So it was when the front came back. Herds of moujiks, the old
men, the women, the children, the poor little babies, struggled blindly
eastwards through the village.
Pushing their miserable household gods on handcarts, or staggering
along with loads on their backs, and weary children dragging at their
arms, the human tide flowed eastwards, round our house, begged perhaps
a drink of water, and then wandered feverishly onwards.
They knew not in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred where they were
going; their only destination was summed up in the words, "Away from
the Front"--away from the ominous rumbling which began to get louder,
away from that western horizon which was beginning to have a lurid glow
at nights, like a sunset prolonged to dawn.
Then, as the Germans advanced more and more, the character of the tide
changed, the civilian element was outnumbered by the military.
Companies, battalions, brigades, sometimes in good order, sometimes in
no order, marched through the village. They would often halt for a
short time, and the officers would come up to the house, where my
mother and I gave them what we could. My father lived amongst his books
and accounts, and bemoaned the extravagance of the war. Then there were
the deserters, the stragglers, the walking wounded, the--but you know,
my Karl, what an army in retreat means.
I must proceed with my story, for time moves relentlessly on.
One day a desperately wounded officer, a young Lieutenant of the Guard,
a boy of twenty-five, was taken out of a motor ambulance to die.
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