Men in War by Andreas Latzko

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A hoarse roar, a frightful, dehumanized cry almost beside him wrenched
his thoughts back into the trench. A broad stream of light and fire,
travelling in a steep curve, flowed blindingly down beside him and
sprayed over the shoulder of the tall pock-marked tailor of the first
line. In the twinkling of an eye the man's entire left side flared up in
flames. With a howl of agony he threw himself to the ground, writhed and
screamed and leaped to his feet again, and ran moaning up and down like
a living torch, until he broke down, half-charred, and twitched, and
then lay rigid. Captain Marschner saw him lying there and smelt the odor
of burned flesh, and his eyes involuntarily strayed to his own hand on
which a tiny, white spot just under his thumb reminded him of the
torments he had suffered in his boyhood from a bad burn.

At that moment a jubilant hurrah roared through the trench, rising from
a hundred relieved throats. The attack had been repulsed! Lieutenant
Weixler had carefully taken aim at the thrower of the liquid fire and
hit at the first shot. The liquid fire had risen up like a fountain from
the falling man's stiffening hand and rained down on his own comrades.
Their decimated lines shrank back suddenly before the unexpected danger
and they fled pell-mell, followed by the furious shots from all the
rifles.

The men fell down as if lifeless, with slack faces and lusterless eyes,
as though some one had turned off the current that had fed those dead
creatures with strength from some unknown source. Some of them leaned
against the trench wall white as cheese, and held their heads over, and
vomited from exhaustion. Marschner also felt his gorge rising and groped
his way toward the dugout. He wanted to go into his own place now and be
alone and somehow relieve himself of the despair that held him in its
grip.

"Hello!" Lieutenant Weixler cried unexpectedly through the silence, and
bounded over to the left where the machine guns stood.

The captain turned back again, mounted the ladder, and gazed out into
the foreground of the field. There, right in front of the wire-
entanglements, kneeled an Italian. His left arm was hanging down limp,
and his right arm was raised beseechingly, and he was crawling toward
them slowly. A little farther back, half hidden by the kneeling man,
something kept stirring on the ground. There three wounded men were
trying to creep toward their own trench, pressing close to the ground.
One could see very clearly how they sought cover behind corpses and now
and then lay motionless so as to escape discovery by the foe. It was a
pitiful sight--those God-forsaken creatures surrounded by death, each
moment like an eternity above them, yet clinging with tooth and nail to
their little remnant of life.

"Come on! Isn't there a rope somewhere?" an old corporal called down
into the trench. "I'm sorry for the poor devil of an Italian. Let's pull
him in!"

The machine guns interrupted him. The kneeling man beside the wires
listened, started as if to run, and fell upon his face. The earth behind
him rose in dust from the bullets and the others beyond raised
themselves like snakes, then all three gave a short leap forward and--
lay very still.

For a moment Captain Marschner stood speechless. He opened his lips, but
no sound came from his throat. At last his tongue obeyed him and he
yelled, with a mad choking fury in his voice:

"Lieutenant Weixler!"

"Yes, sir," came back unconcernedly.

Captain Marschner ran toward the lieutenant with clenched fists and
scarlet face.

"Did you fire?" he panted, breathless.

The lieutenant looked at him in astonishment, placed his hands against
the seams of his trousers and replied with perfect formality:

"I did, sir."

Marschner's voice failed him again for a moment. His teeth chattered.
His whole body trembled as he stammered:

"Aren't you ashamed of yourself? A soldier doesn't fire at helpless,
wounded men. Remember that!"

Weixler went white.

"I beg to inform you, Captain, that the one who was near our trench was
hiding the others from us. I couldn't spare him." Then, with a sudden
explosion of anger, he added defiantly: "Besides, I thought we had quite
enough hungry mouths at home as it is."

The captain jumped at him like a snapping dog and stamped his foot and
roared:

"I'm not interested in what you think. I forbid you to shoot at the
wounded! As long as I am commanding officer here every wounded man shall
be held sacred, whether he tries to get to us or to return to the enemy.
Do you understand me?"

The lieutenant drew himself up haughtily.

"In that case I must take the liberty, sir, of begging you to hand me
that order in writing. I consider it my duty to inflict as much injury
upon the enemy as possible. A man that I let off to-day may be cured and
come back two months later and perhaps kill ten of my comrades."

For a moment the two men stood still, staring at each other as though
about to engage in mortal combat. Then Marschner nodded his head almost
imperceptibly, and said in a toneless voice:

"You shall have it in writing."

He swung on his heel and left. Colored spheres seemed to dance before
his eyes, and he had to summon all his strength to keep his equilibrium.
When at last he reached the dugout, he fell on the box of empty tins as
if he had been beaten. His hatred changed slowly into a deep, embittered
sense of discouragement. He knew perfectly well that he was in the
wrong. Not at the bar of his conscience! His conscience told him that
the deed the lieutenant had done was cowardly murder. But he and his
conscience had nothing to say here. They had happened to stray into this
place and would have to stay in the wrong. What was he to do? If he gave
the order in writing, he would afford Weixler his desired opportunity of
pushing himself forward and invite an investigation of his own conduct.
He begrudged the malicious creature that triumph. Perhaps it were better
to make an end of the whole business by going to the brigade staff and
telling the exalted gentlemen there frankly to their faces that he could
no longer be a witness to that bloody firing, that he could not hunt men
like wild beasts, no matter what uniform they happened to wear. Then, at
least, this playing at hide and seek would end. Let them shoot him, if
they wanted to, or hang him like a common felon. He would show them that
he knew how to die.

He walked out into the trench firmly, and ordered a soldier to summon
Lieutenant Weixler. Now it was so clear within him and so calm. He heard
the hellish shooting that the Italians were again directing at the
trench and went forward slowly like a man out promenading.

"They're throwing heavy mines at us now, Captain," the old corporal
announced, and looked at Marschner in despair. But Marschner went by
unmoved. All that no longer mattered to him. The lieutenant would take
over the command. That was what he was going to tell him. He could
hardly await the moment to relieve himself of the responsibility.

As Weixler delayed coming, he crept up through the shaft to the top.

The man's small, evil eyes flew to meet him and sought the written order
in his hand. The captain acted as though he did not notice the question
in his look, and said imperiously:

"Lieutenant, I turn the command of the company over to you until----" A
short roar of unheard-of violence cut short his speech. He had the
feeling, "That will hit me," and that very instant he saw something like
a black whale rush down in front of his eyes from out of the heavens and
plunge head foremost into the trench wall behind him. Then a crater
opened up in the earth, a sea of flame that raised him up and filled his
lungs with fire.

On slowly recovering his consciousness he found himself buried under a
huge mound of earth, with only his head and his left arm free. He had no
feeling in his other limbs. His whole body had grown weightless. He
could not find his legs. Nothing was there that he could move. But there
was a burning and burrowing that came from somewhere in his brain,
scorched his forehead, and made his tongue swell into a heavy, choking
lump.

"Water!" he moaned. Was there no one there who could pour a drop of
moisture into the burning hollow of his mouth? No one at all? Then where
was Weixler? He must be near by. Or else--was it possible that Weixler
was wounded too? Marschner wanted to jump up and find out what had
happened to Weixler--he wanted to----

Like an overburdened steam-crane his left hand struggled toward his
head, and when he at last succeeded in pushing it under his neck, he
felt with a shudder that his skull offered no resistance and his hand
slid into a warm, soft mush, and his hair, pasty with coagulated blood,
stuck to his fingers like warm, moist felt.

"Dying!" went through him with a chill. To die there--all alone. And
Weixler? He had to find out what had happened to--happened to----

With a superhuman effort he propped his head up on his left hand high
enough to have a view of a few paces along the trench. Now he saw
Weixler, with his back turned, leaning on his right side against the
trench wall, standing there crookedly, his left hand pressed against his
body, his shoulders hunched as if he had a cramp. The captain raised
himself a little higher and saw the ground and a broad, dark shadow that
Weixler cast. Blood? He was bleeding? Or what? Surely that was blood. It
couldn't be anything but blood. And yet it stretched out so peculiarly
and drew itself like a thin, red thread up to Weixler, up to where his
hand pressed his body as though he wanted to pull up the roots that
bound him to the earth.

The captain _had_ to see! He pulled his head farther out from under
the mound--and uttered a hoarse cry, a cry of infinite horror. The
wretched man was dragging his entrails behind him!

"Weixler!" burst from him in a shudder of compassion.

The man turned slowly, looked down at Marschner questioningly, pale,
sad, with frightened eyes. He stood like that only the fraction of a
second, then he lost his balance, reeled, and fell down, and was lost
from the captain's circle of vision. Their glances scarcely had time to
cross, the pallid face had merely flitted by. And yet it stood there,
remained fixed in the air, with a mild, soft, plaintive expression about
the narrow lips, an unforgettable air of gentle anxious resignation.

"He is suffering!" flashed through Marschner. "He is suffering!"--it
exulted him. And a glow suffused his pallor. His fingers, sticky with
blood, seemed to caress the air, until his head sank backward, and his
eyes broke.

The first soldiers who penetrated the towering mound of earth to where
he lay found him dead. But in spite of his ghastly wound, a contented,
almost happy smile hovered about his lips.

III

THE VICTOR

On the big square before the old courthouse, which now served as
regimental headquarters and bore the magic letters A.O.K. as a sort of
cabalistic sign on its front, a military band played every afternoon
from three to four at command of His Excellency. This little diversion
was meant to compensate the civilian population for the many
inconveniences that the quartering of several hundreds of staff officers
and a number of lesser officers inevitably brought upon them. Then, too,
according to His Excellency, such an institution helped considerably to
promote the popularity of the army and inspire patriotism in school
children and the masses. In the interest of the right conduct of the war
the strict commander deemed it highly essential to foster a right
attitude in the public and to encourage friendly relations between
military and civilian authorities--while fully preserving his own
privileges. It was essential to a successful continuation of the war.
Incidentally, the fact that the staff officers, with His Excellency at
their head, usually took their black coffee at just about this time had
helped a good deal to bring about these afternoon concerts.

It was indeed delightful to sit in the shade of the centenarian plane-
trees, whose intertwining branches overarched the entire square like the
nave of a cathedral. The autumn sun cast a dull glow on the walls of the
houses round about, and shed golden rings through the thick foliage on
the small round tables arrayed in long rows in front of the coffeehouse.
There was a reserved row for the staff officers set in snowy linens,
with little flower vases and fresh crisp cakes, which the sergeant of
the commissary brought punctually at three o'clock every day from the
field bakery, where they had been baked with particular care under the
personal supervision of the chef especially for His Excellency and
staff.

It was a beautiful gay picture of lively, varied metropolitan life that
surged about the music pavilion. Every one seemed as joyous and carefree
as on the Graben in Vienna on a sunny spring Sunday in times of
undisturbed peace. The children crowded around the orchestra, beat the
measure, and applauded enthusiastically after every piece. The streets
leading into the square were filled with giggling girls and students
wearing bright caps; while the _haute-volee_, the wives of the
resident officials and merchants, sat in the confectioner's shop on the
square, eagerly awaiting an opportunity to show their righteous
indignation at the daring millinery, transparent hose, and little more
than knee-length skirts of a certain class of women who had forced their
way into the town and, despite all protests and orders, were shamelessly
plying their trade in broad daylight.

But the chief tone was given by the transient officers. Whether on
furlough or on their way back to the front, they all had to pass through
this town, and enjoyed in deep draughts this first or last day of
freedom. Besides, if anything was needed at the front--horse-shoe nails,
saddle-soap, sanitary appliances, or bottled beer--this first little
"big town" was the quickest, most convenient place to buy it in. An
unlucky or an unpopular man merely received a commendation for his
bravery, and that settled him. But the man who enjoyed his commanding
officer's favor was given the preference to do the shopping here as a
reward. And an amazing ingenuity developed in discovering immediate
necessities. A secret arithmetical relation undeniably existed between
the consumption of charcoal, axle grease, etc., by individual troop
divisions and the distance of their outposts from this favorite
provisioning station.

Of course, the pleasure did not last long. There was just enough time
for a hot tub-bath, for showing off one's best newly-pressed uniform
once or twice on the main streets, for taking two meals at a table
spread with a tablecloth, and for spending a short night in a
comfortable bed--with, or, if the man could not help it, without
caresses--and then off again, depressed and irritable, off to the
maddeningly overcrowded railroad station, back to the front, into the
damp trench or the sunbaked block house.

The greed of life in these young officers, who promenaded, hungry-eyed,
through the town, the racing of their blood, like a diver who fills his
lungs full in one second, had gradually infected the entire, boresome
little place. It tingled, it foamed, it enriched itself and became
frivolous; it could not get enough sensations, now that it stood in the
center of world activities and had a claim upon real events.

Close-packed, the crowd surged past the music in holiday attire and
holiday mood on this ordinary week-day, quivering to the rhythm of the
Blue Danube Waltz, which the orchestra was playing catchingly, with a
roll of drums and a clash of cymbals. The whole spectacle brought to
mind the goings-on behind the scenes in a huge playhouse during the
performance of a tragedy with choruses and mob scenes. Nothing was seen
or heard here of the sanguinary piece being enacted at the front. The
features of the actors relaxed, they rested, or threw themselves into
the gay hubbub, heartily glad not to know how the tragedy was
progressing; exactly as real actors behind the scenes fall back into
their unprofessional selves until they get their next cue.

Sitting in the shade of the old trees, over coffee and cigars,
comfortably watching these doings, one might easily be deluded into
thinking that the drama taking place at the front was nothing but a
jolly spectacular play. From this point of view the whole war showed up
like a life-giving stream that washes orchestras ashore, brings wealth
and gaiety to the people, is navigated by promenading officers, and
directed by portly, comfortable generals. No suggestion of its bloody
side, no roar of artillery reaching your ears, no wounded soldier
dragging in his personal wretchedness and so striking a false note in
the general jollification.

Of course, it had not always been like that. In the first days, when the
daily concert still had the charm of novelty, all the regular, emergency
and reserve hospitals in the neighborhood had poured their vast number
of convalescents and slightly wounded men into the square. But that
lasted only two days. Then His Excellency summoned the head army
physician to a short interview and in sharp terms made it clear to the
crushed culprit what an unfavorable influence such a sight would have
upon the public, and expressed the hope that men wearing bandages, or
maimed men, or any men who might have a depressing effect on the general
war enthusiasm, should henceforth remain in the hospitals.

He was not defrauded of his hope. No disagreeable sight ever again
marred his pleasure when, with his favorite Havana between his teeth, he
gazed past the long row of his subordinates out on the street. No one
ever went by without casting a shy, deferential side-glance at the
omnipotent director of battles, who sat there like any other ordinary
human being, sipping his coffee, although he was the celebrated General
X, unlimited master of hundreds of thousands of human lives, the man the
papers liked to call the "Victor of ----." There was not a human being
in the town whose fate he could not have changed with one stroke of his
pen. There was nothing he could not promote or destroy as he saw fit.
His good will meant orders for army supplies and wealth, or distinction
and advancement; his ill will meant no prospects at all, or an order to
march along the way that led to certain death.

Leaning back comfortably in the large wicker chair, a chair destined in
all likelihood some day to become an object of historic interest, the
Powerful One jested gaily with the wife of his adjutant. He pointed to
the street, where the crowds surged in the brilliant sunshine, and said
with a sort of satisfied, triumphant delight in his tone:

"Just look! I should like to show this picture to our pacifists, who
always act as though war were nothing but a hideous carnage. You should
have seen this hole in peace times. It was enough to put you to sleep.
Why, the porter at the corner is earning more to-day than the biggest
merchant used to earn before the war. And have you noticed the young
fellows who come back from the front? Sunburnt, healthy and happy! Most
of them before the war were employed in offices. They held themselves
badly and were dissipated and looked cheesy. I assure you, the world has
never been so healthy as it is now. But if you look at your newspapers,
you read about a world-catastrophe, about a blood-drained Europe, and a
whole lot of other stuff."

He raised his bushy white eyebrows until they reached the middle of his
bulging forehead, and his small, piercing black eyes skimmed observantly
over the faces of those present.

His Excellency's pronouncement was a suggestion to the others and was
immediately taken up. At every table the conversation grew animated, the
benefits of the war were told over, and the wits cracked jokes at the
expense of the pacifists. There was not a single man in the whole
assemblage who did not owe at least two blessings to the war: financial
independence and such munificence of living as only much-envied money
magnates have allotted to them in times of peace. Among this circle of
people the war wore the mask of a Santa Claus with a bag full of
wonderful gifts on his back and assignments for brilliant careers in his
hand. To be sure here and there a gentleman was to be seen wearing a
crepe-band on his sleeve for a brother or a brother-in-law who, as
officer, had seen that other aspect of the war, the Gorgon's face.

Yet the Gorgon's face was so far away, more than sixty miles in a bee-
line, and an occasional excursion in its vicinity was an exciting little
adventure, a brief titillation of the nerves. Inside an hour the
automobile raced back to safety, back to the bath-tub, and you
promenaded asphalt streets again in shining pumps. So, who would refrain
from joining in the hymn of praise to His Excellency?

The mighty man contentedly listened a while longer to the babel of
voices aroused by what he had said, then gradually sank back into his
reflections, and gazed ahead of him seriously. He saw the sunbeams
sifting through the thick foliage and glittering on the crosses and
stars that covered the left half of his chest in three close rows. It
was a magnificent and complete collection of every decoration that the
rulers of four great empires had to bestow upon a man for heroism,
contempt of death, and high merit. There was no honor left for the
Victor of ---- still to aspire to. And only eleven short months of war
had cast all that at his feet. It was the harvest of but a single year
of war. Thirty-nine years of his life had previously gone in the service
in tedious monotony, in an eternal struggle with sordid everyday cares.
He had worn himself out over all the exigencies of a petty bourgeois
existence, like a poor man ashamed of his poverty, making pathetic
efforts to conceal a tear in his clothes and always seeing the telltale
hole staring out from under the covering. For thirty-nine years he had
never swerved from disciplining himself to abstemiousness, and there was
much gold on his uniform, but very little in his pocket. As a matter of
fact, he had been quite ready for some time to quit. He was thoroughly
tired of the cheap pleasure of tyrannizing over the young officers on
the drill ground.

But then the miracle occurred! Over night the grouchy, obscure old
gentleman changed into a sort of national hero, a European celebrity. He
was "the Victor of ----!" It was like in a fairy tale, when the good
fairy appears and frees the enchanted prince from his hideous disguise,
and he emerges in his glowing youth, surrounded by knights and lackeys,
and enters his magnificent castle.

To he sure the miracle had not brought the general the glow of youth.
But it put elasticity into him. The eventful year had given him a
shaking up, and his veins pulsed with the joy of life and the energy for
work of a man in his prime. It was as a sovereign that he sat there in
the shadow of the plane-trees, with good fortune sparkling on his chest
and a city lying at his feet. Nothing, not a single thing, was lacking
to make the fairy tale perfect.

In front of the coffee-house, guarded by two sturdy corporals, rested
the great grey beast, with the lungs of a hundred horses in its chest,
awaiting the cranking-up to rush its master off to his castle high above
town and valley. Where were the days when, with his general's stripes on
his trousers, he took the street-car to his home, befitting his station
in life, a six-room apartment that was really a five-room apartment plus
a closet? Where was all that? Centuries had given their noblest powers,
generations had expended their artistic skill in filling the castle
requisitioned for His Excellency, the Commander-in-Chief of the ----th
Army, with the choicest treasure. Sun and time had done their best to
mellow the dazzle of the accumulated wealth till it shone in subdued
grandeur as through a delicate veil. Any man master in that house, who
mounted those broad steps and shouted his wishes in those aristocratic
rooms, necessarily felt like a king and could not take the war in any
other way than as a glorious fairy tale.

Indeed, was there ever a royal household that approached the miraculous
more closely? In the kitchen reigned a master of the culinary art, the
chef of the best hotel in the country, who in other circumstances would
not have been satisfied with double the wages of a general and was now
getting only a dollar a day. Yet he was using every bit of his skill. He
had never been so eager to please the palate of him whom he served. The
roast he prepared was the finest piece of meat to be selected from among
the two hundred oxen that daily gave up their lives to the army for the
fatherland. The men who served the roast on silver platters, wrought by
pupils of Benvenuto for the ancestors of the house, were generals of
their trade, who in peace times had had their clothes built in London,
and stood about tremblingly awaiting each sign from their master. And
this entire retinue, this whole princely household, functioned quite
automatically, and--entirely without cost! The master for whom every
one slaved never once had to perform that inevitable nuisance of putting
his hand in his pocket to draw out his purse. The gasoline circulated
inexhaustibly through the veins of the three motor cars, which lounged
day and night on the marble flagging of the courtyard. As by magic
everything flowed in that eye and palate could desire.

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