The Accidental Anarchist by Bryna Kranzler Page A

them.
     
    Since our group was closest to the enemy, we had to run the fastest. But I could see that our commander was looking for terrain on which he could halt us to stage a heroic Rear Guard action. Apparently, he feared he might never again get as good an opportunity to make a name for himself.
     
    Even as darkness fell, the accurate shelling of the Japanese didn’t let up. We kept running. Toward dawn, a messenger rode up with an order from headquarters: Stop and make a stand.
     
    Our company commander was justly angry. Here the terrain was flat and almost indefensible. The ground was also icy and rocky – impossible conditions for digging trenches. We had passed up far better positions, to which it was now too late to return. But headquarters was adamant. The enemy was advancing too quickly. Time had to be gained to reinforce Mukden. We were ordered to build ramparts out of frozen corpses, the only material in abundant supply.
     
    During the night, while small, Japanese units leapfrogged toward us in quick, terrifying spurts, the trench wall in front of me unexpectedly collapsed. It seemed that one of the frozen bodies was not yet dead, and had moved his legs.
     
    Before we could think of repairing the breach, our commander ordered us to counterattack. If we had been fresh troops, properly equipped with normal artillery support, reserves, and enough ammunition, we might well have been able to give the enemy a bloody nose. But most of us were totally spent, and wanted no part of this mad scheme.
     
    Seeing this, a sensible officer would have pulled in his horns. It was dead plain that we were in no condition to be inspired or threatened. But our commander was not one to take “No” for an answer. He worked himself into an almost insane fury, and began firing his revolver at those who made no move to get into position.
     
    Several men were hit, and the rest jumped to obey. Glasnik whispered, “We should have shot him during the last bombardment.”
     
    I, just as angry, vowed, “He’ll never see Russia again.”
     
    The Japanese were now firmly entrenched behind our own abandoned line of barbed wire. By the time we were set to counterattack, it was daybreak. When the sun came up, it would be directly in our eyes, casting a blinding spotlight on us. The whole enterprise was sheer lunacy, and I foolishly assumed that even our commander would have sense enough to call it off.
     
    He wouldn’t dream of it. What’s more, he now ordered me to take five men with wire cutters and open a breach in the barbed wire.
     
    I told him, “It’s too light already. We’ll never reach the barbed wire.”
     
    He reloaded his revolver, waved it in my face, and shouted, “Go on, Jew, before I make an example of you.” It was either obey or get shot.
     
    I looked at the other soldiers. Like sheep, they were ready to go, more afraid of his revolver than of the Japanese machine guns. I blindly picked five men, and led the way without even bothering to see if they were following me.
     
    My prediction turned out to have been too pessimistic. By inching forward on my stomach, I reached the barbed wire, but I knew that the moment I rose up to cut it, I’d be an easy target. Still, now that I was here, what else should I do?
     
    I looked back uncertainly at our lines. None of my five “volunteers” had bothered to keep up with me. I could see our commander surveying the enemy positions. If I took a shot at Vasiliev now, no one could say it was not an enemy bullet.
     
    I crawled around until I could aim my rifle. I had him in my sights, but couldn’t press the trigger. It wasn’t my conscience that stopped me; my hand was either cramped or frozen stiff. As I rubbed my hand against my tunic to restore circulation, I heard the scream of the first shell. I lay pressed against the icy mud, but shortly I could tell by the location of the flashes that we were being pounded by our own artillery.
     
    It was only after several