It is impossible to describe the impressions of an attack. There are no impressions. There is only a feeling that you overcome an obstacle. Now it gives way before you.
"Come on, boys, we're getting it," is heard from a distance.
Now we are pressed back.
"Hold on, now. The reserves are coming."
"Now, once more, once more!"
"Hurrah!"
The obstacle gives way again. The enemy's reserve is thrown back. Something soft and living stirs and swells under foot.
"Is it over?" ask we, as we did a short time before, when the shell was spinning around so close to us.
"It's over."
The trench is taken. . . The enemy is retreating, hastily drawing in his flanks. . . Beyond the three lines of trenches, the town of Zh. is burning; the Austrians set fire to it before retreating. Dead bodies are lying everywhere. One trench is filled with dead bodies to the brim. . .
A few inhabitants of the vilage, who did not have a chance to escape, gazed at us with eyes full of unspeakable terror. One old man threw himself into a burning building. A woman with a child in her arms ran past. Both the woman and the child were dressed in white. . .
"And the dress on her was white!" Zverev's exclamation involuntarily comes to my mind. . .
. . .The signal horn is heard in the distance.
