Sebastopol in May
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Hundreds of fresh, bloody corpses — the bodies of men who two hours earlier had been filled with all manner of hopes and desires, from the lofty to the trivial — lay with stiffened limbs on the floor of the dew-covered, flowering valley which separated the bastion from the trench, and on the smooth flagstones of the Mortuary Chapel in Sebastopol; hundreds of men, with curses and prayers on their parched lips, tossed and groaned, some among the corpses in the flowering valley, others on stretchers, on camp beds, or on the bloody floorboards of the dressing station; yet, just as on earlier days, the summer lightning flashed above the Sapun-gora, the glimmering stars grew pale, the white mist drifted in off the dark, thundering sea, the vermilion dawn flared in the east, long purple cloudlets trailed across the light blue horizon, and again, as on earlier days, promising joy, love and happiness to the whole of the quickening world, the sun’s mighty, resplendent orb arose from the waves.
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Sebastopol in August 1855
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… Lieutenant-Captain Kraut was a handsome, energetic officer; he was fair-haired and sported a large, reddish moustache and sideburns. He spoke excellent Russian, but too correctly and elegantly for a Russian.
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‘Now then, Dmitry Gavrilych,’ he said, giving the captain’s knee a shake. ‘How are you, old fellow? What about your commission, still no word?’
‘No news yet, no.’
‘And there won’t be any, either,’ Dyadenko chipped in. ‘I’ve already told you why.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘It’s because your despatch wasn’t worded correctly.’
‘There you go, always arguing,’ said Kraut, smiling merrily. ‘A real, obstinate Ukrainian. Well, you’ll end up a lieutenant in spite of yourself.’
‘No, I won’t.’
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