Отрывок из книги
John Morse
Published by Good Press, 2021
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Going to the foot of the stairs, he began to call to his companions, reviling the English, and declaring that there was a spy below. As his drunken comrades did not hear him or immediately respond, he ascended the stairs, and I took the opportunity to put down some money for my breakfast, catch up my bag, and escape from the house.
At the top of the street the road broadened out into a kind of square or open space, and as I reached this spot a large number of soldiers brought eight prisoners into the centre of it. Three of them were dressed in what I took to be the uniforms of Russian officers, three others were gendarmes or policemen. The other two wore the dress of civilians. All were very pale and serious-looking, but all were firm except one of the civilians, who I could see was trembling, while his knees were shaking so that he could scarcely stand. A German officer of rank—I believe a Major-General—stood in front of them and interrogated one of the Russian officers, who looked at him sternly and did not reply. The German also read something from a paper he held in his hand, while six men were ranged before each one of the prisoners. I saw what was about to take place, but before I was prepared for it the German stood aside and waved his hand. Instantly the firing-parties raised their rifles and shot down the eight prisoners. They were not all killed outright. One man rolled about in dreadful agony, two others tried to rise after falling, and a fourth attempted to run away. A sickening fusillade ensued; at least a hundred shots were fired before all the victims lay stark and quiet. Nor were they the only victims. The officer in charge of the firing-party took no precautions, uttered no warnings, and several of the spectators were struck by the bullets, while there was a wild stampede of civilians from the square.
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