Fall of Giants

From somewhere nearby he heard a neigh. A horse meant an officer. Grigori immediately fired at imaginary Austrians. His men followed suit, and there was a rattle of scattered fire. Then he looked around and saw Major Azov on a big gray hunter splashing through the mud. Azov was shouting at a group of retreating soldiers, telling them to return to the fray. They argued with him until he drew his pistol, a Nagant revolver-just like Lev’s, Grigori thought irrelevantly-and pointed it at them, whereupon they turned around and reluctantly headed back the way they had come.

Azov holstered the gun and trotted up to Grigori’s position. “What are you fools doing here?” he said.

Grigori remained lying on the ground but rolled over and reloaded his rifle, pushing his last five-round clip into place, making a show of haste. “Enemy emplacement in that clump of trees ahead, Your Highness,” he said. “You’d better dismount, sir, they can see you.”

Azov remained on his horse. “So what are you doing-hiding from them?”

“His Excellency Lieutenant Kirillov told us to take them out. I’ve sent a patrol to come at them from the side while we give covering fire.”

Azov was not completely stupid. “They don’t seem to be shooting back.”

“We’ve got them pinned down.”

He shook his head. “They’ve retreated-if they were ever there in the first place.”

“I don’t think so, Your Highness. They were blazing away at us a moment ago.”

“There’s no one there.” Azov raised his voice. “Cease fire! You men, cease fire.”

Grigori’s platoon stopped shooting and looked at the major.

“On my signal, charge!” he said. He drew his pistol.

Grigori was not sure what to do. The battle had clearly been the disaster he had forecast. Having avoided it all day he did not want to risk lives when it was clearly over. But direct conflict with officers was dangerous.

At that moment, a group of soldiers broke through the vegetation in the place Grigori had been pretending was an enemy emplacement. Grigori stared in surprise. However, they were not Austrians, he saw as soon as he could make out their uniforms; they were retreating Russians.

But Azov did not change his mind. “Those men are cowardly deserters!” he screeched. “Charge them!” And he fired his pistol at the approaching Russians.

The men of the platoon were bewildered. Officers often threatened to shoot troops who seemed reluctant to go into battle, but Grigori’s men had never before been ordered to attack their own side. They looked to him for guidance.

Azov aimed his pistol at Grigori. “Charge!” he screamed. “Shoot those traitors!”

Grigori made a decision. “Right, men!” he called. He scrambled to his feet. Turning his back to the approaching Russians, he looked to left and right and hefted his rifle. “You heard what the major said!” He swung his rifle, as if turning, then pointed it at Azov.

If he was going to shoot at his own side, he would kill an officer rather than a soldier.

Azov stared at him for a frozen moment, and in that second Grigori pulled the trigger.

His first shot hit Azov’s horse, and it stumbled. That saved Grigori’s life, for Azov fired at him, but the horse’s sudden movement caused the shot to go wide. Automatically, Grigori worked the bolt of his rifle and fired again.

His second shot missed. Grigori swore. He was in real danger now. But so was the major.

Azov was struggling with his horse and unable to aim his weapon. Grigori followed his jerky movements with the sight of his rifle, fired a third time, and shot Azov in the chest. He stared as the major slowly fell off his horse. He felt a jolt of grim satisfaction as the heavy body plunged into a muddy puddle.

The horse walked away unsteadily, then suddenly sat down on its hindquarters like a dog.

Grigori went up to Azov. The major lay on his back in the mud, looking up, unmoving but still alive, bleeding from the right side of his chest. Grigori looked around. The retreating soldiers were still too far away to see clearly what was going on. His own men were completely trustworthy: he had saved their lives many times. He put the barrel of his rifle against Azov’s forehead. “This is for all the good Russians you’ve killed, you murdering dog,” he said. He grimaced, baring his teeth. “And for my front tooth,” he added, and he pulled the trigger.

The major went limp and stopped breathing.

Grigori looked at his men. “The major has unfortunately been killed by enemy fire,” he said. “Retreat!”

They cheered and began to run.

Grigori went up to the horse. It tried to rise, but Grigori could see it had a broken leg. He put his rifle to its ear and fired his last round. The horse fell sideways and lay still.

Grigori felt more pity for the horse than for Major Azov.

He ran after his retreating men.

{II}