Piotr expected that when they issued the rifles they would give them ammunition as well. Obviously, he had never served in the army. Who would give recruits live cartridges? And not only recruits! In this armoury there was no ammunition anyway. There are no barracks where firearms are held alongside their little leaden souls. This cruel separation would not end until they were at the front.
Laden like a mule, Piotr returned to his hut. “Piotr, Piotr, what will you look like now? Your own mother will not recognize you! Wasylina Niewiadomska!”
Under the supervision of the NCOs, they began changing into their uniforms. When they took off their civilian clothes, there was a moment similar to that separating night and daybreak. Day is not yet day but night is no longer night. So it was with the men; they were no longer civilians, but not yet soldiers either. The human being passed from one form to another, like a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. Some regretted parting with civilian life, but many cast it off gladly. They all had to pack up their belongings and attach tickets with names and addresses and take them to a warehouse for safekeeping. Those who believed in God felt the bitter truth that he alone knew how many of them would reclaim their bundles. Piotr Niewiadomski believed in God but he could not write. He asked a comrade to do it, but first he retrieved the key to the cottage from his trouser pocket, and together with his money and a dried plum transferred it to his army pouch. He did not miss his civilian clothes. He was sorry about his railway cap, but as for the soldier’s cap, that was the Emperor’s as well. Maybe even more so.
They were also issued with state underwear, but those who wanted to could wear their own underneath the state issue. Waistcoats were not confiscated. The military did not stick its nose into what is beneath the uniform. As long as everything looked uniform on the surface.
The draft of peasants, shepherds, miners and traders was soon converted into soldiers. The glaring differences that had divided the men until now were gone. Hutsuls were no longer Hutsuls, Jews were not Jews. Old men looked a little younger in the Imperial disguise, moving like teddy bears in billowing pantaloons or like village lads in their fathers’ short kaftans. A major change also came about in their souls. They were no longer the same people. Suddenly they became childish and they began to pay attention to trivialities like buttons and straps. The NCOs now began explaining to them the purpose of each strap and each flap. For everything on the soldier, every part of his accoutrement, has a serious purpose; no button is superfluous, every centimetre is part of a careful design. One thing connects to another—the knapsack covered with furry calf hide to the cartridge pouches, the cartridge pouches to the bandolier.
Only now did Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk take cognizance of them. Only now that they were all wearing the same uniform was he struck by their memorable individual features. He made careful mental notes of their faces and bodies, which from now on he would be permitted to mock openly. The defects or unwitting physical absurdities of his fellow men would no longer be tolerated. He saw Piotr too, whom he had not noticed before even when he was wearing his railwayman’s cap. He looked him up and down with undisguised contempt. He despised the new cohort, even though they were now in uniform. And suddenly they were all gripped by fear. Until then, fear had been something external; now it settled within them. It penetrated into their bodies from the coarse fibres of the uniforms. They all felt that this fragrant apparel smelling of malt consigned them to death. A miracle had occurred; this undrilled crowd had been overtaken by Discipline. It crept into their bones, mingling with the marrow and stiffening their movements. It even altered their voices.
Until late at night in the barracks the NCOs taught them how to walk properly, how to fold their coats and make their beds. They were taught new manners. To the question: “Who are you?” recruits were to reply: “Reserve militia infantryman so and so, of such and such a company, of the 10th Regiment of King N…” Such was their initiation.
Was the man who fell asleep that night on a bunk between the count’s butler Bryczyński and the Styrian miner Guglhupf still Piotr Niewiadomski? No, he was no longer our old friend from Topory-Czernielica station; he was no longer Piotr Niewiadomski, son of Wasylina, brother of Paraszka the girl of easy virtue; he was simply reserve militia infantryman Piotr Niewiadomski. This was something very different.
Next day they were all summoned by a bugle call to the square outside the barracks command post and drawn up in line forming three companies, each consisting of four platoons. Piotr Niewiadomski found himself in the first platoon of the second company. Fourth on the right. He made a good impression in his uniform. They waited for the arrival of the lieutenant-colonel, who had announced his intention to be present at the swearing-in ceremony, because the Emperor wanted to make sure once again that they would be faithful until death on land, on water and in the air. They had to wait a long time for the lieutenant-colonel. This day, as every day, it was sunny, and it looked as though it would be very hot. It seemed that the war had concluded some secret pact with this heat-wave and that it would be over once it started to rain. Despite the heat, the men in the ranks held up well. They were allowed to talk. Two soldiers in white linen tunics were painting some gigantic red letters on the outer walls of the huts.
Something important must have detained the lieutenant-colonel in town, as it was past nine o’clock and he had still not arrived. The officers took refuge from the heat in their mess. Captain Slavíček stood in the gateway, chain-smoking. Bachmatiuk alone stayed with the ranks. He kept his eyes on the rows of boots. He was worried that the long, straight lines might become distorted. It had been such a hard job to get them into this condition that morning! It was also important to him that the boots of the recruits should be faultlessly polished. When they entered the square at eight o’clock, all the boots shone like glass. Now, after the long wait on dry sand, they were all dusty. There would be no point in giving an order to repolish them. The laboriously assembled ranks would fall into complete disarray. Bachmatiuk was upset about the boots, all the more so because the men were not to blame for their appearance. It was after ten o’clock and the lieutenant-colonel had not turned up. The ranks were beginning to break up.
Bachmatiuk went all round them and with the help of the corporals he kept re-dressing the ranks. In vain. In his view, many of these foot soldiers were better suited to the cavalry, with their short, crooked legs. Bachmatiuk could not stand the cavalry. He could not stand the cavalry, he could not stand the artillery, he could not stand sappers, pioneers, the service corps, the medics, men or women, even if they were in uniform. He hated officers and one-year servicemen, because they were recruited from the upper classes, he could not bear privates because they were people of his own sort. But it would be wrong to think that he was capable only of hate. He could also love. And how! Like a passionate lover in the prime of life, and like an older man lusting after an under-aged girl. He hated each soldier individually for his mouth, for his soul, it is true, but he loved the symmetrical lines created by his body, uniform and shoes. He worshipped ranks, double files, columns of four—either stationary or on the move. He loved quadrangles and phalanxes. Any irregularity, any breach in the formation caused him physical pain. He considered standing to attention to be mankind’s fundamental state, the attitudinal norm. Everything else was aberrant. For him, the value of humanity was measured by the extent to which it was formed into regiments. Was he capable of real love? He loved the dust kicked up by the impact of rhythmically tramping feet; this was the music of the spheres, and he regretted the fact that men do not have more feet with which to tramp in time with the beat. He loved the clash of weapons, and sacred military silence: that most exalted of all silences played for him an echo of eternity. His nostrils greedily drank the scent of a soldier’s sweat. He watched himself reflected in the shining boots of the infantry as in the mirror of truth. The only, absolute truth.