And how is one to give any true picture of the confusion into which we
flung ourselves at O----? O---- had been the town at which, a little
more than a month ago, we had arrived so eagerly, so optimistically.
It had been to us then the quietest retreat in the world--irritating,
provoking by reason of its peace. The little school-house, the green
well, the orchard, the bees, the long light evenings with no sound but
the birds and running water--those things had been a month ago.
We were hurled now into a world of dust and despair. The square market
place, the houses that huddled round it were swallowed up by soldiers,
horses, carts and whirling clouds. A wind blew and through the wind a
hot sun blazed. Everywhere horses were neighing, cows and sheep were
driven in thick herds through columns of soldiers, motor cars
frantically pushed their way from place to place, and always,
everywhere, covering every inch of ground flying, as it seemed, from
the air, on to roofs, in and out of windows, from house to house, from
corner to corner, was the humorous, pathetic, expectant,
matter-of-fact, dreaming, stolid Russian soldier.
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