Knight Without Armour

One morning the train stopped to load fuel in the midst of forest country, far from any station or settlement, and some of the men, glad of the chance to stretch their legs, climbed out of the trucks and walked about. A.J. and Tribourov were together, and Tribourov, as usual, talked about himself and his future importance and the iniquity of his having to travel in a cattle- truck. His complaining increased when they had strolled along the track as far as the dining-car and could sec its occupants talking, laughing, and guzzling over an excellent lunch. Seen through the window from the track-level, the dining-car presented a vista of large, munching jaws, glittering epaulettes, and the necks of wine-bottles. One man was gnawing the leg of a fowl, another was lifting champagne to his lips, another was puffing at a cigar in full- stomached contentment. At the far end of the car was the little kitchen- compartment where the food was cooked and stored; the window was open and on the shelves could be seen rows of bottles as well as canned foods, cheeses, and boxes of biscuits. “All that stuff comes from Japan and America,” Tribourov explained. “They load it on board at Vladivostok and it lasts all the way to Moscow and back. Excellently organised, but the scandal is—” And he resumed his usual complaint and continued until the engine-whistle warned them to hasten back to their truck.

That night, when it was almost pitch-dark and his fellow-travellers were mostly asleep or half-asleep, A.J. climbed out on to the footboard and began to feel his way cautiously along the length of the train. His hands and mind were functioning automatically; half of him was asking—’What on earth are you doing?’—and the other half was answering—’I am going to the dining-car to steal some food for Madame Tribourov.’ He did not know why he was doing so; he cared nothing at all for Madame Tribourov; it was no feeling of chivalry, or of compassion, or of indignation. It was rather a chance idea that had entered his half- mind—just an idea that loomed unwontedly large in a void where there were no other ideas.

The train was travelling at a moderate speed—not more than twenty miles an hour; the night was cloudy and the fringe of swamps to the side of the track was only to be dimly perceived. Little could be done by eye as he made his way from truck to truck; his hands groped for the slats and his feet for the buffers between one truck and the next. It was not particularly dangerous progress, provided one kept one’s nerve, and A.J. kept his easily enough; or rather, in another sense, he had no nerves at all—he was simply unaware of fear, terror, joy, triumph, and all other excitations. His hands and feet did what was required of them, while his brain looked on with mild incredulity.