wed in dust impossible to see anything. Heaps of
wounded again. I and Molozov in nice room alone. Have not seen M. all
day.

"_June 25th._ This morning Nikitin, Sister K----, Goga, and I
attempted to get back to P---- to see whether there were wounded.
Started off on the carts but when we got to the hill above the village
met the whole of our Division coming out. The village abandoned, so
back we had to go again through all the dust. Evening nothing doing.
Every one depressed.

"_June 26th._ Very early--half-past five in the morning--we were
roused and had to take part in an exodus like the Israelites. Most
unpleasant, moving an inch an hour, Cossacks riding one down if one
preferred to go on foot to being bumped in the haycart. Every one in
the depths of depression. Crossed the Nestor, a perfectly magnificent
river. Five versts further, then stopped at a farmhouse, pitched
tents. Instantly hundreds of wounded. Battle fierce just other side of
Nijnieff. Worked like a nigger--from two to eight never stopped
bandaging. About ten went off to the position with Molozov. Strange to
be back in the little town under such different circumstances. Dark as
pitch--raining. Much noise, motors, soldiers like ghosts
though--shrapnel all the time. Tired, depressed and nervous. Horrid
waiting doing nothing; two houses under the shrapnel. Expected also at
every moment bridge behind us to be blown up. At last wagons filled
with wounded, started back and got home eventually, taking two hours
over it. Very glad when it was over...."

We had arrived, indeed, although we did not then know it and were
expecting, every moment, to move back again, at the conclusion of our
first exodus. Our only other transition, after a day or two longer at
our farmhouse, was forward four versts to a tiny village on a high
hill overlooking the Nestor, to the left of Nijnieff. This village was
called Mittoevo. Mittoevo was to be our world for many weeks to come. We
inhabited once again the large white deserted country-house with the
tangled garden, the dusty bare floors, the broken windows. At the end
of the tangled garden there was a white stone cross, and here was a
most wonderful view, the high hill running precipitously down to the
flat silver expanse of the Nestor that ran like a gleaming girdle
under the breasts of the slopes beyond. These further slopes were
clothed with wood. I remember, on the first day that I watched, the
forest beyond was black and