HUNTING FOR THE ARMY OF THE BUKOVINA
Dated:
TLUST, GALICIA,
_June 30, 1915_.
The town where General Ivanov lives is in Russia proper, and one may
realize the scope of the military operations when one learns that
the head-quarters of the army of his left flank is nearly 200 versts
from the commander, while the furthest outpost of that army itself is
perhaps 150 or 200 versts further still, which means that the directing
genius is not far from 400 versts from his most distant line. After
leaving the head-quarters we motored for 40 or 50 versts along the main
line of communications of the whole group of armies, passing the usual
endless train of transport and troops moving slowly forward to fill the
ranks and replenish the supplies of the vast force that lies spread out
ahead of us. For eleven months now, first in one part of Russia and
then in another, I have been passing on the roads these endless chains
of transport. Truly one begins to get the idea that there is nothing
in the world nowadays but soldiers, guns, caissons and transport. One
wonders where on earth it has all been kept in the days before August,
a year ago, when a dozen transport carts or a battery of artillery was
a sufficient novelty on the road to cause one to turn and look at it.
Forty versts from the head-quarters, we turn from the main road and
strike off to the east and south toward Tarnopol, which though not
the head-quarters of an army (if it were I could not mention it) is
not too far away from the same. The road we follow is an excellent
one as far as Kremenetz, a wonderfully picturesque little town tucked
away in the hills, not far from the Russian-Galician frontier. Its
quaint streets are now filled with the inevitable paraphernalia of
war. From here by a road of lesser merit, we wind up a narrow road to
one of the most picturesque spots I have ever seen, called Pochaief.
This is the last town on the Russian side of the frontier. Here is a
monastery a thousand years old, a Mecca to which come thousands of
the devout peasantry from all over the Empire. The building itself
is one of the greatest piles in Europe, and on its hill towers above
the surrounding country so that it is visible for 20 versts with its
golden dome shining in the summer sun. We reached the place late in
the afternoon and learned that all the regular roads stopped here as
it has apparently not been considered policy by either the Russian or
Austrian Governments to have easy highways across the frontier. At this
point we were perhaps 12 versts from the nearest good road in Galicia,
a very trifling distance for a car that has been doing 70 or 80 versts
an hour. The head of the police in Pochaief kindly lent us a gendarme,
who assured us that we could get across the 12 intervening versts in
an hour. So with this placid-faced guide we started about nine in the
evening. This amiable gendarme, who had more goodwill than brains, in
half an hour had led us into a country of bluffs, forests, bridle paths
and worse that defy description. I neglected to say that General Ivanov
had kindly given us an extra motor to carry our baggage, and extra
chauffeurs, etc. The moon was just rising and we were digging ourselves
out of difficulties for the tenth time when our guide announced
that the road was now a perfectly clear and good one, and saluting
respectfully left us in the wood with our cars groaning and panting
and staggering over bumps and ditches until one came to have the most
intense admiration for the gentlemen that design motor-cars. It is a
mystery to me how they ever stand the misery that they have to undergo.
By midnight we were sitting out on a ridge of hills stuck fast in a
field with our engines racing, and the mud flying and the whole party
pushing and sweating and swearing. No doubt our guide had foreseen this
very spot and had had the discretion to withdraw before we reached it.
This was the exact frontier, and with its rolling hills and forests
stretching before us in the quiet moonlight it was very beautiful. Our
Prince, who never gets discouraged or ruffled, admired the scenery and
smoked a cigarette, and we all wished for just one moment of our guide,
for whom we had sundry little pleasantries prepared. While we were
still panting and gasping, a figure on horseback came over the hill and
cautiously approached us. He proved to be a policeman from the Galician
side who had come out as the Prince told us because he had heard our
engines and thought that a German aeroplane “had sat down on the hill”
and he had come out to capture it. He was slightly disappointed at his
mistake, but guided us back to the village whence he had come. Near
here we found a beautiful Austrian estate, where we woke up the keeper
and made him give us “my lady’s” bed chamber for the night, which he
did grudgingly.
Our troubles were now over, for after one breakdown in the morning we
were on a good highway which ran _viâ_ Potkaimen down to Tarnopol.
At Potkaimen we were again on the line of travel, with the line of
creaking transport and jangling guns and caissons. I have never passed
through a more beautiful or picturesque country in my life, and wonder
why tourists do not come this way. Apparently until the war these
villages were as much off the beaten path as though they were in the
heart of Africa. Rolling hills, forests, with silvery lakes dotting the
valleys, extend for miles with wonderful little streams watering each
small water-shed between the ridges. The roads are fine, and the last
60 versts into Tarnopol we made in record time. A few miles from the
city we began to pass an endless line of carts bearing all sorts and
descriptions of copper. It was evident that many distilleries and other
plants had been hurriedly dismantled, and everything in them containing
copper shipped away less it fall into the hands of the copper-hungry
enemy.
Here, too, we passed long lines of the carts of the Galician peasantry
fleeing from the fear of the German invasion. It strikes one as
extraordinary that these inhabitants, many of whose husbands, brothers
and fathers are fighting in the Austrian Armies, should take refuge
in flight at the rumour of their approach. It is a sad commentary on
the reputation of the Germans that even the peoples of their Allies
flee at the report of their approach. The name of Prussian down here
seems to carry as much terror to the Galician peasant as ever it did
to the Belgians or the Poles in other theatres of war. The peasantry
are moving out bag and baggage with all the pathos and misery which
the abandonment of their homes and lifelong treasures spells to these
simple folk. Even ten months’ association with similar scenes does not
harden one to the pitifulness of it all. Little children clinging to
their toys, mothers, haggard and frightened, nursing babes at their
breasts, and fathers and sons urging on the patient, weary, family
horse as he tugs despairingly at the overloaded cart weighted down with
the pathetic odds and ends of the former home.
Tarnopol itself was a great surprise to me. It is a typical Austrian
town with a lovely park in the centre and three hotels which are nearly
first class. Paved streets, imposing public buildings and a very fine
station, besides hundreds of lovely dwelling houses, make a very
beautiful little town; and with its setting in the valley, Tarnopol
seems an altogether desirable place. Here as elsewhere troops are
seething. The station is a military restaurant and emergency hospital
combined. One of the waiting-rooms has been turned into an operating
and dressing-room, and when there is fighting on at the front the
whole place is congested with stretchers and the atmosphere reeks of
disinfectants and ether fumes.
We stopped here only overnight, for we are bound to the furthest
stretch of our front to the south-east. In the evening there came
through battalion after battalion of troops swinging through the
streets, tired, dirty and battle stained, but, with it all, singing
at the top of their lungs. These men were moving from one front to
another, and most of them had been fighting for weeks. The first glance
was sufficient to make one realize that these troops were certainly not
down-hearted.
In strong contrast to the Russians was the sight of the latest haul
of prisoners which passed through the next morning--several thousand
Austrians and two or three hundred Germans.
In spite of their being caught at the hightide of their advance
movement the Austrians had the same broken-hearted expression that I
have seen in tens of thousands of Austrian prisoners for ten months. I
have now seen Austrians from every quarter of their Empire, and I must
say I have never seen a squad of prisoners who have not had the same
expression of hopelessness and resignation. These were well-clothed
and for prisoners moderately clean. The critic may say that prisoners
always look depressed and dejected, but to judge the Austrians, one
must compare them with the Germans, and it was possible to do so on
this occasion, for directly behind the troops of the Hapsburgs came
two or three hundred Germans. I have never seen such spectacles in my
life. Worn, haggard, ragged and tired they were, but in contrast to the
Austrians, they walked proudly, heads thrown back, glaring defiantly at
the curious crowds that watched them pass. Whether they are prisoners
or conquerors the German soldiers always wear the same mien of
superiority and arrogance. But the significance of this group was not
their self-respect and defiance of their captivity but their condition.
I have never in war seen men so nearly “all-in” as these prisoners.
Two in the line had no shirts, their ragged coats covering their bare,
brown breasts. Some had no hats, all were nearly in rags, the boots of
many were worn thin and many of them limped wearily. Boys of eighteen
marched by men who looked a hundred, though I suppose they were under
fifty actually. One saw a giant of 6 feet 5 inches walking by a
stripling of 5 feet 2 inches. Their faces were thin and drawn, and many
of them looked as if one might have hung hats on their cheek-bones.
These men may be wrong and they may be cruel, but one must admit
that they are object lessons in fortitude, and whatever they are they
are certainly soldiers. In wagons behind came wounded Germans, mostly
privates. Later I discovered that a number of these troops had just
come from the French front. As one said, “Arrived at noon, captured at
three.” Their explanation of their capture was that their officer lost
the way. Further examination brought forth the information that nearly
all their officers had been killed; and that the bulk of the company
officers were now either young boys or old men who knew little of maps
or military matters, which accounted for them getting lost and falling
into the Russian hands. The Austrians were captured because, as usual,
they wanted to be. The numbers of the prisoners seen here, that is
2,000 Austrians and 200 Germans, is just about the proportion in which
morale and enthusiasm in the war exists in the two armies.
Next morning having obtained the necessary permits we took our motors
and headed south for the army lying on the Dniester with its flank in
the Bukovina.
THE RUSSIAN LEFT