corps kicking about here somewhere. I can't speak a word of Turkish—and talking hurts me so—my chest—you know. Don't you think you could call them?
Quite unnecessary, captain. There's nobody here, nobody who could help us. The column marched away long ago. You see, we two are lying in a sort of hole in the ground. That's why they didn't notice us. Oh, well—Allah's
God's curse on it,—so we are lost—what?—helpless?
Yes, captain. You're perfectly right.
But couldn't we help each other?—somehow?
I don't think I can do a thing. I am very weak, you know. I've lost so much blood. You see, it took me nearly all night to crawl six feet—a little bit away from my
From your brother?
Yes. He's dead, too. He was such a nice, brave young lad. But you see, this confounded heat—and then this wretched humidity—and so he's been getting rather smelly. Nothing against him, you know, nothing against him. But I had to move—and you see, it took me all night crawling—crawling—
And I can't move at all, not at all. Even when I try to breathe hard, the air whistles through my lungs as if there's a draft somewhere in my chest. And a ton of rock seems to lie on my legs. I can't turn my head. I can't see you. Can you see me?
Oh, yes. I am looking at you.
Then tell me: how far distant are we from each other?
I should judge about three yards. But for all it would help you or me it might as well be three thousand miles.
(Both are silent for several minutes; Plotkine sighs.)
I am hungry. Got anything to eat about you?
Yes. A few dried dates. Here, look out. I'll throw them over so that you can reach them with your left hand.(He throws over a handful of dried dates to Plotkine, who takes them and eats.)
Thanks awfully. (Laughs.) You aim better than did your artillery at the Tschataldja lines.
I beg your pardon.
(Long silence.)
So you think there's no hope for us, captain.
Only a miracle would help us.
I shall pray to my Patron Saint.
Well—if it gives you any pleasure—
(Plotkine prays fervently for a few minutes. Then there is complete silence. They do not exchange a word for over half an hour.)
Ho there, comrade! Are you dead already?
No, not yet.
It must be getting on towards noon.
I think you're mistaken. It's hardly half an hour since I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance—and that was early in the morning.
Which one of us is going to cash in first, do you think?
I think I'll go out first. You see, the chances are that I'll get gangrene very soon now.
I say, captain. You speak very excellent Bulgarian. Where did you learn it?
I?—Oh, I lived in Sofia for two years—studied there at the Polytechnicon.
You don't say so! Then you must know Professor Nyachnioff?
I certainly do.
Isn't that odd? You know, I married his daughter—little Lisaveta.
Oh, I remember her. I saw her once when I called on her father. She was a very charming girl.