But we never tried to disguise our feelings. I knew he was
my enemy, and he knew that I was repaying him in kind, with open
enmity. That was just what Zagrubsky liked. We loved our mutual
cordial hatred. When one feels like giving vent to his feelings,
like hating, cursing, or detesting somebody or something, one's
enemy becomes dearer than a hundred friends.
Then there came a certain day, and that day brought us closer
together for a moment, closer than we should ever be again. It
happened at night . . . . cursed be that night! swallowed up the
following day! . . . .
We soldiers had long become tired of our drill and our manoeuvres;
we got tired of "attacking" under the feint of a "retreat," and of
"retreating" under the feint of an "attack." We were disgusted with
standing in line and discharging our guns into the air, without ever
seeing the enemy. In our days a soldier hated feints and
make-believes. "Get at your enemy and crush his head, or lie down
yourself a crushed 'cadaver'"--that was our way of fighting, and
that was the way we won victories.
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