The boots of the recruits were covered in ever-deepening layers of dust. The sun began to undermine the already fragile square formation; scorched by its rays, the ranks began to droop like melting candles. Before long they would begin to melt. The corporals continued to redress the ranks, fastening buttons, raising the heads of the recruits, lifting drooping belts, pushing the protruding bellies in with their fists. They bustled around these old men like anxious mothers preparing their daughters for their first ball. If the commanding officer did not arrive now, everything would fall apart, the whole painstakingly constructed building would fall into ruin.
He arrived at last, looking morose and deeply perturbed.
When a superior officer approaches drawn-up ranks, they are required to acknowledge him in response to the command “Eyes—right!” Neither Captain Slavíček, the newly appointed battalion commander, nor Bachmatiuk, did so. Quite rightly. It would have been ridiculous to produce a collective nod when the men had no idea how to do it. A sufficient mockery had already been made of the recruits. All the lowest-ranking barracks staff, including the shoe-shiners and the malingerers, had taken to the square, eager for fun at the expense of others. Hawryło, Michajło and Rafajło kept his distance by the huts, grinning. He felt safe at some distance from the RSM.
Lieutenant-Colonel Leithuber did not even accept the report. With his left hand, he signalled to Bachmatiuk that he did not require it. Wrapped in his cape, he looked more like the leader of a gang of conspirators than the head of a military formation. He went upstairs to his office and did not re-emerge for a long time. He was reliving, this time alone, the alarming news. All the daily newspapers had screamed in bold headlines: LEMBERG STILL IN OUR HANDS… Everyone knew what that meant. In a day or two, perhaps even now, the splendid city of Lwów, the capital of the largest of the Crown Lands, the jewel of the Habsburg crown, the headquarters of the 11th Corps, an enormous garrison, the dream of all officers stationed in smaller Galician towns, Little Vienna, would be occupied by the Russians. All the barracks, the Citadel, the High Castle, the Kortumówka rifle range would be occupied by the Russians. All the cafés, the Corso and the Colosseum! Leithuber could already see the terraces of Lwów cafés full of Russian officers. Still in our hands! What sort of hands were those of generals who could not keep hold of Lwów? Perhaps the generals’ hands were also withered.
He hurried down to where his numerous retinue awaited him below, Adjutant Baron Hammerling, Captain Slavíček, three company commanders and the ensigns. Leithuber took no notice of the retinue or the squad of recruits. He was looking at the barracks and the painters.
“Pachmatiuk,” he shouted angrily, “Whose idea is this? How can you paint generals’ names in red? I suppose you’ll order the recruits to sing socialist songs next?”
Yes, they were the names of those thanks to whom Lwów was still in our hands. But the command had come down from Military Headquarters to immortalize those names on the walls of the lodgings so that people could commit them to memory more easily, and they had no choice but to obey. (Although the Military Headquarters ought to have been aware that most of the men in this regiment were illiterate.)
Bachmatiuk did not feel guilty. The commanding officer had given no instructions regarding colour. Bachmatiuk had chosen red because it stood out. Immediately he ran over to the painters and told them to use white paint. Leithuber was impatient. “Get on with it,” he yelled at Bachmatiuk as he was returning. He did not like those sheds.
When a squad of soldiers had to take an oath, the command was “Take the oath!” Our people, though they were now in uniform, were not yet a real unit of soldiers. They were ordered, as civilians, to remove their caps and raise two fingers of the right hand to eye level. Bachmatiuk pronounced the oath in three languages. Choirs began, in the name of God Almighty, taking a vow of faithfulness and obedience to His Imperial Majesty and all his generals. All of them, including, therefore, those whose hands could not keep hold of Lwów. Piotr Niewiadomski thought that at such a solemn moment music should be playing. He did not know that the orchestra was with the regiment at the front. So he had to settle for the music that was playing in his soul. And very beautiful it was too.
In a voice that got lost in the collective elation, for the second time in his life Piotr assured the Emperor that he would “never under any circumstances desert his fellow soldiers, flags or banners”. Until that moment, Lieutenant-Colonel Leithuber had not been listening to these assurances. In his mind, he was going over the speech he was to deliver to the recruits in Ukrainian. He was quite fluent in that language, but he was wracked with nervousness at the prospect. The awareness of being nervous was humiliating, all the more so because he was to address people of a standing so much lower than his own. He was suddenly struck by the word “banners”. It would spoil his fine oratorical moment. High above in the blazing blue sky loomed the yellow standard edged in black and red. With the double-headed eagle in the centre. In Leithuber’s soul, a vision of the regimental flag fluttered noisily. “Where is it now? How many bullets have pierced it? Perhaps it has been captured, soon to be flying over the St Petersburg arsenal?” In his youth Leithuber had read of heroic standard-bearers who died on the battlefield, refusing to let go of their bullet-riddled banner… Would Ensign Stiasny, regimental standard-bearer, be able to achieve something like that? Ensign Stiasny was regarded as a great skirt-chaser. But the one does not exclude the other. On the contrary… When the regiment was being moved from Stanisławów, Leithuber personally brought with him the standard’s empty oilcloth case. It rests in a cupboard in his office… “…and thus we will with honour live and die,” chanted the choir.
Before the banner disappeared into thin air, the lieutenant-colonel saw Ensign Stiasny’s hand clinging tightly to the staff. A moment later, it also disappeared into the sky, as if together with the regimental standard it had been granted the grace of ascension. There remained only the honour with which these people “wanted to live and die”. He had to tell them something about honour. Leithuber winced. His throat was burning with nervousness. The men lowered their hands and replaced their caps. The smell of spicy soup, becoming ever stronger, told them eleven o’clock was approaching. For a split second, Piotr Niewiadomski again saw the face of his mother. Ah, those groats, barley and millet!… Lieutenant-Colonel Leithuber took a few steps forwards, looking for a spot from where he would seem taller. But the square was as flat as a pancake, so he moved back onto the steps and cleared his throat.
“Soldiers!” he began in a gentle, fatherly tone.
Piotr was reminded of Father Makarucha’s sermons. He too used to begin in this soppy manner: “My brothers.”
“You have been given your uniforms.” Leithuber raised his voice, reaching the heights of raw pathos. “You have been given your uniforms, in which you will go to war…”
At this point his voice suddenly broke, falling to the ground like a wounded bird. Leithuber was not telling the truth. He knew perfectly well that they would not go to war in these uniforms. Before leaving for the front they would be issued with new uniforms. It was of no matter. Again he raised his voice: