One of the prisoners was a tall, red-headed fellow, the other, who wore pince-nez, was evidently an educated man. We took them to Regimental Headquarters, accompanied on the way by much cheering and congratulations. The Commander wanted to know the details of the capture and had them written down word for word. He congratulated me, pressing my hand, and so did all the other officers, telling me that my name would live for ever in the annals of the Polotsk Regiment. I was recommended for a gold cross of the 1st Degree and given two days’ leave for rest in the village. At the end of the two days my Company joined me in the reserve. Strange things were occurring in our midst. In subdued voices the men repeated dark rumours about Rasputin’s death. Wild stories about his connections with the Court and Germany were communicated from mouth to mouth. The spirit of insubordination was growing among the soldiers, though at that time it was still kept within bounds. The men were weary, terribly weary of the war. “How long shall we continue this fighting?” and “What are we fighting for?” were on the lips of everybody. It was the fourth winter and still there was no end in sight. Our men were genuinely anxious to solve the great puzzle that the war had become to them. Hadn’t it been proved again and again that the officers at Headquarters were selling them to the enemy? Hadn’t a multitude of reports reached them that the Court was pro-German? Hadn’t they heard of the War Minister placed under arrest and charged with being a traitor? Wasn’t it clear, therefore, that the Government, the official class, was in league with the enemy? Then, why continue this carnage indefinitely? If the Government was in alliance with Germany, what prevented it from concluding peace? Was it the desire to have millions more of them slaughtered? This was the riddle that forced itself upon the peasant mind. It was complicated by a hundred other suggestions that were injected into his brain from various channels. Depressed in spirit, discouraged and sullen in appearance was the Russian soldier in February, 1917. We returned to our positions and took up the heavy burden. It was not long before an attack was organized against the German line. Our artillery again displayed little effectiveness and again we climbed out of the trenches and swept across No Man’s Land while the enemy’s wire defences were intact. It was not the first wave of Russian breasts that had beaten itself in vain against that deadly barrier, to be hurled back with grave losses without even coming to grips with the foe. But each of those waves had left its drop of bitterness in the hearts of the survivors. And it was a particularly strong draught of bitterness that this last futile attack had left in the souls of the soldiers upon our sector.