[In an unnamed nation, presumably Poland, Belarus, or Austria. Ragged Russian soldiers are lined up in formation. Colonel Volkov, his mood now much more depressed and realistic from his prewar overconfidence a couple of years ago, is inspecting soldiers, who are poorly equipped. The Imperial Russian Army, unable to afford being selective, has drafted many types of men to become soldiers, from teenage boys just barely finishing puberty to old men with white beards. Volkov confers with an inferior officer.]
"The men have orders to be on the front line tonight. Do we have any horses or motor transport?"
"No sir, there is none available for our unit."
"Very well, then they have to walk."
"Right face!" <Soldiers face right> "Forward, march!" <Major leads the soldiers marching down the road>
[Colonel Volkov walks off in the opposite direction and reclines under a tree. He takes one last look at the clouds, sky, and falling leaves from the trees as he unholsters his pistol and places it in his mouth. Camera zooms off screen as the sound of a gunshot is heard, indicating Colonel Volkov has taken his own life]
