Shall we have to retreat? Are we going to attack?
Then the order to fire rings out, and is zealously passed on from unit to unit.
"Rapid fire! Into the wood!"
Yes, but what are we to fire at? Lying down, there is nothing to be seen of the sharpshooters. They won't do us any harm; in another minute they will have disappeared among the trees. But the machines—they have hidden them away among the foliage to good purpose.
Our subaltern, lying a bare five paces away from me in the grass, raises himself on his elbows, and gazes intently through his field-glasses. I know what is vexing his soul. He is a handsome, splendid lad, for whom even we grizzled old-timers would go through fire and water, for he meets you as man to man, without sniffing or swagger, as it becomes a youngster. And the other day, when I was marching with the rear guard, we discussed Lilliencron's novels. Since then he has always appealed to me as if he had stepped straight out of one of these romances of war. He is all ablaze to glean his first laurels. But however much he may twiddle the focus of his glasses up and down and crane his neck, he cannot discover a trace of the enemy, and we blaze away foolishly at the wood, and may, for all I know, be bringing down leaves or birds from the trees there.
"Close to the big oak. To the right in the undergrowth," some one of the rank and file sings out.
I strain my eyes to the spot, and fail to see anything.
And again I hear the guns growling all round us. But somewhere out of the far distance a clear, long-drawn bugle-call rings out amid the iron bass. It thrills like nerve and brain against an iron wall.
Behind there, to the right—they are on the run there! And from afar the rifle fire rattles like mad.
"My men! Up with you! At the double!"
That came from our lot ... our subaltern is racing on with his drawn sword in his hand.... I am still prone, and have, almost automatically, drawn my right knee close up under my body ... they are rising to their feet to the left and right of me, and dashing on after him ... a wrench! and my knapsack slides lop-sided up the back of my neck ... then I jump up with my rifle in my right hand, and am running for all my legs are worth.
But as we rise to our feet the machine-guns in the woods begin to buzz, and to rain lead into our ranks, until right and left of me men yelp and drop twisted and tumbled to the ground.
"Down! Rapid fire!"
The line is prone and again we are blazing desperately into the wood, and can catch no glimpse of our enemy. Never a single arm raised against us, never the eye of a single man to challenge us. The wood, the green wood, is murdering us from afar, before a single human face comes in view.
And while to the right and left of me the rifle fire chatters incessantly, the grim mockery of it maddens my blood, and makes me see red before my eyes. I see scale-armor and visors ... high in their stirrups the knights burst blazing out of the wood, and I, a reckless horseman of the past, I leap into the saddle—my broad sword flashes clear and kisses the morning breeze—and now up and at them like a thunderbolt. Then eyes are flashing into mine and hands are raised for themêlée—and stroke for stroke, breast to breast, the pride of youthful, virile strength.... Ha-ha-ha-ha! What has happened? Where have horse and rider vanished? Where is my sword? We are not even charging men. Machines are trained on us. Why, we are only charging machines. And the machine triumphs deep into our very flesh. And the machine is draining the life-blood from our veins, and lapping it up in bucketsful. Those who have been hit are already lying mown down in swathes behind us and are writhing on their wounds. And yet they are racing up behind us in their hundreds—young, healthy human flesh for the machines to butcher.
"Up! Get on! At the double!"
The gallant young subaltern dashes on ... he is waving his sword above his head recklessly ... a picture for a painter. I am rushing after him ... his cheer in my ears ... then the gallant vision begins to sway ... the sword flies from his grasp—the subaltern stumbles and falls face forward in the short, stiff stubble ... then I race past him ... I can hear nothing except the uncanny buzz coming out of the wood ... I literally feel how the lead is splashing into our ranks, how men are breaking down to the right and left of me.... "Down! Rapid fire!" ... I throw myself on my face, my rifle at the ready.... Why does the order fail to reach us? No shout comes from the subaltern, none from the non corns.... the nearest man a good twenty paces away ... and then one other ... only we three....
The first line is lying shot down in the stubble ... what's the next thing? The ground becomes alive behind us ... and clattering, panting and shouting ... and again the wood rumbles sullenly ... there they are, lying flat, breathing hard ... never a word ... rifle to the ready ... and shot after shot ... those are the sixth and seventh companies ... they have filled up our gaps.
"Up, up! At the double!"
The head is plunging on, the body after it, into the zone of bullets, and dashing forward with eyes fixed greedily on the ground to spy out the nearest molehill when we fling ourselves down. And when the excited "Down!" o'erleaps itself, we too tumble down as if we had been swept away. And look, it is advancing to meet us, that murderous wood.... "Up! At the double!" ... who can tell whether he has been hit or not?... behind there, out of the undergrowth—that's where it came from ... that's where the streak of bullets flashed ... there between the white larch trunks the beam of lead leaped out to meet us ... over there, behind that green wall, that's where Murder is sitting, and shooting our arms and legs away from our trunks. Slay her as she has slain us. Rend her to pieces, as she has rent us.
"Up! At the double!"
The body rages on in the whirl of the tempest—the wood, the wood!... the last muscle is still straining for the wood ... as if the soul had leaped free of the body, so the body chases after it—toward the wood ... lungs perforated by shot are running still; entrails riddled by bullets are still pressing on toward it ... and if you are not hit in the head, you are still jumping up once more; and if you fall, you are crawling on all fours—toward the wood....
What's happened?
Of a sudden a deep stillness falls....
The machines are silenced!
Not a single shot, not a single spurt of flame ... there—a rustling rising amid the undergrowth ... the branches overhead are swaying frantically against each other. Look! something is scurrying among the trees, and pushing and hauling—now, to crown it all, they are trying to save their precious machines from us.
Yah! yah! The earth reverberates dully and trembles under our tread ... a roar of cheers, clubbed rifles, that's how they are coming up behind us ... our reserves are driving the last assault home ... they are charging in dense mobs—sappers, sharpshooters, rifle-men ... a tall sapper jumps clean over me—I see how his eyes are flashing as he passes.... Up, after them ... there is the heather ... there is the entrenchment ... down with you into the trench and scramble up on hands and feet ... where are they? Where?—where?... there, by that belt of firs ... they will have disappeared in another minute—past thick, silvery tree-trunks, through the green beech leaves, with the sun laughing in them, the lust of blood charges red and naked ... headlong through the undergrowth—and now—there is something wriggling away so comically before our eyes, and twisting with sinuous dexterity in and out among the trees and the undergrowth ... there is something clinging to the machine as if it were ingrown into the iron.... Ha, ha!—in the clearing yonder the horses are waiting....
"Let go! Run for what you are worth—let go!"
But they won't let go ... for their horses are already ploughing through the undergrowth ... the wagon is straining to the traces ... in another minute they will have thrown their guns into the wagon ... and then so-long ... I am done—the trees are dancing round and round before my eyes ... I catch my foot in the root of a tree.... Lay on! Lay on! They are "ours" who have come up, and are laying on blindly on heads, and bayoneting bent backs and bared necks, till the whole tangle disperses squealing.... I drag myself to my feet. A lad, a mere boy, is sprawling over and clutching his abandoned gun ... with an oath some one dashes at him—it is my yokel bareheaded, his face distorted by rage ... the boy stretches out his mangled hand to ward him off, his lower jaw is waggling, but his mouth remains voiceless.... The next moment the fixed bayonet plunges into his chest ... first his right, then his shattered left hand seizes the blade as if in his death throes he were trying to pluck it out of his heart; so he clings tightly to the bayonet ... a thrust! a recovery!... a bright, leaping jet follows the steel ... and heart and breath gasp their last among the dead leaves....
All round men are lying slain on the brown carpet of the woods....
But the machines are still alive, and rage against the machines fires the blood, and consumes the flesh.... Up with the trenching tools!... with axes upraised they rush at the machines, and hail blows upon the barrels. The retorts wherein Death has brewed his potion shriek as though wounded ... the jackets burst ... the water flows out ... and the carriage leaps splintered into the air ... twisted metal, the spokes of wheels and cartridge-belts litter the ground all round, but we are battering and smashing everything underfoot until our hot blood has cooled its rage on the metal....
And now amid joyous cheers raise the thunderous shout of Victory. Let the pipes and the bugles ring out. This is Death on the stricken field! This is a soldier's frenzy and the joy of battle: to charge with bared breast against planted steel—to dash cheering with soft, uncased brain against a wall of steel. In such wholesale, callous, purposeful fashion vermin only are exterminated. We count for nothing more than vermin in this war.
And dazed and sick, we gaze at the machines, and the steel and iron littering the ground blink up at us full of guile.
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.
We breathed more freely when at last the sky spread clear overhead again.
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.
That is the reason of the solitude reigning all around us.
The terrain is impracticable.
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.
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.
And in the middle of the meadow:
"Halt! Form sections!"
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....
"Lie down!" Horror screams somewhere or other.
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.
"Up! Get up!"
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....
Turn your head away.
Now!
Now!
Then—A-a-h!
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.
"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.
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....
"Back! Get back!"
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.
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.
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.
And again!
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.
And now——
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.
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.
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.
A great, unspeakable Horror that will never be allayed again has risen in these eyes.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
From the far distance the thin rattle of musketry reaches us clearly.
Wonder if it'll last much longer?
Our orders are to remain under arms.
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.
A scout has come in, and delivers his report in a whisper.
Our instructions are not to fire before the order to fire is given, and—then to fire into the air.
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.
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.
And now——
The earth reverberates sullenly.
That's our battery! It is firing straight into the darkness. So our turn is coming now.
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....
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....
Why, of a sudden, has silence fallen ... what is the object of it ... now it's our turn....
"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....
And then—
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....
But what on earth has happened?——
We peer out fearfully over our earthworks.
Has red Hell opened its mouth:
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.
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....
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....
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.
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....
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....
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....
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....
"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.
"Drummers! Strike up!" shouts the voice.
"Uncover for prayer!"
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."
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....
But now the Thing-that-Couldn't happens—that none the less was bound to happen.
And when the voice calls out it comes over me as if I had lived it all once before....
"Captain!" shouts the hard, naked, impudent voice we all know. "Haven't you got any cotton wool for us to plug our ears with?"
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?"
But curt and sharp, as we knew it, the rasping note of command responds:
"What the devil's the matter with you? Pull yourself together. Can't you hear? Get back to your place at once."
But then it bursts out, the voice of Nature, and resounds so harshly, and tears down all barriers.
"Murderers!" roars a blasphemous mouth. "Murderers of men! We shall have to knock them all on the head like dogs."
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....
"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!"
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....
Has the whole earth exploded then?... Are there nothing but dead abroad this night?... Has every human being been fusilladed?
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." ...
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....
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.
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!
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.
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.
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!
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.
THE END