“Where are you off to? Come back! Where are you going?” I shouted to the recruit, who, with his reserve linstock under his arm and a stick of some sort in his hand, was, in the coolest manner, following the cart that bore the wounded man.
But the recruit only looked at me lazily, muttered something or other, and continued his way, so that I had to send a soldier to bring him back. He took off his red cap and looked at me with a stupid smile.
“Where were you going?” I asked.
“To the camp.”
“Why?”
“Why? … Velenchuk is wounded,” he said, again smiling.
“What’s that to you? You must stay here.”
He looked at me with surprise, then turned quietly round, put on his cap, and went back to his place.