one could take it for a conquered city. In the country this might have
been expected because far the greater part of the population is Little
Russian; but in Lvov the Russians are only about 17 per cent. and the
predominant element is the Polish (60 per cent.), the rest being Jews
(20 per cent.) or Germans (3 per cent.). The university, the Press
and the bulk of the professional class are Polish. This result is in
character with the place, which has a peculiarly pleasing atmosphere
of its own. But it is also a great tribute to two quite different
influences: to those Poles who, though in no way tied to Russia, have
preferred to all other considerations the corporate interests of their
fellow-countrymen, and to the wise and sympathetic administration of
the Russian Governor-General, Count George Bobrinsky.
_December 22._
Lvov is taking on more of the character of a Russian town. Many of the
Jews have left. The Russian signs over new restaurants, stores, etc.,
meet the eye everywhere. Of the Little Russian party which supported
the Austrians, many have now returned and are making their peace with
the new authorities. The Russian soldier is quite at home in Lvov, as
one sees when the singing "drafts" swing past the Governor-General's
palace; the Austrian prisoners in uniform, who are allowed liberty on
parole, seem equally at their ease. Numbers of Russian priests are
pouring into Galicia, but not fast enough for the Uniat villages which
have embraced Orthodoxy; as soon as they arrive, peasants come with
their carts and take them off to their parishes, without waiting for
any formal distribution. The Uniat creed and ritual are practically
identical with the Orthodox, so that the difference between the two
was purely political. At the new People's Palace of Nicholas II, I
saw a number of children, principally from families that had suffered
severely at the hands of Austrian troops, receive Christmas presents
on the day of St. Nicholas, who is the Russian Santa Claus. Archbishop
Eulogius, in a very effective little address, told them that the
biggest Christmas present which they were receiving was the liberty to
speak their own language and worship in their own way in union with
their Russian brothers.
Starting for the army, I spent a night of strange happening in the
great railway station, as our train was delayed till the morning. At
one time I went, in the frosty night, to look for it at the goods
station, where there were endless rails and wagons, and found it
after a long search. In the big restaurant four little boys made
great friends with me, one of fourteen in uniform and spurs who had
been serving as mounted scout with a regiment at the front, and one
of thirteen who had attached himself in the same capacity to a
battery. Both were small creatures, and the first was a remarkable
little person, with all the smartness and determination of a soldier,
relieved by an amusing childlike grace and courtesy. He said to me in a
confidential voice, "I see you are very fond of little children," and
he ordered with pride lemonade and chocolates for us both. He said the
men at the front could last a week to ten days, if necessary, without
any food but _sukhari_ (army biscuit), so long as they had cigarettes.
His imagination had been caught by the aeroplanes over Peremyshl,
and also by the Carpathians, which he described with an up and down
movement of the hand. He had a great disgust for anything mean and a
warlike pride in the exploits of the soldiers of his regiment. His
model was a boy, now a young man, who had been through the Japanese
War. "If a general comes past," and he made a salute to show the
extreme respect felt for his hero. Many a time in that long night,
while the weary heads of doctors and sisters of mercy were bent in
sheer tiredness against the tables, he would come and sit by me and
ask me to read the war news to him, or to tell him about the English
submarines. He left me with the smartest of salutes in the early hours
of the morning.
Our train is an enormous one with endless warm carriages (_teplushki_)
for the wounded. The staff of sanitars and sisters, working for the
Zemstvo Red Cross, live in a spotlessly clean carriage, and there are
special carriages for drugs, stores, kitchen, etc. They are simple and
interesting people, and, as I am now in the Red Cross and have many
interests in common with them, they kindly made me up a bed in their
carriage, where we discussed Russia in all its bearings.
We carry a group of passengers who have all made friends after the
Russian way. A colonel and his wife are going to fetch the body of
a fallen comrade. Another colonel, a delightfully simple man with
close-cropped hair, thin brown face and bright, clever eyes seems to
know all the Slavonic languages and has much to say of the Austrians.
He has seen twenty of them surrender to a priest and his clerk who
came on them in a wood, made the sign of the cross and told them to
come with them. In another place twenty-two Austrians were captured by
two Russians. The Austrian officers put quick-firing guns behind their
own rifle pits for the "encouragement" of their men, on whom he has
seen them fire. They make their gunners fire every two hours in the
night as a kind of exercise. He has seen them form their men in close
column under fire and march them about up and down along the line of
the Russian trenches. The Austrian artillery seldom takes cover; the
Russian directs its fire on the enemy rather than on his batteries. In
one place, heavy Russian artillery at a range of seven miles demolished
an Austrian field train and two battalions who were lunching in the
square of a small town. He is full of life and confidence, and all that
he says breathes of fresh air and of work.
_December 24._
Our train made its way through to the furthest point up. We had to stop
several times to let through the ambulance trains already charged with
wounded, which take precedence. We had to go very slowly over several
repaired bridges; and this was no simple matter, as we had twenty-seven
long and heavy coaches. Some of these repairs were complicated pieces
of work, as the bridges were high above the level of the rivers. At
point after point, and especially on the Austrian sides of the rivers,
we passed lines of carefully prepared trenches, and in one place there
was a masterpiece of artillery cover, with every arrangement for a long
stay.
The damage done by the artillery fire was sporadic--here a smashed
station building, there a town where several houses had suffered. But
there was nothing indiscriminate; and the Polish population, which
showed no sign of any hostility to the Russians, seemed to find the war
conditions livable.
As in other parts, I was specially struck by the easy relations
existing between the inhabitants, the Austrian soldiers and their
Russian captors. There were exceptions. I had some talk with a few
Austrian Germans from Vienna. They were simple folk and seemed to
have no grudge against the Russians; and the circumstance in their
position which they felt most--they were only taken the day before
yesterday--was that this was Christmas Eve, the "stille Nacht, heilige
Nacht" of the beautiful German hymn, and that they were far from home
among strange people. They kept apart as far as possible not only from
their captors but from their fellow prisoners from Bohemia and Moravia.
These last seemed at least quite comfortable, smoking their long pipes
and leisurely sweeping the platforms. They were quite a large company.
They understood my Russian better than my German. When I asked them
how they stood with the German troops, instead of the sturdy "Gut" of
their Viennese fellows, they answered with a slang word and a gesture.
When asked about the Russians, they replied in a quite matter-of-course
way: "We are brothers and speak the same tongue; we are one people."
For any difficulties, the Poles often prove good interpreters. It is
very different for the Austrian captive officers, who often cannot
understand their own men.
These Czechs confidently assured me that any Russian troops that
entered Bohemia would be welcomed as friends; and they claimed that
not only the neighbouring Moravians and Slovaks but also the Croats
further south were to be taken as feeling as they did. The Bohemians
and Moravians seem to be surrendering in the largest numbers of all;
and though the Viennese claimed that large numbers of Russians had also
been taken, I cannot regard as anything but exceptional the enormous
batches of blue uniforms that I passed on the road here. I asked these
men about their greatcoats and was not at all surprised when they said
they felt cold in them. It is nothing like such a practical winter
outfit, whether for head, body or legs, as that of the Russian soldier.
We came very well over the last part of our journey. I was sorry to
part with the friendly sanitars, who all seemed old acquaintances
by the end of the journey and invited me to take up my quarters
permanently with them. Theirs was more than ordinary kindness, as they
had shared everything they had with me, including their little sleeping
apartment. The bearer company under their orders is all composed of
Mennonites, a German religious sect from South Russia which objects
to war on principle and, being excused military service even in this
tremendous struggle, seems to be serving wholesale as ambulance
volunteers.
As there were none but soldiers about, these men helped me out with
my luggage; and through the window of the First Aid point in Tarnow
station, I saw another acquaintance waving me a welcome. This is the
last point that the railway can serve; and my friends will go back with
a full burden, which will keep the medical staff busy day and night all
the way. One of my new companions, who has been out to a village to
get milk for the wounded, has seen the shrapnel bursting; and the guns
are sounding loud and clear near the town as I write this. It is here
that the most seriously wounded must be treated at once, as a railway
journey would simply mean death for them. This is brought home to one,
if one only looks at the faces of the workers. Yet with this huge line
of operations, and the assaults which may be made at any point of it,
at any moment the nearest field hospitals may need to send off any
wounded who can be moved without delay. Though the work is being done
with danger all round, less thought is being given to it than anywhere
that I have been yet.
Christmas Eve: peace on earth and good will toward men. And all
through "the still night, the holy night," the sound that means killing
goes on almost continuously. How can any one say prayers for a world
which is at war, or for himself that is a part of it? May God, who
knows everything, help each of us to bear our part and not disgrace
Him, and make us instruments to the end that He wishes.
_December 26._
Christmas day I spent in the hospitals. In one ward, at a local
Austrian hospital, and full of wounded, I found that almost every one
of the line of patients was of a different nationality. Going round
the room, one found first a Pole of western Galicia, then a Russian
from the Urals, next a Ruthenian (Little Russian) from eastern Galicia,
next a Magyar from Hungary, and against the wall a young German from
Westphalia. After him came an Austrian-German from Salzburg, a Serbian
from southern Hungary, another Ruthenian, an Austrian-German from
Moravia, an Austrian-German from Bohemia, and a Moravian from Moravia.
I spent a couple of hours here, talking sometimes with each of the
patients, sometimes with all. The Pole knew only Polish and the bearded
Russian, who had a bad body wound, was too tired to talk much. Of the
Ruthenians one was a frail, white-faced boy from close to the Russian
frontier who seemed, like most of his people, subdued, and confused
with the strangeness of his position in fighting against his own
people; the other was a lumpish boy without much intelligence. The
thin, bearded Hungarian, who knew no German but a little Russian, was
mostly groaning or dozing. The Salzburg Austrian was dazed and drowsy,
but at intervals talked quietly of his pleasant homeland.
The German stood out from the rest. He was a bright, vigorous boy of
twenty, had gone as a volunteer and was tremendously proud of the
spirit of the German army. He had fought against the French during
four days of pouring rain, mostly in standing water. The Bavarians,
who seemed to have quarrelled with the other troops in that part, were
making war atrociously, he said, knifing the inhabitants, insulting the
women and destroying all that came in their way. He was later moved to
the Carpathians, where one German division fought between two Austrian
ones. They advanced in snow without field kitchens, and were not
allowed to touch the pigs and poultry that they passed. However, they
had enough to eat; and they were hoping to surprise their enemy, when
the Russians fell upon them and left only the remnants of a regiment,
many of the officers also falling. He himself was wounded in both legs,
and was brought here in a cart.
Every German soldier has a prayer-book and a song-book. They constantly
sing on the march, and find it a great remedy against fatigue. Songs of
Arndt and Körner are very popular, and there is a new version of an old
song, which is perhaps the greatest favourite; it begins--
"O Deutschland hoch an Ehren,
Du heil'ges Land der Treu,"
and it goes on to speak of the new exploits in east and west. There are
any number of volunteers in Germany; the women are all joining the Red
Cross; and the population is busy with every kind of work for the army;
but when I asked whether the people were keen for the war, he answered
with astonishment, "The people? The people thought that the war was
not to be avoided; but that was at the start; now it is different."
He asked if there were many other Englishmen in Russia, and when I
answered that there were some, he said, to my surprise, "The English
are everywhere, they are a fine people--_nobel_." He also asked me on
the quiet whether, when he was well, he would be sent to Siberia. He
had been told that the Russians were terrible, but had written home to
say that he had found them nothing of the sort.
Much of our talk turned on the Austrian army. The German said that it
didn't stand firm "unless it was properly led, by Germans." In Bohemia
and Moravia the regiments were mixed, Slavs and Austrian-Germans, and,
according to the Moravian soldiers, were constantly quarrelling; all
the officers were Austrian-Germans, and even some of the Hungarian
regiments seemed to be commanded by Germans. The young Serbian spoke
of frequent quarrels and even brawls between Serbian and Hungarian
fellow-soldiers. The great wish of all was that the war should end.
When I said that the end was not in sight, the German exclaimed,
"More misery, more misery;" a second said, "Oh, Jammer, Jammer"
(lamentation), and a third had tears in his eyes.
In another ward I heard more of the Bohemians. There Prussia is the
antipathy. There appear to be Czech officers only in the reserve.
After the outbreak of war, the Austrians made wholesale arrests
among the educated Czechs, quite apart from party politics, and
were particularly severe on the gymnastic volunteer organisations
(_sokols_), which are popular among all the Slav nationalities of
Austria. The Bohemians had not had time to find their legs under the
new possibilities created by the Russian successes, but the Russian
troops would be sure of a cordial welcome there. The whole of my
informant's regiment had surrendered _en masse_; and even in the
mobilisation of 1909, a Prague regiment had refused to march against
Russia and several of the men had been shot. I was told that the
Austrian army was much weaker in reserves than the Russian.
I ended the day at the railway station, where the Russian wounded just
brought in were being attended to, while the cannon sounded from time
to time not far off. Several lay on stretchers in the corridors and
others on pallets in the ambulance room, all still in their greatcoats
and with their kits lying beneath them. I had no conversations here;
there was too much pain, one could only sit by the sufferers or perhaps
help them to change their position. First aid had been given elsewhere,
but this was the stage when the wounds seem to be felt most. There was
wonderfully little complaining. Most were silent, except when a helping
hand was needed. One man shot through the chest told me that "By the
grace of God, it was nothing to matter." It was always a satisfaction
to the men that they had been wounded while attacking. A general walked
quickly round, distributing cigarettes, which he put in the men's
mouths and himself lighted.
In the night the cannonade sounded close to the town, but seemed
farther off again next morning.
To-day I also went round a hospital with the dressers. The work was
quickly executed, but much of it was very complicated. One does not
describe such scenes, not so much because of the ugly character of
many of the wounds, nor because of the end impending over many of the
patients. To this last the Russian soldier's attitude is simple--_gilt
es dir, oder gilt es mir_. He will speak of it as "going to America,"
the undiscovered country. But all these things come to be forgotten
in the atmosphere of work. Here all the resources of life are
going forward in their own slow way, for they can have no quicker,
handicapped and outpaced in their struggle to keep up with the work of
death. You work early and late, do what you can, and try to be ready
for the fresh work of to-morrow.
_December 27._
General Radko Dmitriev is a short and sturdily built man with quick
brown eyes and a profile reminiscent of Napoleon. He talks quickly
and shortly, sometimes drums on the table with his fingers, and now
and then makes a rapid dash for the matches. The daily visit of the
Chief of the Staff is short, because, as the General says on his
return, simple business is done quickly. Every piece of his incisive
conversation holds together as part of a single and clear view of the
whole military position, of which the watchword is "Forward."
It is only the heavy rains that have saved the retreating Austrians
from further losses. The roads are so broken up and so deep with mud
that any quick movement is impossible. This gives the occasion for a
useful rest. The cold weather--and it is freezing now--will be welcomed
on this side; and the Russian winter kits, which have already been
served out, are immeasurably better than the thin blue greatcoats of
the draggled and demoralised Austrians.
Numbers of Austrian units are so reduced that they are only shadows
of what they were, and some seem to have disappeared altogether. The
ordinary drafts came in some time ago and are now exhausted--such is
the testimony of Austrian officers. The new Russian recruits, on the
contrary, will join the colours shortly.
From the beginning of the war, Bosnians, who are really Serbians,
surrendered in large numbers. Then the Poles began to come in, and now
the Bohemians. The Hungarians are sure to go on to the end; but the
Roumanian and Italian soldiers of Austria have also come over very
easily. In front of Cracow a Russian officer under fire came on a whole
number of Bohemians, who were singing the "Sokol" songs and shouted a
greeting as they came into the Russian lines.
These wholesale surrenders have, I think, an extremely interesting
political significance. When governments turned the whole people into
an army, it was clear that the army was also being turned into the
people; but it was not clear how the people could express itself when
under army discipline. These surrenders, in their general character
and in their differences of detail, are a picture of the feelings and
aspirations of the various nationalities which are bundled together
under the name of Austria.
_January 1, 1915._
At this Staff, as at the General Staff, life was very simple. We all
met twice a day for a plain meal without any alcohol; there was plenty
of conversation, but it was that of men engaged in responsible work;
any news from outside was welcome, especially from the western allies,
and there was full appreciation and sympathy for their hard task.
There was plenty of news from other quarters of the Russian front,
and one could have a much juster and fuller perspective of how things
were going than anywhere behind the army; the two things which stood
out even more here than elsewhere were, on the one hand, the immensity
of the sacrifices which have been asked and are being cheerfully made
by Russia, and, on the other, the sense of quiet confidence as to the
ultimate result.
These things were of course talked of here with greater detail. There
is a photograph of a battlefield, not with a few straight lines and
some scattered dead, but with zigzag lines all close together and
simply heaps of Austrian dead (the Russian dead had already been
removed). From the attack of one German division on this side, one
thousand corpses were counted. The Germans and also the Austrians
advance in close column, which may give moral support to the men, but
results in terrible losses, as compared with the more individualistic
advance of groups of eight to ten on the Russian side. In bayonet
fights practically no quarter can be given, and sometimes the men can
only use their rifles as clubs. The Austrian army is already no more
than a relic of its former self, though it still makes some vigorous
moves and covers every retreat with a tremendous cannonade, often
resulting in the capture of the guns and men thus left behind. It must
not be forgotten that Russia has had to deal with practically all the
forces of two of the three allies (Austria and Turkey), as well as with
an ever increasing proportion of the forces of the third (Germany). But
she is going steadily through with her work, and already it is possible
to see more clearly both what has been achieved and how the remainder
of the task can be attempted.
After some days in a cottage with some friends, living largely by
candle-light and discussing the great social changes which are to be
expected in Europe after the war, we were joined by V. S., who had
walked in through the thick mud a distance of some twenty miles. V.
S. is a young and clever Conservative, who has sat in several Dumas,
always a strong and witty enemy of revolution, but never content to
sink his conservatism or patriotism in any commonplace formula. He
went to the front at the beginning of the war and was wounded in
the trenches simultaneously by shrapnel and by bullet. He is now
partially recovered and is working energetically for the Red Cross,
superintending the removal of the wounded from the front.
V. S. left the neighbouring town in a motor with some Christmas
presents for the General. He had only come halfway when his benzine
gave out, and, as none was to be got anywhere near, he left the motor
with the chauffeur and made the rest of the journey on foot. He had to
plough his way through rivers of mud, and when the early night fell he
took shelter in a Polish cottage. When he reached us next day he was
dead beat and slept for hours.
As soon as his main business was done, we set out together yesterday
morning in a long boat-like cart with three horses and a soldier
driver; our plan was to find the motor and return to the town, sending
back the General's presents in our cart. For some hours we made a sort
of slow progress, rolling about in a way that exceeded the North Sea
at its nastiest; however, we had time to talk over many subjects that
interested us both. We pulled up at the Polish cottage, where V. S. had
a most affectionate welcome from the children, and we lunched on bread
and milk. We were not out of sight of the cottage when our axle broke;
and after finding that there was no smith, and no other cart to be had,
we loaded our benzine and chattels on the horses and left the cart at
the cottage with a note explaining what was to be done with it.
For several more hours we tramped on in the mud with our pack horses;
it was quite impossible to follow the track of the road closely; it
was thick with mud too deep to walk through and often the fields were
a sort of swamp. At one point we turned in to a Jewish cottage and ate
more bread and milk, while our old host asked ceaselessly when the war
would end.