soldier, another soldier, a third, then bullets—whizz! whizz! whizz! Says I, 'Forward, boys, after me!' No sooner had we reached it, you know, we looked, and there I saw that—you know—what do you call it?" and the narrator waved his arms in his attempt to find the proper word.
"A ditch," Bolkhóv helped him out.
"No—ah, what is it called? My God! Well, what is it?—a ditch," he said, hurriedly. " "We, 'Charge bayonets!'—Hurrah! Ta-ra-ta-ta-ta! Not a soul of the enemy. You know we were all surprised. Very well. We marched ahead,—the second abatis. That was another matter. We were now on our mettle. No sooner did we walk up than we saw, I observed, the second abatis,—impossible to advance. Here—what do you call it, well, what is that name?—ah, what is it?—"
"Again a ditch," I helped him out.
"Not at all," he continued, excitedly, "No, not a ditch, but—well, what do you call it?" and he made an insipid gesture with his hand. "Ah, my God! What do you call it?"
He was apparently suffering so much that we wanted to help him out.
"Maybe a river," said Bolkhóv.
"No, simply a ditch. But the moment we went up there was such a fire, a hell—"
Just then somebody asked for me outside the tent. It was Maksímov. Since there were thirteen other abatises left after having listened to the varied story of the first two, I was glad to use this as an excuse for leaving for my platoon. Trosénko went out with me. "He is lying," he said to me after we had walked several steps away from the booth, "he never was in the abatises," and Trosénko laughed so heartily that I, too, felt amused.
