far as the Wisloka, but the German attempt on Warsaw from the west and
south and a strong Austrian and Hungarian counterstroke on Galicia
made advisable a temporary strategic withdrawal of the Russian line
to the San, while all available forces helped in repulsing Germans
further north. For nearly a month the Russian defensive line held good
against superior Austrian forces on the San and in the south. Report
says that bounteous rewards were offered to the Austrian troops for the
reconquest of Lvov; and the Russian occupation of eastern Galicia was
seriously endangered. The San varies in breadth from fifty to a hundred
and fifty yards and is lined with marshes. Across this narrow obstacle
Russians in trenches maintained an unbreakable resistance, repulsing
all Austrian attempts at crossing.
I have seen many of the wounded of this long defensive struggle. Their
temper is the same conquering spirit that has carried the general
advance. I stayed at their hospital some days. A group of slightly
wounded, mostly young men with bright, radiant faces and strong,
lusty voices, sat up in bed recounting to me, one after the other,
individual feats of daring done by their comrades. Throughout there
was the feeling of individual superiority to the enemy tested by the
heaviest conditions and sometimes by the wiping out of nearly all one's
company or squadron. Most were wounded in the left arm or left leg in
the trenches. Five or ten of the company would fall every day. The most
exposed were the telephonists. Others fell in daring reconnaissances
in boats across the river. All testified to the far heavier losses
inflicted on the enemy. One simple young fellow crippled in a leg
described how one did not in one's first day's fighting like to look
out of the trenches. Then he showed how one began to peer about, and
later one took no notice of bullets whistling round one, because of
the sense that the army would surely go forward. One bright day he
said to me, "It must be fine in the trenches to-day." This is the
spirit of them all.
At last, when the Russians to the north had advanced and Sandomir had
been taken, the word came to go forward. The river was crossed at night
and the enemy driven from the trenches and neighbouring villages and
further back. The advance was triumphant at all points. The Austrians
were driven southward and westward. Some were pressed against the
Carpathians, with two difficult passes which would hardly admit the
passage of artillery and field trains; others were pressed back on
Cracow where the line of the whole Russian advance is now complete.
The Russian impact on Cracow promises, first, a settlement of the
destiny of western Galicia, where the population is Polish and very
ready to respond to the appeal of Grand Duke. Next, a gap is made
between the Austrians and Germans who are already retiring in mutual
dissatisfaction in different directions, and whose political interests
must more and more differentiate. Further advance through this gap will
be on Slavonic territory, as southern Silesia up to the River Neisse
is mainly Polish or Bohemian, and the Czechs in general are largely
Russophil and quite hostile to Germany.
The Germans are doing all that is possible to make diversions on other
sides. Stopped and driven back on the side of Mlawa, they have made a
serious effort on both sides of the Vistula, near Plock, but have been
decisively repulsed, the inhabitants giving effective aid in bridging
the river. They are now attempting to force a strong wedge into the
Russian front between the Vistula and the Wartha; but so far the
Russian line, which is everywhere continuous and is reinforced wherever
necessary with strong reserves, has successfully outflanked every local
German advance.
Meanwhile a double Russian advance on East Prussia from east and
south is overcoming the numerous obstacles and making rapid progress,
avoiding and enveloping the thickset fortified line of the Mazurian
lakes. Here, too, the subject population is chiefly Polish.
Retreating German troops in Poland, previously transferred from the
western front, expressed to the inhabitants great despondency, even
saying, "This is our last judgment" (Das ist unser Weltgericht). Many
prisoners have displayed a similar mood.
_November 28._
A RUSSIAN FIELD HOSPITAL
A large, low, white building with a grassy court and outhouses; four
large tents stand in the court; on the centre of the main building a
white canvas band that bears in rough black letters the inscription:
First Etape Lazaret of the Imperial Duma.
After a wonderful star-lit journey in a _formanka_ or double-horsed
cart with a courteous and humble old grey-haired peasant, I come on
this building about half-past two in the morning. The last part of the
journey was adventurous; the driver at one point wished to strike work,
which resulted in a wait of nearly an hour; the way had to be asked of
a group of soldiers with blackened faces seated round a camp fire,
and of three sentries of the _étape_ marching through the night with
fixed bayonets, who challenged, "Who goes there?" and received with
some hesitation the answer, "Our side" (_svoi_). One of them lowered
his bayonet to be ready for any further emergencies. In the end I was
guided to the lazaret, where I had a cordial welcome from the two
sanitars on duty and was accommodated with a bed in one of the large
tents, which was empty and ready for moving.
The Duma Lazaret was equipped chiefly by the energy and liberality
of Prince Volkonsky, Vice-President of the Duma and one of its most
respected and popular members. All parties are associated in the work;
and Prince Volkonsky, who is a Conservative, has had the valuable
help of the eminent Radical, Dr. Shingarev, who earlier earned a wide
reputation as the organiser of the sanitary system in the province of
Voronezh. Meetings of a committee are held in the Duma, and lately two
other lazarets have been equipped and dispatched, one to the Prussian
front and one to the Caucasian.
The first Duma lazaret was one of the earliest to arrive behind the
front during the tremendous fighting in southern Poland and in Galicia.
At Brody on the road to Lvov it gave preliminary treatment to thousands
of wounded in the course of a few days. Later it was moved to Lvov,
Sokal and Belzec, where I now found it. It had picked up on its road
stray dogs which it had named after their places of adoption--Brodka,
Rava, and Belzec.
The lazaret was equipped for two hundred patients, but at the time of
my visit had only forty, as it was about to be moved further to the
front. Operations were performed daily, to be ready for the move. I saw
one poor fellow, very frail and no longer young, just after his leg was
amputated; he was calling in a piteous way to his mother. In one ward
the patients were in a late stage of convalescence from typhus, and in
another lay one of the sanitars of the lazaret. In a far corner lay a
poor fellow with a wound in the head; his case was hopeless, and he was
communicated by the priest in an interval of consciousness.
The central wards were full of strong, lusty men, most of them young,
some with bad wounds but nearly all getting the better of them. They
were in many ways like dormitories of big schoolboys, all of them good
comrades--during my stay of some days I only heard one altercation and
that was mild and very short. They lived a chance corporate life of
their own; and when I went round with cigarettes, there was always some
one to see that tired or sleeping comrades got their share. There was
very little groaning and no complaint; the men felt their wounds in the
long night time, and sometimes one would mention that his wound was
smarting. One Armenian, a weak-looking lad of the gentlest disposition,
lay striving to bear his pain. "Oh!" he said as he fought it; and then,
with closed teeth, "No matter; it doesn't matter; our Emperor ought to
be rich; it had to be done--to beat the Germans; it doesn't matter."
Usually, however, the wound would only be mentioned in a side sentence
in a narrative--"and then I got this," or it would be the occasion for
a story of strong life and effort and the triumph of "ours." There
was a peculiar delicate courtesy about the halest and strongest, who
would shift their wounded limbs with an inviting gesture of the hand,
making room for me to sit on their beds; and then there would rise a
general stream of narrative where all joined in without ever seeming
to interrupt each other, each telling of some daring feat of a comrade
against all odds. One will not forget the figures leaning up in bed
and the young, radiant faces; many of these men were cripples who will
never fight again, but everything about them was full of health and
fresh air and victory.
A young trooper told me of the actions of his regiment against the
Hungarians. They have, it appears, a particularly mobile horse
artillery, served with great accuracy by horsemen who fire with the
left hand. They enticed the regiment up with displays of white flags
and suddenly rent them with a murderous fire. For all that, as in
practically all these narratives, in the end the Russians triumphed.
Others described the long defensive work on the San, with its narrow
stream and muddy banks, and the final irresistible advance. There were
two young men, one from Chernigov and one from Tauris, who beckoned
to me each day, and with whom I spent several happy hours. When I
asked for their addresses they wrote them down in form, beginning in
the one case with "Wounded in arm" and in the other with "Wounded in
leg." "Wounded in leg" was a sunny youth who, when we were photographed
together, made quite a careful toilette. He was the boy who called
out "What a splendid day! It's fine to-day in the trenches!" These
two discussed with me all sorts of subjects, including the English
sailors and the Grimsby fishermen, who appealed to them as "going for
boldness." Another more elderly pair, one like a jolly farmer and the
other like a brown-bearded stationmaster, worked out with me on the map
the progress of the Russian army. Simplicity was the note of all, and
it would have been hard to convince them that it was they more than any
others who were now under the eyes of Europe.
There was another still more elderly couple that had an out-of-the-way
interest. They were two old men, one of sixty-six and one of
seventy-two, who had been shot by the Hungarians for sheltering Russian
soldiers. One of them, a picturesque-looking person with round head and
furry grey hair, told me of how he was locked up in his attic and then
called down to be shot, while his womanfolk were reviled and struck.
His leg was broken, but was mending. Both these poor old men were full
of plaints and, after the Galician manner, insisted on kissing one's
hand each time that one talked with them.
One of the most sympathetic figures in the lazaret was the priest,
a man of the age and with many of the features of a Russian picture
of the Christ. He was a monk from the famous Pochayev monastery in
Volyn, sent hither by the Archbishop Eulogius. His was an entirely
un-selfconscious nature, gentle, good and whole; and the care that he
gave to the dying was like the best of man and of woman combined. I
had some talk with him of the Uniats, that oppressed people under the
heavy hand of Jewish taskmasters, which had held through centuries to
its roots of parish organisation thrown out by the early Brotherhood of
Lvov. We glanced in at one of their services in the quaintest little
wooden church, where the singing was congregational and like a sad
plaint.
Our priest every day read a short Orthodox service in the central ward,
and on Saturday and Sunday served the full Mass in one of the largest
tents. Some six of the soldiers were trained singers; the priest
himself did not chant, and the words of the service came with all the
more reality, especially the frequent allusions to the "Christ-loving
army." At one point the priest went through the wards to repeat a part
of the service; for, as he said, "our soldiers are deeply religious,
and the patients will feel that they are left out." At the end all in
the tent kissed the cross, and the priest then went to hold it to each
of the patients in turn. He told us that at the mobilisation and before
battle communions were frequent and that fasting was in such cases
excused.
It was while I was here that the order to move forward arrived. The
remaining wounded were arranged for in neighbouring hospitals; warm
blue vests were served out to all for the journey. "We have much
to be thankful for," said one soldierly fellow who looked like a
sergeant and took a lead among the rest. "Our Emperor has indeed fed
and clothed us." Everything was packed, the large farm buildings were
left deserted, and the hospital moved forward in the track of Radko
Dmitriev.
_Kiev, December 15._
THE COUNTRY AND THE WAR
I have just made a journey across Russia. The average opinion seems
to be the same everywhere. The feeling expressed is quiet and sober;
no boasting of any kind is heard anywhere; news of the war is treated
on its merits, and anything that seems unsatisfactory is faced and
is given its reasonable value. As to the ultimate issue, complete
confidence is felt, and, in this feeling, satisfaction with what has
been done and the determination to go through with the matter seem to
have an equal share. Every one is clear that there can be no stopping
half-way with the task unfinished; and the task, as it presents itself
to the average man or woman, is that the crisis thrust upon us must
not occur again. I say "thrust upon us" because, with average people
even perhaps more than in official circles, and with the peasant more
than all, there is the strongest feeling that peace has been wilfully
disturbed by Germany, and that Russia was left no option but to hit
back as hard as she could. A peasant cabman, fraternising with me on
our alliance and promoting me in the course of our conversation to
the second person singular, summed up the common instinct very well
by saying: "How disagreeable He is" ("He" is always the enemy); "he
makes himself nasty to every one," which is surely the chief reason why
"He" is having a bad time of it now. "He might have smashed you or the
French," my cabman goes on; "us he can only hit about a bit (_pobit_),"
and his attitude is that of a big, kindly animal that is provoked
into defending itself and others. "Pobit" is the ordinary expression
of the soldiers for the work they have to do. A peasant servant puts
it stronger and is sorry that I am not going to "spike" (_kolot_) any
Germans, especially as she has made up her mind that they are going
to kill me. "You had better tell me what to do with your things," she
says, "for you're not going on a pleasure trip"; and she reminds me of
this as I start by asking, "But when you're killed, though?" I quote
this because this good woman has a brother in the Siberian rifles,
of whom so many are lying under the great wooden crosses outside the
wrecked village of Rakitna, and no doubt she judges of my chances by
his; but she talks of him with the same equanimity. Beneath all this,
there is the full and silent sense of all the sacrifices that are asked
and a silent pride in making them. I have never heard this take words
with the peasants, though it is behind everything they say; but it
comes out often with those who have any responsibility for others and
most of all with any who are in close touch with the common soldier.
Those speak the strongest and simplest of him, who are only telling
a friend their daily experience of him; and the selflessness of his
courage and endurance keeps coming back on them as something that
astounds and even confounds them.
All the life of the country that lies behind the line is centred in
it. The nearer one comes up to the line, the more does one feel in
the moral atmosphere a sense of satisfaction, of ease of mind. In the
line itself all sense of self disappears, and the big band of brothers
lives for its daily work and divides up everything in common. It is
wonderful how far little resources can go when they are put together;
one produces some chocolate, another a little store of comfits, a third
hands round a flask, another supplies the cigarettes and another the
matches, and a little feast is thus improvised by the half-light of a
candle; all these stores are renewed at chance and are expended without
reserve.
But it is farthest of all from the front that the sense of the war is
most painfully felt, and that because it has to seek ways of finding
its satisfaction. For this it seeks continually. Every now and then,
in the capitals and all the big towns, a week is set aside for some
special object: for the collection of warm underwear for the men in the
trenches, for Christmas presents for the troops, for the families left
behind, for the widows and orphans, for the supply of means for the
crippled. At these times, which are constantly recurring, every tram or
train is boarded and every restaurant is traversed by the collectors,
who for each donation pin on a little special badge to secure the donor
from any further importunity; but the badge is quite disregarded both
by donors and collectors, and one sees many who have paid their due
several times over. Thus the public is taxing itself over and over
again for every need that it can think of.
The posters have a nervous force, such as the Petrograd one that
begins and ends in large letters with the words "It's cold in the
trenches." Several of them bear the signatures of members of the
Imperial Family, one of the most simple and telling coming from a
sister of the Emperor who is engaged in ordinary hospital work among
the wounded. Another striking appeal, for the widows and orphans, is
simply a twofold picture. Along the top in pale blue with a sullen sky
of winter dawn above, a number of scattered soldiers, big and clumsy
and heavily clothed, are running forward over a rough, flat field,
with the lumbering run of a Russian porter at a railway station, their
bayonets lowered and all with set faces; from a copse in the distance
come puffs of smoke; and in front of the men, close behind his chief,
who has already fallen, an officer has his hand thrown up in the air
as a bullet carries him over. Underneath sits a group of dark-haired
figures; a young wife with set and brooding face, and two young boys
at once with fear and spirit in their eyes. I have asked that some of
these posters should be sent to England, in case any could spare from
their nearer needs something for the countless bereaved of Russia.
Every non-military unit of society is looking for a way of its own
of helping. Mary Dolina, who might perhaps be called the Mrs. Kemble
of Russian opera, has, with her many helpers, now given over thirty
concerts of national and patriotic music for widows and orphans. The
artists of Russia, banded together with special imperial approval, are
giving movable representations in restaurants or in public squares,
where, as in all other cases, the full collection goes to the army.
The Press of Moscow is meeting to organise a day on which the Press
will make a united effort for the same object. And then there are
the collections for claims that make a special appeal, such as the
devastated homes of Poland, Belgium and Serbia. The superscriptions
adopted in these various endeavours are quite simple and usually take
the form of offering a present--for instance, Petrograd to Poland,
Moscow to Poland and Belgium, Artists to Soldiers, and so on. All this
wealth of various charity is co-ordinated, and regularity of service
is secured by committees of the most representative kind under the
chairmanship of one or other member of the Imperial Family. The Emperor
himself is constantly paying visits to the army with abundant supplies
of medals for all the heavily wounded.
Among the links between front and rear are the frequent short visits
to the capitals of those chief organisers of the Red Cross who must be
everywhere. Prince George Lvov, one of the most admirable of Russian
public workers, who organised relief during the famines and led the
Civil Red Cross in the Japanese War, passes from Lemberg to East
Prussia, or from Warsaw to the Caucasus, seeing as much as can come
under one pair of eyes, and returning to Petrograd and Moscow to find
ways of meeting each new need. Nicholas Lvov, a former Vice-President
of the Duma, whose brother has fallen and whose eldest boy has been
killed by shrapnel before Cracow, passes constantly between Petrograd
and Galicia. Alexander Guchkov, the organiser of Red Cross work on the
Warsaw front, who is constantly in the front line and was reported
prisoner at Lodz, pays flying visits to Moscow. And all these glimpses
of the realities of the war draw closer the ties between the army of
defenders at the front and the country that is waiting to meet every
sacrifice and to fill every gap. Russia will close the ranks till
the work is done; and she can go on doing this after it has become
impossible for our enemies.
_December 18._
In Kiev, though there is every sign of its being in the minds of all,
materially the war is hardly felt. It is in fact wonderful how little
effect of this kind it seems to have made on the body of Russia. On
the other hand, the atmosphere of nervous tension begins to disappear
the moment one begins to get really near to the front. In the Red
Cross offices at Kiev I found the same straining toward the front as
elsewhere, only much calmer because these were people who had a big war
work to do. Hospitals meet the eye in the streets at every turn.
Once in the train for Galicia it was again the war atmosphere and
simplicity itself. The talk was all of people engaged directly or
indirectly in it. A graceful old lady with a very attentive son was on
her way to get a sight of her husband, one of the generals. A young
officer, whose wound has kept him out of it for three weeks, is on his
way to the front before Cracow. A fresh-looking young man, at first
unrecognisable to his friends with his close-cropped bullet head,
tells how he went on a reconnaissance, how he came on the Austrians,
how their first line held up their muskets and when the Russians had
passed on fired on their rear, how nevertheless practically all came
back safe and sound. It was told with a kind of schoolboy ingenuousness
and without suggestion or comment of any kind on the conduct of those
concerned. Then followed an account of a war marriage, at first put off
and then carried out as quietly as possible. All the friends of every
one seemed to be at the war.
At the old frontier some of the buildings near the station were wrecked
by artillery fire, and the railway was lined with a succession of solid
hospital barracks, with the local commandant's flag flying over one of
them. There was plenty to eat at the station; and though we moved on
very quickly, every one from our crowded train managed to find a place
in the Austrian carriages, chiefly because every one was ready to help
his neighbour. The corridors jammed with passengers and kits, we moved
on through the typical "strips" of Russian peasant culture, a pleasant
wooded country, passing a draft detachment on the halt which waved
greetings to us. My companion, Mr. Stakhovich, a phenomenally strong
man and imbued by a fine spirit, was talking of the indifference of the
Russian peasant to danger; he regarded it as an indifference to all
sensations; anyhow they go forward, whatever the conditions, as a sheer
matter of course. With the ordinary educated man the mind must be kept
occupied with work if unpleasant possibilities of all kinds are to be
kept out of it; but General Radko Dmitriev, to whom we are going, will
jump up from a meal, however hungry, when there is a chance of getting
under fire.
We draw up in the great station at Lvov. To the right of us stretch
endless lines crowded with wagons, especially with sanitary trains. In
the lofty passages and waiting-rooms are sleeping troops with piled
muskets, some wounded on stretchers tended by the sisters of mercy who
are constantly on duty here, and a crowd of men, all soldiers, coming
and going. One passed many Austrian prisoners, of whom another enormous
batch was just announced to arrive; and elsewhere a Russian private
explained to me the excellent quality of the Hungarian knapsack, which
he and his comrades had turned into busbies. One man was asleep inside
the rail opposite the ticket office. He did not seem to mind how often
he was woken up.