The procedure in cases 4, 5, 6, 7 was established by the War Ministry under a special regulation of 29th October 1910, Clause 14, no. 1416, appendix 39.
How could one fail to admire the Regulations, that Bible of Order, the only order in this vale of chaos leased out to civilians? Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk could not understand why there were so many blind people in the world, so many befuddled people, whose eyes had to be opened by force. But those whose cataracts had been removed found themselves dazzled and sometimes they were admitted to the fount of light; they became candidates for promotion to the non-commissioned ranks. They learnt by heart the commandments and dogmas, and attempted to emulate their master. No one had yet managed it, however. If a saint is someone who obeys to the letter all the commandments and observes the letter of the canon, then Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk was a saint. And like a true saint he regarded himself as a great sinner. He remembered his own sins, which people had long since forgiven and forgotten; he remembered them very clearly. He remembered all his lapses along the only path leading to perfection, the path of military duty. Several times during such a long service career he had been in detention, and his punishment had always been deserved. To this day, the detentions were a blot on his pristine copy-book. And how could he regard himself as perfect, when every Sunday he got roaring drunk and behaved in a manner inconsistent with the Regulations?
He glanced at the alarm clock: it was nearly six o’clock and in a moment he would have to go to meet the men. There down below, the early-morning hubbub of voices and the shrill whistling were growing louder, as the companies lined up by the barracks, ready to march out into the fields. From the dawdling stragglers now hurriedly joining the ranks came a rattle of iron. Again the day promised to be fine and hot. The bellowing from the Andrásfalva municipal abattoir was becoming continually more intrusive and more trenchant.
Bachmatiuk hurriedly finished his grooming. As every other morning, today he had managed to dye his old age. Banished from his face, it settled in his bones and his knees. But no one inspected his bones or his knees. He went to reach for his dark blue tunic, which had spent the night on a hanger. In the morning sunlight all its glory came to life. It sparkled with false and real silver, the sewn-on badges, gold medals and stars glittering. Bachmatiuk reached for the daytime caparison of his corporeal ego and the row of medals and crosses pinned to the breast of his cloth tunic chimed to announce all Bachmatiuk’s glory, all the toils of his life congealed in the metal of his decorations.
For a moment, he stood gazing at his decorations. He rarely studied them closely, but he never parted with those medals. Today he was charmed by the flickering crosses on the triangular coloured ribbons. This cross, a medal on a red-and-white silk ribbon, featuring a bust of His Majesty, looked very fine, but it was unimportant. Every soldier who was serving in 1908 received this memento from the monarch on the occasion of the latter’s jubilee. Similarly, there was the medal for the pointless mobilization against Serbia in 1912—it was of no importance. Nor was the cross with a yellow ribbon with black edging and Roman numerals on its face, announcing to the world that Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk had served the Emperor faithfully for XXIV years, actually a medal in the proper sense of the word. It was just a “military service badge”, first class. As to how Bachmatiuk had actually served the Emperor for twenty-four years—well or badly—on that score the cross was silent. Only the fourth decoration, pinned in the place of honour, right over his heart, celebrated Bachmatiuk’s personal merit. This was the silver Cross of Merit, with a crown. This was the prize for Bachmatiuk’s turning sixteen annual cohorts of recruits into men. That was what his life’s work looked like in effigy. A small cross made of silver, coated with red enamel. In the middle was a silver shield with some Latin inscription and Franz Joseph’s initials, the whole surmounted by the silver Austrian Habsburg crown.
Oh, arduous was the path Bachmatiuk had to follow before he won that cross. A true Via Crucis. Frequently he had fallen along the way; often he had been weighed down by the burden of the actions that were counted among his merits. But what of it? Crosses like these were also awarded to civilians in peacetime. Every postmaster, every tax-collector, every clerk, every veterinarian was eligible to receive the Silver Cross of Merit with a crown. And not only the silver one, but even the gold one.
Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk was, without a doubt, on his way to the gold cross. No, he did not set great store by decorations. But when he stood face to face with his awards something tugged at his heart. The regimental tailor had left plenty of room on the breast of the RSM’s tunic, and if it were to be occupied in the future by both of the crosses that it was possible to acquire—the small gold one and the large gold one (with a crown)—then how pale and false their glitter would be by comparison with the most modest of medals awarded for gallantry! Any of Bachmatiuk’s louts, any of his illiterate recruits, the lowest of the low, could acquire the small silver medal, the large silver medal or the gold medal for gallantry! For a wound, for bravery in the face of the enemy, for bringing in a prisoner. But Bachmatiuk himself never could! A man who dedicated his life to the craft of war would never be able to see the face of the enemy! Why was it that he had to forego this honour? Was he physically handicapped? Mentally? Perhaps he was cowardly, and through some proposition made to his superiors he had gained entry to a category releasing him from front-line service? For sixteen years the regimental sergeant-major had held the office of regimental religious instructor. He conscientiously prepared young and old, Christians and Jews, for their baptism of fire. But religious instructors of other faiths must themselves be baptized. Otherwise they would not gain the trust of the catechumens and their fervour could arouse suspicion. Bachmatiuk had not been baptized. He knew about war only from hearsay and from the Regulations. He had smelt gunpowder only at the shooting range; he had never seen with his own eyes that death in the name of the Emperor for which he so skilfully trained thousands of his fellow men. He never would, even though he was as fit as an ox and assessed as “A1”. He never would face it as long as Lieutenant-Colonel Alois Leithuber was commanding officer. He never would face it.
Bachmatiuk was not afraid of death. He was afraid of nothing that was provided for in the Regulations. To suggest that he was shirking from front-line duty would be despicable slander. He did not go to the front, but his conscience was clear. And not only in his own eyes—everyone at the barracks, from the lieutenant-colonel to the last recruit, considered it to be in order. Well, were pedigree bulls slaughtered in the Andrásfalva municipal abattoir? Did they slaughter stud stallions in the abattoirs? The regimental sergeant-major was also kept for purposes of insemination, for the breeding of new battalions. This was his historic mission. What would the Emperor have to gain from the death of the best instructor of recruits to King N’s Imperial and Royal Infantry Regiment? It would be madness to lose such a powerful asset! It would be madness to give Bachmatiuk his marching orders, placing him in command of a platoon! Lieutenant-Colonel Leithuber was not crazy. Bachmatiuk was not only the most senior NCO and the best in the regiment. He was the only trusted man—indeed the only man at the barracks—Leithuber had known for a considerable length of time. The officers, the adjutant included, were all new people, reservists or regulars, transfers from other regiments or cadets fresh out of military college. Leithuber could not rely on anyone as he could on Bachmatiuk. That was why Bachmatiuk was not sent to the front line.