The regiment was continually changing its pace

The regiment was continually changing its pace, and the horses began to sweat. In the distance appeared the huts of a little village lying under a steep slope. On the other side of the village was a wood, its green the tops piercing the azure dome of the sky. From beyond the wood came the sound of gunfire, mingled with the frequent rattle of rifle shots. The horses pricked up their ears. The smoke of bursting shrapnel hovered in the sky a long way off; the rifle-fire came from the right of the company.
Gregor listened tensely to every sound his nerves tautened into little bundles of sensation. Zikov fidgeted in his saddle talking incessantly:
‘Gregor, those shots sound just like boys rattling sticks along railings, don’t they? ‘he remarked.
‘Shut up, magpie!’
The company entered the village. Russians soldiers were overrunning the yards. The inhabitants of the huts were packing their belongings to flee, their faces impressed with alarm and confusion. As Gregor passed he noticed that soldiers were firing the roof of a shed but its owner, a tall grey haired White Russian crashed by his sudden misfortune, went past them without paying the slightest attention. Gregor saw the man’s family loading a cart with red covered pillows and ramshackle furniture, and the man himself was carefully carrying a broken wheel rim which it was of not value to anybody, and had probably lain in the yard for years. Gregor was amazed at the stupidity of the women, who were pilling the carts with painted pots and ikons and were leaving necessary and valuable articles behind in the huts. Down the street the feathers from an feather bed blew like a miniature snowstorm
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

‘Gunfire!’Zikov almost shouted

‘Gunfire!’Zikov almost shouted and tears filled his clafish eyes. Gregor lifted his head. In front of him the troop sergeant’s grey greatcoat rose and fell in unison with the horse’s back; on each side stretched fields of uncut corn; a skylark danced in the sky at the height of a telegraph pole. The entire company was aroused. The sound of the firing ran through it like an electric current. Lashed into activity, lieutinant Polkovnikov put the company into a fast trot. Beyond a crossroad, where a deserted tavern stood, they began to fall in with the carts of refugees. A squadron of smart looking dragoons went by. Their captain , riding a sorrel thoroughbred, stared at the Cossacks ironically and spurred up his horse. They passed a great, pockmarked artilleryman carrying an armful of boards probably torn from the fence of the tavern, and came upon a howitzer battery stranded in a muddy and swampy hollow. The riders were lashing at their horses, whilst the gunners struggled with the carriage wheels.
A little farther on they overtook an infantry regiment. The soldiers were marching swiftly, their overcoats flung back. The sun glittered on their polished helmets and streamed from their bayonets. A corporal in the last company threw a lump of mud at Gregor:
‘Here, catch! Chuck it at the Austrians!’
‘Don’t play about grasshopper!’ Gregor replied, and cut the lump pf mud in its flight with his whip.
From now on they were continually passing foot regiments crawling like caterpillars, batteries, baggage wagons, red cross wagons. The deathly breath of imminent battle was in the air.
A little later, as it was entering a village, the fourth company was overtaken by the commander of the regiment, colonel Kaledin, accompanied by his second in command. As they passed Gregor heard the latter say agitatedly to Kaledin:
‘This village isn’t marked on the ordnance map, Vasily ! We may find ourselves in an awkward situation.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry

During the second week of July

During the second week of July, 1914, the divisional staff transferred Gregor Melekhov’s regiment to the town of Rovno in Volhynia, to take part in manoeuvres. A fortnight later, tired out with continual manoeuvring. Gregor and the other Cossacks of the fourth company were lying in their tents, when the company commander, lieutenant Poljovnikov, galloped furiously back from the regimental staff.
‘Another attack I suppose,’ Prokhor Zikov suggested tentatively, and waited for someone to agree.
The troop sergeant thrust the needle with which he had been mending his trousers into the lining of his cap, and remarked:
‘I expect so; they won’t let us rest for a moment.’
A minute or two later the bugler sounded the alarm. The Cossacks jumped to their feet. They had their horses saddled well within the regulation time. As Gregor was tearing the tent-pegs the sergeant managed to mutter him:
‘It’s war time, my lad!’
‘You’re lying!’ Gregor expressed his disbelief.
‘God’s truth! The sergeant major told me.’
The company formed up in the street, the commander at its head. ‘In troop columns!’ his command flew over the ranks.
The horses’ hoofs clattered as they went at a trot out of the village on to the highway. From a neighbouring village the first and fifth companies could be seen riding towards the station.
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry