Our regiment was on the Turkish front when the revolution came and overthrew Tsar Nicholas II.

The men were astonished.

At first some of the old soldiers couldn't really believe it, and a burble went through the ranks … ‘Let's wait and see, there's sure to be an order from the divisional commander – a coup, the Tsar's abdicated, … Now we’ve got a Duma and a Provisional Government1 … time for some prayers of thanks, brothers!’

‘Any time!’

The bugler plays parade; the regiment forms up in a triangle.

‘By the right! At-ten-shun! Caps off!’

The padre lights up his censer, shakes out his sleeves: ‘Blessed be the Lord our God …’

The soldiers shiver and their hair stands on end … We stand there holding our breath, feeling oh so sorry for ourselves, and it's so cold it brings tears to our eyes.

‘Let us pray together to the Lord …’

We cross ourselves, fall on our knees, foreheads to the ground, thinking, ‘O Lord our

God, you unwashed uncombed soldiers’ God … Where have you got to and where have you dumped your flock, like a bad shepherd, not to mention your untouched untainted virgin? Why have you left us to the torments of an evil fate, and why don't you – you soldiers’ lousy God – have pity on a soldier's bitter life?’

The padre waves his censer, only his hair flutters in the breeze …

The soldiers feel cheerier, look at each other brightly and push out their chests.

Prayers over, we straighten up. What next?

The divisional commander rides out in front of the parade – beard grey, chest covered in medals, voice bulging. He rises in his stirrups and waves a telegram in the air: ‘Brothers!

His Imperial Highness the Emperor Nicholas II is no longer ruling over us.’

He waves his little telegram and bursts into tears.

And the soldiers say nothing, alarmed.

Only Bombardier Pimonenko isn't one to be cowed, he boldly unfurls the red flag he's brought with him:

We’re stunned and all agog.