Nikolay Tikhonov
Ballad of a soldier on furlough

The battalion commander stood up and broke
A reed with his dry hand:
«So you want to say goodbye to your wife
She is dying, you understand.

I cannot let you go, not now;
Without you there is one less gun.
Our last battle will be tonight.
To the left! About face! Go, son!»

...The machine guns choked, barked, grew hoarse,
And the flanks filled with blades’ chimes.
The desperate battalion advanced
And attacked eleven times.

In the morning, neath lindens lay a row
Of one-hundred-and-twenty men —
And tobacco stuck to the blood
On the hands of the soldiers then.

The battalion commander had a rash
On his face, burning spots of red.
But he spoke in a grateful tone,
«Thank you, brother!’ to each one of the dead.

All the soldiers saw him when
With a hand more sharp than a knife.
He shook every dead man’s hand
And thanked him for his help and life.

Though another tongue's retreat
Still was sounding in their dreams.
The soldiers aligned themselves
With their hands along their seams.

«Listen, Ivan Denisov,
The orders had been given before;
You may go home now to your wife,
Though you arc my soldier no more.»

The wind trembled below the hill
Like a dog. All was hushed, in repose.
One-hundred-nineteen men stayed in line
But the one-hundred-twentieth arose...

(Bumping his head, a raven flew up
With a screech full of human woe.)
...and like smoke, like smoke, eyes looked out
Through closed eyelids across the snow.

The horses began to shake and to neigh,
As if driven too close to a cliff,
And no living soul dared to lift his eyes
But just stood there, strangely stiff.

One went away over ice, over snow,
To the east — leaving no footprints’ trace;
The battalion commander said, touching his cheeks:
«Yes, I think I’ve been wounded some place.»

Translated by Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks