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diff --git a/39588-h/39588-h.htm b/39588-h/39588-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2f6cfb --- /dev/null +++ b/39588-h/39588-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2279 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<!-- $Id: header.txt 236 2009-12-07 18:57:00Z vlsimpson $ --> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Human Slaughter-house, by Wilhelm Lamszus. + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .75em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .75em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + clear: both; +} + +.bl {border-left: solid 2px;} + +.bt {border-top: solid 2px;} + +.br {border-right: solid 2px;} + +.bbox {border: solid 2px;} + +.center {text-align: center;} + +.smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + +.u {text-decoration: underline;} + +.caption {font-weight: bold;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 39588 ***</div> + +<h1>THE HUMAN SLAUGHTER-HOUSE</h1> + +<h3><i>Scenes from the War that is Sure to Come</i></h3> + +<h4>TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF</h4> + +<h2>WILHELM LAMSZUS</h2> + +<h4>BY</h4> + +<h4>OAKLEY WILLIAMS</h4> + + +<h4>WITH AN INTRODUCTION, BY ALFRED NOYES</h4> + + + +<h5>NEW YORK</h5> + +<h5>FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY</h5> + +<h5>PUBLISHERS</h5> + +<h5>1913</h5> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="INTRODUCTION" id="INTRODUCTION"></a>INTRODUCTION</h3> + + +<p><i>There is one thing that will certainly be said about this book by some +of its readers. It will certainly be said to exaggerate the horrors of +modern war; and, just as certainly, that is a thing which this book does +not do. It is appallingly reticent; and, for every touch of horror in +its pages, the actual records of recent warfare could supply an obscure +and blood-stained mass of detail which, if it were once laid before the +public, would put an end to militarism in a year. It is not the +opponents of militarism who are given over to "cant" and "hypocrisy" and +"emotionalism." It is the supporters of militarism who on the eve of a +great war go about crying for suppression of facts, censorship of the +facts not only of military plans, but of human suffering. For if there +is one thing that the military journalist dreads it is the sight and +smell of blood. "Let us enjoy this pleasant compaign. Let us present our +readers with a little military music played upon the brass bands of the +press. But for God's sake do not waft over Europe the smell of iodoform, +or of the slaughter-house. Man is a fighting animal; let us enjoy the +fight. And</i>—pollice verso!"</p> + +<p><i>Unfortunately for these gentlemen, whose good taste is so impeccable +that they shrink from the whole truth, man is also a fighting god. 'And +the next thing we are going to fight is militarism. There is hardly a +great commander in the history of modern warfare who has not described +his own profession as "a dirty trade" and war itself as hell. The party +of "bad taste" which is going to destroy militarism is not likely to +reject the testimony of Wellington, Grant and Napier in favor of the +sensational journalist. This book deals chiefly with the physical and +mental horrors of war. It presents just that one side of the case; but +it must not be forgotten that there are vast battalions of logic and +common sense on the same side. From a logical point of view a war +between civilized peoples is as insane as it is foul and evil. The +pacificists are fighting the noblest battle of the present day. They are +not going to win without a struggle; but they will win. And they will +win because they have on their side the common good of mankind, common +sense, common justice, and common truth.</i></p> + +<p>ALFRED NOYES.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h4> + +<p style="margin-left: 25%;"> +<a href="#INTRODUCTION">INTRODUCTION</a><br /> +<a href="#WILHELM_LAMSZUS">WILHELM LAMSZUS</a><br /> +<a href="#To_HERR_LAMSZUS">LETTER FROM THE CONGRES UNIVERSEL DE LA PAIX</a><br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</a> MOBILIZATION<br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</a> SOLDIER<br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</a> OUR FATHER WHICH ART IN HEAVEN<br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</a> THE LAST NIGHT<br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</a> THE DEPARTURE<br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</a> LIKE THE PROMISE OF MAY<br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</a> BLOOD AND IRON<br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</a> THE SWAMP<br /> +<a href="#CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</a> THE WHIRLING EARTH<br /> +<a href="#EPILOGUE">EPILOGUE</a>—WE POOR DEAD<br /> +</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3><a name="WILHELM_LAMSZUS" id="WILHELM_LAMSZUS"></a>WILHELM LAMSZUS</h3> + + +<p>Few books of its size—one hundred and eleven pages in the original +edition—can perhaps of recent years claim the striking and +instantaneous success of Wilhelm Lamszus's "Menschenschlachthaus." In +appraising this success, I am less concerned with the number of copies +sold (which now, three months after publication, approximates, I +believe, one hundred thousand) than with the impression it has left on +the mind of its readers in Germany and elsewhere on the Continent. +Within a few days of its publication the author awoke to find himself +famous—or infamous, according to the point of view adopted—in his own +country. The fact that his book has been, or is being, translated into +no less than eight European languages is evidence that its appeal is not +confined to the conditions of one country, or of a single nationality.</p> + +<p>Its appeal is broad-based. It is addressed to the conscience of +civilized humanity, and as was to have been expected, the conscience of +the individual has reacted to its stimulus in various ways.</p> + +<p>The first evidence the author received of the success of his work was +drastic. By profession he is a master at one of the great German public +schools. He was at once "relieved" of his duties, but has now, I +understand, been reinstated. The schoolmaster in Germany, it must be +borne in mind, is primarily a state official. His most important +function is to educate, not only the rising generation of citizens, but +the future levies of conscripts. For a schoolmaster to write a book +"with a tendency" to strip the pomp and circumstance of war of its +traditional glamour—an integral factor in the German educational +system—must, in the eyes of the orthodox of the "State-conserving" +parties, have savored of an unholy alliance between blasphemy and high +treason. The sale of the book was interdicted in the town of its first +publication—the "free" city of Hamburg. The interdict had the effect +of stimulating its sale elsewhere. It challenged a hearing. Even the +"State-conserving" journals were unable to ignore it entirely.</p> + +<p>A short time ago, in an open letter addressed to the German press, the +author replied to the criticisms and strictures of his professional +reviewers. As may be conceived, these criticisms and strictures lacked +nothing in virulence or acrimony. "A peril to the public safety," "an +hysterical neuropath," "a morbid phantasy," "a socialist-anarchic +revolutionary," "a cowardly weakling," "a landless man," "an imported +alien draining the marrow of patriotic backbone," may serve as an +anthology (for which I am mainly indebted to the <i>Hamburger +Nachrichten</i>) of the compliments showered on the author and his work. As +this reply discloses what was in the author's mind when he wrote his +book, definitely explains its purport and its purpose, it may be worth +some consideration. It may serve to differentiate "The Human +Slaughter-House" from the itch of mere literary sensationalism and +enable the foreigner to understand the light in which the Commission for +Instruction, Education, etc., of the nineteenth Universal Peace Congress +at Geneva regarded it when last year it wrote officially to congratulate +its author on having placed "a weapon of the greatest importance" in the +hands of the pacificists.</p> + +<p>At all times and at all places, Lamszus points out, patriotism has been +of two kinds. The one sort takes its stand on the public market-place, +with its hand on its manly chest, to advertise the public spirit that +inflates it. In season and out of season, it never fails to invite the +public gaze to dwell on the integrity of its patriotic sentiments. Its +main strength lies in the spectacular and oratorical. As such it not +infrequently deteriorates into the idle sound and fury of Junkerdom, +Chauvinism and Jingoism.</p> + +<p>There is that other type of patriotism that, no less loyal to its own +country, believes in the dignity and worth of humanity, that believes in +the patriotism of quiet, unadvertised, productive work and in the virtue +of a sense of moral responsibility. It is sanguine enough to believe +that it may yet be the destiny of a great nation to serve the cause of +humanity by eliminating the hideous necessity for war. It finds its +highest representative in the patriot of the type of the late Emperor +Frederick the Noble, who, himself a soldier proven on the stricken +field, found the courage to say, "I hate the business of blood. You have +never seen war. If you had ever seen it you would not speak the word +unmoved. I have seen it, and I tell you it is a man's highest duty to +avoid war if by any means it can be avoided."</p> + +<p>The issue Lamszus raises at the bar of public opinion of the civilized +world is whether the patriot of this type must necessarily be either a +"neuropath" or a "landless alien," as compared with him of the other +sort; whether he be necessarily lacking in civic spirit, virility, and +even soldierly virtues.</p> + +<p>If the matter be of any concern, I gather that the author himself, so +far from being physically a weakling, is a trained gymnast (of the type +that our representatives will have to take into account at the next +Olympic games) given to athletic exercises. He has also had sufficient +medical training to have passed through a school of comparative anatomy. +There are, therefore, no grounds for assuming offhand that he is of the +nerveless type that faints at the first sight of blood; yet he writes of +war with a shudder that the reader can feel in every line.</p> + +<p>Yet—a contradiction his critics have not been slow to underline—this +same man, who abhors the very thought of war, has written to the praise +and glorification of war "like a professional panegyrist." While he was +writing "The Human Slaughter-House," he was also engaged in etching +some literary silhouettes, embodying the Dutch folk-songs, of the revolt +of the Netherlands. The contrast is so striking that one or two of these +"prose poems" may be worth quoting.</p> + + +<p>I</p> + +<p>A reign of terror has dawned on the Netherlands. The Netherlands, ever +proud of their freedom, are henceforward to be Spanish provinces. But +the Netherlander has no mind for the honor. He cleaves obstinately to +his chartered rights and to his nationality.</p> + +<p>Then the Duke of Alva has come into the country in the Emperor's stead. +He has brought in his train an army of Spanish soldiers, the gallows, +and the executioner's axe. He has turned the country into a cemetery. A +graveyard stillness reigns over it. For where three men foregather in +the streets they smell out conspiracy in their midst. An ill-considered +word, and the gallows, lowering in the background, silences the foolish +mouth.</p> + +<p>Setting their teeth, the Netherlander have to suffer it. The Spanish +sword reaches the remotest village. Only in secret do they dare clench +their fists. For the hangman's rack has a way of smoothing out clenched +fists.</p> + +<p>Terror lies on its chain like a wild beast. Only when it believes itself +to be unobserved does it rise and sees the people lying on their knees, +and hears a tortured country crying up to Heaven.</p> + + +<p>II</p> + +<p>A star has risen against the sky of despair. The saviour of the +Fatherland has been found. Egmont and Hoorn, the darlings of the people, +have walked into the trap and have been beheaded in the market-place. +But Orange has escaped. He has taken flight to Germany.</p> + +<p>Orange, a clever brain! More clever than Spanish guile.</p> + +<p>Orange, a brave heart! Braver than Spanish death and swords.</p> + +<p>How calm was his countenance! How confident his speech! He is not the +man to rush anything, to spoil anything. He will return in his own time. +They are already whispering it stealthily in one another's ear. The +whisper is already passing from ear to ear, increasing to joyous +certainty:</p> + +<p>He is already in our midst. As yet he is in hiding. But on the morrow +his call will ring out, and his confidence glow through every man's +heart.</p> + +<p>William of Orange!</p> + + +<p>III</p> + +<p>The call has come. They are flocking in on every road. Groups of +peasants and artisans. Masters, and apprentices among them. And the +greybeards have taken their old weapons from the wall.</p> + +<p>Halberds flash in the sunlight. Old-fashioned furniture of war. But +still more ardently do their eyes flash. All are of one mind. All driven +on irresistibly by one single impulse.</p> + +<p>So they pass singing along the highroads. They had almost forgotten how +to sing. But now it breaks out the more joyously in the sunlight—the +solemn chant.</p> + +<p>Dumfounded, the Spanish outpost, under cover of a hedge, gapes after +them. Let them run, the spies. The spell is broken. Let them hear of it +till their ears ring again.</p> + +<p>The morning sun is shining. But we are marching to death and singing:</p> + +<p>"Happy is he who knows how to die for God and his dear Fatherland."</p> + + +<p>IV</p> + +<p>A pleasant farm hidden away in a garden. It is springtide. The garden is +a blaze of white. Apple-trees in blossom. Beneath their boughs a man and +a girl are standing close intertwined.</p> + +<p>Beyond, on the other side of the hedge, they are passing along the +village street. Their friends of the village. Their hour has come.</p> + +<p>The girl's head is resting heavily on his breast, and her arm trembling +round his neck. "Stay with me, only stay one day more. The wedding was +to have been tomorrow. You will never come back! And we are so young—so +very young. Look, how the blossom is falling. You, too, will lie on the +ground like that, so dead and white. And I shall waste away and fade."</p> + +<p>Then he looks into her eyes—sad unto death and fearful. "So you wish +me to stay behind, and the others to go and die for us?"</p> + +<p>She shakes her head without a word, and looks up at him with a smile +amid her tears. Then he kisses her, and clasps her hand in farewell.</p> + + +<p>V</p> + +<p>The groups have assembled. They have grown from day to day, and drawn +nearer and nearer to the enemy.</p> + +<p>And now the two armies are arrayed against each other—eye to eye. On +the plain yonder you can see them—the Spanish troops flashing in +steel—so close that you can distinguish their yellow faces in the +sunlight.</p> + +<p>What is their quest here on foreign soil? They are selling their blood +for a hireling's wage, and turning themselves into hangmen to lay a free +people in chains.</p> + +<p>A distant glow is still glowering to the heavens. The last villages +through which the Spanish dogs passed. They have left smoke and ruin +behind them. Mangled corpses, the wailing of children. What do the +strangers care? They have come into the country for loot.</p> + +<p>There they stand, the destroyers! Splendidly harnessed, practised in +war, and used to victory. Callously, as if at their handicraft, without +much shouting, or much running about and movement, the array over there +falls into line. A dangerous foe in its uncanny quiet.</p> + +<p>Over against them the Netherlanders are a people assembled at haste. +They are ignorant of drill, are ignorant how they ought to fight in +ranks, and on horseback. But on the issue they are staking hearts filled +with indomitable hate, filled full with undying love of country.</p> + +<p>Beggars, the Spaniards once called them. And the Beggars are mindful of +their nakedness. Their fists clench. Their teeth are set. And their lips +are mumbling curses and hot prayers.</p> + + +<p>VI</p> + +<p>It came to fighting. It came to murder. Death leaped up, and raced +neighing across the battlefield, until it dripped blood—until at even, +blinded with blood, it fled away into the darkness.</p> + +<p>The battle is over now. The daylight is dying behind Bergen's towers. +The shadows of night are blending with the shadow of Death.</p> + +<p>It was a glorious fight. The wrath of a people is mightier than all the +guile and strategy on earth.</p> + +<p>But the victors are exhausted. Watch fires are ablaze. They all crowd +round them to comfort themselves in their warmth.</p> + +<p>Dark figures are whispering in groups. "Ha! How they ran! Whoever was +overtaken was cut down—without mercy. They will remember the day. Will +they come on again? How will the sinister Emperor take it? How far does +his power reach? They will come on again. A bigger army! A bigger +fleet!"</p> + +<p>Look how the stars are gleaming. The air is clear. Even now you can see +the heavens opening. And the Milky Way is glimmering down to meet you.</p> + +<p>The sound of singing rises in the distance. An old hymn. A prayer of +thanks of the days of our fathers. Those nearest by take it up. The +chant leaps from fire to fire. The darkling field is singing. The night +is singing. A choir raising their hands to Heaven, their voices to the +stars.</p> + +<p>Lord! Grant us freedom!</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Where then lies the truth? In these "prose poems" aglow with martial +enthusiasm, and ringing with the soldier's spirit, or in the relentless +anatomical realism of "The Human Slaughter-House"? Or are both +lies—"both deliberate conscious untruths, written under the inspiration +of a social democratic lawyer?"</p> + +<p>The explanation, as Lamszus see it, lies in the condition of the times. +No one, he claims, could write of the revolt of the Dutch Republics +otherwise than in the brave setting of flashing eyes, glittering steel, +and the stirring clash of men-at-arms. But it is equally untrue to tell +of modern warfare waged with picric acid and electric wires in the same +spirit. The romance and glamour of warfare in the past are grinning lies +when transferred to latter-day warfare, where long-drawn fronts of flesh +and blood are opposed to machines of precision and the triumphs of the +chemical laboratory. The anachronism becomes nothing less than the +deliberate falsification of history. Dynamite and machine-guns, not the +writer, have turned the "Field of Honor" into a "Human Slaughter-House," +where regiments are wiped out by pressing an electric button.</p> + +<p>In the hideousness of these scenes of future warfare the charge of +exaggeration, of painting carnage red, is easy to raise, and difficult +to rebut. Lamszus does not shirk it.</p> + +<p>"What I have written was worked out empirically. It is a sum that is, +mathematically, so incontestable that no one has hitherto ventured to +dispute it. For the second factor in this sum is the albuminous +substance of human brain and marrow. And when we hear that in the +Russo-Japanese war thousands went mad, who would care to maintain that +the nervous system of the civilized mid-European is hardier and tougher +than that of Asiatics and semi-civilized Russians? 'The material has +become softer,' says the authority of the staff-general. What now, when +the sum total of acoustic and visual stimuli, of physical and psychic +shocks, to which this 'softer material' is exposed, has, with every new +invention, become more destructive in quality and quantity? To find the +answer to such a simple problem did not assuredly call for a +mathematical genius."</p> + +<p>With the answer before us, the question rises whether it is more +patriotic to blink it, to go on pretending that war is what it used to +be—a soldier's death on the field of honor, or senseless automatic +slaughter by machinery. It is against this latter mechanical aspect of +war that the instinct of humanity, to which Lamszus has given voice in +vivid words, revolts. Does it become a man better to look, with the full +sense of his moral and ethical responsibility, the hideous fact in its +face, or to continue to disguise it under a veil of romance woven round +the pomp and circumstance of glorious war? In this sense "The Human +Slaughter-House" of Lamszus' invention stands, as the Universal Peace +Congress read it, for the revolt of the spirit of humanity, the spirit +of progress and evolution, against the cumulative horror of the +mechanics of modern warfare.</p> + +<p>"For just as there is no room for the uncouth monsters of primeval +times, for Mastodon and Brontosaurus, on the green earth today, so +little will a nation of Krupp's steel plates be able to continue to live +in the community of civilized nations."</p> + +<p>None the less, a nation of men of virile breed will, he believes, be no +less prompt to take up arms in defence of its heritage of culture than +Prussia was in 1813, and to fight in its defence to the last gasp. For +in the War of Liberation it was not drill, but the spirit of the people +that saved the country.</p> + +<p>"Thus the people in which we have belief will be irresistible in the +council of nations, and be destined before every other to lead the +nations to the work for which Nature has fashioned them.... Worthless +indeed is the nation that would not stake its all for its honor. The +only question that remains is what the spirit of this honor be; whether +the appetite of savages and barbarians, hungry for spoils, impels me, or +whether moral honor, the blood-stained desecrated face of God, inspires +me."</p> + +<p>With these bold words Lamszus concludes his apologia for the brutality +of "The Human Slaughter-House."</p> + +<p>OAKLEY WILLIAMS.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4>[<i>Translation</i>.]</h4> + +<p><a name="To_HERR_LAMSZUS" id="To_HERR_LAMSZUS"></a>To HERR LAMSZUS.</p> + +<p><i>XIXme Congres Universel de la Paix a Geneve</i>.</p> + +<p><i>Geneve</i>,1912.</p> + + +<p>DEAR SIR,</p> + +<p>I have great pleasure in acquitting myself of the duty of expressing to +you, in the name of "The Commission for Education, Instruction, etc.," +composed of delegates of the most varied nations assembled at the +World's Peace Congress, and, further, in the name of all Pacificists, +our thanks for the distinguished word-picture of rare artistic +originality and of gripping effectiveness of the wholesale murders of +the future in "The Human Slaughter-House," <i>for having furnished the +cause of peace with a weapon of considerable importance</i>, and for having +more especially made a very valuable gift to the cause of every +Pacificist.</p> + +<p>May the blessing of its work be great!</p> + +<p>On behalf of the Congress Commission for Education, Instruction, etc.</p> + +<p>DR. A. WESTPHAL, <i>Secretary</i>.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h3>THE HUMAN SLAUGHTER-HOUSE</h3> + + +<h4><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I</h4> + +<h3>MOBILIZATION</h3> + + +<p>War! War is declared! So the news speeds hollow-eyed through the +streets. We are at war. It's the real thing this time.</p> + +<p>Mobilization!</p> + +<p>The ominous word dominates the placards on the hoardings. The newspapers +reproduce the proclamations in their heaviest type, and rumors and +dispatches flutter like a ruffled dovecote round this day of Blood and +Iron.</p> + +<p>It is deadly earnest now. And this sense of the seriousness of it has +numbed the State like a stroke of paralysis. But then a jar, as of a +lever thrown over, goes through the vast iron fabric. And every one has +got to yield to this jar. The time for anxiety and hesitation is over, +for doubts and oscillation. The moment has now come when we cease to be +citizens, from henceforward we are only soldiers—soldiers who have no +time to think, who only have time to die.</p> + +<p>So they come flocking in from the work-shops, from the factories, from +behind the counters, from business offices, and the open country—they +come flocking into the town, and every man falls in to stand by his +native land.</p> + +<p>"Four days from date" was the order on my summons. Well, the fourth +morning has come, and I have said good-by to my wife and my two +children. Thank God, the fourth morning has come, for the parting was +not easy, and my heart aches when I think of them "at home."</p> + +<p>"Where are you going, Daddy?" asked Baby, as I kissed her for the last +time with my portmanteau in my hand.</p> + +<p>"Daddy's going on a journey," said her mother, and looked at me with a +smile amid her tears. "Yes, he's going on a journey, girlie, and you, +little chap, you've got to be good, and do as Mummy tells you."</p> + +<p>And then we got the parting over quickly, for Dora kept up her pluck +until the last moment....</p> + +<hr style="width: 45%;" /> + +<p>Now we are drawn up in the barrack-yard with bag and baggage—we of the +rank and file—we reservists and militiamen, every man at his place by +the table.</p> + +<p>How serious their faces are. They reveal no trace of youthful high +spirits or martial exuberance. Their expressions rather betoken deep +thought.</p> + +<p>"The war that in the end was bound to come"—so we heard and so we read +in the papers. "That is bound to be so, that is a law of Nature. The +nations are snatching the bread from one another's mouths; they are +depriving each other of the air to breathe. That is a thing which in +the end can only be settled by Force. And if it has to be, better it +should be today than tomorrow."</p> + +<p>We are mercenaries no longer—those hirelings for murder, who once sold +their blood for money down to all and sundry. We are gladiators no +longer—slaves who enact the drama of dying as an exciting spectacle for +the entertainment of the rich, and for the lust of their eyes. It is to +our native land we took our oath. And if it must be, we are resolved to +die as citizens, to die in the full consciousness and full +responsibility for our acts.</p> + +<p>What will the next few days have in store for us?</p> + +<p>Not one of us has probably ever, with his own eyes, seen a field of +battle. But we have heard about it from others, and we have read in +books of other men what a battlefield looked like in 1870-71, and, as +though with our own eyes, we have watched the shells shattering human +bodies. And another thing we know is that forty years ago in spite of +inferior guns and rifles, over a hundred and twenty thousand dead stayed +behind on the field of honor. What percentage of the living will modern +warfare claim? Armies are being marshalled vaster than the world has +ever seen. Germany alone can put six million soldiers in the field; +France as many. Then the war of '70-'71 was nothing more than a +long-drawn affair of outposts! My brain reels when I try to visualize +these masses—starting to march against one another; I seem to choke for +breath.</p> + +<p>Then are we a breed of men other than our fathers?</p> + +<p>Is the reason because we only have one life to lose? And do we cling so +passionately to this life? Isn't our native land worth more than this +scrap of life?</p> + +<p>There probably won't be many among us who believe in the Resurrection, +who believe that our mangled bodies will rise again in new splendor. +Nor do we believe that our Father in Heaven will have pleasure in our +murderous doings, that in that better world He will regard us other than +as our brothers' murderers. But we bend our heads before iron Necessity. +The Fatherland has called us, and we, as loyal sons, obey the command +there is no evading, submissively.... From today onward we belong to our +native land, so the Major shouted a minute ago as he read out the +articles of war.</p> + +<p>And it's going to be the real thing this time.</p> + +<p>The Sergeant-Major has already read the roll and checked it. We are +already told off in fours. Now, in a long column, we are marching across +the barrack-yard, for this very day we are ordered to doff our civilian +dress, and don our new kit. This very day we have got to become +soldiers.</p> + +<p>Things are moving apace with us now.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II</h4> + +<h3>SOLDIER</h3> + + +<p>On the afternoon of the following day, the company is detailed for +barrack drill. We are lying on our stomachs in the barrack-yard, and are +being drilled in taking aim and firing lying down.</p> + +<p>I have just been sighting.</p> + +<p>In front of me on the barrack wall over there they have painted targets. +Ring targets, head targets, chest targets. Three hundred yards. I take +pointblank aim, and press the trigger. "Square in the chest." That ought +to count as a bull's-eye.</p> + +<p>Wonder how many clips of cartridges am I going to get through?</p> + +<p>Wonder if there will be a bull's-eye among them?</p> + +<p>If every man of those millions they are putting into the field against +the enemy fires about a hundred cartridges, and there is one bull's-eye +in every hundred, that works out at ... that amounts to ... and I can't +help smiling at this neat sum in arithmetic ... then the answer is no +one at all. That is a merry sum.</p> + +<p>Snick!</p> + +<p>The fifth cartridge tumbles out.</p> + +<p>I ram in another clip of dummy cartridges.</p> + +<p>How quickly and smoothly that's done. One—two seconds, and five +cartridges are set in your magazine. Every one of them, if need be, can +penetrate six men; it can penetrate palisades and trees; it can +penetrate earthworks and stone walls. There is practically no cover left +against this dainty little missile, against this little pointed cone.</p> + +<p>And what a wonderful bit of mechanism this Mauser rifle is. How +wretchedly badly off they were in 1870-71 with their rattletrap needle +guns. A single feeble bullet at a time, and after you had fired it came +the long, complicated business of reloading.</p> + +<p>And yet the war accounted for well over a hundred thousand French and +German dead.</p> + +<p>I wonder how many dead this war will ac count for? If only every fifth +man is left on the field, and if another fifth comes home invalided ... +what will its harvest amount to then?</p> + +<p>The whole of both countrysides are at this moment covered with soldiers +lying flat, and all of them with their rifles at the ready, and all of +them pointing the death-bearing barrels at one another, are perfecting +themselves in the art of hitting the heart.</p> + +<p>But behind them the guns are swinging up. The gunners are jumping down +and dragging the trail round. They are already aligned, and a thousand +black mouths are gaping uncannily toward the heavens.</p> + +<p>We were once standing—we were in camp for musketry training at the +time—and watching a battery firing with live ammunition. They had +unlimbered and were ready to fire. The officers were peering into the +distance through their field-glasses. The targets were not as yet in +sight. We were all gazing intently toward the firing zone, where at any +moment something might come into view.... There! Away over there. In the +distance. Something is moving!</p> + +<p>A shout of command.</p> + +<p>The subaltern points to the moving target with his right hand. He shouts +out the range. The gunners take aim, and:</p> + +<p>"Ready! No. I gun. Fire!"</p> + +<p>The missile is already a-wing, and for the space of a moment we feel the +iron messenger flitting past. The air is a-hum. Boom—and a thousand +yards in front of us the shell has exploded above the cavalry riding to +the attack, and has spattered its rain of lead over the blue targets. +And then Nos. 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6.</p> + +<p>The next target was about a mile away, and the new range quickly found. +Again the strange missile sped away and covered its measured course. It +was a thing to marvel at, to see how it checked in the air of its own +volition and burst. It seemed as though each one of these iron cylinders +had a brain—as if it were endowed with life and consciousness—so +certainly did it find its billet.</p> + +<p>And when the battery had ceased firing and had limbered up, and the +danger cone had been pulled down, we went out into the field of fire. +There the linked targets under fire were lying. They had been struck +down by the shrapnel—all, the whole line. Head, body, limbs;—we did +not find a single figure there that had not been drilled through and +through. We stood and marvelled at the accuracy of it, and with a silent +shudder thought of targets other than contraptions of laths and canvas.</p> + +<p>Wonder whether they have engines of such perfect precision on the other +side?</p> + +<p>How the experts have, day in, day out, been inventing and constructing +new marvels of mechanism. The mechanical side of war has been raised to +a high standard of genius and a fine art. Two hundred and forty bullets +and more to the minute! What a marvel of mechanism one of those +machine-guns is. You set it buzzing, and it spurts out bullets thicker +than rain can fall. And the automaton licks its lips hungrily and sweeps +from right to left. It is pointed on the middle of the body, and sprays +the whole firing-line with one sweep. It is as though Death had scrapped +his scythe for old iron; as if nowadays he had graduated as expert +mechanic. They have ceased to mow corn by hand nowadays. By this time of +day even the sheaves are gathered up by machinery. And so they will have +to shovel our millions of bodies underground with burying machines.</p> + +<p>Curse! I cannot get rid of this hideous; thought. It is always cropping +up again. We have passed on from retail to wholesale methods of +business. In place of the loom at which you sat working with your own +hands, they have now set the great power-looms in motion. Once it was a +knightly death, an honorable soldier's death; now it is death by +machinery.</p> + +<p>That is what is sticking in my gullet. We are being hustled from life to +death by experts—by mechanicians. And just as they turn out buttons +and pins by wholesale methods of production, so they are now turning out +the crippled and the dead by machinery. Why do I, all of a sudden, begin +to shudder? I feel as if it had suddenly become clear as daylight that +this is madness—blood-red madness lowering for us there.</p> + +<p>Curse! I must not go on brooding over it any longer, or it will drive me +mad. Your rifle at the ready! The enemy is facing you! Has that ceased +to be a case of man to man? What does it matter even if the bullet finds +its billet more surely? Aim steadily—straight for the chest.... Who is +it really facing me? The man I am now going to shoot dead! An enemy? +What is an enemy?</p> + +<p>And again I see myself on that glorious morning of my holidays, at a +French railway station, and again I am gazing curiously out of the +window. A foreign country and a stranger-people. The moment for +departure has come. The station-master is just giving the signal. Then a +little old woman extends her trembling hand to the window, and a fine +young fellow in our carriage takes the wrinkled hand and strokes it, +until the old woman's tears course down her motherly cheeks. Not a word +does she speak. She only looks at her boy, and the lad gazes down on his +mother. Then it flashes upon me like a revelation. Foreigners can shed +tears. Why, that is just the same thing it is with us. They weep when +they take leave of one another. They love one another and feel grief.... +And as the train rolled out of the station, I kept on looking out of the +window and seeing the old woman standing on the platform so desolately, +and gazing after the train without stirring. I could not help thinking +of my own mother. It was I myself who was saying good-by there, and on +the platform yonder my poor old mother was in tears. +Pocket-handkerchiefs were floating in the breeze. They were waving their +hands, and I waved mine too; for I, too, was one who belonged to her....</p> + +<p>And again I put my rifle to my shoulder, and take aim for the centre of +the target.</p> + +<p>I will not go on torturing myself with these thoughts.</p> + +<p>The target seems to have been moved nearer to me.</p> + +<p>Of a sudden it seems to me as if the blue-painted figure had stepped out +of its white square. I gape at it. I distinctly see a face in front of +me. I have got my finger on the trigger, and feel the tension of the +pressure. Why don't I pull it through? My finger is trembling.... Now, +now, I recognize the face. That is the young fellow at Nancy who was +saying good-by to his mother....</p> + +<p>Then the spring gives, and the great horror masters me, for I have fired +straight into a living face. Murderer! Murderer! You have shot the only +son of his mother dead. Thou art thy brother's murderer....</p> + +<p>I take a hold on myself. I pull myself together. A murderer?</p> + +<p>Folly! A spook!</p> + +<p>You are a soldier.</p> + +<p>Soldiers cease to be human beings. The Fatherland is at stake.</p> + +<p>And without turning a hair I take aim at the enemy. If you miss him he +will get you.</p> + +<p>"Got him! In the middle of the chest."</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III</h4> + +<h3>OUR FATHER WHICH ART IN HEAVEN</h3> + + +<p>We rejoined the Colors on Friday. On Monday we are to move out. Today, +being Sunday, is full-dress Church Parade.</p> + +<p>I slept badly last night, and am feeling uneasy and limp.</p> + +<p>And now we are sitting close-packed in church.</p> + +<p>The organ is playing a voluntary.</p> + +<p>I am leaning back and straining my ears for the sounds in the dim +twilight of the building. Childhood's days rise before my eyes again. I +am watching a little solemn-faced boy sitting crouched in a corner and +listening to the divine service. The priest is standing in front of the +altar, and is intoning the Exhortation devoutly. The choir in the +gallery is chanting the responses. The organ thunders out and floods +through the building majestically. I am rapt in an ecstasy of sweet +terror, for the Lord God is coming down upon us. He is standing before +me and touching my body, so that I have to close my eyes in a terror of +shuddering ecstasy....</p> + +<p>That is long, long ago, and is all past and done with, as youth itself +is past and done with....</p> + +<p>Strange! After all these years of doubt and unbelief, at this moment of +lucid consciousness, the atmosphere of devoutness, long since dead, +possesses me, and thrills me so passionately that I can hardly resist +it. This is the same heavy twilight—these are the same yearning angel +voices—the same fearful sense of rapture——</p> + +<p>I pull myself together, and sit bolt upright on the hard wooden pew.</p> + +<p>In the main and the side aisles below, and in the galleries above, +nothing but soldiers in uniform, and all, with level faces, turned +toward the altar, toward that pale man in his long dignified black +gown, toward that sonorous, unctuous mouth, from whose lips flows the +name of God.</p> + +<p>Look! He is now stretching forth his hands. We incline our heads. He is +pronouncing the Benediction over us in a voice that echoes from the +tomb. He is blessing us in the name of God, the Merciful. He is blessing +our rifles that they may not fail us; he is blessing the wire-drawn guns +on their patent recoilless carriages; he is blessing every precious +cartridge, lest a single bullet be wasted, lest any pass idly through +the air; that each one may account for a hundred human beings, may +shatter a hundred human beings simultaneously.</p> + +<p>Father in Heaven! Thou art gazing down at us in such terrible silence. +Dost Thou shudder at these sons of men? Thou poor and slight God! Thou +couldst only rain Thy paltry pitch and sulphur on Sodom and Gomorrah. +But we, Thy children, whom Thou hast created, we are going to +exterminate them by high-pressure machinery, and butcher whole cities in +factories. Here we stand, and while we stretch our hands to Thy Son in +prayer, and cry Hosannah! we are hurling shells and shrapnel in the face +of Thy Image, and shooting the Son of Man down from His Cross like a +target at the rifle-butts.</p> + +<p>And now the Holy Communion is being celebrated. The organ is playing +mysteriously from afar off, and the flesh and blood of the Redeemer is +mingling with our flesh and blood.</p> + +<p>There He is hanging on the Cross above me, and gazing down upon me.</p> + +<p>How pale these cheeks look! And these eyes are the eyes as of one dead! +Who was this Christ Who is to aid us, and Whose blood we drink? What was +it they once taught us at school? Didst Thou not love mankind? And didst +Thou not die for the whole human race? Stretch out Thine arms toward me. +There is something I would fain ask of Thee.... Ah! they have nailed +Thy arms to the Cross, so that Thou canst not stretch out a finger +toward us.</p> + +<p>Shuddering, I fix my eyes on the corpse-like face and see that He has +died long ago, that He is nothing more than wood, nothing other than a +puppet. Christ, it is no longer Thee to whom we pray. Look there! Look +there! It is he. The new patron saint of a Christian State! Look there! +It is he, the great Djengis Khan. Of him we know that he swept through +the history of the world with fire and sword, and piled up pyramids of +skulls. Yes, that is he. Let us heap up mountains of human heads, and +pile up heaps of human entrails. Great Djengis Khan! Thou, our patron +saint! Do thou bless us! Pray to thy blood-drenched father seated above +the skies of Asia, that he may sweep with us through the clouds; that he +may strike down that accursed nation till it writhes in its blood, till +it never can rise again. A red mist swims before my eyes. Of a sudden I +see nothing but blood before me. The heavens have opened, and the red +flood pours in through the windows. Blood wells up on the altar. The +walls run blood from the ceiling to the floor, and—God the Father steps +out of the blood. Every scale of his skin stands erect, his beard and +hair drip blood. A giant of blood stands before me. He seats himself +backward on the altar, and is laughing from thick, coarse lips—there +sits the King of Dahomey and butchers his slaves. The black executioner +raises his sword and whirls it above my head. Another moment and my head +will roll down on the floor—another moment and the red jet will spurt +from my neck ... Murderers, Murderers! None other than Murderers! Lord +God in Heaven!</p> + +<p>Then—</p> + +<p>the creaking—</p> + +<p>Light, air, the blue of heaven, burst in.</p> + +<p>I draw a breath of relief. We have risen to our feet, and at length +pass out of the twilight into the open air.</p> + +<p>My knees are still trembling under me.</p> + +<p>We fall into line, and in our hob-nailed boots tramp in step down the +street toward the barracks. When I see my mates marching beside me in +their matter-of-fact and stolid way, I feel ashamed, and call myself a +wretched coward. What a weak-nerved, hysterical breed, that can no +longer look at blood without fainting! You neurasthenic offspring of +your sturdy peasant forbears, who shouted for joy when they went out to +fight!</p> + +<p>I pull myself together and throw my head back.</p> + +<p>I never was a coward, and eye for eye I have always looked my man in the +face, and will do so this time, too, happen what may.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV</h4> + +<h3>THE LAST NIGHT</h3> + + +<p>I am lying in bed, and counting a hundred slowly. It must be close on +midnight now, and I am still unable to get to sleep.</p> + +<p>The room resounds to the noise of snoring. They are lying to the right +and left of me, and if I turn over on my back, I am staring up at the +wooden planking of a bed. For the cots extend all along the wall from +door to window, one above the other, and in every cot a soldier is lying +asleep.</p> + +<p>Now and again one or other tosses about, and rolls heavily over to the +other side.</p> + +<p>Further away, near the window, some one is mumbling in his sleep. +Suddenly he shouts out aloud: "And that wasn't me. I ain't touched a bit +of the wire. D'you take me for a thief?"</p> + +<p>It sounds exactly as if he were wide-awake. I am on the point of +speaking to him. Then all is silence again, and I lie listening +intently for what is going to happen next. But he keeps quiet, and goes +on dreaming. He is still in the midst of his workshop; yet tomorrow he +is going to be carted out to war.</p> + +<p>And nothing but sleeping and snoring men all round me.</p> + +<p>Wonder if any one else in barracks is lying wide-eyed and staring into +the future?</p> + +<p>My thoughts flit homeward. Wonder whether she slept well to-night? +Wonder if she has chanced to be thinking of me? Wonder how the little +chap is getting on? His teeth were giving him trouble.... It is not good +to marry so young; the unmarried men who are called out now are better +off. Wonder whether the war will last long? We have put by a little +nest-egg. But what's the good of that in these times of famine prices? +The allowance for wife and children is so small that it won't even cover +rent. Where's she to turn for money when the post-office savings book +is finished? She will have to go out sewing. But what's to happen when +hundreds of thousands of others have to go out sewing too? Well, then +she will have to start a little business, open a greengrocer's shop. But +what's to happen when hundreds of thousands of others have to start a +shop?</p> + +<p>The State is taking charge of your wives and children, that's what it +said in the regimental orders yesterday. Well, there is no use in +imagining the very worst at the start. The war may be over quickly. +Perhaps it will never get as far as big battles. Perhaps they will think +better of it, and give way yet.</p> + +<p>And then my mind feels at ease again. In spirit I see myself back again +at my office-desk and writing invoices. A glance at the clock—it's +close on the hour—only a few more strokes of the pen. So let's finish +up quickly. Let's hang up our office coat on the nail and slip into +another. And then get out into the street, for Dora must be waiting +supper.</p> + +<p>By this time we have already reached the bridge by the Town Hall, with +the two big triple lamps.... Who is standing there by the railing of the +bridge, and gazing down into the canal so motionlessly? It's a woman. +She must have run straight out of the kitchen, for her apron-strings are +hanging to the ground behind her anyhow. And all of a sudden her +red-striped skirt strikes me as so familiar, and as I pass behind her +she turns round without a word, and looks at me wild-eyed.</p> + +<p>"Dora, is that you?"</p> + +<p>Then she bows her face, streaming with tears, and says dully to herself:</p> + +<p>"They have shot my husband dead."</p> + +<p>"But, Dora," I shout to her anxiously—for it suddenly flashes upon me +that she is ill—"why, here I am! Don't you know me any more?"</p> + +<p>But she shakes her head, and turns away from me comfortless, and passes +me by like a stranger.</p> + +<p>"Dora!" I shout aloud, "Dora!" and stretch out my arms toward the +vanishing figure. A sob chokes my throat....</p> + +<p>Then I start, and am sitting up in bed, resting on my elbow. Through the +window sounds the long-drawn reveille. Dawn is peeping through the +panes.</p> + +<p>So I did nod off after all, and I did not have a pleasant dream. But I +have no time to be grumpy over it, for footsteps are ringing along the +corridor. Hobnail boots clatter across the floor. The door is flung +open.</p> + +<p>"Turn out!" a cheery voice shouts in.</p> + +<p>It is the sergeant on duty. By this time he has already reached the next +door. And sleepy figures are rising from their cots, yawning and +stretching their arms; are turning out and slipping, shivering with +cold, into their clothes. Yawning, they stretch their limbs and flap +their arms until the second more welcome morning signal, "Breakfast +rations," lends life and animation to fasting men.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V</h4> + +<h3>THE DEPARTURE</h3> + + +<p>We are already drawn up in the barrack-yard in service kit. We have +stacked our rifles and have fallen out. No one thinks of kit inspection +or anything of that kind today. Everything is now being pushed on at +racing pace.</p> + +<p>"Fall in!"</p> + +<p>"Stand by your packs!"</p> + +<p>How heavy the full knapsack weighs in one's hands, and yet as soon as it +is settled in the small of your back you do not notice it so very much.</p> + +<p>"Stand by arms!"</p> + +<p>"Slope arms!"</p> + +<p>As if we were marching out for parade, the Captain's orders sound as +crisp as that. We shoulder arms as smartly as if we were moving out on +parade.</p> + +<p>"Form sections! Right about turn! Quick march!"</p> + +<p>And we swing round smartly in four at the command.</p> + +<p>"Fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth company!" shouts the Major, who has +pulled up in the middle of the yard.</p> + +<p>We are the eighth company, and are following on the heels of the +seventh. The gates of the barrack-yard are open. We are marching out. +Our legs mark time on the pavement of the street in the goose-step of +grand parade.</p> + +<p>"March at ease!"</p> + +<p>And the muscles of our legs relax and advance at more natural gait.</p> + +<p>The streets are full of people. They are lining the pavement on both +sides and watching us march past. Though it is still quite an early hour +of the morning, yet the whole town is up and about. They weren't able to +stay abed. They wanted to see the soldiers march out.</p> + +<p>And they welcome us with their eyes and wave their hands to us.</p> + +<p>A fifteen-year-old lad is running along beside us. His brother is +marching in our file.</p> + +<p>"Mother sends you her love; she says she is feeling better again—but +she wasn't well enough to get up yet, else she'd have come with me this +morning—but I was to give you this from her."</p> + +<p>And the lad stretches his open hand out to his brother, and tries to +hand him something wrapped up in paper—money! But the elder brother +waves it aside.</p> + +<p>"Put it away. Tell her I said she was to spend it on herself, and to +look after herself properly, and be well and fit when we come back +again."</p> + +<p>Reluctantly the lad puts the money in his pocket.</p> + +<p>A little ahead of us a young woman is tripping alongside. We have set a +pretty smart pace, and she has to break into a run to keep up. But +though her feet may stumble over the uneven pavement she never turns her +eyes from her husband. What they may have to say to each other at the +very last moment we can't catch. But we catch the expression of her +face, and her comically touching devotion.</p> + +<p>And now the crowds accompanying their soldiers through the streets +become denser and denser. A few folk who are seeing members of their +family off are running beside every section. White-haired fathers and +mothers, with anxious looks, sisters, sweethearts, wives.</p> + +<p>There is one among them of whom you can tell at a glance that she is +about to become a mother. Well, she will be brought to bed lonely and +desolate.</p> + +<p>The man marching on my right, a taciturn yokel, who until now has been +staring gloomily straight ahead of him, half turns to me.</p> + +<p>"How many kids are there under way that'll never come to see their +dads?"</p> + +<p>And then he thaws, and begins to talk about his brother, who had to +leave with the Army Service Corps two days before, and he was called on +the Colors the very same day his wife was brought to bed, so that he had +to leave her before she was out of the wood.</p> + +<p>"Almost make you think us wasn't human beings."</p> + +<p>The drums and fifes strike up briskly, and play a merry march.</p> + +<p>Some one or other, somewhere in the crowd, sets up a loud, crowing sort +of cheer.</p> + +<p>"Hip! hip! hooray!"</p> + +<p>And the others join in. It spreads all down the whole length of the +street, and does not die down again. But it leaves my yokel unmoved.</p> + +<p>"What's the good of that how-d'ye-do? Folks are fair crazed. There is no +sense in it."</p> + +<p>I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He is impenetrably rapt in +his own gloomy reflections. Then he begins again.</p> + +<p>"Ah've left a wife and three kids to home. They're to get a few pence a +day, the lot, and nought more. And that's what four people have got to +live on."</p> + +<p>Some one tries to cheer him up.</p> + +<p>"Then some one else'll turn up who'll look after 'em!"</p> + +<p>"What others?" comes the answer in a deep growl. "They'll have their +hands full looking after theirselves. By the time I get home they'll +have kicked the bucket, the whole lot of 'em. The best thing'd be never +to come home no more."</p> + +<p>Then the big drum breaks into his com-plaint. A dull reverberating +throb. It is to usher in the regimental band, and orders the drums and +the fifes to desist.</p> + +<p>And then again, deep and monitory.</p> + +<p>Boom!</p> + +<p>The pipers begin to play the regimental march.</p> + +<p>And now—the regimental band strikes up. You may kick against it as you +will. The martial strain infects the excited streets, trumpets back from +a wall of houses, stirs the blood so joyously, and exorcises the +spectres of the night from your brain. Your muscles stiffen, you throw +your head up, and your legs strut along proudly to keep step and time. +And the rhythm of step and time infects the whole crowd. The effect on +the crowd is electric. They are waving their hands from the pavements; +they are waving their hands from the windows; they are waving their +hands from the balconies. The air is white with pocket-handkerchiefs. +And now some one in front begins to sing. They are shouting and singing +against one another. The tune gains strength until it has fought its way +through, and swirls above our heads like the wind before a storm.</p> + +<p>The National Anthem!</p> + +<p>The whole street is taking it up.</p> + +<p>The regimental band has capitulated to the song that carries every one +away with it. And then it solemnly joins in.</p> + +<p>The crowds bare their heads. We can see nothing except glowing faces, +figures marching under a spell, a nation afire and kindled to +enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>We march through the town singing ecstatically until we reach the +station, until we at length come to a standstill on the platform +reserved for us. The train is already standing there.</p> + +<p>The bridge, beyond, leading over the rails is black with people shouting +and waving down to us.</p> + +<p>We are already told off.</p> + +<p>Eight men to the compartment.</p> + +<p>"Tara, tata!" The bugle calls us to entrain, and the doors are thrown +open. We have scarcely stacked our packs and rifles, and donned our caps +when the engine starts, and amid thunderous cheers we slide out of the +station, and leave behind us a distant, fading roar, a dying hum—the +town shouting her last farewell to her soldiers.</p> + +<p>We make ourselves comfortable. We are sitting and smoking our pipes. +Three, unable to change all at once, have already started a game of +cards. Two more are sitting in the corner and putting their heads +together. The yokel is by himself, and shows no interest in anything.</p> + +<p>I am looking out of the window, watching the landscape fly past my eyes. +The rejoicings are still hot in my blood. I have lived to see a great +day. Wherever the bulk of the people rises above the dust of every day +it becomes irresistible, and carries away with it even the man who would +fain stand aloof, and keep his head cool.</p> + +<p>And we hurry past forests and rivers, past meadows whose extent I cannot +see, past hills that fade away into the blue of distance, past an +immeasurably rich country that stands golden in its ears of corn.</p> + +<p>And over it all shines the sun of one's native land.</p> + +<p>And I would fain spread out my arms.</p> + +<p>Yes, our native land is fair and great, and worthy that a man should +shed his blood for it.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI</h4> + +<h3>LIKE THE PROMISE OF MAY</h3> + + +<p>We have turned off the main road, and have to march over a field of +stubble. A battle was fought here yesterday, for the field is sown with +dead bodies. They have picked up the wounded. But as yet they have had +no time to bury those who died where they fell.</p> + +<p>The first dead man we saw struck us dumb. At first we hardly realized +what it meant—this lifeless new uniform spread out there—from the way +he was lying you could hardly believe he was really dead. It gave you a +prickly feeling on the tongue. It seemed as if you were on manoeuvres, +and the fellow lying there in a ditch had got a touch of the sun. A +rough soldierly jest, a cheery shout was all that was wanted to raise +him to his ramshackle legs.</p> + +<p>"Hullo, you! Got a head? Keep a stiff neck."</p> + +<p>But the words froze in our throat, for an icy breath was wafted to us +from the dead man, and a chill hand clutched at our terror-stricken +hearts.</p> + +<p>So that was Death! We knew all about it now. That is what it looks like, +and we turned our heads back and shuddered.</p> + +<p>But then there came more and more of them.</p> + +<p>And by this time we have become accustomed to them.</p> + +<p>Strange! I gaze at these silent faces that seem to laugh at us, at these +wounds that seem to mouth at us fantastically, as if they had I nothing +to do with me. It strikes me all as so remote, so indifferent. As if all +these dead bodies were lying in glass cases, as if I were in an +anatomical museum, and were staring with dispassionately curious eyes at +some scientific exhibits.</p> + +<p>Sometimes no wounds at all are visible. The bullets have passed through +the uniforms somewhere, and have gone clean through the softer parts of +the bodies.</p> + +<p>They have grown rigid in death in grotesque postures as if Death had +been trying to pose figures here. There are certain schemes of Death +that are always recurring. Hands out-stretched—fingers clawing the +grass—fallen forward on to the face—that fellow over there lying on +his back is holding his hand pressed tight against his abdomen, as if he +were trying to staunch the wound.</p> + +<p>In the country I was once watching them killing sheep. There a beast +lay, and was waiting for the butcher, and as the short knife cut through +its windpipe and jugular vein, and the blood leaped hot from its neck, I +could see nothing but the big eye, how it enlarged in its head to a +fearsome stare, until at last it turned to a dull glass.</p> + +<p>All the bodies lying about here, as if bleating up to heaven, have got +these glazed eyes, they are lying as if they were outstretched in the +abattoir. Well, to be hit and to fall down dead, there's nothing to make +a fuss about that! But to be shot through the chest, to be shot through +the belly, to burn for hours in the fever of your wounds, to cool your +mangled body in the wet grass, and to stare up into the pitiless blue +heavens because your accursed eyes go on refusing to glaze over yet——</p> + +<p>I turn away from them. I force myself to look past these mocking, +grotesque <i>posés plastiques</i> of Death.</p> + +<p>And I am already spirited far away, and am sitting in my little study at +home. My coffee cup is standing snugly to my hand. My book-case is +beaming down on me. My well-loved books invite me, and in front of me my +book of books, "Faust," lies open. And so I read, and feel the wonderful +relaxation that comes after work stealing through my longing blood.</p> + +<p>The door opens. A little girl, and a boy who has just learned the use of +his legs, put their noses in at the door.</p> + +<p>"Daddy, may we?"</p> + +<p>I nod consent. Then they spread out their little arms, and rush at me.</p> + +<p>"Daddy!"</p> + +<p>They are climbing on to my knees now, and I give them a ride—"this is +how we ride to war."</p> + +<p>But they twine their soft arms round my neck until at length I put them +down on the floor: "Now go to Mummy—"</p> + +<p>And now——</p> + +<p>A new picture. How very plainly I see it. We have gone out of a Sunday +afternoon beyond the suburbs, gone out with bag and baggage. I see the +green fields bright and fair, and see the two kiddies bright and fair. +They are rolling about in the grass and chasing the butterflies, and +laughing up at me, and crowing with delight as they run after the ball I +have thrown down for them to play with. And the sky stretches above us +in its Sabbath blue, and so confidently as if it all could never come to +an end. And Dora smiles at me with quiet eyes.</p> + +<p>Then I come back with a start—I feel my knapsack chafing my back—I +feel my rifle—I see the dead at my feet again—</p> + +<p>My God! how can these things be? How can these two worlds be so terribly +close to each other?...</p> + +<p>And we pass on through this first spring crop of dead bodies. No one +says a word. No one has a joke. How surreptitiously the others glance +aside when some corpse, all too grotesquely mangled, meets their eyes.</p> + +<p>I wonder what is passing through their brains?</p> + +<p>Working men, tradesmen, artisans, and agricultural laborers, that's what +they are for the most part. They themselves have as yet never smelled +powder, nor ever been under fire. That, I suppose, is the reason why +they have suddenly become so dumb.</p> + +<p>Then a voice beside me says something abruptly, and it seems as if the +voice rebounded hollow from the silence.</p> + +<p>"The stuff is laying about here same as muck."</p> + +<p>That was my yokel beside me. Then he, too, relapses into silence, and I +feel as if I could read behind their shy eyes, as if all that is going +on in these dull brains had suddenly become clear as daylight.</p> + +<p>They're all drawn from that other world, where Life kissed us and +cozened caressingly round our bodies. You have brought us up as human +beings. That we have been human no longer counts. Life and love no +longer count; flesh and blood no longer count; only gore and corpses +count for anything now. How we used to tremble in that other world, when +a naked human life was even in danger. How we rushed into the burning +house to drive away the death for which some poor old paralyzed woman +craved. How we plunged into the wintry river to snatch a starved beggar +brat from the quiet waters. We would not even suffer a man to creep away +out of Life by stealth while we looked on. We cut down suicides at +their last sob, and hustled them back into life. Of our mercy we set up +half-rotted wastrels with new bodies; with pills, elixirs and medicines, +with herbalists, professors and surgeons, with cauteries, amputations +and electrotherapy, we fanned the flickering life and fed the sunken +flame with oxygen and radium and all the elements. There was nothing +greater, nothing more sacred than Life. Life was everything to us, was +for us the most precious possession on earth.</p> + +<p>And here lies that most precious of possessions—here it is lying wasted +and used up—spurned as the dust by the roadside—and we are marching +along over it as over dust and stones.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII</h4> + +<h3>BLOOD AND IRON</h3> + + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The heavy noise in the air is incessant.</p> + +<p>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——</p> + +<p>What on earth is that?</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>What's the next thing?</p> + +<p>Lie down—Mark distance—Cover!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>But suddenly something begins to set up a rattle over there in the wood +and buzzes like huge alarum-clocks running down.</p> + +<p>"Lie down."</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>What's the next thing?</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Shall we have to retreat? Are we going to attack?</p> + +<p>Then the order to fire rings out, and is zealously passed on from unit +to unit.</p> + +<p>"Rapid fire! Into the wood!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Close to the big oak. To the right in the undergrowth," some one of the +rank and file sings out.</p> + +<p>I strain my eyes to the spot, and fail to see anything.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Behind there, to the right—they are on the run there! And from afar the +rifle fire rattles like mad.</p> + +<p>"My men! Up with you! At the double!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Down! Rapid fire!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 <i>mêlée</i>—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.</p> + +<p>"Up! Get on! At the double!"</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Up, up! At the double!"</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>"Up! At the double!"</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>What's happened?</p> + +<p>Of a sudden a deep stillness falls....</p> + +<p>The machines are silenced!</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>"Let go! Run for what you are worth—let go!"</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>All round men are lying slain on the brown carpet of the woods....</p> + +<p>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....</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>And dazed and sick, we gaze at the machines, and the steel and iron +littering the ground blink up at us full of guile.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII</h4> + +<h3>THE SWAMP</h3> + + +<p>For the whole of the forenoon we had heard firing in the distance, the +thunder of cannon and the rattle of musketry. Our regiment had been +marched hither and thither. The fight had drawn nearer and nearer. We +were expecting to be under fire at any moment, and then we had to fall +back again, and look for a new place to develop our attack. It seemed as +if the orders that came through were contradictory, and this tension of +uncertainty fell like a blight on our spirits, and got on the nerves +both of officers and men. At length we had wound through a defile, the +steep slopes of which, left and right, were thickly grown with trees. +Things had got into a bit of a mess. We had had to force our way through +undergrowth soaked with rain, through brambles and clumps of tall broom +on which the green pods were still pendent. At times there was nothing +in sight except the roof and wall of greenery.</p> + +<p>We breathed more freely when at last the sky spread clear overhead +again.</p> + +<p>So now we have reached a green meadow, and are marching straight across +it, but are still unable to see anything of the enemy's forces yet. Even +the firing has died down, and has become more distant than before. It +seemed as if we had come into another, remoter world, and—so we have; +for soon we notice how soft the ground has become under our feet, how +water is oozing up at every step. We shall, if we go on, be right in the +middle of a swamp.</p> + +<p>That is the reason of the solitude reigning all around us.</p> + +<p>The terrain is impracticable.</p> + +<p>To the right and left of us, and all about us, nothing but swamp, +running out into a broad sheet of open water, the depths of which no +one can guess, or tell whether it be fordable.</p> + +<p>The head of the column is already swinging round and we are retracing +our steps toward the defile to get out of the rat-trap.</p> + +<p>And in the middle of the meadow:</p> + +<p>"Halt! Form sections!"</p> + +<p>The companies have fallen in. The officers have assembled, and are +pow-wowing. We seem to have lost touch. The sergeant beside me is +swearing up his sleeve, and is cursing at something about lunacy and +blindman's buff. I am gazing up meditatively at the heights, overgrown +with trees and undergrowth, and am thinking what fun it would be if we +were to have to make our way back to the defile now, and in the thick of +it the enemy were to break in on us right and left—no man would come +out of it alive—the battle of the Teutoburger Forest recurs to me—I am +trying to, make out if they are oaks or beeches over there——Of a +sudden there is a flash of lightning from the undergrowth; the very +firmament cracks and sways as if it were going to fall in on us....</p> + +<p>"Lie down!" Horror screams somewhere or other.</p> + +<p>And trembling, we lie down ... and over our heads rushes something that +howls for our flesh.... What's the next thing? Up and at them now! Rush +straight at the guns. Suffocate their fiery mouths with our flesh and +bones.</p> + +<p>"Up! Get up!"</p> + +<p>The captain comes up to us at a run. The breath of the iron holds us +tight pressed to the ground as if in a vice....</p> + +<p>Turn your head away.</p> + +<p>Now!</p> + +<p>Now!</p> + +<p>Then—A-a-h!</p> + +<p>The vault of Heaven has cracked above us, and has spurted down on to the +sand from above. Life is lying there, wriggling on the earth, and the +hands that were clawing the ground are now clutching idly at the +shattered air. I rise to my feet again.... I have not been hit. But the +man who leaped up beside me—he is lying flat in the sand and screaming +in a broken voice. He is lying as if he had been nailed firmly through +his stomach to the earth, and as if he could not get free again. The +body itself is dead, only the arms and legs are still alive. And arms +and legs are working wildly through the air.</p> + +<p>"Up! Get up! Quick march!" a voice yells in our ears. We no longer know +who it is shouting to us, and we don't know from what quarter they have +called us.... We leap to our feet. We leave the captain and the wounded +in their blood; we start up and run away, and are running a race with +the shells, for we are running for our bare, naked life. But the shells +have the legs of us. They catch us up from behind in our backs, and +wherever the invisible sheaf plunges hissing down, men are falling with +it and rolling, helter-skelter in their blood. But we speed away over +twitching and dismembered bodies, and over bodies turning somersaults, +and look neither to the right nor to the left. We are on the run, and +shrink into ourselves as we run. We draw our necks deep between our +shoulders, for every man feels that the next moment his head will be +leaping out from between his shoulder-blades from behind.</p> + +<p>And eyes of iron are glaring at us from behind. The swamp! The swamp! +The thought suddenly uprears its head in me. We are running blindly +straight into the swamp. Only another twenty paces now—already the +foremost have reached it, and, senseless in their terror, jump into +it—the water spurts up high—and now—what has happened now? Their +feet are stuck fast—they tilt over forwards—they claw for something to +hold on to—the rifle flies out of their hand—and face forward they +plunge into the water—and close on our heels they come stamping +up—the tight-packed, maddened mob....</p> + +<p>"Back! Get back!"</p> + +<p>But every one has ceased to be conscious of what he is doing. And though +our eyes start out of our head at the terror we see in front of us, +Death is breathing its cold breath into the back of our neck.</p> + +<p>And into the gurgling water, wriggling with bodies and alive with lungs, +over human bodies writhing beneath the water, Death tramples us to the +other bank. Any man who goes down is lost, for they are pressing on +behind us past all holding. The water is already up to our armpits. But +there is a firm bottom beneath our feet. True, the bottom may clutch at +us, and cling round our feet. True, the water may bite savagely at our +flesh with teeth and with nails. But whatever may be trying to draw us +down to itself from below, we trample underfoot. The shoulders of a form +emerge; they plunge down again, and disappear. The faces of drowning +men emerge and cleave to the light, and sink gurgling into the depths. +Lost arms wave about in the air and try to find support on the surface +of the water. We dodge these arms, for whomever they may seize they draw +down with them to Death.</p> + +<p>And in the thick of this hurly-burly of Death, amid these whistling +lungs, amid these panting, red, panic-stricken faces, the cloud of +shells strikes home, and hurls its hail of iron overhead. The water +spurts up in jets.</p> + +<p>And again!</p> + +<p>Explosions and screams, and the hissing of lead, and the shrieks of men, +and blood and water foam up, till no one knows whether he has been hit +or is still alive; for in front of me—so close that I could clutch +it—I see a jugular vein, ripped through, spurting in an arch like a +fountain—and in his blood the fellow hit staggers back, and blood and +howls surfeit the black flood, until it is at length reddened with human +blood—Get on! get on! Don't look round! There—the other bank over +there! There Life is standing and spreading out his arms toward us. Get +on! Before they have murdered all of us in this swamp! Get up! Get up! +Thank God! The water's falling! Only up to the hips now—only up to the +knees.</p> + +<p>And now——</p> + +<p>Our feet leap on to the dry, blessed land and strike forward beyond all +control, and race over the field. They refuse to obey any orders. They +are racing—racing toward the protection of the forest beckoning us of +its mercy.</p> + +<p>There! Headlong in among the trees, and into the bushes, into the +thorns. There they are falling lifeless to the ground, their faces +buried in the soil, and they are squeezing their eyes tight, to shut out +the sight of the accursed blue of heaven that spat down on us so +treacherously—You dogs! You beasts! To shoot us down from behind—it is +nothing more nor less than cowardly assassination.</p> + +<p>And slowly breath and consciousness return to us again, and when we have +come to our senses we look at one another with dumb eyes, and these eyes +presage nought that is good.</p> + +<p>A great, unspeakable Horror that will never be allayed again has risen +in these eyes.</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX</h4> + +<h3>THE WHIRLING EARTH</h3> + + +<p>Half-way on the march some one fell down beside me, flung out his arms, +clawed himself tightly to the earth, and screamed and gasped against the +soil. Barely half an hour later we saw another who had fallen into +convulsions. And when we were lying in a damp ditch waiting for the +enemy, a man suddenly jumped up, and shrieked, and ran away. He laughed +back at us from afar until he vanished from our sight in the rain. The +shrieking and running away had infected us all. 'Twon't be long before +it will be your turn.</p> + +<p>One night when we were lying in our trenches, and had fallen asleep to +the thunder of the guns, I suddenly started up—confused—dazed; and +lo, the stars were standing bright in the dark, rainless sky, and shone +down solemnly, ah God! how solemnly, on the turmoil, as if nothing in +this world mattered. Yet there—in front of me, before my very eyes +—glimmered a red reflection—that surely must be a pool of blood, for +the stars are mirrored in it so redly—and suddenly a blind rage +overtook me to howl aloud and clench my fists, and to scream in the very +face of the great Master up above there—But I had neither time to howl +nor to run. For in this self-same night it so happened that an uncanny +whirr fell on our ears from out the distance. That was Death flying +toward us on propellers. The spectres of the night whirred above us; we +shot blindly into the air—for every moment the storm was bound to break +over us.... Torpedo tubes above us ... they'll spurt in a minute ... +they're going to fling down dynamite ... and then the magnesium bombs +blazed out ... cries and crashes rose wherever we looked ... then they +are gone again ... but we had to retire from our trenches ... +senselessly, like automata, we marched for the whole of that day. I felt +the goose-flesh creeping over my skin; my nerves ached, and if the +bayonet were not at the small of my back I should chuck my rifle away, +and roll sprawling in the damp sand.</p> + +<p>And yet four days afterward they have contrived to get us to make a +stand again. For in our rear, on the other bank of the river, our +regiments have crossed, and are groping for new positions. But we have +to cover their passage at any cost.</p> + +<p>We were now drawing on our last reserve. We were still standing with our +spades in our hands, and throwing, with aching backs and arms, more soil +on the works, when in front of us we saw figures passing up and down on +the grey, twilight field. They were grubbing the soil up busily, and +were putting something we could not see into holes, and covering it in +again. They went about their work noiselessly—no incautious step and +no unguarded movement—and when they came back again and passed us, and +marched on, their faces were livid and their lips dumb. They proved +themselves to be first-class moles. They had done a good bit of work. +They had undermined the earth. They had stuffed the ground with +explosives, and if the enemy comes to-night we shall repay the gifts +they lavished upon us from the sky the other day with interest. They +have arranged it all like a rat-trap.</p> + +<p>Over there, beyond the mined field even, two companies are lying in +extended order. And midway between them, without a vestige of cover, +stands our battery on the open field. It is planted there as if it were +doomed to be delivered into the enemy's hands.</p> + +<p>And now we are lying in our long trenches, and are peering out into the +field, with our eyes glued to the sharply outlined silhouettes of the +guns. The sun has set some time ago.</p> + +<p>From the far distance the thin rattle of musketry reaches us clearly.</p> + +<p>Wonder if it'll last much longer?</p> + +<p>Our orders are to remain under arms.</p> + +<p>We have put on our overcoats. The night is chilly, and lowering, I gaze +out over the field of death—nothing makes any difference to me now—if +only it were over quickly.</p> + +<p>A scout has come in, and delivers his report in a whisper.</p> + +<p>Our instructions are not to fire before the order to fire is given, +and—then to fire into the air.</p> + +<p>In the background, far on the horizon, the ground rises, and the gray +skyline stands out against the cloudy sky. The musketry fire has become +hotter from minute to minute, and has increased to a threatening rattle. +To the right and left of us fighting is in full swing. In front of us +the mined field lies silent, and the two companies too, are lying silent +in their rifle-pits.</p> + +<p>I am conscious that I am terribly tired—I can no longer keep myself on +my feet—my head sinks down on my rifle—my eyes close—but the +overstrained nerves are still alert.</p> + +<p>And now——</p> + +<p>The earth reverberates sullenly.</p> + +<p>That's our battery! It is firing straight into the darkness. So our turn +is coming now.</p> + +<p>We hear how "ours" over there are opening fire, and how it suddenly +increases, and dies down, and then again swells to a maddening rattle. +That is an attack by sharpshooters in overwhelming strength ... they +cannot be very far from one another now ... and yet the battery goes on +bellowing, and luring the enemy to assault....</p> + +<p>And now a martial symphony rises over the dark country ... bugles shrill +through the darkness, and drums are rolling sullenly ... that means a +general assault ... there rises a sound of shouting and tramping ... a +thunderous roar of triumph rises to the dark sky ... that is the shout +of victory from a thousand throats ... in their thousands they have +charged "ours" over there, and have crushed them by assault.... Ha, ha! +they have taken a battery by storm....</p> + +<p>Why, of a sudden, has silence fallen ... what is the object of it ... +now it's our turn....</p> + +<p>"Into the air! Rapid fire!" And the volley, crashes. And look there ... +over there the cheer rings out again ... the signals for assault sound, +and thousands of voices are shouting it simultaneously ... there they +are foaming up ... they are charging on, drunk with victory, in closed +ranks ... they are rolling with a roar over the mined field ... they are +trampling the earth, as if with horses' hoofs ... that means Death ... I +am lying rigid ... now it must break, now ... I open my mouth wide ... +my rifle is trembling in my grasp....</p> + +<p>And then—</p> + +<p>The Earth has opened her mouth ... lightnings, crashes and thunderings, +and the Heaven splits in twain and falls down in flame—the earth +whirls upwards in shreds ... men and the earth blaze and hurtle through +the air like Catharine wheels ... and then ... a crash, a maddening +uproar, strikes us full in the chest, so that we reel backward to the +ground, and half-consciously struggle for breath in the sand ... and now +... the storm is over ... the pressure of the atmosphere relaxes off our +chest ... we breathe deep ... only scattered, dancing flames now and +squibs ... fireworks....</p> + +<p>But what on earth has happened?——</p> + +<p>We peer out fearfully over our earthworks.</p> + +<p>Has red Hell opened its mouth:</p> + +<p>There rises a noise of screams and yells, an uproar so unnaturally wild +and unrestrained that we cringe up closer to one another ... and, +trembling, we see that our faces, our uniforms, have red, wet stains, +and distinctly recognize shreds of flesh on the cloth. And among our +feet something is lying that was not lying there before—it gleams white +from the dark sand and uncurls ... a strange dismembered hand ... and +there ... and there ... fragments of flesh with the uniform still +adhering to them—then we realize it, and horror overwhelms us.</p> + +<p>Outside there are lying arms, legs, heads, trunks ... they are howling +into the night; the whole regiment is lying mangled on the ground there, +a lump of humanity crying to Heaven....</p> + +<p>Clouds are arising from the earth ... they are rising crying aloud in +the air ... they pass over us in thick drifts, so that we can see the +wounds steaming, and can taste blood and bones upon our tongues....</p> + +<p>And then a spectral vision rises before my eyes ... I see red Death +standing outside there on the plain ... the clouds reveal a face +grinning down on the symphony ... and suddenly a clear note detaches +itself from the darkness—a tune which enraptured Death is playing to +himself till his fiddle splits ... is that a human being coming up, +running, here?... he is coming with a rush ... he will leap upon our +backs ... halt! halt! halt! He stumbles upright into the trenches, and +tumbles sobbing and howling, among our rifles. He strikes out at us with +hands and feet ... he is crying and struggling like a child, and yet no +man dares go up to him ... for now he is rising on his knee ... and then +we see! Half his face has been torn away ... one eye gone ... the +twitching muscle of the cheek is hanging down ... he is kneeling, and +opening and closing his hands, and is howling to us for mercy.</p> + +<p>We gaze at him horror-stricken and are paralyzed ... then at length the +yokel—and our eyes thank him for it—raises the butt of his rifle and +places the muzzle against the sound temple ... bang!... and the maimed +wreckage falls over backward and lies still in his blood....</p> + +<p>And again the darkness casts up shapes ... they run up and reel about +like drunken men ... they fall over and pick themselves up anew ... they +race forward through the night in zigzags, until they at last collapse +exhausted, and lie still under our very eyes and make an end of it....</p> + +<p>And at length some one comes crawling toward us ... he is crawling up on +all fours ... he is dragging something behind him with his body, and all +the time he is whining like a sick dog, and is howling shrilly in +long-drawn tones ... he is still crawling along I fast—and when he has +reached us we see—I and the blood stands still in our hearts—they are +his entrails hanging out of his body ... his belly has been ripped up +from below ... he is crawling, he is crawling up on his entrails ... he +is coming ... the entrails are coming ... horror breaks out from every +pore ... for hardly three paces away from me he lies still ... and then +... May God forgive me!... he raises himself slowly on his hands ... he +succeeds for a moment ... and looks ... Merciful God!... he looks at me, +and refuses to let my eyes go again ... I can see nothing except these +great, death-stricken eyes.... Merciful God! ... his eyes, those eyes! +Those are a mother's eyes looking down on me unspeakably ... that is a +son of his mother lying there before us butchered.... I will break out +of my fastness.... I will throw myself on him, sobbing, and kiss his +face, and bathe his anguish away in my tears.... I will do it! I will! +... and cannot stir myself from my rigid tension.... Then the monstrous +strain relaxes—his arms give way ... he falls forward on his face and +sinks down on his tortured body. His hands twitch once more ... then he +lies still and kisses Mother Earth, who has slain her children so +horribly....</p> + +<p>I am done ... my hands are trembling.... Then all of a sudden, a voice +behind us begins to sing ... solemnly—long-drawn.... "Now thank we all +our God" ... that is Madness singing there ... we are all next door to +madness.... I look round, and see gray, distorted faces, and blazing, +startled eye-balls.... And suddenly the singing voice changes to a loud, +impudent burst of laughter....</p> + +<p>"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!" The laugh is full of horror, and mingles with the +dying whine beyond.... The laugh grows ever louder, and ever wilder, and +laughs in triumph at the naked, pitiful dying, littering the ground.</p> + +<p>"Drummers! Strike up!" shouts the voice.</p> + +<p>"Uncover for prayer!"</p> + +<p>We recognize him; he is a reservist belonging to some pious sect. A +sergeant has seized him, and tries to hold him ... the captain has run +up, but the madman tears himself away and runs ahead of them to a +rifle-pit ... he stands aloft, a black, wild silhouette against the pale +sky, and spreads out his arms in blessing over the sick night ... he +stands there like a rapt priest, and raves, and is blessing the mangled +darkness. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy +Ghost."</p> + +<p>Then arms seize him from behind and pull him down ... they drag him to +the ground.... "Our Father" he howls aloud, and strikes and kicks out +all round him, and goes on praying from his raging body until at length +breath fails him ... they have tied him hand and foot, and have gagged +him....</p> + +<p>But now the Thing-that-Couldn't happens—that none the less was bound +to happen.</p> + +<p>And when the voice calls out it comes over me as if I had lived it all +once before....</p> + +<p>"Captain!" shouts the hard, naked, impudent voice we all know. "Haven't +you got any cotton wool for us to plug our ears with?"</p> + +<p>We have all turned round as if at the word of command. It is the +militia-man, the yokel, standing facing the captain and gesticulating at +him. "I only wanted to ask if those are wild beasts, or if they're what +are called human beings you've torn to pieces there?"</p> + +<p>But curt and sharp, as we knew it, the rasping note of command responds:</p> + +<p>"What the devil's the matter with you? Pull yourself together. Can't you +hear? Get back to your place at once."</p> + +<p>But then it bursts out, the voice of Nature, and resounds so harshly, +and tears down all barriers.</p> + +<p>"Murderers!" roars a blasphemous mouth. "Murderers of men! We shall have +to knock them all on the head like dogs."</p> + +<p>We all start as if under an electric shock ... that was what was on the +tip of the tongues of all of us ... that was the climax that was bound +to come ... we cannot endure to go on lying in this charnel-house any +longer....</p> + +<p>"You mind what you're about." The other's wrath breaks out once more ... +and then we know it for certain, the captain is a fool ... he has lost +the game from the very start ... and now ... it is like a shadow play +before my eyes ... like a ghostly kinematograph.... I see that the +militia-man has drawn his bayonet ... the captain is standing facing him +with his revolver in his hand, and gives him an order ... he promptly +gets a blow with the butt end of the rifle on his head that fells him to +the ground without a sound ... and they leap up from all the +trenches.... "Murderers!" they cry. "Murderers! Kill them!"</p> + +<p>There is no stopping it now.... I feel I have gone mad.... I do not know +where I am.... I see wild beasts all round me distorted unnaturally in a +life-and-death grapple ... with bloodshot eyes, with foaming, gnashing +mouths, they attack and kill one another, and try to mangle one +another.... I leap to my feet.... I must get away, to escape from +myself, or in another minute I shall be in the thick of this maddened, +death-doomed mob.... I stumble over the rifle-pits.... I race out into +the night, and tread on quaking flesh ... step on hard heads, and +stumble over weapons and helmets ... something is clutching at my feet +like hands, so that I race away like a hunted deer with the hounds at +its heels ... and ever more bodies—breathless—out of one field into +another.... Horror is crooning over my head ... horror is crooning +beneath my feet ... and nothing but dying, mangled flesh....</p> + +<p>Has the whole earth exploded then?... Are there nothing but dead abroad +this night?... Has every human being been fusilladed?</p> + +<p>How long have I been running?... I hear how my lungs are whistling ... +and hear how my temples are beating ... my breath is choked.... I am +done.... I stagger backwards ... am falling dead to the ground ... no! I +am sinking back on something soft, and sit still motionless, and listen +intently to the night.... I can hear nothing except the blood in my +ears ... all of a sudden there is a light in my eyes like bright, clean +daylight ... the sun is shining ... then I realize it, it is my own head +... visions are teeming in my brain, and are teeming out of my head, one +unwearyingly on the heels of the other.... I see the regiments marching +out ... they are passing by in the bright sunshine ... the Blues from +over there, the Reds from over here; they are marching against each +other in long array.... Now they halt, and are standing drawn up against +each other on a huge front ... ready for the fray ... then our captain's +voice on this side rings out.... "Ready?" ... and the rifles on both +sides are raised. I see the black mass of the muzzles ... they are +scarcely ten paces apart ... they are aiming straight for the chest.... +"Stop!" I am trying to cry out, "Stop! You ought to attack in open order +with seven paces intervals." ...</p> + +<p>Then our captain's voice rings out again, "Fire!" ... the volley +crashes, and behold! not a man is hit ... they all are standing there +unscathed ... they have fired into the air ... and with shouts of joy +the ranks dissolve ... they rush toward one another ... the rifles fall +to the ground ... but they rush into one another's arms, and fondle one +another, and laugh aloud as children laugh ... then they fall back into +line ... they shoulder their rifles ... right about turn!... the bands +strike up a joyous march, they march off with bands playing—every +regiment to its own home....</p> + +<p>And now I catch myself singing an accompaniment to it aloud.... I am +beating time with my right hand, and supporting myself on my seat with +my left ... and something trickles oddly across my hand—something like +warm water.... I raise my hand to my eyes ... it is red and moist ... +blood is flowing over my white hand ... then I realize it, the white +thing under me is not a heap of sand.... I have been sitting on a corpse +... horror-stricken, I rush about ... and one is lying over there, too +... and there, and there!... Merciful God! I see it plainly now; there +are only dead to-night ... the human race died out this very night ... I +am the last survivor ... the fields are dead—the woods dead—the +villages dead—the cities dead—the Earth is dead—the Earth was +butchered to-night, and I, only I have escaped the slaughter-house.</p> + +<p>And it comes over me as a great thing, a pathetically great thing—now I +know what my destiny is—lowering, I watch my own actions, and wait to +see how I shall accomplish it—I mark how I am slowly putting my hand +into my pocket—before I left home I took my pocket-pistol with me. I am +holding the toy in my hand—the steel is looking up at me and blinking +at me—I am gazing with a smile into its black, confiding muzzle—I am +holding it against my temples—I pull the trigger, and fall over +backward—the last of mankind on this dead earth!</p> + + + +<hr style="width: 65%;" /> +<h4><a name="EPILOGUE" id="EPILOGUE"></a>EPILOGUE</h4> + +<h3>WE POOR DEAD</h3> + + +<p>They have now covered up our hot breath with earth. Why are you blinking +at me with your bleared eyes, my brother? Are you not glad? Don't they +envy us our sweet death? They have laid us out in a picturesque row, and +you need only turn your head to rub against human flesh at once, and if +you turn your yellow eyeball, you can see nothing but corpses in the +twilight. One beside the other, that is how they are sleeping. And +corpse upon corpse, ever more of them, through the whole length of the +loose soil of the potato-field, and we even fill the whole adjoining +field of roots.</p> + +<p>Wonder whether the sun still goes on shining above us?—whether they +still know how to laugh in the towns as we used to in our time? Wonder +whether my wife still goes on remembering her dead husband—and my two +kiddies—whether they have already forgotten their father? They were so +tiny at the time—another man'll come along—they will call another +fellow father—and my wife is still so young and fair.</p> + +<p>We poor dead heroes! So do not disturb our last sleep any longer. We had +to die to enable the others to live. We died for our native land in its +straits. We are victorious now, and have won land and fame, land enough +for millions of our brothers. Our wives have land, our children, our +mothers, our fathers have land. And now our poor native land has air to +breathe. It need no longer be stifled. They have cleared the air of us. +They have got rid of us, of us who were far too many. We are no longer +eating the bread away from other folks' mouths. We are so full-fed, so +full-fed and quiet. But they have got land! Fertile land! And ore! Iron +mines! Gold! Spices! And Bread!</p> + +<p>Come, brother philosopher, let us turn our faces to the earth. Let us +sleep upon our laurels, and let us dream of nothing but our Country's +Future.</p> + + +<p>THE END</p> + + + + + + + + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 39588 ***</div> + +</body> +</html> |