“To fight for the Emperor and the homeland…”
Nervousness began to choke him like a big Czech dumpling. Nervousness, and something worse than that. It would be best to finish now. Who was he, to tell these people anything about fighting? Already an invalid in peacetime, he would never see any fighting! When war broke out, Leithuber had volunteered for active service. Not because he loved war (although he longed for it in time of peace, like any professional officer). He did not love war, but he wanted to escape the circle of eternal pretence; he had had enough of continuous fruitless preparation for something that was never going to happen. He had spent years preparing for situations that would never occur; it was unbearable. And when war finally did break out, carrying everyone before it in its vehemence, was he to continue firing blanks at non-existent enemies? Throughout his army career he had been continually firing into a void. He had volunteered for front-line service because he wanted to see real war at last.
In the presence of people who were to go to war, he felt like a healthy man at a patient’s bedside. He considered himself fit despite the arm. He had volunteered for the front line. A regiment in the field can be commanded with your left arm. And anyway, who today commands with his arms? What colonel rushes into the fray with bared sabre? That’s what it was like in the days of old Radetzky. Today you command with your head. He had a sound head. A much sounder one than that of Colonel Martin, who was wasting a regiment at the front… And if the medical commission ruled that he was not fit for front-line service, why did they not bury him in some office, for example in the War Ministry, where he would not have to come into direct contact with people destined for the fire? …Why are you staring at me like that, you foul brutes? I was a volunteer, wanting to go to the front…
Lieutenant-Colonel Leithuber was now making two speeches at once, one out loud and the other unspoken.
“The honour of the uniform,” he shouted across the square, “is a great thing! Take care not to sully it. …Blood alone will not sully it… Do not get the impression that I am a shirker. I am an invalid, but in spite of that I volunteered for front-line service.”
But none of those men he addressed in both speeches accused him of shirking. It did not occur to anyone. Everyone listened religiously, with the exception of the Styrians, who did not understand Ukrainian. Everyone wanted this formal ceremony to be over as soon as possible. They were hungry. Piotr Niewiadomski kept looking at his tunic; it was still unsullied, thank goodness. And when the commanding officer had finished his speech Piotr breathed a sigh of relief, as if he had received absolution for sins he was yet to commit.
The lieutenant-colonel approached the battalion. Accompanied by the officers, he began inspecting the ranks. It was an age-old ritual, followed ever since armies existed. Commanders judge the worth of a soldier by his appearance, drawing encouragement from his sprightly bearing. When a man stands firmly on his feet he offers a pledge of victory. The bearing of our men was not good. Everything was now up to Bachmatiuk.
No, the regiment Leithuber had the responsibility of bringing up to scratch was no élite force. As far back as anyone could remember, this regiment had always had a poor reputation. And no one knew why. In the Imperial and Royal Army there were good regiments and bad regiments, likeable ones and unpopular ones, regiments that were fortunate and regiments that were unfortunate. Regiments are like men. Some are forgiven everything for their charm or their smart bearing, or because they have a good band. They are spoilt and fussed over like women. Then there are others who are never permitted the slightest mistake and who, even when they perform miracles, win over no hearts and gain nobody’s trust. Nothing could damage the reputation of the Deutschmeister, for example, and you didn’t have to search that far. The 11th Corps also had its favoured regiments, such as the 30th Lemberg. On the other hand, the entire army assailed our regiment with the bitterest jibes, and the alleged stupidity of the Hutsuls was legendary. Officers of other units would say to their recruits who failed to understand or made mistakes that “even a dull Hutsul of the 10th Regiment of King N could understand that!”
Lieutenant-Colonel Leithuber became despondent when inspecting truly awful parades. From time to time he would stop in front of one of the recruits to enquire about the year and place of his birth. He did not stop in front of Piotr and he did not ask him anything. The officers followed the commandant; Bachmatiuk came last, walking with his head bowed, tenaciously following the line of boots. On reaching the first platoon of the third company, Leithuber became tired and turned back. He thumbed through the first pages of that empty notebook and on losing interest he abruptly closed it. All hopes were focused on Bachmatiuk. Casting him a meaningful glance, the commander and his retinue left the square. The soldiers immediately broke ranks.
“As you were! As you were! Who said you were dismissed?” yelled the NCOs. Whistling at them, they chased the scattered flock of sheep back into their ranks. Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk waited until they had re-formed, re-dressed and settled down. And when they had re-formed, re-dressed and settled down, he shouted:
“I will make men of you!”
The uniformed men’s skin crawled. They wondered what he was going to do with them now. What had they been until now, exactly? What physical or mental torture did this threat entail? Everyone had the feeling that this man in long trousers, with medals on his chest, was wiping out and revoking their entire previous life. They were grey, bald-headed moustachioed infants that the great mother Subordination would teach to suck from her breast. Their life had only just begun, on the day they first wore uniform.
In the beginning was the Word. The Word that calmed the waves, a Word whose sound was followed by a deathly silence. Bachmatiuk screwed up his eyes like a zealot at the most important moment during mass, or like a music-lover at a symphony concert. He drew himself up like a crowing cockerel and gave the long-drawn-out command:
“A—t—t—e—e—n—shun!”
For some time he kept his eyes closed for fear of seeing something that would be a total abortion. And indeed, not everyone understood the command. The corporals facing them showed the dullards how to stand erect. Regimental Sergeant-Major Bachmatiuk opened his eyes, adjusted his cap, and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a slim pamphlet—the thirty-seven articles of war, the articles of faith. He calmly deluged the recruits with the list of crimes and offences which carried the risk of death or long prison terms. The recruits hurried to plumb the depths of their souls to test their resilience. After this confrontation, very few of them felt any self-confidence. Piotr Niewiadomski feared cowardice most of all. Not to show cowardice in the face of the enemy was no insignificant matter. The Emperor demanded courage from every man, as if everyone was born brave. Perhaps the RSM could teach them courage.
When the RSM had finished reading the articles of war, the spectres of the thirty-seven deadly sins of the Imperial and Royal soldier hung over the recruits.
“At this point you should say the Lord’s Prayer,” thought Piotr. “Or at least cross yourself.” He wanted to raise a hand, but he could not do so. It lay dead on the seam of the Imperial trousers, as if paralysed by Bachmatiuk’s words.
Bachmatiuk gazed, as though in a trance, at the expressionless faces, the uniforms and the boots. The perfect silence engendered by his words filled his ears. He inhaled the sweet fragrance of obedience and fear. And he was happy. On this first day of the Creation, as he took possession of the souls of the oldest reserve militia intakes, he could already see his work completed. And he saw that it was good.