Lay Down Your Arms 47

Lay Down Your Arms 47

There the greatest number and the most mangled of dead and half-dead men are

lying, literally torn to pieces with shot; and the dead horses, and the

half-dead which raise themselves on their feet--such as they have left

them--to sink again; then raise themselves up once more and fall down

again, till they only raise their head to shriek out their pain-laden

death-cry. There is a hollow way quite filled with corpses trodden into

the mire. The poor creatures had taken refuge there no doubt to get

cover, but a battery has driven over them, and they have been crushed by

the horses’ hoofs and the wheels. Many of them are still alive--a pulpy,

bleeding mass, but “still alive”.

 

And yet there is still something more hellish even than all this, and

that is the appearance of the most vile scum of humanity, as it shows

itself in war--_i.e._, the appearance and the activity of “the hyenas of

the battlefield”. “Then slink on the monsters who grope after the spoils

of the dead, and bend over the corpses and over the living, mercilessly

tearing off their clothes from their bodies. The boots are dragged off

the bleeding limbs, the rings off the wounded hands, or to get the ring

the finger is simply chopped off, and if a man tries to defend himself

from such a sacrifice, he is murdered by these hyenas; or, in order to

make him unrecognisable, they dig his eyes out.”

 

I shrieked out loud at the doctor’s last words. I again saw the whole

scene before me, and the eyes into which the hyena was plunging his

knife were Frederick’s soft, blue, beloved eyes.

 

“Pray, forgive me, dear lady, but it was by your own wish----”

 

“Oh yes; I desire to hear it all. What you are now describing was the

night which follows the battle; and these scenes are enacted by the

starlight?”

 

“And by torchlight. The patrols which the conquerors send out to survey

the field of battle carry torches and lanterns, and red lanterns are

hoisted on signal poles to point out the places where flying hospitals

are to be established.”

 

“And next morning, how does the field look?”

 

“Almost more fearful still. The contrast between the bright, smiling

daylight and the dreadful work of man on which it shines has a

doubly-painful effect. At night the entire picture of horror is

something ghostly and fantastic. By daylight it is simply hopeless. Now

you see for the first time the mass of corpses lying around on the

lanes, between the fields, in the ditches, behind the ruins of walls.

Everywhere dead bodies--everywhere. Plundered, some of them naked; and

just the same with the wounded. These who, in spite of the nightly

labour of the Sanitary Corps, are still always lying around in numbers,

look pale and collapsed, green or yellow, with fixed and stupefied gaze,

or writhing in agonies of pain, they beg any one who comes near to put

them to death. Swarms of carrion crows settle on the tops of the trees,

and with loud croaks announce the bill of fare of the tempting banquet.

Hungry dogs, from the villages around, come running by and lick the

blood from their wounds. There are a few hyenas to be seen who are still

carrying on their work hastily further afield. And now comes the great

interment.”

 

“Who does that--the Sanitary Corps?”

 

“How could they suffice for such a mass of work? They have fully enough

to do with the wounded.”

 

“Then troops detailed for the work?”

 

“No. A crowd of men impressed, or even offering themselves

voluntarily--loiterers, baggage people, who are supporting themselves by

the market stalls, baggage waggons and so forth, and who now have been

hunted away by the force of the military operations, together with the

inhabitants of the cottages and huts--to dig trenches--good large ones,

of course--wide trenches, for they are not made deep--there is no time

for that. Into these the dead bodies are thrown, heads up or heads down

just as they come to hand. Or it is done in this way: A heap is made of

the corpses, and a foot or two of earth is heaped up over them, and then

it has the appearance of a tumulus. In a few days rain comes on and

washes the covering off the festering dead bodies! but what does that

matter? The nimble, jolly gravediggers do not look so far forward. For

jolly, merry workmen they are, that one must allow. Songs are piped out

there, and all kinds of dubious jokes made--nay, sometimes a dance of

hyenas is danced round the open trench. Whether in several of the bodies

that are shovelled into it or are covered with the earth life is still

stirring, they give themselves no trouble to think. The thing is

inevitable, for the stiff cramp often comes on after wounds. Many who

have been saved by accident have told of the danger of being buried

alive which they have escaped. But how many are there of those who are

not able to tell anything! If a man has once got a foot or two of earth

over his mouth he may well hold his tongue.”

 

“Oh my Frederick, my Frederick!” I groaned in my heart.

 

“That is the picture of the next morning,” said the surgeon, in

conclusion. “Shall I go on further and tell you what happens next

evening?”

 

“I will tell you that, doctor,” I broke in. “One of the two capitals of

the powers engaged has received the telegraphic news of the glorious

victory. And there in the morning, while the hyena dance is going on

round the trench, they are singing in the churches: ‘Now thank we all

the Lord,’ and in the evening there the mother or the wife of one of the

men buried alive is putting a lighted candle or two in the window-sill

because the city is illuminated.”

 

“Yes, madam, that is the comedy which is being played at home.

Meanwhile, on the field of battle, the tragedy is still far from played

out by the second sunset. Besides those who are carried to the hospital

or the trench, there still remain the ‘missing’. Hidden behind some

thick brushwood, in the fields of standing corn, or amongst the ruins

of buildings, they have escaped the sight of the bearers or the buriers,

and for them begins now the martyrdom of an agony which lasts many days

and nights--in the burning heat of midday--in the dark shadows of

midnight, crouched on stones and thistles, in the stench of the corpses

around and of their own putrefying wounds--a prey, while still

quivering, for the feasting vultures.”

 

* * * * *

 

What a journey that was! The regimental surgeon had long ceased to

speak, but the scenes he had described went on continually presenting

themselves before my mind’s eye. To escape from this train of thoughts

which persecuted me, I began to look out of the carriage window and try

to find distraction in the prospect of the country. But here also

pictures of the horrors of war presented themselves to my vision. It is

true that no violent devastation had taken place in this neighbourhood,

there were no ruined villages smoking there, “the enemy” had effected no

lodgment there, but what was raging there was perhaps still worse,

_viz._, the _fear_ of the enemy. “The Prussians are coming! the

Prussians are coming!” was the signal of alarm through the whole region,

and though in travelling past one did not hear the words, yet even from

the carriage window their effect was plainly to be seen. Everywhere on

all the roads and lanes were people flying, leaving their homes with bag

and baggage. Whole trains of waggons were moving inland, filled with

bedding, household furniture and provisions, all evidently packed up in

the greatest haste. On the same car would be some little pigs, the

youngest child, and one or two sacks of potatoes, beside it on foot man

and wife and the elder children; that is how I saw a family making their

escape as they moved down a road near me. Where were the poor creatures

going? They themselves very likely did not know, it was only away, away

from “the Prussians”. So men flee from the roaring fire, or the rising

flood.

 

Frequently a train passed us on the other line--wounded, always and

again wounded--always once more the ashy faces, the bandaged heads, the

arms in slings. At the stations especially one might feed on this sight

in all its variations to satiety. All the large or small platforms, on

which one usually sees the travelling population waiting or cheerfully

standing or walking about, were now filled with prostrate or cowering

figures. They were the invalid soldiers who had been brought from the

field-or private-hospitals in the neighbourhood, and were waiting for

the next train which might serve for the transport of the wounded. There

they might have to lie for hours; and who knows how many removals they

have already passed through! From the battlefield to the first-aid

station, from thence to the ambulance, from thence to a movable

hospital, then to the village, and now to the railway, whence they have

still the journey to Vienna before them; then from the station to the

hospital, and from thence, after all these long tortures, perhaps back

to their regiment--perhaps to the churchyard. I was so sorry--so

sorry--so terribly sorry for these poor fellows! I should have liked to

kneel down before each of them and whisper a few words of compassion to

him. But the doctor would not allow me. When we got out at a station he

gave me his arm and took me into the stationmaster’s office. There he

brought me some wine, or some other refreshment.

 

The nurses carried on their work of mercy here also. They gave the

wounded men drink and food, such as they could hunt up, but often there

was nothing to be had. The provisions in the refreshment rooms were

generally exhausted. This movement at the stations, especially at the

large ones, had a bewildering effect on me. It seemed to me like an evil

dream. All this running hither and thither, this confused

pell-mell--troops marching out, people flying away, sick-bearers, heaps

of bleeding and complaining soldiers, sobbing women wringing their

hands, shouts, harsh words of command--crowds on all hands, no free

passage anywhere--baggage being sent in, war material, cannons--on

another side horses and bellowing cattle, and amongst them the

continuous sound of the telegraph--trains rushing through filled, or

crowded rather, with the reserves coming up from Vienna. These soldiers

were brought along in third and fourth class carriages--nay, also in

baggage and cattle trucks--just in the same way as cattle to be

slaughtered, and regarding it as a matter of fact, I could not repress

the thought: “What else were they in reality? Were they not like the

cattle marked out for slaughter--were they not, like them, sent to the

great political market, where business is done in food for powder--what

the French call _chair-à-canon_?” A mad roar--was it a war song?--pealed

out and drowned the rattling sound of the wheels--one minute, and the

train was gone. With the speed of the wind it bore a portion of its

freight to certain death. Yes, certain death. Even if no individual can

say of himself that he is sure to fall, yet a certain percentage of the

whole must and will fall. An army marching to the field, as they sweep

along the high road on foot or on horseback, may have a touch of antique

poetry about it; but for the railroad of our modern day, the symbol of

culture binding nations together, to serve as the means for promoting

barbarism let loose--that is a thing altogether too inconsistent and

horrible. And what a false ring also has the telegraph signal used in

this service--that splendid sign of the triumph of the human intellect,

which has enabled us to propagate thought with lightning speed from one

land to another. All these inventions of the new era which are designed

to promote the intercourse of nations, to lighten, beautify, and enrich

life, are now misapplied by that old-world principle which aims at

dividing the peoples and annihilating life. Our boast before savages is:

“Look at our railroads, look at our telegraphs; we are civilised

nations”; and then we use these things to increase a hundredfold our own

savagery.

 

My being forced to torture myself with such thoughts as these, and these

only, as I waited at the station or pursued my way in the train, made my

grief still more deep and bitter. I almost envied those who merely wrung

their hands and wept in simple pain, who did not rise up in wrath

against the whole hideous comedy, who accused no one--not even that

“Lord of armies” of whom yet they believed that He was so, and that it

was He who was keeping suspended over their heads the misery that had come to them.