More and more reverses for Austria—A soldier’s abhorrence of war—Poor
Puxl—My husband’s letter declares that this is his last campaign.
“How extraordinary! Defeat after defeat is ours. First the capture of
Podol by moonlight; Clam-Gallas barricaded; the village taken and
burned. Then they conquer Gitchin. Oh, those cursed needle-guns, how
they mowed down our men rank after rank! The enemy’s two great army
corps have joined and are even now pressing down against Münchengratz.”
Thus my father lamented, telling us the terrible news. But his
confidence was unshaken.
“Let them come, every man of them, down into Bohemia, and we will
annihilate them yet. We will surround them; the people will rise against
them, and when there is no escape, no retreat—hemmed in—we will give
them the finishing touch. It is a disadvantage for them to be in the
enemy’s country, for you have not only the army but the people against
you. At Trautenau the inhabitants poured boiling water and oil on to the
Prussians.”
A cry of horror and disgust escaped me.
“War is horrible, I grant,” said my father, “but what would you have?”
“Then never again dare tell me that war ennobles a people. Admit that it
unmans them, brutalises and turns men into tigers and very devils.
Boiling oil! Ugh!”
“Self-defence and righteous revenge are justifiable, Martha. Do you
think we should take their needle-guns and bullets without return? Our
brave fellows are cut down like defenceless cattle. But we will beat
them yet, for we are too numerous and too well disciplined. I
acknowledge a few mistakes have been made; we should not have waited,
but pushed across the Prussian frontier from the start. Our choice of
marshals may not have been altogether wise. But I will not find fault,
for the decisive battle is yet to come. We are now concentrating a
hundred thousand strong at Koniggratz. There will our northern Custozza
be fought and won.”
Frederick was to fight there also. His last letter had said so. I have
still in my possession all his hurried little notes, written in pencil,
on horseback, in the tent, illegible save to me, and sent whenever he
found opportunity to do so. Some came into my hands even after the
campaign was over, and I have them as mementos to this hour. They are
not the clever descriptions or careful dispatches of the war
correspondent. There are no details of the strategy, no rhetorical
pictures of the battle-scenes. Here are some of them:—
A lovely summer night in camp—the ground is covered with exhausted men
after a long forced march. Tents have been pitched for staff officers
only. In mine there are three beds, and my two comrades are asleep. By
the feeble light I am writing to my beloved wife. Puxl lies on my bed.
Poor, tired dog! I almost regret that I brought him with me. He is
sleeping and dreaming of his lover and master Count Rudolf Dotzky. And
I, Martha, am dreaming of you. True, it is a waking dream, but I see
you sitting in the far corner of the tent, and I dare not move for
fear the image will vanish.
I stepped out a moment. Straggling figures dragged themselves up to
our camp fires; they had been left on the road. But many more are
still lying in the ditches and corn-fields. The heat of the march was
fearful. The brazen sun burned into our brains, the knapsacks and
muskets galled our shoulders. None have complained, though many fell
from sunstroke, never to rise again. This June night is clear and
enchanting, but nightingales and roses and jasmine are not for us. We
hear stamping and neighing horses, voices of restless men, the even
tramp of the guard. Later we shall hear the croak of the raven, and
smell the powder, blood, and corruption. Astonishing how blind is
mankind! Those who curse the fearful fires that burned the martyrs for
the glory of God, even those glorify the battle-field. The torture
chambers of the Inquisition fill them with abhorrence, but how proud
they are of their arsenals!
* * * * *
How aesthetically our battle-fields are painted! Upon a hill-top
stands a group of generals; the field-marshal, with the glass at his
eyes, is dictating to his staff as he sits proudly on a white charger.
One hand is stretched dramatically toward the smoke-covered plain. Or
he is waving his sword and looking backwards, as if saying to those
behind, “Follow me, my children!” Pictures give the magnificent and
scenic effects of war without the horrors. They give the superb detail
of line and the elevations and landscape, not the flowing blood, the
mangled forms, and scenes of disgust. To see only the glitter of arms,
the clouds of smoke, the prancing horses, the floating banners, the
whirl of action, might inspire a battle-song or an epic, or a
masterpiece of painting.
* * * * *
The village is ours—no, the enemy has it—it is once more ours—finally
it is the enemy’s, but no longer can it be called a village, nothing
but a heap of smoking ruins. The inhabitants (was the village not
theirs?) had abandoned it early—happy for them—for the shot and shell
hit all alike, old and young, women and children. One family had
remained behind in this place which yesterday we took, lost, retook,
and lost again—an old couple with a married daughter in childbed. The
husband chanced to be one of my regiment. “For God’s sake, Colonel,”
he said, as we approached the village, “send me over there to the
house with the red roof, for there lives my wife with her crippled old
parents. They could not get away.” Poor devil, he arrived only to see
his wife and child killed by an exploding shell, and the old people
buried beneath the debris.
Fighting in the open country is terrible enough, but fighting in the
midst of homes and human haunts is ten times more cruel. Crashing
timbers, burning buildings, smothering smoke and fumes, maddened
animals, every building a fortress or barricade, and every window a
gun-hole! There was a breastwork heaped up with corpses, the defenders
having used the slain as a rampart to shoot behind. I shall never
forget that wall in all my days. One man penned in among the rest was
still alive, for I saw him move.
Living still! that is the most horrible condition for the uncared-for
wounded. If only some angel, either of compassion or death, might
touch these poor wretches with a tender hand!
* * * * *
To-day we had a little cavalry skirmish in the open field. A Prussian
dragoon regiment came up, dropped into line, and, with their bridles
drawn and sabres over their heads, they galloped down on us. We sprang
to meet the attack. No bullets were exchanged. A few paces apart both
regiments broke into a thundering “hurrah” (like intoxicated Indians
or barbaric Zulus); and so we fell upon each other, horse to horse and
knee to knee, sabres swinging and crashing down upon the men from both
sides. We were soon in such a muddle that we could not use our
weapons. The horses reared and pranced, clanging their hoofs. Once I
fell and saw above me these frightful crashing feet within an inch of
my head—it was not a pleasant thing.
* * * * *
Again on the march, with a few skirmishes. Another great sorrow. It
ought not to haunt me so when so many are in despair. I should have
left poor Puxl at home with his little master, for, as he ran after
me, the splinter of a shell tore off his front legs. I heard the
mournful howl, but must press on and desert the poor beast, who may
not die for twenty-four, no, even forty-eight, hours. “Master,
master,” he seemed to cry, “don’t forsake poor Puxl, and his little
heart is breaking.”... What torments one most is to think that the
dying faithful creature misjudged me. It cannot know that when a
regiment is flying to attack, leaving behind so many comrades, one
cannot command “Halt!” for a little dog ... and he must have thought
me merciless. Many would say, shrugging their shoulders, how can one
mind such trifles amidst such great events and such gigantic
misfortunes? But not you, my Martha—you will weep for Puxl.
What goes there? A spy? One? No, seventeen. There they came in four
rows, four in a row, marching with bowed heads, surrounded by a square
of soldiers. Behind, in a waggon, lies a corpse, and bound to it a
twelve-year-old boy—the dead man’s son—all condemned to die. I
withdraw, but hear the firing and see the smoke, and I shudder. The
boy is dead too.
At last a comfortable night in a bed! A poor little town! Provisions?
Yes, taken from the inhabitants on requisition. All they had for the
coming month. “Requisition!” It is a good thing to have a pretty name
for an ugly act. But a night’s sleep and a meal mean a great deal to
me just now. When I was about to tumble into bed, an orderly came in
and brought me something for which I pressed his hands, rewarded him
handsomely, and promised to do something for his family. What the fine
fellow brought me gave me the keenest pleasure, and freed me from an
anxiety which I had been unable to shake off for thirty-six hours—he
had brought me our Puxl. He was alive, beside himself with joy, though
badly mangled. Ah, such a scene of reunion! He interrupted his greedy
drink ten times to bark with joy. I bound his poor legs and gave him
some supper. Finally we both slept, and in the morning when we woke he
licked my hand again and again, stretched out his small body, breathed
deep—and was no more. Poor Puxl, it is better so.
* * * * *
Another day and its horrors. With my eyes shut it comes to me in
frightful pictures. Nothing but desecrating agony! How can some men
give their war reminiscences with such delight? Do they lie and paint
the scenes in story-book fashion for the sake of heroics? The more
horrible things are, the more gloriously do they describe them; the
more shocking the scenes, the more indifferent and easy they make it
appear. Writers seldom speak of these horrors with disapprobation,
indignation, or rebellion. Some may, perhaps, heave a few sentimental
sighs of sympathy, but they are ever ready to sing the glories of
war—“Lift your heart to God and your hand against the enemy, ra-ra,
Hurrah!”
To-day two pictures impressed themselves upon me. Rocky heights, with
_jagers_ climbing up them like cats. They were ordered to “take” the
height. The enemy was firing down. As the bullets from above struck
them, they threw out their arms, dropped their rifles, and rolled
crashing to the bottom, and over the rocky projections they were
smashed to pieces. The other scene: A rider, a little way from me, was
struck by a shell, which ripped the lower part of his body off,
disembowelling him. The horse swerved, and carried this mangled,
bleeding mass, which at a short distance fell to the ground and was
dragged over the stones by the galloping animal.
* * * * *
An artillery section stands with its wheels sunk deep in the mire of
water-covered road. Dripping with sweat and blood from the cruel
blows, the horses drag at the sinking guns. One has dropped, but the
lash keeps falling on the poor beast, who cannot move. Does not the
man see this? Yes, but he is responsible for his guns and must fulfil
his duty. The tormented, willing, faithful creature does not
understand it, and has made his most desperate efforts. What must it
think?—think, as animals think, not articulately, but insensately; not
in words but in feelings, which are all the more acute because they
can find no expression. And with its only expression, a shriek of
pain, the poor thing sank; and that shriek rings in my ears yet, it
even haunted my next night’s dream. To sense the pain of one artillery
horse and then multiply it by one hundred thousand—for that is the
usual number slaughtered in a long campaign—gives one some idea of the
mass of agony men heap upon these poor unfortunate dumb brutes—these
same men who go with pleasure to meet their foes. The men are supposed
to know why they go, but the poor beast knows no reason why he is hewn
into helpless agony. What anguish they endure—and terror so great that
sweat drenches their bodies! And then the fever of the wounds, the
terrible thirst, which is suffered by these miserable, abused one
hundred thousand horses! This was my dream, and I awoke in a fever
reaching for my water-bottle.
* * * * *
Another street fight. The crashing timbers and falling walls were the
more horrible for the battle-cries, shots, and explosions of shell.
From a wrecked house there flew over my head a window-frame, and the
chimney fell to dust, stifling the air and stinging our eyes with the
plaster dust. Fighting along the narrow lanes and streets, we finally
came upon the open market-place. In the middle, on a high pillar,
stood a statue of the Virgin Mother, with the Child in one arm,
stretching the other in blessing. Here the struggle became one of
demons—hand to hand. They were hacking at me and I was laying about me
with terrific force. What I hit I do not know, for in such moments one
loses the memory. Yet two terrible pictures remain in my mind: A
Prussian dragoon, strong as Goliath, tore one of our officers out of
his saddle, and split his skull at the feet of the Madonna. The gentle
saint looked on unmoved. Another Goliath of the enemy’s dragoons
snatched my neighbour, bent him backwards, so that I heard his spine
crack, and threw him lifeless under the same blessed lady’s
outstretched hand.
* * * * *
From the heights we saw again a spectacle. A bridge fell with a train
of waggons crossing it. Were they filled with wounded? I could only
see that horses, waggons, and humans sank for ever into the rapid
water. It was counted lucky, for it was the enemy’s loss: our men had
sawed the timbers as a successful strategy. Another picture from this
height disclosed our own Khevenhüller’s regiment inveigled into a
swamp from which it could not extricate itself. While sinking into the
morass, the enemy’s shell killed them all. But they could not mutter a
sound with their noses, eyes, and mouths filled with mire. This, we
were told, was a tactical mistake. Any one is apt to err, and what
does it matter if a few of the chess-board figures are lost? That the
slime is in their eyes and mouths does not count; only the mistake is
deplored, but the tactitian will make up for it, and may be decorated
with orders and promotions yet. Too bad that lately our 18th Battalion
should fire all night upon another one of our regiments till daylight
disclosed the error, and sad also that another troop was led into a
pond through a conflict in orders, but little things like that will
happen to the best players of the game of war.
* * * * *
I have settled it. This shall be my last campaign. When I come back I
quit the service. When a man has learned to look upon war with the
horror that it produces in me, it would be a lie and a crime to stay
in its service. As you know, I have always gone into battle with
repugnance, but this detestation is so increased, this condemnation
and decision has become so strong, that all the reasons with which I
had held my judgment have ceased to argue in me. Our mutual study of
the question has proved to me that the greatest souls in the world
share this conception of war with me. Whatever comes, I am determined
that at the end of this campaign I shall for ever close my military
life. I cannot serve the god of war any longer. I have come to this
conviction as some people change their old ideas of religion, which
they gradually find have rested on folly and superstition; and so I
can no longer keep up the deception, or kneel to the delusion, that
army proclamations and cannon roars are consecrated things. Without
any respect for the ritual of the god Mars, with its weird human
sacrifices, I abjure for ever the cruel worship.