“Well then, you see, when we went out in the morning, the commander-in-chief said to me, ‘Kraft, take those barricades!’ Well, you know, a soldier’s duty is not to reason—it’s hand to cap, and ‘Yes, your Excellency!’ and off. Only as we drew near the first barricade I turned and said to the soldiers, ‘Now then, lads, don’t funk it, but look sharp. If anyone hangs back I’ll cut him down myself!’ With Russian soldiers, you know, one has to speak straight out. Suddenly a bomb … I look, one soldier down, another, a third … then bullets came whizzing … vzin! … vzin! … vzin! … ‘On!’ I cry, ‘On, follow me!’ Just as we got there, I look and see a … a … you know … what do you call it?” and the narrator flourished his arms, trying to find the word he wanted.
“A scarp?” suggested Bolhov.
“No … Ach! what is the word? Good heavens, what is it? … A scarp!” he said quickly. “So, ‘fix bayonets! Hurrah! ta-ra, ta-ta-ta!’ not a sign of the enemy! Everybody was surprised, you know. Well, that’s all right; we go on to the second barricade. Ah, that was a totally different matter. Our mettle was now up, you know. Just as we reached it I look and see the second barricade, and we could not advance. There was a what’s-its-name … now, what do you call it? Ach! what is it? …”
“Another scarp, perhaps,” I suggested.
“Not at all,” he said crossly: “not a scarp but—oh dear, what do you call it?” and he made an awkward gesture with his hands. “Oh, good heavens, what is it?” He seemed so distressed that one involuntarily wished to help him.
“A river, perhaps,” said Bolhov.
“No, only a scarp! Hardly had we got down, when, will you believe it, such a hell of fire …”