Occasionally a patrol tried to stop us. Soldiers ran out into the
road before us, shouted _"Shtoi!"_ and threw up their guns.
We paid no attention. "The devil take you!" cried the Red Guards.
"We don't stop for anybody! We're Red Guards!" And we thundered
imperiously on, while Vladimir Nicolaievitch bellowed to me about
the internationalisation of the Panama Canal, and such matters....
About five miles out we saw a squad of sailors marching back, and
slowed down.
"Where's the front, brothers?"
The foremost sailor halted and scratched his head. "This morning,"
he said, "it was about half a kilometer down the road. But the damn
thing isn't anywhere now. We walked and walked and walked, but we
couldn't find it."
They climbed into the truck, and we proceeded. It must have been
about a mile further that Vladimir Nicolaievitch cocked his ear and
shouted to the chauffeur to stop.
"Firing!" he said. "Do you hear it?" For a moment dead silence, and
then, a little ahead and to the left, three shots in rapid
succession. Along here the side of the road was heavily wooded. Very
much excited now, we crept along, speaking in whispers, until the
truck was nearly opposite the place where the firing had come from.
Descending, we spread out, and every man carrying his rifle, went
stealthily into the forest.
Two comrades, meanwhile, detached the cannon and slewed it around
until it aimed as nearly as possible at our backs.
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