It was silent in the woods. The leaves were gone, and the
tree-trunks were a pale wan colour in the low, sickly autumn sun.
Not a thing moved, except the ice of little woodland pools shivering
under our feet. Was it an ambush?
We went uneventfully forward until the trees began to thin, and
paused. Beyond, in a little clearing, three soldiers sat around a
small fire, perfectly oblivious.
Vladimir Nicolaievitch stepped forward. _"Zra'zvuitye,_ comrades!"
he greeted, while behind him one cannon, twenty rifles and a
truck-load of _grubit_ bombs hung by a hair. The soldiers scrambled
to their feet.
"What was the shooting going on around here?"
One of the soldiers answered, looking relieved, "Why we were just
shooting a rabbit or two, comrade...."
The truck hurtled on toward Romanov, through the bright, empty day.
At the first cross-roads two soldiers ran out in front of us, waving
their rifles. We slowed down, and stopped.
"Passes, comrades!"
The Red Guards raised a great clamour. "We are Red Guards. We don't
need any passes.... Go on, never mind them!"
But a sailor objected. "This is wrong, comrades. We must have
revolutionary discipline. Suppose some counterrevolutionaries came
along in a truck and said: 'We don't need any passes?' The comrades
don't know you."
At this there was a debate. One by one, however, the sailors and
soldiers joined with the first.
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