battle of the shamans and the NKVD

PLATE 40 (continued): Suddenly I come to. Balog is sitting next to me in a strange tent. Blinding pain floods into my head. When I reach to touch it, I am alarmed to feel some damp grainy substance; for a terrible moment, I think my head has split open and I have touched my brain. Balog tells me that he has coated my head with a mixture of medicinal herbs and barley - my wound is not serious, merely painful. Slurring my words, I ask where Bindon is and am told he is helping tend to some wounded men using some of the “magic” pills in our medical kit.
Suddenly I remember - the Soviets! I am so full of questions I start to babble incoherently. Balog quiets me down and then gives me an account of the battle. Apparently, the frightful appearance of the shamans’ war outfits and their insanely bellowed curses proved terrifying to the Russians, who expected to meet little resistance; many were struck down by these curses, and had to be dragged to safety by their comrades, writhing in agony. Others perished in the boggy lake, pulled down by quicksand. In the midst of this there was much fighting, but the superior numbers of the shamans proved decisive. The Russians eventually fled back across the circular river, hotly pursued by the shrieking shamanic army. Balog reflects sadly that the shamans’ victory was mainly due to the fact that the Russians were armed only with truncheons, all rifles being in use on the western front. When they return, he says, they’ll bring many guns.
I ask Balog about my head. Barely able to suppress his mirth, he tells me that the moment enough courage entered me to stand up, a Russian had bludgeoned me from behind. I respond that I was trying to tell Westcott to take cover. Balog immediately goes silent, in the manner in which someone does when a dead man’s name is mentioned. Where is Westcott, I demand to know. Balog shakes his head; Westcott cannot be found. During the battle, the little Welshman became as one possessed by a warrior demon, charging around the battleground, saving many shamans from the truncheons of the Russians before being swallowed into the chaos. He has not been seen since. The blow rolls over me like a wave, and I feel nauseous. In shock I hear myself saying that Westcott can’t be missing; if he was we couldn’t be having this conversation. Then I realize that in my bleary state I haven’t even noticed that Balog has been speaking to me in English. “Boyo gave me his tongue”, says Balog. “We were friends.”