Sky was strewn with pink clouds. Treetops of birches that sprung along the spring fluttered their bright green leaves. Their shimmering, however, couldn't compare to flashes just behind the hilltops on the horizon. Somewhere towards city of Nish, artillery was pounding.
Village was long ago abandoned. There was not much to even burn let alone pillage. The Colonel's horse we had to feed corn, because he didn't want even to come close to the mouldy hay from the stables. In fact, that devilish horse calmed down only after he bit off Danailo's index finger. Destrier whinnied as if he was mocking us, taking long time to chew on the bloody stump.
Colonel Bogdanoff asked, eventually, that entire hamlet be torched, but we had hard time with that, too. Damp hay simply didn't catch fire, but when it did, village was consumed as if we splashed it with petrol.
I swear on my mother's grave, the fire burned blue, hue of the sea, hue of shallows, shadows dancing almos turqouise, just like on the beaches of Corfu.
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