Our advance line was within seventy feet of the enemy’s trenches when an order came from General Walter to halt and return to our positions. It was a terrible shock to men and officers alike. Our Colonel talked to the General on the field telephone, explaining to him the situation. The General was obdurate. All of us were so incensed at this treacherous order that, had any one of us taken command at the moment, we should undoubtedly have won a great victory, as the breach in the German defences was complete. The conversation between the Colonel and the General ended in a quarrel. The General had not, apparently, expected us to break through the first German line. So many waves of Russian soldiers had beaten in vain against it, and with such terrific losses. It became evident to our men that it was the General’s treacherous design to have as many of us slaughtered as possible. But discipline was severe, and orders were orders. We had to go back. We were so exhausted that our bodies welcomed a rest. In those two days, the 7th and 8th of August, our ranks were refilled four times with fresh drafts. Our casualties were enormous. The corpses lay thick everywhere, like mushrooms after rain, and there were innumerable wounded. One could not take a step in No Man’s Land without coming into contact with the corpse of a Russian or a German. Bloody feet, hands, sometimes heads, lay scattered in the mud. That was the most terrible offensive in which I was engaged. It has come down into history as the Battle of Postovy. We spent the first night in the German trenches we had captured. It was a night of unforgettable horrors. The darkness was impenetrable. The stench was suffocating. The ground was full of mud-holes. Some of us sat on corpses. Other rested their feet on dead men. One could not stretch a hand without touching a lifeless body. We were hungry. We were cold. Our flesh crept in the dreadful surroundings. I wanted to get up. My hand sought support. It fell on the face of a corpse, stuck against the wall. I screamed, slipped and fell. My fingers buried themselves in the torn abdomen of a body. I was seized with horror such as I had never experienced, and shrieked hysterically. My cries were heard in the officers’ dugout, and a man was sent with an electric torch to rescue Yashka, whom they had supposed to be wounded. It was warm and comfortable in the dugout, as it had previously been used by the enemy’s regimental staff. I was given some tea, and little by little I recovered my self-control.