The 3d company of the --st Regiment sits up there in the snow and
waits. It doesn't know what for, or for how long. It may be that the
next moment the field marshal will come. It may be that they must squat
there another week.
About 300 meters below them runs the road. At least, it runs there on
the map. It cannot be recognized now; it is just as white and smooth as
the rest of the snow-covered world around them.
That is the road over which they are to advance. But just now no
advance is possible. For the Russian artillery stands there on the
mountain rising 700 feet high above them and commands the way. So
they must wait until their artillery succeeds in locating the enemy's
batteries. That is a hard job, since the Russians have naturally hidden
themselves in the woods, and the tall, dark trees seem impenetrable;
they betray nothing.
Slowly and measuredly the flakes fall, as if they were considering
whether they should fall or not. The sky is leaden and lowering. The
men gaze at it stolidly. This endless white has something deadening and
stupefying about it. They say little. They have already exhausted their
conversation, and nothing happens any longer to start new talk.
With their snow mantles and snow caps they, too, look completely
whitened, as though they were a lean, haggard collection of snow-men.
They may not smoke, they may not cook; the least flame or smoke would
betray them. They are not allowed to dig out trenches, for the brown
earth would be visible for miles, a dark spot on the brilliant snow
cover.
So there is apparently nothing to do but to stare into the whiteness
until the eyes smart, to keep silence and to indulge in memories--to
remember some past existence which was not so white, so lifeless, so
absolutely passive. In the long run that is not very entertaining, but
beggars cannot be choosers.
The soldiers press the snow with their well-protected fists until it
is quite hard--almost solid. Then they lie down on it as on a bed.
When one gets used to it, it furnishes a sort of warmth. But one must
be careful lest the hands, the nose and the ears freeze. The ears are
covered; one sticks his hands in his armpits, which are the best stoves
hereabouts. But the most difficult thing is to protect the nose.
They have no fear--less fear certainly than anywhere else. Through
the influence of this endless white shroud of hills, mountains and
valleys they have become calmer, quieter, more thoughtful than ever.
What it was a sacrifice to give up in Galicia every one accepts here
as a matter of routine. For here they are clear out of the accustomed
world of villages or cities, even if those settlements on the plain
were settlements burned, ravaged or deserted. They at least recalled
the world of ordinary experience and reminded the men of their former
life, with its desires or necessities. But here every civilized tie is
broken. Here they are alone--alone with the enemy.
It is just as if foresters and poachers encountered each other in the
mountains.
They sleep, but that sleep is troubled by a sense of the mystery which
surrounds them, which conceals the Russians from them and them from the
Russians.
Carefully, measuredly, they eat at night their cold conserves; it may
be a long time before another fresh supply comes to them over the
meter-deep mountain snows; and in the morning they wash themselves
in the snow, which here suffices for all uses--soap, drink, roadway,
bed and shroud. So another day comes, which may bring an advance,
an assault, perhaps a victory, if the Russians show themselves.
Instinctively they look out into the white silence.
* * * * *
The under officer was a Pole, but a Pole who spoke German. He had a
hatchet nose, very black, glowing eyes and a pallid face. It seemed to
me that he always kept moving his hands uneasily. I noticed also the
golden medal for valor which he wore. I had milk chocolate with me, and
so he told me the story of how he got the decoration. It was this: