[First World War. Colonel Volkov is reviewing the Imperial Army, which has in its ranks every man it can acquire, from teenage boys barely finishing adolesence to white-bearded old men. Colonel Volkov's mood is significantly less cocky from the 1914 party when he believed it would be a short war]
The men have orders to be at the front lines by tonight. Do we have any horses or motor transport?
No, sir. None are available.
Very well, they have to walk.
Right face!
[Russian soldiers turn to their right]
Forward march!
[The Major leads the soldiers in march towards combat zone. Colonel Volkov walks in opposite direction and reclines under a tree. He takes one last look at the sky as he unholsters his pistol, sticks it in his mouth, then squeezes the trigger]
