BLOOD AND IRON
The whole of that morning we had been marching in the eye of the sun
without coming across a drop of water, for the country was not well
watered, and there had been no rain for weeks. Our tongues were parched;
our throats were burning. When about midday we passed through a
farmyard, where we found a last remaining drop of dirty liquid, it
seemed as if the water evaporated on the tongue before it ever reached
our throats. Then we had been marched on interminably, so that it was
almost with a sense of relief that we heard the first sound of the guns
rolling up to meet us.
The firing grew hotter, and we soon left the main road and turned down a
lane. We were pushed on at a smart pace. Our faces were glowing from
thirst and heat. The column was enveloped in a thick cloud of dust. The
taste of dust instead of water was on our tongues. The dust was lying
thick as a layer of flour on our cheeks.
And we hurried on without a word. A quickset hedge barred the view on
either side. Nothing but heavy footfalls, walking packs, black,
clattering pannikins, rifles at the slope--hustle and dust.... Then
some one blundered over a stone in his way, and looked as if he were
going to fall into the back of the man in front of him ... but no shout
of laughter greets it--we are pushing on almost at the double--at times,
when a gap in the hedge slips past, we can catch glimpses of the line of
skirmishers advancing over open country--now at length comes a check....
Halt! Order arms! ... and I am scrambling through a gap in the hedge on
to the open fields ... open order at five paces distance.... The
long-drawn line of skirmishers advances, rifles at the ready ... in
front of us nothing but green fields in sight. In the heart of them
gleams the crude yellow of a field of mustard. Ahead of us, just
opposite our front, a dark wood ... not a trace of the enemy in sight.
On our right they have already pushed on the advance line. On our left
the skirmishers are just breaking through the hedge and opening out to
extend our line of attack.
The heavy noise in the air is incessant.
I can't see where they are firing, and I can't see what they are firing
at. The air is heavy with iron thunder. It closes like a ring round my
chest. I am distinctly conscious that my chest is reverberating like a
tense sounding-board----
What on earth is that?
A sound like the cracking of whips from somewhere or other ... the sound
is so sharp, so distant, so intermittent, as if it were coming from the
rifle-range....
Then--by my side a man falls down, falls on his rifle, and lies still,
never stirs again ... shot through the head, clean through the brain
... that's what the cracking of whips means; it's coming from over
there, out of the wood. Somewhere over there the enemy's sharpshooters
are lying and lining its edge and opening fire on us.
What's the next thing?
Lie down--Mark distance--Cover!
But no order comes. We push on toward the wood undeterred, as if these
bullets did not concern us in any way. The sharpshooters' fire is not
hot enough as yet; we have not, so far, got into sufficiently close
touch with the enemy.
It is an uncomfortable sensation to feel that over there muzzles are
pointing straight at us. We are advancing almost as hurriedly and
clumsily as 'rookies at their first field day.
As I move forward, I turn my head and look back. Behind me I sec new
lines of skirmishers advancing one behind the other--supports to be
pushed forward later.
What is that crawling along the ground behind our line?... there is one
here, another over there--it looks so novel and so odd. They are
crawling back out of the firing-line. And I see how one of them suddenly
tries to rise, clutches his rifle with both hands, and hauls himself to
his feet by his gun. And now he is spreading his arms out, tumbling over
backwards, and flinging his hands away from him, far apart ... his hands
are still flapping up and down on the grass. I am looking back as if
fascinated while my legs keep on advancing.
But suddenly something begins to set up a rattle over there in the wood
and buzzes like huge alarum-clocks running down.
"Lie down."
And there we are lying down, flat on our stomachs, as if we had already
been mown down, for every man of us knows what that was. They have
masked machine-guns in the wood over there; they are opening fire on us.
I feel how my heart is thumping against my ribs. A machine-gun is
equivalent to a company, the Old Man once explained to us, after we had
been shot down in heaps to the last man by the machine-guns in the
autumn manoeuvres.
What's the next thing?
Cautiously, without raising it, I turn my head. Behind us, too, the
lines of skirmishers, close up to us, have disappeared from the face of
the earth; they too, have gone to cover in the grass. Only outside the
firing zone are they still being pushed forward.
Shall we have to retreat? Are we going to attack?
Then the order to fire rings out, and is zealously passed on from unit
to unit.
"Rapid fire! Into the wood!"
Yes, but what are we to fire at? Lying down, there is nothing to be seen
of the sharpshooters. They won't do us any harm; in another minute they
will have disappeared among the trees. But the machines--they have
hidden them away among the foliage to good purpose.
Our subaltern, lying a bare five paces away from me in the grass, raises
himself on his elbows, and gazes intently through his field-glasses. I
know what is vexing his soul. He is a handsome, splendid lad, for whom
even we grizzled old-timers would go through fire and water, for he
meets you as man to man, without sniffing or swagger, as it becomes a
youngster. And the other day, when I was marching with the rear guard,
we discussed Lilliencron's novels. Since then he has always appealed to
me as if he had stepped straight out of one of these romances of war. He
is all ablaze to glean his first laurels. But however much he may
twiddle the focus of his glasses up and down and crane his neck, he
cannot discover a trace of the enemy, and we blaze away foolishly at the
wood, and may, for all I know, be bringing down leaves or birds from the
trees there.
"Close to the big oak. To the right in the undergrowth," some one of the
rank and file sings out.
I strain my eyes to the spot, and fail to see anything.
And again I hear the guns growling all round us. But somewhere out of
the far distance a clear, long-drawn bugle-call rings out amid the iron
bass. It thrills like nerve and brain against an iron wall.
Behind there, to the right--they are on the run there! And from afar the
rifle fire rattles like mad.
"My men! Up with you! At the double!"
That came from our lot ... our subaltern is racing on with his drawn
sword in his hand.... I am still prone, and have, almost automatically,
drawn my right knee close up under my body ... they are rising to their
feet to the left and right of me, and dashing on after him ... a wrench!
and my knapsack slides lop-sided up the back of my neck ... then I jump
up with my rifle in my right hand, and am running for all my legs are
worth.
But as we rise to our feet the machine-guns in the woods begin to buzz,
and to rain lead into our ranks, until right and left of me men yelp and
drop twisted and tumbled to the ground.
"Down! Rapid fire!"
The line is prone and again we are blazing desperately into the wood,
and can catch no glimpse of our enemy. Never a single arm raised against
us, never the eye of a single man to challenge us. The wood, the green
wood, is murdering us from afar, before a single human face comes in
view.
And while to the right and left of me the rifle fire chatters
incessantly, the grim mockery of it maddens my blood, and makes me see
red before my eyes. I see scale-armor and visors ... high in their
stirrups the knights burst blazing out of the wood, and I, a reckless
horseman of the past, I leap into the saddle--my broad sword flashes
clear and kisses the morning breeze--and now up and at them like a
thunderbolt. Then eyes are flashing into mine and hands are raised for
the _mêlée_--and stroke for stroke, breast to breast, the pride of
youthful, virile strength.... Ha-ha-ha-ha! What has happened? Where have
horse and rider vanished? Where is my sword? We are not even charging
men. Machines are trained on us. Why, we are only charging machines. And
the machine triumphs deep into our very flesh. And the machine is
draining the life-blood from our veins, and lapping it up in bucketsful.
Those who have been hit are already lying mown down in swathes behind us
and are writhing on their wounds. And yet they are racing up behind us
in their hundreds--young, healthy human flesh for the machines to
butcher.
"Up! Get on! At the double!"
The gallant young subaltern dashes on ... he is waving his sword above
his head recklessly ... a picture for a painter. I am rushing after him
... his cheer in my ears ... then the gallant vision begins to sway ...
the sword flies from his grasp--the subaltern stumbles and falls face
forward in the short, stiff stubble ... then I race past him ... I can
hear nothing except the uncanny buzz coming out of the wood ... I
literally feel how the lead is splashing into our ranks, how men are
breaking down to the right and left of me.... "Down! Rapid fire!" ... I
throw myself on my face, my rifle at the ready.... Why does the order
fail to reach us? No shout comes from the subaltern, none from the non
corns.... the nearest man a good twenty paces away ... and then one
other ... only we three....
The first line is lying shot down in the stubble ... what's the next
thing? The ground becomes alive behind us ... and clattering, panting
and shouting ... and again the wood rumbles sullenly ... there they
are, lying flat, breathing hard ... never a word ... rifle to the ready
... and shot after shot ... those are the sixth and seventh companies
... they have filled up our gaps.
"Up, up! At the double!"
The head is plunging on, the body after it, into the zone of bullets,
and dashing forward with eyes fixed greedily on the ground to spy out
the nearest molehill when we fling ourselves down. And when the excited
"Down!" o'erleaps itself, we too tumble down as if we had been swept
away. And look, it is advancing to meet us, that murderous wood.... "Up!
At the double!" ... who can tell whether he has been hit or not?...
behind there, out of the undergrowth--that's where it came from ...
that's where the streak of bullets flashed ... there between the white
larch trunks the beam of lead leaped out to meet us ... over there,
behind that green wall, that's where Murder is sitting, and shooting our
arms and legs away from our trunks. Slay her as she has slain us. Rend
her to pieces, as she has rent us.
"Up! At the double!"
The body rages on in the whirl of the tempest--the wood, the wood!...
the last muscle is still straining for the wood ... as if the soul had
leaped free of the body, so the body chases after it--toward the wood
... lungs perforated by shot are running still; entrails riddled by
bullets are still pressing on toward it ... and if you are not hit in
the head, you are still jumping up once more; and if you fall, you are
crawling on all fours--toward the wood....
What's happened?
Of a sudden a deep stillness falls....
The machines are silenced!
Not a single shot, not a single spurt of flame ... there--a rustling
rising amid the undergrowth ... the branches overhead are swaying
frantically against each other. Look! something is scurrying among the
trees, and pushing and hauling--now, to crown it all, they are trying
to save their precious machines from us.
Yah! yah! The earth reverberates dully and trembles under our tread ...
a roar of cheers, clubbed rifles, that's how they are coming up behind
us ... our reserves are driving the last assault home ... they are
charging in dense mobs--sappers, sharpshooters, rifle-men ... a tall
sapper jumps clean over me--I see how his eyes are flashing as he
passes.... Up, after them ... there is the heather ... there is the
entrenchment ... down with you into the trench and scramble up on hands
and feet ... where are they? Where?--where?... there, by that belt of
firs ... they will have disappeared in another minute--past thick,
silvery tree-trunks, through the green beech leaves, with the sun
laughing in them, the lust of blood charges red and naked ... headlong
through the undergrowth--and now--there is something wriggling away so
comically before our eyes, and twisting with sinuous dexterity in and
out among the trees and the undergrowth ... there is something clinging
to the machine as if it were ingrown into the iron.... Ha, ha!--in the
clearing yonder the horses are waiting....
"Let go! Run for what you are worth--let go!"
But they won't let go ... for their horses are already ploughing through
the undergrowth ... the wagon is straining to the traces ... in another
minute they will have thrown their guns into the wagon ... and then
so-long ... I am done--the trees are dancing round and round before my
eyes ... I catch my foot in the root of a tree.... Lay on! Lay on! They
are "ours" who have come up, and are laying on blindly on heads, and
bayoneting bent backs and bared necks, till the whole tangle disperses
squealing.... I drag myself to my feet. A lad, a mere boy, is sprawling
over and clutching his abandoned gun ... with an oath some one dashes
at him--it is my yokel bareheaded, his face distorted by rage ... the
boy stretches out his mangled hand to ward him off, his lower jaw is
waggling, but his mouth remains voiceless.... The next moment the fixed
bayonet plunges into his chest ... first his right, then his shattered
left hand seizes the blade as if in his death throes he were trying to
pluck it out of his heart; so he clings tightly to the bayonet ... a
thrust! a recovery!... a bright, leaping jet follows the steel ... and
heart and breath gasp their last among the dead leaves....
All round men are lying slain on the brown carpet of the woods....
But the machines are still alive, and rage against the machines fires
the blood, and consumes the flesh.... Up with the trenching tools!...
with axes upraised they rush at the machines, and hail blows upon the
barrels. The retorts wherein Death has brewed his potion shriek as
though wounded ... the jackets burst ... the water flows out ... and the
carriage leaps splintered into the air ... twisted metal, the spokes of
wheels and cartridge-belts litter the ground all round, but we are
battering and smashing everything underfoot until our hot blood has
cooled its rage on the metal....
And now amid joyous cheers raise the thunderous shout of Victory. Let
the pipes and the bugles ring out. This is Death on the stricken field!
This is a soldier's frenzy and the joy of battle: to charge with bared
breast against planted steel--to dash cheering with soft, uncased brain
against a wall of steel. In such wholesale, callous, purposeful fashion
vermin only are exterminated. We count for nothing more than vermin in
this war.
And dazed and sick, we gaze at the machines, and the steel and iron
littering the ground blink up at us full of guile.