Vladimir Nicolaievitch stepped forward. “Zra’zvuitye, comrades!” he greeted, while behind him one cannon, twenty rifles and a truck-load of grubit bombs hung by a hair. The soldiers scrambled to their feet.
“What was the shooting going on around here?”
One of the soldiers answered, looking relieved, “Why we were just shooting a rabbit or two, comrade…”
The truck hurtled on toward Romanov, through the bright, empty day. At the first cross-roads two soldiers ran out in front of us, waving their rifles. We slowed down, and stopped.
“Passes, comrades!”
The Red Guards raised a great clamour. “We are Red Guards. We don’t need any passes… Go on, never mind them!”
But a sailor objected. “This is wrong, comrades. We must have revolutionary discipline. Suppose some counter-revolutionaries came along in a truck and said: ‘We don’t need any passes’? The comrades don’t know you.”
At this there was a debate. One by one, however, the sailors and soldiers joined with the first. Grumbling, each Red Guard produced his dirty bumaga (paper). All were alike except mine, which had been issued by the Revolutionary Staff at Smolny. The sentries declared that I must go with them. The Red Guards objected strenuously, but the sailor who had spoken first insisted. “This comrade we know to be a true comrade,” he said. “But there are orders of the Committee, and these orders must be obeyed. That is revolutionary discipline…”
In order not to make any trouble, I got down from the truck, and watched it disappear careening down the road, all the company waving farewell. The soldiers consulted in low tones for a moment, and then led me to a wall, against which
