Four Weeks in the Trenches: The War Story of a Violinist — John Shaqi
Four Weeks in the Trenches: The War Story of a ViolinistKreisler, Fritz
History
Four Weeks in the Trenches: The War Story of a Violinist
Kreisler, Fritz
World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives, Austrian
Suddenly, at about ten o'clock, a dull thud sounded somewhere far
away from us, and simultaneously we saw a small white round cloud
about half a mile ahead of us where the shrapnel had exploded.
The battle had begun. Other shots followed shortly, exploding here
and there, but doing no harm. The Russian gunners evidently were
trying to locate and draw an answer from our batteries. These,
however, remained mute, not caring to reveal their position. For a
long time the Russians fired at random, mostly at too short a range
to do any harm, but slowly the harmless-looking white clouds came
nearer, until a shell, whining as it whizzed past us, burst about a
hundred yards behind our trench. A second shell followed,
exploding almost at the same place. At the same time, we noticed a
faint spinning noise above us. Soaring high above our position,
looking like a speck in the firmament, flew a Russian aeroplane,
watching the effect of the shells and presumably directing the fire of
the Russian artillery. This explained its sudden accuracy. One of
our aeroplanes rose, giving chase to the enemy, and simultaneously our
batteries got into action. The Russians kept up a sharply
concentrated, well-directed fire against our center, our gunners
responding gallantly, and the spirited artillery duel which ensued
grew in intensity until the entrails of the earth seemed fairly to
shake with the thunder.
By one o'clock the incessant roaring, crashing, and splintering of
bursting shells had become almost unendurable to our nerves,
which were already strained to the snapping-point by the lack of
action and the expectancy. Suddenly there appeared a thin dark
line on the horizon which moved rapidly towards us, looking not
unlike a huge running bird with immense outstretched wings. We
looked through our field glasses; there could be no doubt,--it was
Russian cavalry, swooping down upon us with incredible impetus
and swiftness. I quickly glanced at our colonel. He stared
open-mouthed. This was, indeed, good fortune for us,--too good to
believe. No cavalry attack could stand before well-disciplined
infantry, providing the latter keep cool and well composed, calmly
waiting until the riders come sufficiently close to take sure aim.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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