A letter from a French soldier from Crimea, addressed to a certain Maurice, a friend of the author, in Paris: “Our major says that according to all the rules of military science, it is high time for them (Russian - Yu. D.) to capitulate. For each of their cannons, we have five cannons, for each soldier, ten. You should have seen their guns! Probably, our grandfathers, who stormed the Bastille, had the best weapons. They have no shells. Every morning their women and children go out into the open field between the fortifications and collect the kernels in sacks. We start shooting. Yes! We shoot women and children. Do not be surprised. But the kernels they collect are meant for us! And they don't leave. Women spit in our direction, and boys show their tongues. They have nothing to eat. We see how they divide small pieces of bread into five. And where do they get the strength to fight? They respond to each of our attacks with a counterattack and force us to retreat behind the fortifications. Don't laugh, Maurice, at our soldiers. We are not cowardly, but when a Russian has a bayonet in his hand, a tree, I would advise him to get out of the way. I, dear Maurice, sometimes stop believing the Major. It seems to me that the war will never end. Yesterday evening we went on the attack for the fourth time that day and retreated for the fourth time. Russian sailors (I wrote to you that they got off the ships and are now defending the bastions) chased us. A stocky fellow with a black mustache and an earring in one ear was running ahead. He knocked down two of ours - one with a bayonet, the other with a rifle butt - and was already aiming at the third when a pretty shot of shrapnel hit him right in the face. The sailor's hand flew off, blood spurting out in a fountain. In the heat of the moment, he ran a few more steps and fell to the ground at our very rampart. We dragged him to us, somehow bandaged his wounds and put him in a dugout. He was still breathing: "If he does not die by morning, we will send him to the infirmary," said the corporal. - And now it's late. Why bother with him? " At night, I suddenly woke up, as if someone had pushed me in the side. It was completely dark in the dugout, even if you gouge out an eye. I lay for a long time, not tossing and turning, and could not sleep in any way. Suddenly there was a rustle in the corner. I lit a match. And what would you think? The wounded Russian sailor crawled to the keg of gunpowder. In his one hand, he held a tinder and a flint. White as a sheet, with clenched teeth, he strained the rest of his strength, trying to strike a spark with one hand. A little more, and all of us, together with him, with the entire dugout, would fly up into the air. I jumped to the floor, snatched the flint from his hand and shouted in a voice that was not my own. Why did I scream? The danger was over. Believe me, Maurice, for the first time during the war I got scared. If a wounded, bleeding sailor, whose arm was torn off, does not surrender, but tries to blow himself and the enemy into the air, then the war must be stopped. It is hopeless to fight with such people."
