The Burning of the World: A Memoir of 1914 (9 page)

Piles of discarded rifles lie all around. Földes follows my example. All Mannlichers.
[5]
Our weapons. Ghastly! What has happened here? It looks as if we’ve been sent to plug the gap left by some enormous rout.

How can all these rifles have been thrown away? I pick one up. The bolt is jammed solid. I take care in case it goes off in my hands. I pick up another. I can just about move the bolt. So that’s it. The Galician sand has got into them. Luckily, mine is still all right.

I pass the word: keep the sand out of your weapons, or you’ll have nothing to defend yourselves with! Never lay them down, keep them upright! Földes passes it on to the men.

Apart from the sound of our advance, there is silence now. Far off, to the right, the rumble of thunder.

The sun is low in the sky. Ahead of us, light is thickening at the edge of the forest, turning gray.

The order comes: “Halt! Sit, weapons at the ready!”

I throw my back against a tree trunk. I’m in luck: this side even has moss on it. The gentle prodding against my knotted back feels good even through my knapsack. I slide down and rest the back of my head on the fur of the knapsack.
[6]
How I could sleep, like this, here in the woods, if it wasn’t for the little matter of a war! And it’s true, every living creature apart from us has deserted the forest. Maybe even the carrion flies. Lead weights are pulling my eyelids shut. I can hear everything, but I’m asleep.

“Well, Rotter’s finally gone mad!” I hear Földes say. I want to ask why, but no sound comes from my lips as they move.

Rotter is a reserve lieutenant in Fejtősy’s company. He works for a bank. He’s an uncommunicative young man: at times he won’t laugh, at other times he won’t speak, or even answer. He is kitted out with every imaginable article of warm clothing, a little “field table” that he can hang from his neck, a folding tripod seat, and goodness knows what else. A schoolboy’s idea of war. The squaddies laugh at him behind his back, the officers tease him. He associates with no one; he is in a constant state of fear, all day and all night.

“The lieutenant reckons his time’s up!” says Private First Class Solti.

“What’s up with Rotter?” I ask.

“It’s like talking to a brick wall. It’s no use. He doesn’t answer.”

I remember how my old nanny always used to say that animals can tell when their time is up, just as they know there’s going to be an earthquake.

I stagger to my feet. Kovács tells us what he has heard about our situation. The Russians are up on the line of little rounded hills visible beyond the edge of the forest. Their guns have acquired range for the area we’re in. Yesterday they drove our troops out of here. The same forces, with artillery, are ranged against us. Our field regiment is to the right of us. A major engagement is expected tomorrow. We’re waiting for the brigadier general. Nothing but good news!

The platoon leaders get together.

“Well, we’re in it now,” says Kovács, snapping his mouth shut.

No one has anything to add. Osztermann studies his boots morosely.

Földes begins. “Cohen goes to see the rabbi. ‘Rabbi,’ he says. ‘You are a wise man, I need your advice. We have so many children, and we keep getting more. What should I do?’ ‘Listen, Cohen,’ says the rabbi. ‘Do you and your wife sleep together?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘When you go to bed, eat an apple.’ ‘An apple?’ ‘Yes, an apple.’ ‘Do you mean before, or after?’”

The joke does not go down well. Kovács brushes it angrily aside. “Bugger Cohen!”

Twenty paces from us the battalion adjutant is conferring with Captain Kovács. We signal to each other to keep quiet, and manage to pick up fragments of their conversation. The lieutenant is shaking his fists at the sky.

“Damn them! They blocked legislation for the sake of these stupid national-language commands, and held up modernization of the army.
[7]
Now here we are, unprepared and outnumbered three to one. The whole brigade has a total of four 7.5-centimeter field guns. The Russians have twelve.”

Then he drops his voice, presumably to say something confidential. Our company commander listens, his head lowered, saying nothing.

We look at each other uneasily. This does not bode well.

The captain waves us over. “Once it gets dark, we’ll get orders to take up positions. I will expect you, gentlemen”—no more informality now—“to do your duty in accordance with your oath.”

Tight salutes.

I tell my NCOs to keep their teams together, as they are responsible for their men.

About two hours to go before dusk. What is one supposed to do now? Pray? Think of home? Try to clear one’s head? Or escape into sleep?

The brigadier general is here. Where is all the pomp of peacetime now? The band striking up the march? I only notice him when I see two silhouettes sketched against the darkening sky at the edge of the forest. One tall and thin, the other shorter, medium build. That’s the general. The tall one is the colonel. The general is saying something; the colonel is standing to attention, listening to him, just beyond the trees.

The general beckons to him. “Come back in here, won’t you? You’re presenting a target.”

The colonel is a peacetime hero with a gray handlebar moustache. He smiles: “It’s quite safe, General.”

“That’s an order. Get in!” snaps the general.

The colonel’s face turns to stone, and he obliges, without haste. Then they go on conferring, but only the general speaks.

The news that’s going around about the colonel, incidentally, is that he intends to forbid any digging of foxholes, as this “leads to cowardice and undermines discipline.”

The following day, he would stand at the edge of the wood again, and receive a direct hit from a shell. There was not a shred of him left.

The same fate was to befall Lieutenant Rotter, although the poor man would happily have crawled down a mousehole to hide. He knew his time was up.

A reddish light glows above the eastern horizon, and then a full red moon slowly rises: not round, but shaped like an egg. Its enormous size and monstrous form stretch our already taut nerves to the breaking point. Silent panic grips every breast.

“They’re signaling again!” shouts one of the men.

They’ve acquired range. Their observers are everywhere.

I explain—as most of them have realized—that it’s just the moon. But I don’t think we’ll wait for it to start shining before taking up our positions.

Kovács, the company commander, summons the platoon leaders. We get our orders: take up positions along the crest of the row of hummocks up ahead. As the most junior in rank, I am on the left flank. Our mission: if the battalion has to retreat, provide cover, holding out to the last ditch.

“Carry on!”

We all salute smartly; the commander, too, holds the salute for the full “three bars of the march.” The ceremony of the moment moves me. For the first time in my life, in its greatest moment, I salute from the heart, out of genuine respect for a courageous superior: József Kovács, my commanding officer, who is to share our fate in the coming drama. Budapest’s cynical mockery is over; there is no place for banter. He shakes hands with each of us, then we turn on our heels and go to our platoons.

I issue commands to my platoon and try to prepare them: an attack is expected by morning, they should use the time till then making dugouts, present the smallest possible target, keep weapons protected from sand, open fire only when ordered, and so on. If they can, get some drinking water! I form up the firing line and set off, directing the men with both arms. They follow three or four paces behind. Even with the men spaced one pace apart, the line is some fifty meters wide.

As I step out from the cover of the wood, I instantly feel exposed and defenseless in the face of fate. But this feeling passes. All my attention is focused on getting into the right position. Slowly, I approach the mound’s rim. I signal the men to halt, and I go forward slowly. There were positions here before us. Weapons all over the place, piles of clothing, corpses. There are signs of hurried attempts to dig in with entrenching tools (one to every two men), and with bare hands.

At my signal, the men come up. I indicate the line, left and right. I occupy a hole thirty or forty centimeters deep; beside me Miklósik, the corporal, who understands a few words of Slovak. I immediately start to dig; for the time being, using a tin lid that I’ve found, as I have no spade. The sandy soil is quite easy to dig, and gradually I enlarge the hole so that I can sit in it with my legs drawn up without my head showing. I carve out a little sill, onto which I place my “Eterna” luminous pocket watch. Miklósik has brought me a cape he has found, which I spread over myself. My watch shows nine o’clock. Nothing is going to start before four in the morning. I’ll do a little more work on my dugout, then maybe I can even get a bit of sleep, so that I can get myself shot tomorrow in a more rested condition. Just don’t think! Things are as they are, best to get used to it. The Russians are human beings too; they’re scared as well. Forget Cavadarossi singing “never was life so dear to me!”
[8]
Oh! Szily Pongrácz wrote to me, and I left without saying goodbye to her.

“I can hear movement up ahead. Someone saying ‘we’ll go this way.’”

“Keep listening, Miklósik, but don’t shoot!”

I hear nothing, but you can never compete with a peasant’s eyesight and hearing. I hardly dare breathe.

“Listen, Miklósik, I’m going to try to get some sleep now. Wake me at one, then you can sleep. Nothing’s going to happen before four.”

The moon will have set by then, and the sun doesn’t come up till six. The dial and hands of my watch glow. I huddle myself up until I’m the size of a large pork cheese. Silence. Just the crickets chirping. What a contrast! I smile at it, almost bitterly . . .

Someone is shaking me softly. I look at the watch. Two o’clock. Miklósik, stout fellow, has sacrificed an hour’s sleep for me.

I can barely get my numbed limbs to move. There’s a pain in my right shoulder that makes me groan. I shift position. The cape that Miklósik has found for me stinks to high heaven. But who cares here about trivialities?

Miklósik is snoring away. It’s not as cold as last night, although the sky is clear. The moon is a little hazy, though. I look at my trusty watch. Every tick shortens the time I have left.

The sound of movement from the right; suddenly, a shot, and another; then hell breaks loose. I can’t hear my own shouts.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” roars the adjutant, in a frenzy. “Who gave the order to fire?”

Impossible to say. Perhaps a weapon went off in the hands of some soldier whose nerves were at breaking point, and that set off the entire the front line, like a landslide. Including me.

He holds his head in his hands. “We’ve shot our own men.”

The Royal Hungarian Twentieths and the Thirty-Fourth Kassa Regiment were in front of us . . . Horror!

Miklósik’s voice: “Maybe it was the Kassas I heard talking in Slovak.”
[9]

Lucky we didn’t fire. Frozen silence. Even the crickets have gone quiet.

“I can hear something, like a sawing noise,” says Miklósik. He crawls forward cautiously. After a short while he returns. “There’s another foxhole about fifteen or twenty paces ahead of us. There’s a man lying on the edge. It’s his throat rattling.”

“A soldier?”

“A soldier.”

“We ought to bring him back here, but then what are we going to do with him? Or we should call for a stretcher bearer.”

“Who’s going to find a stretcher bearer now? He’ll be dead anyway by the time they find him. His throat’s shot through. He can’t speak.”

“A Hungarian soldier?”

“Yes.”

“Royal Hungarian Army?”

“I think so.”

“Take two of the men with you and bring him back here. Maybe the stretcher bearers can find their way here.”

“Ensign, sir, if we start a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, we’ll have the Russians firing at us.”

“But we can’t just leave him there!”

“He’s there from yesterday’s fighting. His own lot have left him there. He was there already when we got here. We just couldn’t hear him, with all the crickets and the shuffling about.”

Horrible! Listening helplessly to the gurgling of a dying man! I should speak to the adjutant. I can’t leave the unit, and if I send a man off to report, I’m not likely to see him again.

“Take him some water!”

He stands, unnecessarily, and creeps forward in a low crouch. Soon he returns.

“He’s not saying anything now. I’m not sure he’s still alive.”

He settles down into his hole and pulls his cape over himself. Five minutes later he’s fast asleep. Happy man! I ought to learn from him.

The crickets have started up again. Everyone round me is asleep. I look at my watch as the minutes pass, one after the other. I’m still alive. I can still use my hands. I can still see. Just stop thinking! Three o’clock. Perhaps I could go back to sleep, not be conscious. It would be no hard thing to die like that. Unfortunately, I’m too wide awake for there to be any question of sleep. My city nerves. Good job I left my sword with Jóska; I couldn’t even lie down if I had it with me in here. I widen my dugout a little, scratching away at it; at least it stops me from thinking. Half past three . . . The hands advance slowly . . . Four. It’s still dark, no grayness yet. The moon has set. The sky is misty with dewfall. Four thirty. A faint grayness.

Down at the bottom of the slope, a man carrying a bundle leads a cow; a woman, bent double under her load, leads two children by the hand. They creep along like silent gray ghosts. Some distance behind them, another man with a bundle. Poor wretches, fleeing through no-man’s land. Then the darkness swallows them up.

Five o’clock. The sky is definitely getting paler now. Gradually, the silhouettes of clumps of trees appear to the left and right, framing the view like pieces of stage scenery.

A flash of light straight ahead. A howling noise above our heads, then the curtain of heaven is rent apart. Shrapnel shells!
[10]

Now all hell is let loose. Artillery fire in salvos. All twelve guns firing at once. It starts behind us, at the edge of the woods, and works its way towards our positions. So that no one can escape to the rear. Now and then, some answering fire from our battery, but they’re out-gunned. After two hours they fall silent. Now their infantry join in with rifle fire. Our troops return fire nervously. There is nothing to aim at. They’re hitting nothing but thin air. I try to give the order to fire only when there’s a target. What if we run out of ammunition? But my voice is lost in the hurricane. I can’t even hear myself. After great effort, I seem to make out some movement at about a thousand, perhaps fifteen hundred meters. I, too, use my rifle. I can feel the heat of the barrel even through the wood of the stock. The bolt turns more and more stiffly, until I can barely yank it back. It won’t go forward again. Sand has got into it. That’s it! Our men are hardly firing at all now. It might even be wiser to stop firing altogether, since all we’re doing is drawing the Russian artillery fire onto ourselves. I hear a shout from behind me. Solti raises his hand; he’s had two fingers shot off. I signal him to go back, but he has other ideas. He’d rather live without two of his fingers than get himself shot to a sieve. Regulations have gone by the board. It’s impossible to replenish ammunition: two men are supposed to run along the firing line, dropping fresh ammunition as they go. I have no way of communicating with my unit. The men are pinned down, level with the ground, awaiting their fate. The Russians are using high-explosive shells now.
[11]
Our guns are silent. Salvo after salvo. They start at the rear and within half an hour they will sweep our positions. One can count the salvos getting closer and closer. Now! Now! Here we go . . . My ears ring from blasts that pin me to the side of the dugout. Not a scratch on me yet. The barrage rolls forward. Ten minutes. Then they start again from the rear. The continuous deafening explosions, the howling of the flying shell fragments have practically stupefied me. Beside me, between salvos, Miklósik frantically digs himself deeper into his hole. I don’t think he’d respond to any order now. Then a blast quite close to me: something has hit my knapsack and I’m almost suffocated under falling sand. My sole thought now, like an animal, is to save myself. Utterly helpless, I give myself up to my fate and, with no emotion, wait for the end to come. I am reduced to a reflex; I no longer care whether I’m hit or not. I am completely cut off from everything around me. I have no idea how many are still alive out of the multitude behind me, or how many have run for their lives. Since midday, the only firing is coming from ahead. Dusk is starting to set in now, and the firing is becoming intermittent. The Russians must be certain that they’ve finished us off. Miklósik is still growling alongside me. He crawls over, sees I’m still alive.